CHAPTER XVIII.

WHEN Rogers reached his hut he sat for some time in the dark, thinking
over his position. It had been his intention all along to make his escape
from the district the moment he succeeded in recovering the gold, and
now, in his horror at the consequences of his last act, he was incapable
of cold reason. His one desire was to get away as far as possible from
the scene of his crimes. He lit a candle, and the drunken drover, peeping
through a crack, saw him spread a blanket on the floor and set to work
hastily to make a swag. The drover watched him for a minute and then sped
off in the darkness. Shortly after this Rogers was startled at the sound
of a shrill and peculiar whistle. Jumping up on the impulse of the
moment, with the quick suspicion of a criminal, he snatched his gun from
a corner and stepped out. Standing in the light thrown from his hut door,
he heard the tramp of horses' hoofs and a voice calling:

'Stand and deliver! You are my prisoner!'

Joe slipped into the shadow, sheltering himself behind the chimney, and
saw two troopers riding at him. Instinctively his gun was lifted to his
shoulder.

'Bail up!' he cried. 'A step nearer an' I fire!'

The troopers spurred their horses. Rogers clinched his teeth, his eye ran
along the barrel, he covered the leading man and fired. The trooper was
flung forward on his horse's neck, his arms dangling limply on each side.
His horse sprang to a gallop, and a minute later the man slid over its
shoulder and fell, rolling almost to Joe's feet as the animal rushed
past.