Stingaree
He did not fire; he did not shift sight or barrel for a moment from the docile file before him. "Barmaid! Barmaid, my pet!" he cried, and hardly looked to see what happened.
But Oswald watched the mare stop, prick her ears under the hammering of unspurred heels, spin round, bucking as she spun, and toss her rider like a bull. There in the moonlight he lay like lead, with leaden face upturned to the shuddering youngster in the tree.
"One of you a doctor?" asked Stingaree, checking a forward movement of the file.
"I am."
The cigar was paling between finger and thumb.
"Then come you here and have a look at him. The rest of you move at your peril!"
Stingaree led the way, stepping backward, but not as far as the injured man, who sat up ruefully as the bushranger sprang into the saddle.
"Another yard, and I'd have grabbed your ankles!" said the man on the ground.
"You're a stout fellow, but I know more about this game than you," the outlaw answered, riding to his distance and reining up. "If I didn't you might have had me—but you must think of something better for Stingaree!"
He galloped his mare into the bush and Oswald
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