ul gullies I have ever seen, I turned to the man beside me.
Conceive my horror at finding it was Charles Hawker! I said fiercely,
"Get back, Charles! Go home! You don't know what you're doing, lad."

He defied me. I was speaking to him again when there came a puff of
smoke from the rocks overhead, and down I went, head over heels. A
bullet grazed my thigh, and killed my horse; so that during the fight
that followed, I was sitting on a rock very sick and very stupid.

"They've set a watch," said Captain Desborough. "They'll fight us now;
they can't help it, thank God!"

Then, under the beetling crags, the bushrangers turned like hunted
wolves, and stood at bay. Now the fight became general and confused. All
about among the ferns and flowers men fought, and fired, and cursed.
Shots were cracking on all sides, and two riderless horses were
galloping about neighing.

Desborough fought neither against small nor great, but only against one
man--George Hawker. Him he had sworn he would bring home, alive or dead.
He caught sight of his quarry, and instantly made towards him. As soon
as Hawker saw he was recognised, he made to the left, trying to reach
the only practicable way back to the mountains. They fired at one
another without effect. As the ground got more open, Desborough was
aware of one who came charging recklessly up alongside of him, and
recognised Charley Hawker. He had had no hint of the relationship.

"Good lad," he said; "come on. I must have that fellow before us. He's
the arch-devil of the lot. We must have him!"

"We'll have him safe enough!" said Charles. "Push to the left, captain,
and we shall get him among these fallen rocks."

They pushed forwards, and soon succeeded in bringing him to bay. Alas,
too well!

He reined up when he saw escape was impossible, and awaited their
coming. Desborough's horse received a bullet in the chest, and down went
horse and man together. But Charles pushed on till within ten yards of
the bushranger, and levelled his pistol to fire.

For an instant father and son glared on one another as the father made
his aim more deadly. The bullet sped, and the poor boy tumbled from his
saddle, clutching wildly at the grass and flowers--shot through the
chest. Then, ere Desborough had disentangled himself from his fallen
horse, George Hawker rode off laughing--out through the upper rock walls
into the presence of the broad snow-line that rolled above his head in
endless lofty tie