[Editor: This short story, by “Surcingle” (Barcroft H. Boake), was published in The Bulletin (Sydney, NSW), 21 March 1891.]
His new love and his old friend
(For The Bulletin.)
In the stuffy, tin-roofed shed that did duty as court-house, at Combalong, sat Trooper William Russell, better known as “Ratcatcher.” He was engrossed in the perusal of a placard which had arrived for his information by that morning’s mail, but occasionally varied his employment by glancing at the distant hills swimming in the purple haze of a warm afternoon.
Strange though it might seem, there was a certain connection between placard and mountain peak, for out in those ranges, hunted like a dingo, with a price upon his head, lay the subject of the proclamation which set forth that the sum of £500 would be paid by Government for the apprehension of James Dodd, alias Ferguson, alias Mackay, alive or dead.
Trooper Russell, in his official capacity as officer in charge of Combalong station, could not but regard the outlaw’s presence in his district as an offence almost amounting to personal insult, though at the same time, as a former comrade, he felt a natural pang of regret when he thought of the probable fate of the sharer in many a boyish escapade.
Nevertheless, dwelling on the amount of the reward, it was easy to conjure up a picture of himself as owner and occupier of a snug three-and-twenty acres on the Bullenbong, and, alluring thought, with a certain damsel in charge of its domestic economy.
Musing thus the officer proceeded to post the proclamation on the Court-house notice-board, and having completed his afternoon’s writing, closed up and betook himself to his lodgings.
Two days afterwards, acting upon “information received,” Trooper Russell might have been seen cautiously threading the golden mazes of the wattle which clothed the slopes of a spur from the Black Range. Some distance up the gully a thin, blue column of smoke, which stole gently heavenward through the cool crisp air, marked the presence of a camp to which the officer was slowly making his way.
Conscious that any nearer approach would only lead to instant detection and allow the criminal, if it were he, time to seek cover, he hung his horse’s bridle on a branch, and after carefully examining his revolver, silently proceeded towards his destination on foot. So successfully did he achieve his object that it was only when the trooper stepped forward with a stern challenge that the outlaw, who had been preparing a frugal breakfast, became conscious of his presence.
Quick as thought the bushranger pulled trigger, but the sharp snap which followed bore witness to the futility of the attempt. Ere he could again raise his weapon the trooper had him covered and said:—
“Don’t stir, Jim Dodd, or you’re a dead man; drop that pistol and lift your hands.”
The man made no move to obey, but his voice was not altogether steady as he replied:
“Won’t you give me a show, Bill? I didn’t know who it was at first, or I wouldn’t have pulled. Bill, old man — no one knows we have met here — ride on and reckon you never found me.”
Trooper Russell, with a set face, spoke but the one word — “Surrender!”
“Bill,” cried the unhappy man, “won’t you give me a chance — for the sake of old times, for the sake of that day that I dragged you, half-drowned, from the bogey-hole in Sawyer’s Creek? A life for a life, Bill, that’s only fair.”
Again the stern command rang out; again the passionate appeal for liberty was poured forth.
“Bill, do you mind the time when you and I and the boys used to play at ‘bushies and bobbies’ in the scrub at the back of the old school-house — we’re only playing now, Bill, aren’t we? You’ll give old Jimmy Dodd a show. Bill, say that you’ll give him a show.”
In the dead silence that followed, a curious soldier-bird alighted above their heads, and, to the trooper’s excited imagination, seemed to chant a mocking refrain. “Alive or dead. Alive or dead,” was the burden of its song. For the last time he looked steadily at his onetime comrade and spoke. Clear and sharp came his ultimatum:
“Do you throw up your hands?”
“NO!” and with a quick gesture Jim Dodd fired.
Their weapons flashed almost simultaneously, but as the smoke cleared Trooper William Russell might have been seen standing unharmed, with a fellow-creature, value £500, bleeding at his feet.
SURCINGLE.
Source:
The Bulletin (Sydney, NSW), 21 March 1891, p. 22, columns 1-2
Editor’s notes:
Bill = a diminutive form of the name “William”; there are several diminutive forms of William: Bill, Billie, Billy, Will, Willie, Wills, Willy, (Scottish) Wullie
bobbies = policemen (the singular form is “bobby”); a reference to Sir Robert Peel, 1788-1850, former British Prime Minister who, when he was Home Secretary, laid the foundations for the modern police force in Britain (the police were nicknamed “Bobbies” after him, as “Bob” is a nickname for “Robert”)
bushie = bushman; a man from the bush; someone who lives out in the country
ere = (archaic) before (from the Middle English “er”, itself from the Old English “aer”, meaning early or soon)
mind = (British dialect) remember
scrub = small trees, shrubs, bushes; stunted trees; areas with a lot of scrub; scrubland, low bushland (also, the low trees and shrubs that grow in such areas)
show = a chance to do well; a fair hearing
Trooper = a mounted policeman, in the Australian colonies (in the modern military, it refers to a rank equivalent to private in an armoured or cavalry unit, or to a member of the Special Air Service)
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