There was no one inside but the bar-tender, as hang-dog-looking a ruffian as I have ever set eyes on. Foolishly, as it proved, as I entered I unbuckled my belt with sword and revolver attached and threw them on a bench by the door. Then we strolled together to the far end of the bar and, hot and thirsty with our long ride in the burning sun, called for drinks. Glasses in hand, we stood with our backs to the door, and were just about to sample our poison when we heard the ominous words: "Bail up!" Turning round, I saw a wicked-looking devil standing in the doorway. He had me covered with the heavy revolver he carried in his right hand, while its mate, ready for action, was gripped in his left by his side. He was a well-made, tough-looking chap, very muscular and strong, without carrying an ounce of superfluous flesh, and dressed in the ordinary up-country dress. His face, clean-shaven, was covered by a black mask, but I noticed a well-cut mouth, a determined chin, and his eyes gleamed through the holes of his visor with a glint there was no mistaking, while the hand that held the gun was as steady as a rock. Then I realised that he was between me and my weapons, which lay on the bench by the door. A man who has passed years in bush-fighting, scouting and despatch-riding thinks quickly and acts decisively. Had there been the slightest tremor in wrist or lips I should have slung my glass at him, and risked a rush; but there was not a sign of a tremble, and I knew that the slightest hostile movement on my part would not only lead to my certain death, but would be quite useless. My friend and the villainous bar-tender, the latter with a broad grin on his ugly mug, had at once bailed up, and as there was no chance of help from my troopers, who by that time must have off-saddled and be attending to the horses at the stock-yard, some way off, I knew we were cornered and beaten. "Captain," said the bounder, "I guess I've got you. Bail up." "I'll see you d----d first," I replied. "I've got you," he retorted, "and I'm on the shoot. Sling your money on the counter, and"--this to my friend--"sling that bag down too." The squatter was standing with his hands above his head, so evidently could not do so, and the bushranger said to me: "Captain, sling that bag over here." "Rot!" was my discourteous reply; so he turned to the blackguard behind the bar, who was probably in league with him, and said, "Joe, you do it." And the bag was promptly thrown to him. Then he said to me, and I noticed he changed his voice, dropping the Yankee slang and idiom he had previously used, and speaking with a well-modulated and refined accent: "Captain, I don't want anything from you." (This was just as well, as I had nothing.) "But," he continued, "how long start will you give me?" I said: "Five minutes." "Word of honour?" "Yes."