“Hurry!” the young man's tone was urgent. “Fitzgerald - the bush ranger himself - he's been seen at Cyril's Crossing! You'll have to ride fast if you want to catch him. He's not likely to stay long!” Cyril's Crossing was a shallow ford in a creek not far out of town. Tristham leapt up and ran to tell his fellow troopers, while the young man (a farm hand on one of the stations nearby) swung himself into the saddle of his waiting horse. With a final exhortation to make haste, he departed in a flurry of red dust up the street.
Tristham spurred his mount into a furious gallop as he and his two fellow-troopers, Bentley and Netherfield, thundered down the street in the direction of Cyril's Crossing. Five hundred pounds…it will be me who claims the prize. With such thoughts in mind Tristham edged his thoroughbred away from the two others. I have a good horse, and the distance to Cyril's Crossing is not great. Soon... the prize...
It was getting to late afternoon as all these events took place, and the sun was halfway on its descent through the sky when Tristham arrived at Cyril's Crossing. The shallow water sparkled brilliantly in the bright sunlight like myriads of diamonds. Tristham's horse kicked up little puffs of sand as he approached the water's edge. Just then Bentley and Netherfield, rode up.
“You ride like the devil, Tristham,” remarked Bentley, a lithe young man with just the hint of a moustache.
“The stakes are high,” replied Tristham sportingly. “I suppose he crossed here and headed for the ranges.” Tristham stared out over the foothills that ran in undulating form before the really precipitous heights ranged themselves in majesty. The sun, sky, and hills made the picture of a painter's dream.
Variant shades of green were draped over the foothills in summer beauty. The pale trunks of the ghost gums looked like muscular arms stretched skyward, holding up the branches and leaves. The sky was virtually cloudless, but the cooling breeze that stirred the leaves prevented what would have been a stifling atmosphere.
“Let's go. We may catch the rascal before he gains the ranges,” Tristham urged his horse into the stream. Bentley followed close on his heels as he cantered across the golden sands on the other side, while Netherfield-a stoutish man- brought up the rear.
“He's no good on horseback,” thought Tristham disparagingly. “He won't keep up with us for long.”
The horses' hoofs made little noise in the soft earth beneath the trees, and Tristham took advantage of the good terrain to gain as much on the bush ranger as possible. I sincerely hope we're going the right way. It's probably the only chance we'll get of going after Fitzgerald.
After a mile or two, Netherfield was far behind and probably turning for home, and Tristham was having doubts that they had not missed Fitzgerald's tracks entirely. The sun had sunk lower in the azure vault, and Bentley voiced concern.
“Perhaps we'd better turn back. We don't want to be out here after nightfall.”
“Perhaps so, but I myself am for going on a little further. We may catch sight of him yet.” Tristham still held out hope, and he was not letting five hundred pounds slip away that easily. So they galloped on.
The horses were getting a little fatigued by now; consequently, their speed slackened somewhat. Tristham was just about to turn back when he saw something flitting beneath the trees ahead.
“Look!” Tristham pointed.
“It is he!” Bentley cried. Stretched low over their horses' necks, they spurred on their mounts; which, perhaps sensing their masters' urgency, responded admirably. Dodging the saplings that grew thickly in the scrub, they galloped on with renewed vitality. Tristham checked his revolver and loosened his carbine in its holster before him.
The horses' hooves beat an ominous tattoo on the ground as they thundered ever closer to the fleeting horseman ahead. By now it was nearing dusk, and murky shadows that lay like pools of ink beneath the trees gave an eerie touch to the scene. The chase was on.
They were approaching the hard climb of the ranges by the time they were even near their quarry. Tristham noted that Fitzgerald's horse was good to have been able to gallop for so far. He's had the pick of stables for miles around, no doubt-dirty, horse-thieving scoundrel. Tristham reached for his carbine. Click.
His horse was galloping smoothly enough for him to risk a shot. He raised his gun. At this moment the horseman was just ascending a small hillock, beyond which the cliffs and crags of the ranges raised themselves in majestic defiance. The air was still, and the unholy clatter of hooves disrupted the almost sacred stillness.
Crack! The horseman sagged to one side, before tumbling off his horse altogether. However, his foot was caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged through the dust for a few yards before it came free. The horse galloped onward.
Tristham and Bentley reined in. Fully certain that he had killed the bush ranger, Tristham hurriedly dismounted; but with an oath of disbelief, he staggered back in consternation. It was not Fitzgerald, but the very man who had warned them of the bush ranger's presence in the area. As he lay in the bloodstained dust, his face grayed. Bentley stared and said nothing.
Tristham's visage underwent a variety of contortions that reflected his confused and troubled soul. Slowly he came to a realization. It was too much for him, and he leaned his exhausted frame against his patiently waiting horse. Still the poker-faced Bentley said nothing, but seemed engrossed with a rocky cliff about a mile away. Tristham passed his sleeve across his sweat-blinded eyes. He stared off into the distant ranges, and at the edge of a cliff he saw a mounted figure. It raised its arm in grim, silent salute; before turning and riding away.
