Dad wasn’t long before he had our lot safely packed and on his two pack-horses. Warrigal and he cleared out at a trot, and went out of sight in a jiffy. It was every man for himself now. We waited a bit to help them with their swag; it was awful heavy. We told them that their pack-horses would never carry it if there was any thing of a close run for it.

“Suppose you think you’ve got the only good horse in the country, Dick Marston,” says Daly. “We’ll find a horse to run anything you’ve got, barrin’ Rainbow. I’ve got a little roan horse here as shall run ever a horse ye own, for three mile, for a hundred notes, with twelve stone up. What do you think of that, now?”

“Don’t take your shirt off, Patsey,” I said. “I know the roan’s as good as ever was foaled” (so he was; the police got him after Patsey was done for, and kept him till he died of old age),“but he’s in no condition. I’m talking of the pack-horses; they’re not up to much, as you’ll find out.”

We didn’t want to rush off at once, for fear the other fellows might say something afterwards if anything happened cross. So we saw them make a fair start for a spot on Weddin Mountain, where they thought they were right. We didn’t think we could be caught once we made tracks in earnest. After a couple or three hours’ riding we should be pretty safe, and daylight would see us at the Hollow.

We stopped, besides, to do what we could for the wounded men. There were none of them regularly done for, except the sergeant. One man was shot through the lungs, and was breathing out blood every now and then. We gave them some brandy and water, and covered them all up and left them as comfortable as we could. Besides that, we sent Billy the Boy, who couldn’t be recognised, to the camp to have a doctor sent as soon as possible. Then we cleared and started off, not the way we had to go, but so as we could turn into it.