Sounds of horses’ hoofs were heard approaching.  The gang, masked, and mounted on bridled and saddled goats, anxiously awaited the word of command.

‘Back, men, back for your lives!’ cried Dick.  ’It’s the p’lice, fifteen thousan’ strong, an’ they’re hot on our track; but Red Hand’s gang will never be taken alive.’

The bushrangers cowered back into the shadow as a party of three young men riding tired horses ambled slowly by, singing dolorously and brandishing bottles.  Red Hand was discreet if valiant.  However, another warning came not a minute later.  This time it was a solitary man in a farmer’s cart; his old horse was shuffling wearily through the dust at a jog-trot, and the boys could just discern the tall gaunt figure of the driver.

‘Surround him, my lads!’ yelled Red Hand.  ‘Bail up!’ he cried riding forward on Butts and presenting what passed very well for a pistol in the dusk.  ’Your money or your life!

The driver snatched a stick out of the cart and, uttering a great yell, began to belabour his poor horse mercilessly.

‘Fire!’ shrieked the implacable Red Hand; and a few seconds later six crackers exploded about the unhappy farmer, who instantly fell upon his knees and, still pounding at his horse, was whirled away amongst the trees by the startled brute.  For some time the bush-rangers could hear him still hammering his old horse, and catch the sound of his voice encouraging the poor animal to more reckless speed, and the crashing of saplings as the dray pounded its way through the undergrowth.  The boys were delighted; this was noble sport; the lust of victory was upon them.  Gable was waving his arms and ejaculating ‘Oh, crickey!’ and the others capered about on their goats, and felt themselves to be very large and terrible persons indeed.

‘Bushrangin’s easy ez snuff,’ said Peterson.

‘Course it is,’ said Phil.  ’Wisher few p’lice’d come along and let’s have a go at ’em.’

‘That was splendidly done, men,’ said Red Hand with superior coolness.  ‘Back to your places.  Someone’s comin’.’

The next corner was a man on a grey horse.

‘Bail up!’ cried Red Hand from the cover of the saplings.  ’Stir a foot an’ you’re a dead man.’

The rider waited for no more, but threw himself forward on his horse’s neck, dug in his spurs, and galloped furiously away in the direction of Cow Flat, hearing the reports of the boys’ crackers only when he was far out of range.  The next victim was a small boy on a pony, who, as soon as he heard the terrible command, fell plump on to the road and then jumped up and fled in terror after his bolting horse.  The gang had now spread consternation and dismay along quite two miles of the highway, and were jubilant in consequence and primed for any adventure however desperate.

Dick entertained his men with talk of the glory they had earned by their actions that night, and predicted a reputation for them beside which the reputation of every other gang of bushrangers Australia had known would fade into insignificance.