Other formats

    Adobe Portable Document Format file (facsimile images)   TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The Story of Wild Will Enderby

Chapter XIII. A Wonderful Shot

page 69

Chapter XIII. A Wonderful Shot.

The noise brought out Harry. "Why did you not awake me?" he asked. "We might have caught the rascals.

"Suppose we had; what then? Waste no end of time attending Court, and perhaps have to go down to Dunedin to prosecute. No, pardner, that game don't suit yours truly. As to waking you—why, you'd have spoiled everything with them hasty ways of yours. Now, I guess they were about last night. 'Twixt twelve and three is the ordinary time for them cusses to prowl around, and there was you parading in the clear light, kicking over the stones, and smoking your pipe, and they watching you all the time. I caught a glimpse of one of the skunks, shunting behind a boulder, jest before you came back to the caboose tonight. So thinks I, I'll play 'possum a bit, and I rayther calculate that I've made it appear tolerably injudicious to levy on the joint and mutual property of this Co. That nice little party won't come on to our claim again, I reckon."

"Why, you haven't shot either of the fellows, surely?" queried Harry.

"No fear of that," replied the Senior Partner, grimly smiling. "They all skedaddled too mighty quick for page 70that. But you bet there's a hole in one of them bags they dropped in such a mighty hurry."

And on investigation it was so found. And strange to say, the ball had passed through the bag—a result entirely unanticipated by the Senior Partner, who had naturally supposed that the gravel and sand would have arrested the progress of the bullet.

Next morning, rumour spread the news that "Yankee Joe"—as the Senior Partner was ignominiously dubbed—had shot at a man. Before noon the preposition slipped out of the story, and he was regarded as a blood-thirsty desperado who had actually shot a man; in which belief many of the miners remained, and, for aught I know, still remain, even unto this day. If then, any of my readers remember the incident which (under assumed names) is here related, I pray them to accept my assurance that our American friend is entitled to the full use of the preposition aforesaid.

It was observed that "Flash Jimmy" did not inflict his presence on the British public for some time after that night; and when he next appeared he carried his left arm in a sling. It was only a flesh-wound, however, and he was soon ready again for any villainy that might most forcibly commend itself to his attention.

One day, during the period of this worthy's retirement, our old friend, Barney Roche, made his appearance at the Co.'s tent. He made no reference at all to past difficulties. Indeed, his conversation, if not intensely improving, was of the most confidential and friendly description. Of the weather and its changes—the river and its caprices, its going up and its going down—did page 71Barney sweetly discourse for the full space of half-an-hour.

At length—"I hear," he said, "that ye've been throubled by thieves lately. It's a shame, then, so it is, that an honest man can't be allowed to live in peace. But I'm tould that ye served them out fine. Is it thrue, now, that ye shot one of the dirty spalpeens in the very act of robbing your sluice-box?"

"No, sir, it ain't exactly true that I shot him. But I reckon the ball circulated around his body six times, commencing at the top of his head, where it cleared a nice little track, and winding off at his toes, which it teetotally devastated of nails, barring the off-side little one, which happened to be out of the line of fire."

"Oh! Mother of Moses!" exclaimed his astonished auditor. "How the divil could one ball do that now?"

"Why, don't you see," exclaimed the Senior Partner, with unfaltering facial muscles, "it was fired out of a patent spiral - twist revolver,—a most beautiful weapon, sir; works on the high-pressure circumbendibus principle, and would send a ball clean round a tree, or a rock, after any galoot that might be dodging behind. You can bet your life on that!"

The tale went round the diggings. Some scoffed, some laughed, some seriously doubted; but all agreed on one point, namely, that Mr George Washington Pratt was not a man who could safely be meddled with. So the Co. were left in peace thereafter—for a time.