He loosed the first and it walked away;
But his comrade’s silence could not be bought,
For he raised his head with a sudden neigh,
And plainly showed that he’d not be caught.
As a bullet sang from a rifle-bore,
‘It’s time to be moving!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.
The brittle pine, as they broke away,
Crackled like ice in a winter’s ponds;
The strokes fell fast on the cones that lay
Buried beneath the withered fronds
That softly carpet the sandy floor:
Swept two on the tracks of Featherstonhaugh.
They struck the path that the stock had made—
A dustily-red, well-beaten track.
The leader opened a fusilade
Whose target was Featherston’s stooping back;
But his luck was out; not a bullet tore
As much as a shred from Featherstonhaugh.
Rattle ’em! rattle ’em fast on the pad
Where the sloping shades fell dusk and dim!
The manager’s heart beat high and glad,
For he knew the creek was a mighty swim.
Already he heard a smothered roar:
‘They’re done like a dinner!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.
