CHAPTER XIV.

Mat on the trail of the bushranger—Annie’s signal—Mat tracks the bushranger to his lair—The cave—Our hero as the black warrior once more—A fearful fight—Dromoora’s timely cry—Annie’s rescue—Blissful moments.

Before Mat made his start after the bushranger, he had buckled on a brace of pistols, loaded his gun with a heavy charge of slugs, and put some matches in his leather pouch. Trusting entirely to his powers of tracking, he went on foot, knowing that he could approach his quarry in this manner, and no other. Food he did not stop for, either to eat or to burden himself with, _that_ he could procure whenever he wished it. One thing that puzzled him was, what had become of Dromoora; the chief had disappeared directly the white men had dismounted after their ride from the out-station. However, he had no time to search, his first object was to find the tracks of the horse which carried the greatest weight; he could tell as well as any of the station blacks whether a horse was being ridden, or simply driven without a rider.

Daylight had broken, and our forester very soon discovered that one horse had galloped away free, one had been ridden by an ordinary weight, whilst the third, which had gone straight away, had carried a double weight.

The tracks of this last animal he followed up for the first few miles at a steady run, only pulling up at mid-day for a short respite at a water-hole. Towards evening, as the tracks became fainter, he changed to a more moderate pace, so as not to overrun the trail; all night he stuck to it like a sleuth-hound, sometimes subsiding into a walk, then, as the tracks stood out in the soft ground in the clear starlight, quickening his pace again.

For the first few miles of his pursuit he had noticed the track of a naked foot which had followed the horse, and which he presumed belonged to some one of the station blacks who frequented that part, but after a bit these footmarks disappeared in a direction away from the one that the horse was taking.

By early morning the trail brought him to another water-hole—evidently these small lakes were well known to the man he was pursuing—he perceived here that the rider had dismounted to get a drink, and he also saw that there were a few spots of blood on the grass, as he sat down, for the first time that he had done so, to roast and eat some “unios,” a sort of shell-fish, which he found in the water.

Though burning for revenge on a wretch who dared to touch the girl who was ever uppermost in his thoughts, and whilst horrible doubts arose in his mind as to her possible fate, there was a very large amount of savage or wild feeling in all Mat’s plans since he started on this race, which gave him an intense pleasure: so perfect had been his training in the Waigonda country, that in his mind he ridiculed the idea of any white man or men being his match as long as he employed his native tactics. In fine, from the moment that he took up the trail, he dropped the white man, and became once more the Waigonda warrior.

After a rather long rest, Mat once more resumed the trail, again following it all night, and the next morning to his relief found that he was gaining on his quarry, for the bushranger’s horse, having to bear a double load, had been walking for several miles.

Our forester then had another rest, to roast and eat a carpet snake which he had killed, and smoke a pipe.

Off again, he crossed a rocky creek, and from there the tracks entered a dry stony country and trended towards the east. On this particular part of the country the footprints of the horse were not discernible to the ordinary eye. Mat smiled, as he quickly stepped over this hard ground, and said to himself, “The fool thought, I suppose, that his tracks would now be lost.” Farther on Magan had again dismounted to get water, and here a little matter was cleared up which had puzzled our forester, namely, how had the horse been fed all this time? by _bread_, for by this water-hole was a small hollow full of crumbs, distinctly showing to Mat’s eye that the animal had there crunched up a loaf.

One invariable habit of a native black is to cast his eyes all round into the branches of the trees, so it was with Mat—a habit which he never lost, and as he passed his eyes across a mimosa-tree which over-shadowed the pond, he saw something which made his heart beat wildly with delight. For there hung a small shred of muslin. _Now_ he knew that Annie was well enough to leave a little signal, hanging it up whilst sitting on the horse’s back.

With redoubled efforts he started on again, when, upon ascending some high ground, there lay the _ocean_ before him,—the Pacific Ocean, which formed a silvery horizon in the distance.

“Going to get away in a boat,” muttered Mat, as he spurted along the trail.

But in this surmise he was mistaken. Magan knew better than to trust to the sea as a means of escape. Besides, his villainous schemes tended in another direction altogether.

Our forester soon again considered it prudent to “slow down,” as certain signs showed him that the man he was pursuing could not be far off. On rounding the corner of a hill, he found himself over a broad and steep creek, which was covered on its banks with dense stunted scrub.

Viewing the nature and “lay” of this ravine, as he halted above it Mat entirely changed his method of procedure, and once more prepared to follow the tactics he had pursued for so many years with the Waigondas when engaged in stalking game.

Divesting himself of his clothing, and twining green leaves into his hair and beard, he dropped into the long blady grass which grew along the bank of the creek, and, wriggling himself, like a snake, to the cover of a hibiscus bush, peered cautiously through, and found that he was _right over the robbers’ camp_!

A couple of hundred yards to the right of him, and in the dry bed of the creek, were two men lying stretched out under a huge specimen of the eucalyptus (known as the ti-tree, but pronounced _te_-tree), with their cabbage-tree hats over their eyes, fast asleep, and, as Mat hoped, in a _drunken_ sleep, for he saw the glitter of empty bottles strewed around them. Their guns he could also see leaning against the ti-tree.

All this our forester took in at a glance. Without shifting his position, he peered anxiously about, until at length he descried a third man, Magan, wide awake and eating something, seated on a spit of sand a few yards higher up than the two sleepers. The bushranger had chosen his position with great cunning, not a tree or bush to afford cover to a foe being near him.

Mat could see, even at the distance that he was, that the whole attitude of the man betokened extreme fatigue; yet ever and anon he turned his head about, as if listening for any sign of pursuit.

Here was evidently a stronghold of the gang, for Mat could see a cave in the side of the gully, with saddles and swags lying in the mouth of it.

The _two_ men, Mat guessed, had awaited the bushranger at this spot. At all events, he had seen no other tracks during his pursuit of the robber.

And where was Annie?

Our forester decided—_in that cave_.

Long and anxiously did he study the situation, for one false step would now ruin all.

He had hoped, during his pursuit, that he would overtake the bushranger as he sat down to rest, with no one but his helpless victim near him; but it was now evident that the cunning robber had never intended to stop for more than an instant until he had gained his lair and joined his “pals.”

Once the thought crossed Mat’s mind that, as he had three enemies to deal with, he would wait until the solitary one followed the example of the others, and went to sleep; but this idea he at once dismissed. The agony of _waiting_, as we know, he never could tolerate; and _now_, with Annie a prisoner, to be unoccupied would be intolerable to him.

At length, after having viewed the pros and cons of the life-and-death struggle which he knew must ensue, our forester made up his mind, drew himself back from his place of concealment, made a long détour, and, crossing the creek far below the big tree which sheltered the two men, he approached their camp from the other side.

Drawing himself along the ground, he found that he was out of sight of the _single_ robber, and thus could approach the other two, whom he found still asleep, and breathing heavily.

Having reached the guns, he cautiously put out two fingers, eased the nearest one down from its position against the tree, drew it towards him, opened the pan, shook out the powder, and replaced it as carefully in its former position, serving the other one in the same way. A large powder-flask lying against one of the men had not escaped his eye. This he buried deep in the sand. So far, mere child’s play to our forester. He then retreated a few yards behind a bush, looked to his own weapons, and took stock of the place where he knew Magan was sitting. Cautiously peeping, he saw that he could shoot the man dead from where he was lying concealed, but this act did not enter into his _plan_. He wanted to get his gun, and so have him, he hoped, at his mercy.

He found, upon further spying, that he would have to make another détour to get round to the back of his man; and herein lay the difficulty, owing to want of cover.

He now, for the first time, saw what he knew the robber must have with him—the gun, lying near Magan’s right hand, and slightly behind him. “If I get _that_,” thought Mat, “it will be _the_ stalk of my whole life;” and he crawled away. It seemed hours to him before he had come _round_ to the edge of the sandy plain to the rear of Magan. Once there, he wormed his way in the required direction with eyes fixed on the robber, and grasping his gun ready for any emergency.

Every time that the man was not looking at his food—each time that he looked up or about him—Mat was as a _stone_, and, in truth, his body being the exact colour of the ruddy sand on which he lay, it would have taken something sharper than a white man’s eye to detect him.

Slowly he crept on. He could hear once, in the stillness of the air, one of the two men turn over and grumble in his sleep, and again was Mat motionless.

At last, his heart thumping so that he was afraid it would be heard, silently and gently he drew himself so close behind the bushranger that he could hear him breathe; his hand was upon the gun, lifting it gently, when the man made a movement as though he would get up.

Mat’s other hand stole to his pistol, but Magan had only reached forward to get a bottle, and whilst applying it to his lips, our forester took the opportunity to slip back behind a slight ridge in the sand, Magan’s gun in his hand. This he securely hid as soon as he could do so with safety.

Continuing his retreat by the way he had come, he passed the two sleepers, helped himself to a small “damper” which was lying ready baked near a tiny fire and which he had previously noticed, but had left until his retreat, and recrossing the creek again regained his clothes.

Putting these quickly on and eating a mouthful of the bread, he came again into the creek, walked up, hidden by the bushes, to within thirty yards of Magan, stepped out into the open, and cried, “Throw up your arms, my mates are behind me,” at the same time covering the man with his pistol.

The bushranger looked up and felt for his gun, but not finding it, he got up leisurely on his feet, instead of _springing_ up as Mat had expected.

But once erect he snatched a pistol from his breast and shot at Mat.

Our hero, watching his eye, had seen his intention, and springing to one side, the bullet flew harmlessly by him.

Mat returned the fire instantaneously and hit Magan full in the chest, but to his astonishment the latter instead of falling was merely spun partly round, and steadying himself once more discharged another pistol at Mat.

The ball again flew wide, and Mat returned the fire with the same result as before, and Magan drew yet a third pistol.

Our hero had dodged the two first shots by springing to one side or the other, but at this third attempt at shooting him he tried another ruse by springing high into the air; he did not, however, come off scathless, for he was aware of a smarting blow like a red-hot iron, passing round his thigh.

The thought that flashed through his mind at this period of the fight was, “I did not put enough powder into the pistols, but Old Joe’s got a fearful dose in her.”

Magan at this moment turned his head on one side to look for his gun. Mat threw up his Manton to riddle his antagonist’s neck, and was in the act of pulling the trigger, when a voice from the bushes almost under his feet yelled out in Waigonda,—

“Hit in lower legs for your life.”

For an instant Magan darted a glance to the spot from whence the voice proceeded.

Mat never moved his head, such was our hero’s nerve, but depressing his aim, poured the contents of both barrels into his adversary’s legs, when the bushranger fell to the ground with a hideous yell, his remaining pistol flying into the air with a spasmodic jerk.

Mat walked cautiously towards the man to see that he was not shamming, but as he approached him he was received with such a volley of curses from his late antagonist, who he saw was terribly wounded, the lower portions of both legs being completely smashed, that he came straight up to him and stooped over to see if he could render any assistance by staunching the flow of blood, which was pouring in a torrent over the sand.

“Ah! _you gipsy_,” groaned Magan, as soon as he saw him close. “Who are you, _his ghost_? I shot you dead near the station, I’ll swear it! Ghost or not, I’d have killed you if I could have got my gun in time; but that nigger standing there—they’ve always been my curse,—_he_ told you _something_! Yes, I’d have killed you and left you to rot as you will me now, if it hadn’t been for _him_!—curse you both. I never pulled straight with the pistols ’cos I believed ’twere a ghost! I—” but here Magan fell back in a swoon.

This is how it was that Dromoora appeared on the scene.

Some days before the night of the visit of the bushrangers, when out with his gun, he had come upon a deserted camp higher up this creek which had evidently quite lately been occupied by white men; so thinking that Magan would make for this spot, as he had found some cooking utensils hidden away there, Dromoora, directly Mat and his party arrived at Bulinda, and thus left him free to act, took a short cut to this old camp,—it will be remembered that Mat had noticed the steps of a native,—but finding that no one had been there since, he made a cast down the creek, taking a line parallel to it, and then ‘cut in’ to the track of pursuer and pursued; following this up he was in time to watch Mat’s proceedings from a spot close to that on which the latter had disrobed himself, from which coign of vantage he speedily realized his friend’s scheme, but did not discover himself until the opportune moment, as he did not wish to interfere with his plans in any way.

Dromoora now complimented our hero upon his stalking powers, telling him that no black in the whole of the Waigonda tribe could have procured the guns more neatly.

“I was so glad,” he said, “that you did not try to kill the man when you were creeping upon him, as I should have done had I not known _something_.

“I saw at the last that you would get the worst of it, and therefore cried out telling you where to shoot.

“_For that man has iron all over his body, head and neck!!!_

“And when you were going to shoot at his neck he was just turning, when all the lead would have struck against the iron skin; it’s all hidden, but I will show it you; I found this out when I tried to drag him off his horse, but my knife went into his leg, and I knew there was no iron there; let us take his clothes off and you shall see.”

Mat, who had listened rather impatiently to the rapidly delivered utterances of the now excited chief, replied,—

“Yes, yes, but first where is the white girl?”

“In that cave,” promptly replied Dromoora. “Tracks go in, none come out.”

Together they searched the cave, but found it empty, as far as they could _see_, so Mat felt for his matches, but not finding them at the moment bade Dromoora fetch a fire-stick, when suddenly a stone came rolling down from the upper part of the cavern, which lay buried in darkness.

“Quick! fire-stick,” shouted Mat. The chief seized one from the small fire outside, and returning, blew it into a flame, when to Mat’s intense relief and joy they discovered Annie, lying on a ledge far up the cave, with feet and hands tied, and a handkerchief bound round her mouth. To cut through cords and handkerchief was the work of an instant, and the two men then carried her into the open air, and laying her gently down on some soft grass under the great ti-tree, placed water by her side, and left her to recover herself.

Seeing that he could be of no further use, and feeling that as yet he had had no direct hand in exterminating the enemies of his beloved white chief, our Waigonda, disdaining firearms and contenting himself with a steel tomahawk, was off before Mat could stop him, shouting back, in answer to the latter’s question as to where he was going,—

“To get the other two and their thunder-sticks.”

As Mat afterwards found out, when the duel between him and the bushranger commenced, these two other ruffians had jumped up and taken deliberate aim at him, with the result of two flashes in the pan. They had then looked for their powder-flask, and not finding it, the truth had dawned upon them; so seizing their guns they had bolted for their lives, leaving Magan to shift for himself.

Our forester had taken care to place Annie in a position from where she could not possibly see the dying bushranger.

“Thank God, you are now safe, Miss Bell,” he said, as he approached her. “I will leave you for a few minutes whilst I look for the horse, but you’re quite safe. I will hardly be out of your sight.”

Saying which he was turning away, in reality to look after Magan, and also to see that there were no signs of further miscreants, when Annie called him back.

“Oh! don’t be long; I want to get out of this horrid place! But, ah! forgive me for only thinking of myself instead of my preserver—for such you are, Mr. Stanley.”

“Call me simply ‘Mat,’ as the others do,” he replied. “And rest yourself; I know you must be terribly stiff with all you’ve gone through; plenty of time to tell me all about it afterwards. I _must_ see first that we have no enemies left.”

With that he took a turn round the camp, and then walked up to Magan, who, he found had regained his senses, but was slowly bleeding to death. Mat saw that the case of the man was hopeless, but at the same time felt that he was utterly powerless to help him; however, he procured him water, placed his bottle close to him, and asked him if he could do anything at all for him.

“No, curse you,” hissed the man between his teeth, “haven’t you done enough? Why didn’t I kill you and the others when I was with Carew, and you came to the camp? I got some of your nuggets, and meant to wipe out the lot of you, only there were too many niggers about; if ever I stirred even to the mouth of the tent, there was one watching me. They’ve been my curse all along.”

Mat had once, when camping with Carew, caught a glimpse of the mysterious man in the tent, who he was told was such a drunkard that he never stirred out; and now, as he gazed carefully at the features of the wounded man before him, he recognized the great scar on his face.

Astonished at this recognition and the man’s words, he said,—

“Why, then, you’re Boyd!”

“In course I _was_, and now I’m Jack Magan, and shall be both Boyd and Magan under the sod soon. How did that nigger tell you where to shoot? If it hadn’t been for him, I’d ’av got a thousand pounds ransom for that wench, after killing you! I wish you and him felt as I do now. They’ve tried to take me these years, and never would, only for you two finding out the secret; but perhaps that liar who lived with Bell, that liar we called ‘Frenchey,’ perhaps he peached. But my senses are going; what’s the good of talking to a ghost? I saw your black beard fly into the air when I shot you one moonlight night at the paddock, and I’ll swear you never stirred afterwards.”

Every sentence of the foregoing remarks was larded with horrible oaths, and Magan soon after died, cursing with his last breath the man who had dealt him his death-blow. But Mat, seeing that his presence only infuriated the bushranger, placed some shady branches lightly around him before he was dead, and turned away.

The horse he found in a miserable condition, so tied that he could neither lie down nor get about to seek for food or water, so our forester freed him, led him to a small pool in the rocks, and left him at liberty amongst some good feed.

He then rejoined Annie, whom he found brighter, and refreshed from her rest.

In answer to his questions, she told him that the men had treated her without insult, and that the wretch called “Jack” had informed her that he had killed the gipsy days ago, which she knew at the time must be a story. He also told her that some of his men were guarding his camp; it was quite impossible for her to get away, and that his intention was to get a large sum of money for her ransom, keeping her prisoner until he could communicate safely with her father. If his hiding-place was discovered, and a force sent against him, he did not intend to be taken himself, nor should he burden himself with her if he had to fly, but should simply cut her throat before going.

“Oh, it’s _so dreadful_!” continued Annie. “But I will tell you more as I think of it. Yes, and when we arrived here I was given damper and meat and water, and then they tied a handkerchief round my mouth, and my legs and arms together, and put me in that dreadful cave. When they struck a match in there I glanced round and spied that ledge, so when the firing began I remembered the man’s threats, and struggled inch by inch, until, in despair, I got not only on to the ledge, but rolled beyond it out of sight, and there I lay shaking with fear. At last I recognized your voice—though in black-fellow language I knew it—and I knew I was saved! And I just managed to kick a stone down, as I could not call out. But, oh! Mr. Stanley—Mat, I mean—are my parents safe? Tell me everything. And how was it you came up alone? How I prayed for you all, and my prayers have been answered, have they not? I knew _you_ would come, as you can track anything, but where are the others?”

Mat assured her that her people were all safe, and would be with her soon, at all events the squire would, and that as he had started first, so he had arrived before the others, having gone night and day; as she had surmised, he had followed the tracks, and at a run, whereas the other white men were not accustomed to tracking, and, moreover, they would be mounted, which would still more add to their difficulties in following a trail; and, “believe me,” concluded Mat, “I would have followed across Australia to save you, Miss Annie.”

Annie gazed at our hero earnestly for a moment, but did not respond; a dreamy look came into her eyes as she looked at him and thought, “What a noble, manlike fellow he is!” And the forester’s hitherto rather stern-like expression gave way to a softer one, as he met that gaze, and took in the appearance of the fair girl beside him; her rich long auburn hair had fallen over her shoulders, its dark shades relieved by golden gleams, where the sunlight played upon it. Annie had loosened her dress at the neck, to get all the air she could, thus disclosing her pure white skin and the soft outlines of her throat, whilst her gentle fawn-like eyes, still moist from the hours of agony she had gone through in the cave, looked with a startled anxious expression into those of our hero.

Truly, hers was a lovable, confiding nature, and Mat felt it,—felt it as in a dream,—as in a heavenly trance, and he also _felt_ that he was rewarded....

After they had thus sat for a brief space in silence, Mat went on to tell Annie, without entering into particulars of the fight, that if it had not been for the faithful Waigonda chief, matters might have had a very different termination, for that he could not do much against bullet-proof armour.

“Yes, that armour!” cried Annie, “I knew that there were many things I wanted to tell you; I soon found out how impossible it would be for any one to harm the bushranger, for once he took off a lot of armour when resting and eating, for he had a bag of provisions, and then I remembered reading somewhere about a man who defied every one, and shot all who tried to take him, and they supposed he wore a breastplate of iron, because no one could ever hurt him; and, Mat, how agonizing were my feelings when I found I had no means of scrawling this fact on a bit of paper to let you know, for I knew you would come. I tied a bit of handkerchief on to a tree to show I was alive and—”

“And here it is,” said Mat, with a smile, as he produced the remnant. “And there’s a ‘cooee,’” he cried, jumping up. “Terebare’s, I know, yes! there she is, on that high bank, and the squire on horseback.”

Annie sprang to her feet, and a few moments afterwards was weeping tears of love and thankfulness on her father’s breast.