The editorial dictum was prophetic. Mr. Banneret and Denzil Southwater, watching by the dying man’s couch, listened to his last words while the labouring breath grew faint—then failed for ever. One bullet had pierced his left lung; another had lodged in the spine. Both injuries were mortal. It was a question of hours—of few of them indeed.
‘I stopped “Long Jack,” Commissioner!’ he said, while a slow smile of satisfaction lit up the calm features, ‘afore he got in another pot at you. He’d not have missed twice. I’m goin’ out, and except for the wife and kids I don’t know as it’s much odds; there’s enough to keep them when she gets back to Tumut, where her people live. Land’s easy got there; a bit of corn-flat with a few cows ’ll keep her easy and comfortable. The boy and girl ’ll get schoolin’ till they’re out in the world, and their mother won’t tell ’em too much about me—their poor father, as died in his right place—a-standin’ off them as tried to collar the gold he’d worked hard for. You write it out, Mr. Southwater—all as I’ve said, and just put Richard Lawless his mark at the foot. The Commissioner might witness it—if he’ll be so good—and you too, sir.’
They complied with the sufferer’s request. Great drops of blood welled up from the shattered lung, as between gasps he laboriously formed the cross which validated his will, made for the benefit of the woman who had followed him from the green, fertile valley, where the sparkling river comes leaping down from the snow-crowned alp. With her he had been ever mild and patient—a tireless worker when work was to be had—often away for months at a time, but reserved as to his occupation. Brokenly, and with hesitation, he said: ‘Commissioner! I’ll die easier like if you’ll shake hands afore I go. It’s a suspension o’ labour in a manner of speakin’.’ And with a quiet smile on his lips at an old goldfields jest, the soul of ‘Dick Andrews,’ otherwise Richard Lawless, fled away from its earthly tenement, leaving the hand of Arnold Banneret, ex-Commissioner of Barrawong, New South Wales, still enclosed in a dead man’s rigid grasp.
‘Poor Dick! poor chap!’ said Banneret; ‘there goes a man’s life made for better things. I suppose he _did_ save mine—barring accident. That long ruffian wouldn’t have missed twice. With the exception of the vendetta business with Dayrell—and there are two versions of that story—I never heard of his doing anything mean or dishonest—that is “crooked”’—he added reflectively—having regard to the prevailing tone of Monaro morality.