The Tale of Timber Town

He crept through a low aperture, and with difficulty he rose to his feet; a few steps further on he stumbled; the candle fell from his hand, and dropped, and dropped, and dropped, in fact he never heard it reach the bottom.

Feeling in his pocket for his matches as he lay prone, he struck a light, and held the burning taper beyond him as far as he could reach. All that he saw was a dark and horrible abyss. He struck another match with the same result. He seized a piece of loose rock, rolled it over the edge, and waited for the sound of its lodgment at the bottom. He heard it bumping as it fell, but its falling seemed interminable, till at length the sound of its passage to the nether regions died away in sheer depth.

Tresco drew a long breath.

“Never,” he said, “never, in the course of his two score years and ten has Benjamin been so near Hades. The best thing he can do is to ‘git,’ deliberately and with circumspection. And the candle has gone: happy candle to preserve the life of such a man as B.T.”

Slowly and with the utmost caution he crept backwards from the horrible pit. But his supply of matches was scanty, and often he bumped his head against the ceiling, and often he tripped and fell, till before long there was not a part of his portly person that was free from pain. Yet still he struggled on, for he realised that his life depended on his extricating himself from the terrible labyrinth in which he was entangled. He struck match after match, till his stock was expended, and then, panting, weary, and sore, he clenched his teeth and battled onward. It seemed miles to the end of the passage. He imagined that he had got into some new tunnel, the opening of which he had passed unwittingly when he crept into the trap; and to the natural dread of his situation was added the horrible fear that he was lost in the bowels of the earth.

And then, when his strength and nerve had all but given out, came deliverance. Before him he saw a faint glimmer of light, which grew brighter and brighter as he pressed painfully forward, and ere he knew that he was safe he found himself in the gallery behind the organ loft.

But what was the brilliant light that filled the nave of the Cathedral? What was the sound he heard? It was the sound of men’s voices.

Sitting round a fire, whose red flames illumined the white walls of the grotto, were four men, who talked loudly as they dried their wet garments before the blaze.

Tresco crept to the trellis-work of the gallery, and peered down upon the scene. In the shifting light which the unsteady flames threw across the great cave below he could hardly distinguish one man from another, except where facing the ruddy light the features of this intruder or of that reflected the fierce glow.

“I had to chiv the fat bloke, an’ he squealed like a pig when I jabbed ’im.” The speaker was sitting cross-legged with his back towards Tresco, and was wiping the blade of a big butcher’s knife.

“My man died coughing,” said another. “’E coughed as ’e sat like a trussed fowl, an’ when I ‘squeezed’ ’im, ’e just give one larst little cough an’ pegged out quite pleasant, like droppin’ orf to sleep.”

“It’s been a bloody mess,” remarked a third speaker. “There’s Garstang there, a mass of blood all over his shirt, and there’s the two men that was shot; any’ow you like to look at it, it’s an unworkmanlike job. All four of ’em should ha’ been ‘squeezed’ – bullets make reports and blood’s messy.”

“Garn! Whatyer givin’ us, Dolly?” said the youngest member of the gang. “Didn’t you shoot your own man – an’ on the track, too? I don’t see what you’ve got to growl at. We’ve got the gold – what more do you want?”

“I shot the unfortunate man, your Honour, firstly because he was a constable, and secondly because he was givin’ trouble, your Honour. But I prefer to do these things professionally.” Dolphin’s mock seriousness tickled his hearers, and they laughed. “But, joking apart,” he said, “after all the experience we’ve had, to go and turn that mountain-side into a butcher’s shambles is nothin’ short of disgraceful. They all ought to’ve been ‘squeezed,’ an’ have died as quiet as mice, without a drop of blood on ’em.”

“All food for worms; all lying in the howling wilderness, where they’ll stop till kingdom come. What’s the use of worrying? Hand over that bag of gold, Garstang, an’ let’s have a look. I’ve got an awful weakness for nuggets.”

A blanket was spread on the floor of the cavern, and upon this were heaped bank-notes and sovereigns and silver that glittered in the fire-light.

The four men gathered round, and the leader of the gang divided the money into four lots.

“Here’s some of the gold.” The shrill-voiced young man handed a small but heavy bag to Dolphin. “There’s stacks more.”

“One thing at a time, William,” said the leader. “First, we’ll divide the money, then the gold, which won’t be so easy, as we’ve got no scales. Here, take your cash, and count it. I make it £157 7s. apiece.” From a heap of bundles which lay a few yards off he drew forward a tent-fly, and then he carried into the light of the fire a number of small but heavy bags, one by one, and placed them on the canvas.

“My lot’s only £147 7s.,” said a deep and husky voice.

“You must ha’ made a mistake, Garstang,” said Dolphin. “Count it again.”

While the hulking, wry-faced robber bent to the task, the leader began to empty the contents of the bags upon the tent-fly.

Peering through the tracery of the Organ Gallery, Tresco looked down upon the scene with wonder and something akin to envy. There, on the white piece of folded canvas, he could see dull yellow heaps, which, even in the uncertain light of the fire, he recognised as gold.

At first, half-stunned by the presence of the strangers, he was at a loss to determine their character, but from their conversation and the display of such ill-gotten riches, he quickly grasped the fact that they were greater criminals than himself. He saw their firearms lying about; he heard their disjointed talk, interlarded with hilarious oaths; he saw them stooping over the heaps of gold, and to his astonished senses it was plain that a robbery on a gigantic scale had been committed.

On one side of the fire the wet and steaming garments of the murderers were hung on convenient stalagmites to dry; upon the other side of the red blaze the four men, dressed in strange motley, gleaned from their “swags,” wrangled over the division of the plunder.

“There’s only a hundred-an’-forty-seven quid in my lot, I tell yer!” Garstang’s rasping voice could be plainly heard above the others. “Count it yerself.”

“Count it, Dolly, an’ shut his crooked mouth.”

“I’ll take his word for it,” said the leader. “We can make it good to you, Garstang, when we get to town and sell some gold. Now listen, all of you. I’m going to divide the biggest haul we’ve ever made, or are likely to make.”

“Listen, blokes,” interrupted Sweet William, with an oath. “Give the boss your attention, if you please.”

Tresco glued his eye tighter to the aperture through which he peered. There lay the dull, yellow gold – if only he could but scare the robbers away, the prize would be his own. He rose on one knee to get a better view, but as he did so his toe dislodged a loose piece of stone, which tumbled noisily down the gallery steps, the sound of its falling re-echoing through the spacious cavern.

In a moment the robbers were thrown into a state of perturbation. Seizing their arms, they glanced wildly around, and stood on their defence.

But all was hushed and still.

“Go forward, Garstang, and search the cave,” ordered the leader in a voice of authority.

With a firebrand in one hand and a revolver in the other, the big, burly man crept forward; his mates alert to fire over him at any object he might discover. His search was haphazard, and his feet were naturally uncertain among the debris which had accumulated on the floor of the cavern.

Skirting the grotto’s edge, he examined the inky shadows that lay behind pillar and projection, till he came to the stairs which led to the Organ Gallery.

Tresco, filled with an unspeakable dread, contemplated a retreat down the passage he had lately explored, where he might be driven by the murderers over the abyssmal depth which he had failed to fathom, when suddenly the man with the torch tripped, fell, and the flame of his firebrand disappeared in a shower of sparks. With an oath the prostrate man gathered up his bruised limbs, and by the aid of the flickering fire-light he groped his way back to his fellows, but not before he had placed his ear to the damp floor and had listened for the sound of intruders.

“There’s nobody,” he said, when he reached his mates. “The row was only a blanky spike that fell from the roof an’ broke itself. The ground’s covered with ’em.”

“Come on, then,” said Sweet William; “let’s finish our business.”

They gathered again round the treasure.

“You see, I have arranged it in two heaps,” said Dolphin – “nuggets in one, gold-dust in the other. I propose to measure out the dust first.”

Each man had provided himself with one of the leather bags which had originally held the gold, and their leader filled a pint pannikin with gold-dust. “That’s one,” he said, lifting it heavily. “That’s for you, old crooked chops.” And he emptied the measure into Garstang’s bag.

“Two.” He emptied a pannikinful of gold into Carnac’s bag.

“Three.” Sweet William received a like measure.

“Four.” Dolphin helped himself.

“That makes four pints of gold,” he said. “What d’you say, mates, will she go round another turn?”

“No,” said Carnac, “try a half-pint all round.”

Dolphin fetched a smaller pannikin from the swags, and the division of the gold continued.

To share the nuggets equally was a difficult matter, and a good deal of wrangling took place in consequence. This, however, was quieted by the simple expedient of tossing a coin for disputed pieces of gold. The biggest nuggets being thus disposed of, the smaller ones were measured in the half-pint pot, till at length the envious eyes of the goldsmith saw the last measureful disappear into its owner’s bag.

This exceedingly delicate matter being settled, the bushrangers sat round the fire, drank tea which they brewed in a black “billy,” lit their pipes, and – as is invariably the case with a gang of thieves – enacted again the awful drama in which they had lately played their horrible parts.

Shivering on the damp floor of the dripping gallery, Tresco strained his ears to hear every diabolical detail of the conversation.

“Garstang, old man, Dolly’s right; you’d better see to that shirt of yours. It looks as if you’d killed a pig in it.”

“The chap I chiv’d was as fat as a pig, anyway,” said the crooked-mouthed murderer, as he attempted to rub out the guilty stains with a dirty piece of rag. “The blood spurted all over me as soon as I pulled out the knife.”

“Take it off, man; it looks as bad as a slaughterman’s,” said the leader of the gang. “Throw it in the fire.”

“I consider I did my man beautifully,” said Carnac. “I told him to say his prayers, and while he knelt I just shot him behind the ear. Now, I call that a very pretty method of dying – no struggling, no fuss, no argument, simply a quick departure in an odour of sanctity.” And the gentlemanly murderer laughed quietly and contentedly.

“The blanky banker went ratty when he saw my gun,” said Sweet William. “I had to fair yank ’im through the supple-jacks an’ lawyers. It was something horrid – it made my arm ache. At larst I says, ‘Look ’ere, are you goin’ to walk, or am I to shoot you?’ An’ he kept on sayin’, ‘All the gold is on the horse; don’t take it all, please,’ till I felt sick. ‘Up you git,’ I says, an’ I dragged ’im through the bush, and then bli’me if ’e didn’t sit down an’ cough an’ cry. Such dam’ foolishness made me lose patience. I just ‘squeezed’ ’im where he sat.”

“My bloke was the devil to die,” said Garstang. “First I shot him one way, then I shot him another; an’ at larst I had to chiv ’im with the knife, though it was the larst thing I wanted to do.”

“They should all have been ‘squeezed,’” said Dolphin, “and nothing’s easier if you’ve got the knack – noiseless, bloodless, traceless, the only scientific way of doin’ the work.”

“All of which you’ve said before, Dolly.” Sweet William rose and groped his way to the mouth of the cave.

“It’s the blamed horses that bother me,” said Carnac. “We left their carcases too near the track. We should have taken them a mile or more along, and have shoved them over a precipice, down which they might have fallen by accident in the storm. As it is, they’ll be putrid in a fortnight, and make the track impassable.”

“By which time,” said Dolphin, “we shall be out of reach.”

“What about the Bank?” Garstang asked the question almost insolently. “I thought you ’ad such wonderful plans of yer own.”

“The thing’s easy enough,” retorted Dolphin, “but the question is whether it’s worth while. We’ve made a haul to be proud of; never did men have a better streak o’ luck. We’ve taken hundreds of ounces from a strong escort, which we stopped at the right place, just in the right way, so that they couldn’t so much as fire a shot. It would be a crying shame to spoil such a job by bein’ trapped over a paltry wooden Bank.”

“Trapped be sugared!” said Garstang.

“The inference ’ll be” – Sweet William had returned from the cave’s mouth, and took up the conversation where he left it – “everybody with any sense’ll say the escort an’ the banker made orf with the gold – nothin’ but blood’ounds could ever find their bodies.”

“It’s bin a wonderful time,” said Dolphin, “but we can’t expect such luck to foller us around like a poodle-dog.”

“I’m for havin’ a slap at the Bank, anyway,” growled Garstang.

“Imagine the effect upon the public mind – the robbery of an escort and a bank, both in one week!” This was how the gentlemanly Carnac regarded the question. “It’d be a record. We’d make a name that wouldn’t easily be forgotten. I’m for trying.”

“Well, it’s stopped raining, blokes,” said Sweet William, “but outside it’s dark enough to please an owl. If we want to get into Timber Town without bein’ seen, now’s the time to start.” So saying, he picked up his “swag,” which he hitched upon his back.

The other men rose, one by one, and shouldered their packs, in which each man carried his gold.

With much lumbering, stumbling, and swearing, the murderers slowly departed, groping their way to the mouth of the cave by the light of the fire, which they left burning.

Tresco waited till the last sound of their voices had died away, then he stretched his cramped, benumbed limbs, heaved a deep sigh of relief, and rose to his feet.

“My God, what monsters!” He spoke under his breath, for fear that even the walls should hear him. “If they had found me they’d have thought as little of cutting my throat as of killing a mosquito. If ever I thanked God in my life – well, well – every nerve of me is trembling. That’s the reaction. I must warm myself, and have a bite of food.”

After carefully scattering the murderers’ fire, he groped his way to his inner cell, and there he made his best endeavours to restore his equanimity with warmth, food, and drink.

CHAPTER XXXI

The Perturbations of the Bank Manager

The windows of the Kangaroo Bank were ablaze with light, although the town clock had struck eleven. It was the dolorous hour when the landlord of The Lucky Digger, obliged by relentless law, reluctantly turned into the street the topers and diggers who filled his bar.

Bare-headed, the nails of his right hand picking nervously at the fingers of his left, the manager of the Bank emerged from a side-door. He glanced up the dark street towards the great mountains which loomed darkly in the Cimmerian gloom.

“Dear me, dear me,” murmured he to himself, “he is very late. What can have kept him?” He glanced down the street, and saw the small crowd wending its way from the hostelry. “It was really a most dreadful storm, the most dreadful thunderstorm I ever remember.” His eye marked where the light from the expansive windows of the Bank illumined the wet asphalt pavement. “Landslips frequently occur on newly made tracks, especially after heavy rain. It’s a great risk, a grave risk, this transporting of gold from one place to another.”

“’Evenin’, boss. Just a little cheque for twenty quid. I’ll take it in notes.”

The men from The Lucky Digger had paused before the brilliantly lighted building.

“Give him a chance… Let him explain… Carn’t you see there’s a run on the Bank.”

“Looks bad… Clerks in the street… All lighted up at this time o’ night… No money left.”

“Say, boss, have they bin an’ collared the big safe? Do you want assistance?”

The Manager turned to take refuge in the Bank, but his tormentors were relentless.

“Hold on, mate – you’re in trouble. Confide in us. If the books won’t balance, what matter? Don’t let that disturb your peace of mind. Come and have a drink… Take a hand at poker… First tent over the bridge, right-hand side.”

“It’s no go, boys. He’s narked because he knows we want an overdraft. Let ’im go and count his cash.”

The Manager pulled himself free from the roisterers and escaped into the Bank by the side door, and the diggers continued noisily on their way.

The lights of the Bank suddenly went out, and the Manager, after carefully locking the door behind him, crossed over the street to the livery stables, where a light burned during the greater part of the night. In a little box of a room, where harness hung on all the walls, there reclined on a bare and dusty couch a red-faced man, whose hair looked as if it had been closely cropped with a pair of horse-clippers. When he caught sight of the banker, he sat up and exclaimed, “Good God, Mr. Tomkinson! Ain’t you in bed?”

“It’s this gold-escort, Manning – it was due at six o’clock.”

“Look here.” The stable-keeper rose from his seat, placed his hand lovingly on a trace which hung limply on the wall. “Don’t I run the coach to Beaver Town? – and I guess a coach is a more ticklish thing to run than a gold-escort. Lord bless your soul, isn’t every coach supposed to arrive before dark? But they don’t. ‘The road was slippy with frost – I had to come along easy,’ the driver’ll say. Or it’ll be, ‘I got stuck up by a fresh in the Brown River.’ That’s it. I know. But they always arrive, sometime or other. I’ll bet you a fiver – one of your own, if you like – that the rivers are in flood, and your people can’t get across. Same with the Beaver Town coach. She was due at six o’clock, and here’ve I been drowsing like a more-pork on this couch, when I might have been in bed. An’ to bed I go. If she comes in to-night, the driver can darn well stable the ’orses himself. Good night.”

This was a view of the question that had not occurred to Mr. Tomkinson, but he felt he must confer with the Sergeant of Police.

The lock-up was situated in a by-street not far from the centre of the town. The Sergeant was sitting at a desk, and reading the entries in a big book. His peaked shako lay in front of him, and he smoked a cigar as he pored over his book.

He said nothing, he barely moved, when the banker entered; but his frank face, in which a pair of blue eyes stood well apart, lighted up with interest and attention as Mr. Tomkinson told his tale. When the narrative was ended, he said quietly, “Yes, they may be weather-bound. Did you have a clear understanding that the gold was to be brought in to-day?”

“It was perfectly understood.”

“How much gold did you say there was?”

“From fifteen to twenty thousand pounds’ worth – it depends on how much the agent has bought.”

“A lot of money, sir; quite a nice little fortune. It must be seen to. I’ll tell you what I will do. Two mounted constables shall go out at daylight, and I guarantee that if the escort is to be found, they will find it.”

“Thank you,” said Tomkinson. “I think it ought to be done. You will send them out first thing in the morning? Thank you. Good night.”

As the banker turned to go, the Sergeant rose.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

They walked contemplatively side by side till they reached the main street, where a horseman stood, hammering at Manning’s stable-gate.

“Nobody in?” said the Sergeant. “You had better walk inside, and put the horse up yourself.”

“I happen to know that the owner has gone to bed,” said Tomkinson.

The horseman passed through the gateway, and was about to lead his sweating mount into the stables, when the Sergeant stopped him.

“Which way have you come to-day?” he asked.

“From Bush Robin Creek,” replied the traveller.

“You have ridden right through since morning?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Did you overtake some men with a pack-horse?”

“No. I passed Mr. Scarlett, after the thunderstorm came on. That was on the other side of the ranges.”

“How did you find the rivers? Fordable?”

“They were all right, except that on this side of the range they had begun to rise.”

“Perhaps the men we are expecting,” said the nervous banker, “took shelter in the bush when the storm came on. You may have passed without seeing them.”

“Who are the parties you are expecting?” asked the traveller.

“Mr. Zahn, the agent of the Kangaroo Bank, was on the road to-day with a considerable quantity of gold,” replied the Sergeant.

“You mean the gold-escort,” said the traveller. “It left about three hours before I did.”

“Do you know Mr. Zahn?” asked the Sergeant.

“I do. I’ve sold gold to him.”

“I’ll take your name, if you please,” said the Sergeant, producing his pocket-book.

“Rooker, Thomas Samuel Rooker,” said the traveller.

“Where are you to be found?”

“At The Lucky Digger.”

“Thank you,” said the Sergeant, as he closed his book with a snap and put it in his pocket. “Good night.”

“Good night,” said the traveller, as he led his horse into the stable. “If I can be of any use, send for me in the morning.”

“It’s pretty certain that this man never saw them,” said the Sergeant, “therefore they were not on the road when he passed them. They must have been, as you say, in the bush. There is plenty of hope yet, sir, but I should advise you to get up pretty early to-morrow morning, if you want to see my mounted men start. Good night.”

With a gloomy response, Mr. Tomkinson turned his steps towards the Bank, there to toss on a sleepless bed till morning.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Quietude of Timber Town Is Disturbed

The crowd which had gathered in front of the verandah of the Post Office of Timber Town was made up, as is not uncommon with crowds, of all sorts and conditions of men. There were diggers dressed in the rough clothes suitable to their calling and broad-brimmed felt hats; tradesmen, fat with soft living, and dressed each according to his taste; farmers, in ready-made store-clothes and straw hats; women, neatly, if plainly, dressed as suited the early hour of the day; a few gaily-dressed girls, and a multitude of boys.

Nailed to the wooden wall of the building was a poster, printed with big head-lines, upon which the interest of all present was centred.

NOTICEFIVE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD!!!

WHEREAS persons of the names of ISAAC ZAHN, PETER HEAFY, WILLIAM JOHNSON, and JAMES KETTLE have mysteriously disappeared; AND WHEREAS it is supposed that they have been murdered on the road between Bush Robin Creek and Timber Town; AND WHEREAS, further, they had in their custody at the time a considerable quantity of gold, the property of the Kangaroo Bank;

THIS IS TO NOTIFY that should those persons, or any of them, have been murdered, a reward of FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS (£500) will be given to any person who shall give information that will lead to the conviction of the murderers; AND A LIKE REWARD will be given to any person who shall give such information as shall lead to the restoration of the stolen gold to its lawful owners.

(Signed) WILLIAM TOMKIN TOMKINSON,

Manager,Kangaroo Bank,Timber Town.

“Isaac Zahn? He was the gold-buying clerk. I knew ’im well. An’ if you ask me, I think I know who put ’im away.”

“You’re right, John. D’you call to mind that long-legged toff at The Lucky Digger?”

“I do. ’E caught Zahn a lick under the jaw, an’ kicked ’im into the street. I seen ’im do it.”