The Gully of Bluemansdyke, and Other storiesDoyle, Arthur Conan
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The Gully of Bluemansdyke, and Other stories
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Detective and mystery stories, English; Fiction; Short stories
Some unpleasing thought seemed to occur to him, for he rose with a curse
and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "A darned fine thing," he
muttered, "that I should have to lie out like this! It was Barrett's
fault the job wasn't a clean one, an' now he picks me out to get the
swamp-fever. If he'd shot the horse as I did the man, we wouldn't need a
watch on this side of the Wawirra. He always was a poor white-livered
cuss. Well," he continued, picking up a gun which lay in the grass
behind him, "there's no use my waiting longer; they wouldn't start
during the night. Maybe the horse never got home, maybe they gave them
up as drowned; anyhow it's another man's turn to-morrow, so I'll just
give them five minutes and then make tracks." He sat down on the stump
of a tree as he spoke and hummed the verse of a song. A sudden thought
seemed to strike him, for he plunged his hand into his pocket, and after
some searching extracted a pack of playing cards wrapped in a piece of
dirty brown paper. He gazed earnestly at their greasy faces for some
time. Then he took a pin from his sleeve and pricked a small hole in the
corner of each ace and knave. He chuckled as he shuffled them up, and
replaced them in his pocket. "I'll have my share of the swag," he
growled. "They're sharp, but they'll not spot that when the liquor is in
them. By the Lord, here they are!"
He had sprung to his feet and was bending to the ground, holding his
breath as he listened. To the unpractised ear all was as still as
before--the hum of a passing insect, the chirp of a bird, the rustle of
the leaves; but the bushranger rose with the air of a man who has
satisfied himself. "Good-bye to Bluemansdyke," said he; "I reckon it
will be too hot to hold us for a time. That thundering idiot! he's
spoilt as nice a lay as ever was, an' risked our necks into the bargain.
I'll see their number an' who they are, though," he continued; and,
choosing a point where a rough thicket formed an effectual screen, he
coiled himself up, and lay like some venomous snake, occasionally
raising his head and peering between the trunks at the reddish streak
which marked the Trafalgar Road.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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