The second trooper fired a revolver, and the bullet chipped a slab at the
gold-stealer's ear. Rogers had him covered, and his finger was on the
trigger when the gun was whirled from his hands and a man who had stolen
up from the back closed with him. The newcorner was slim, and Rogers felt
that he might break him between his hands if he could only get a proper
grip; but the drunken drover--for it was he--was as sinuous as an eel,
and a moment later Joe was on the broad of his back with the 'darbies' on
his wrists and a trooper kneeling on his chest, while the drover,
transformed into Detective Downy, stood over them, mopping his face with
his big false beard.

The wounded trooper had recovered somewhat, and was on his hands and
knees, with down-hanging head, in the light of the open door.

'How are you, Casey?' asked the detective anxiously.

'Aisy, sor. I'm jist wonderin' if I'm dead or alive,' said the trooper in
a still small voice, watching the blood-drops falling from his forehead.

'Then the devil a bit's the matter with you, Casey.'

'Thank you, sor,' said the trooper, with a trained man's confidence in
his superior. 'Thin I'd best git up, p'raps.' And he arose and stood
dubiously fingering the furrow plowed along the top of his head by the
gold stealer's bullet.

'Get him into the hut,' said Downy, indicating Rogers with a nod; 'and
hobble the brute--he's dangerous.'