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The bearded ruffian shook his hand as though hit, and the haft of a knife slipped from it; the bullet had carried away the blade. With a curse he felt for his revolver.

“Don’t be a fool, Jem Pound,” said the marksman quietly, lowering his smoking piece. “Before you bring the lot of us to the gallows, I’ll put a bullet through your own fat head. Get up, you big fool! Cut the mokes adrift, and turn everything out of the wagon.”

The man Pound rose sulkily, with a curious last look at the young Englishman’s throat, and hell-fire in his little eyes.

“Ben, watch this cove,” the chief went on, pointing to Flint, “and watch him with the shooter. I’ll see to the youngster myself. Come here, my friend.”

The speaker was plainly no other than the rascal who called himself Sundown; the hawkers heard the sobriquet on the lips of the other masked man, and their glances met. He was wrapped in a cloak that hid him from head to heels, stooped as he walked, and was amply masked. What struck Flint who was sufficiently cool to remain an attentive observer was the absence of vulgar bluster about this fellow; he addressed confederates and captives alike in the same quiet, decisive tones, without either raising his voice to a shout or filling the air with oaths. It appeared that Ned Kelly had not been the last of the real bushrangers, after all.