Robbery Under Arms Rolf Boldrewood (best way to read an ebook .TXT) 📖

It came in handy enough this time, anyhow, though it helped what had been far better left undone.

I remember what a blinded rage father got into when he first had Aileen’s letter, and heard that these men were camped close to the old house, poking about there all day long, and worrying and frightening poor Aileen and mother.

Well, it seems on this particular day they’d been into the little township, and I suppose got an extra glass of grog. Anyhow, when they came back they began to be more venturesome than they generally were. One chap came into the house and began talking to Aileen, and after a bit mother goes into her bedroom, and Aileen comes out into the verandah and begins to wash some clothes in a tub, splashing the water pretty well about and making it a bit uncomfortable for anyone to come near her.

What must this fool do but begin to talk about what white arms she’d got⁠—not that they were like that much, she’d done too much hard work lately to have her arms, or hands either, look very grand; and at last he began to be saucy, telling her as no Marston girl ought to think so much of herself, considerin’ who and what she was. Well, the end of it was father heard a scream, and he looked out from where he was hidden and saw Aileen running down the garden and the fellow after her. He jumps out, and fires his revolver slapbang at the chap; it didn’t hit him, but it went that close that he stopped dead and turned round to see who it was.

“Ben Marston, by all that’s lucky, boys!” says he, as two of the other chaps came running down at the shot. “We’ve got the ould sarpint out of his hole at last.” With that they all fires at father as quick as they could draw; and Aileen gives one scream and starts running along the track up the hill that leads to George Storefield’s place.

Father drops; one of the bullets had hit him, but not so bad as he couldn’t run, so he ups again and starts running along the gully, with the whole four of them shouting and swearin’ after him, making sure they got him to rights this time.

“Two hundred a man, boys,” the big fellow in the lead says; “and maybe we’ll take tay with the rest of ’em now.”

They didn’t know the man they were after, or they’d have just as soon have gone to “take tea,” as they called it, with a tiger.

Father put on one of his old poacher dodges that he had borrowed from the lapwing in his own country, that he used to tell us about when we were boys (our wild duck’ll do just the same), and made himself out a deal worse than he was. Father could run a bit, too; he’d been fast for a mile when he was young, and though he was old now he never carried no flesh to signify, and was as hard as nails. So what with knowing the ground, and they being flat-country men, he kept just out of pistol-shot, and yet showed enough to keep ’em filled up with the notion that they’d run him down after a bit.

They fired a shot every now and then, thinking a chance one might wing him, but this only let Moran and Daly see that someone was after dad, and that the hunt was coming their way.

They held steady where they had been told to stop, and looked out for the men they’d been warned of by father. As he got near this place he kept lettin’ ’em git a bit nearer and nearer to him, so as they’d follow him up just where he wanted. It gave them more chance of hitting him, but he didn’t care about that, now his blood was up⁠—not he. All he wanted was to get them. Dad was the coolest old cove, when shooting was going on, ever I see. You’d think he minded bullets no more than bottle-corks.

Well, he goes stumbling and dragging himself like up the gully, and they, cocksure of getting him, closing up and shooting quicker and quicker, when just as he jumps down the Black Gully steps a bullet did hit him in the shoulder under the right arm, and staggers him in good earnest. He’d just time to cut down the bank and turn to the left along the creek channel, throwing himself down on his face among the bushes, when the whole four of ’em jumps down the bank after him.

“Stand!” says Moran, and they looked up and saw him and Daly covering them with their revolvers. Before they’d time to draw, two of ’em rolls over as dead as doornails.

The other two were dumbfoundered and knocked all of a heap by suddenly finding themselves face to face with the very men they’d been hunting after for weeks and weeks. They held up their pistols, but they didn’t seem to have much notion of using them⁠—particularly when they found father had rounded on ’em too, and was standing a bit away on the side looking very ugly and with his revolver held straight at ’em.

“Give in! Put down your irons,” says Moran, “or by ⸻, we’ll drop ye where ye stand.”

“Come on,” says one, and I think he intended to make a fight for it.

He’d ’a been better off if he had. It couldn’t have been worse for him; but the other one didn’t see a chance, and so he says⁠—

“Give in, what’s the good? There’s three to two.”

“All right,” says the other chap, the big one; and they put down their pistols.

It was curious now as these two were both men that father and Moran had a down on. They’d better have fought it out as long as they could stand up. There’s no good got by givin’ in that I ever seen. Men as does