I heard a splash, and looked round; his horse's head was turned to the bank, and, before the trooper could get out of the river, he was into the river scrub and away as fast as his horse could carry him.
Both the troopers went after him, and we waited half-an-hour, and then went on to the next police station to stop till they came back.
Next day, late, they rode in with their horses regularly done and knocked up, leading his horse, but no Warrigal.He had got clear away from them in the scrub, jumped off his horse when they were out of sight, taken off his boots and made a straight track for the West Bogan scrub.
There was about as much chance of running him down there as a brumbie with a day's start or a wallaroo that was seen on a mountain side the week before last.I didn't trouble my head that much to think whether I was glad or sorry.What did it matter?
What did anything matter now? The only two men I loved in the world were dead; the two women I loved best left forsaken and disgraced;and I -- well, I was on my way to be hanged!
I was taken along to Turon and put into the gaol, there to await my trial.
They didn't give me much of a chance to bolt, and I wouldn't have taken it if they had.I was dead tired of my life, and wouldn't have taken my liberty then and there if they'd given it me.All I wanted was to have the whole thing done and over without any more bother.
It all passed like a dream.The court was crowded till there wasn't standing room, every one wanting to get a look at Dick Marston, the famous bush-ranger.The evidence didn't take so very long.
I was proved to have been seen with the rest the day the escort was robbed;the time the four troopers were shot.I was suspected of being concerned in Hagan's party's death, and half-a-dozen other things.Last of all, when Sub-Inspector Goring was killed, and a trooper, besides two others badly wounded.
I was sworn to as being one of the men that fired on the police.
I didn't hear a great deal of it, but 'livened up when the judge put on his black cap and made a speech, not a very long one, telling about the way the law was set at naught by men who had dared to infest the highways of the land and rob peaceful citizens with arms and violence.In the pursuit of gain by such atrocious means, blood had been shed, and murder, wilful murder, had been committed.
He would not further allude to the deeds of blood with which the prisoner at the bar stood charged.The only redeeming feature in his career had been brought out by the evidence tendered in his favour by the learned counsel who defended him.He had fought fairly when opposed by the police force, and he had on more than one occasion acted in concert with the robber known as Starlight, and the brother James Marston, both of whom had fallen in a recent encounter, to protect from violence women who were helpless and in the power of his evil companions.
Then the judge pronounced the sentence that I, Richard Marston, was to be taken from the place whence I came, and there hanged by the neck until I was dead.`And might God have mercy upon my soul!'
My lawyer had beforehand argued that although I had been seen in the company of persons who had doubtless compassed the unlawfully slaying of the Queen's lieges and peace officers, yet no proof had been brought before the court that day that I had wilfully killed any one.`He was not aware,'
would his Honour remark, `that any one had seen me fire at any man, whether since dead or alive.He would freely admit that.
I had been seen in bad company, but that fact would not suffice to hang a man under British rule.It was therefore incumbent on the jury to bring in a verdict for his client of "not guilty".'
But that cock wouldn't fight.I was found guilty by the jury and sentenced to death by the judge.I expect I was taken back without seeing or hearing to the gaol, and I found myself alone in the condemned cell, with heavy leg-irons -- worn for the first time in my life.The rough and tumble of a bush-ranger's life was over at last, and this was the finish up.
For the first week or two I didn't feel anything particular.
I was hardly awake.Sometimes I thought I must be dreaming -- that this man, sitting in a cell, quiet and dull-looking, with heavy irons on his limbs, could never be Dick Marston, the shearer, the stock-rider, the gold-miner, the bush-ranger.
This was the end -- the end -- the end! I used to call it out sometimes louder and louder, till the warder would come in to see if I had gone mad.
Bit by bit I came to my right senses.I almost think I felt sharper and clearer in my head than I had done for ever so long.