Robbery Under Arms by Rolf Boldrewood (epub read online books TXT) 📕

“Maybe there is⁠—maybe there isna,” says the old man, coolly. There must have been something about him a deal different from most men, if father stood that. There were very few people liked to play with him, I tell you.

“Sae naething less will do ye than sticking up her Majesty’s gold escort, as they call’t, shooting and slaying a sergeant of police, and firing in cauld bluid upon men that’s doin’ their duty. Ben Marston, ye’re a born deevil, weel I ken. But I didna think ye had been sae bauld a son of Belial as yon comes to.”

“You can’t swear I was in it, nor no other man,” growls father. “What’s the good of putting everything on my back that happens in this blessed country?”

“Nae doot ye’re sair belied,” says the old chap, quietly chuckling to himself. “And the laddie Starlight and the twa bairnies⁠—Richard, here, and Jeems⁠—he was a bonnie lad, yon Jeems, I mind⁠—were they no in it? Maybe ye were passin’ by accidentally, and joost lookit in to see hoo things were ganging through. Maybe the auld doggie was no there? Ben Marston, ye’ll no throw dust in my auld een.”

“Who wants to throw dust in your eyes?” roars father. “Do you want me to send a letter to the p’leece saying where I’m to be found? When they catch me they’ll have me, and not before. Give me my papers, and leave the devil asleep if you care for your life.”

“Hooly, hooly!” says the old fellow, “I’m no to be freckened. Ye ken that. Ye’ll have them a’ in guid time. There was some only cam’ yestreen. If I hadna takken thocht to ha’ gone ootbye and passed the rock, there wad they ha’ lain till the morn’s morn, and ye’d no hae gettit them for a month⁠—may be never ava.”

“Never’s a long word, Davy,” says father, lighting his pipe and sitting down quiet again like.

“And what for noo?” says the old Scotch chap (what a queer lingo it is, my word!). “Will ye no be hangit or shot, or ta’en and sent back to the wee wee cells we baith ken sae weel, and the iron brands, and the cauld and the heat, and the triangles, maybe, tho’ I doot they canna flog noo.”

“No fear, Davy,” says father. “See this here little pistol,” and here he pulls out his revolver. “We usen’t to have ’em in those days, did we? Before I’d suffer myself to be took and stand my trial again, and have the whole thing twice over, I’d put this to my head and finish it once for all. Strike me blind if I wouldn’t, and that quick.”

“Deed and I joost think ye wad, Poacher Ben; ye’re an awfu’ dour crater. It was a word and a blow wi’ ye in them days, in the auld days. I’m feared to think o’ them e’en noo. Weel, here’s your letters; shall I open them and speer what is inside?”

“Yes, yes,” says father, puffing away; “read ’em true, as ye always have. I can trust you, Davy.”

“Ye may say that,” says the old chap, quite solemn like. “Weel, here’s ane from John Barker” (“Cross-eyed Jack,” says father). “Says there’s a lot of unbranded calves of Mr. Lumsden’s running near the gap, ten miles from Broken Creek. If you cop any, send him two pound.”

“He be hanged!” growls father; “he’d better run ’em himself. He’s a cowardly hound or he’d do it. Chuck it in the fire.”

“William Crickmere” (“Flash Bill,” says father). “Two lines. ‘Police working near old cattle-track, Nulla; camped Rocky Creek.’ ”

“Well done, old Bill,” he says. “There’s five pounds; send him that.”

“James Doherty: ‘If you can send thirty good colts and twenty mates and fillies to the old place to work over the boundary, the money is there.’ ”

“Can’t do it, now. Tell him he’d better sent word to Tandragco.”

“ ‘Musterin’ for fat cattle at Bandra and Doobajook next Monday week.’ No name to this ane.”

“I know who sent me that; it’s all right,” says father. “What’s this?”

“That’s from the puir sair-hearted woman that ye swore to luve and cherish a’ yer days, Ben Marston⁠—in the han’ of write of that fine weel-faured lassie that has the ill fortune to ca’ ye father. Are ye no ’shamed to walk the earth, that have done waur to yer ain flesh and bluid tha’ the beasts o’ the field? Answer me that, ye bauld aul hardened sinner.”

“Why didn’t ye take to the parson racket when yer time was out?” sneers father. “Blest if ye can’t patter better than half on ’em. You’re the one man that I let talk to me that way, anyhow. Maybe ye’ll convert me some day.”

“On the day that ye saved this moeeserable life, and that of anither that was a hunner times dearer to me⁠—Ben Marston⁠—I made a vow to Almighty God to do ye whit sairvice I could to my deein’ day. Have I no kept my oath?”

“Davy Jones, I ain’t going for to deny it,” says father. “You’ve done more for me than any man living ever did or will. You don’t cotton to my ways and never did. It stuns me, as you could have stuck to me through it all, unless it was about the kid.”

“Poacher, robber, murderer, I had amaist said that ye are!” said the old man. “Why is it that I, David Carstairs, that never stole the value of a bawbee in this long, wasted life; that was exiled and sent awa’ to this wearifu’ land for a sma’ regimental offence⁠—can ca’ ye freend and brither, and do your bidding, evil as your ways are? Why is it but that when I saw the blue eyes and the gowden locks o’ my wee darling lassie⁠—the child o’ her that followed me from the auld country and died o’ grief and shame in this new ane⁠—go down boneath the pitiless wave my eyes darkened and my soul seemed to have quitted