e saw this himself, and his
futile shot was designed to stop one at least of the horses. However, it
went wide. He slipped behind a tree and began snap-shooting at the
advancing mounted men. They spread out fanwise, thus coming at him from
three sides at once. He moved slightly in order to get a better aim, and
in doing so unwittingly exposed himself. One of the troopers, who had
discarded his carbine in favor of a revolver, took a flying shot. Bradby
lurched from behind the tree, clasped his hands to his left side and
slipped down on to the grass.

When they reached him the blood was welling out of his side, and they
saw that he was mortally wounded. The man who had fired the fatal shot
dropped on his knees beside him and lifted up his head. Bradby's face
was ashy pale, even in the faint moonlight one could see that, but he
was still conscious.

"It's no use," he panted. "I'm done."

"Where is the gold and where are your mates?" the man asked, conscious
that a word from the dying bushranger would solve everything. Bradby's
frame shook spasmodically, and when the other looked again there was
blood on his pale lips.

"Through the lung," muttered one of the others who had some knowledge of
medical science.

The first man repeated his question in another form.

Bradby looked at him with a strangely inscrutable face and with eyes
that were already darkening with the shadow of death.

"Where's the gold? Where's ... my ... mates?" The last three words were
almost whispered.

"Yes," said the trooper eagerly. "Where are they?"

The dying man moved his lips, but no sound issued from them. The other
bent down closer to him.

"That," said the bushranger with long and painful pauses between each
word, "you ... will ... never ... know."

And with that last taunt on his lips he died.

"Game to the end," the trooper said to his comrades with an admiration
he made no effort to hide.

* * * * *

The blow had not killed Abel Cumshaw. He lay unconscious for the better
part of the night, and even when the day dawned he was too weak at first
to do more than crawl a few paces at the most. His head was throbbing,
his mouth was a raging furnace, and all his limbs felt as if they had
been racked and twisted. When daylight came at length he lay still for a
while, trying to recollect what had happened. But his mind was a perfect
blank and he himself was a man without an identity. The blow that had