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Updated: July 31, 2024
Clinton to a seat in the stern, they hoisted the mainsail and jib, and headed the boat for the land, for the breeze was now blowing freshly. What Adair's intentions were regarding Mrs. Clinton the others did not ask. Theirs was unquestioning loyalty, and they were ready to follow him now with the same blind and fateful devotion that had brought them with him on board the Breckenbridge in manacles.
Those who had banked on the big issue wherein Breckenbridge would smell the other man's powder-smoke were disappointed. And there were some among them who shook their heads when the young fellow's name was mentioned, saying, as they had said in the beginning: "Wait till the show-down comes; then we'll see how he stacks up." But Sheriff Johnny Behan was open in his rejoicings.
"Got a warrant for you," he announced when the desperado had demanded to know who was there. "Highway robbery." There was a bit of parleying through the closed door and finally "Man by the name of Johnson is the complaining witness," young Breckenbridge elucidated. "According to what I hear, the play came up along of a poker game." John Ringo swore lightly. "Come in," he bade the deputy.
Now and then one of the gamblers would lift his head to take a look at the new-comers, and for a brief instant young Breckenbridge would find himself gazing into a pair of hard, steady eyes. Then the eyes would be lowered and the player would go on with the game. It was during this uncomfortable interval of general sizing-up that the proprietor entered, a red-faced man and short of stature.
So it came that young Billy Breckenbridge, whose business was serving warrants and not bothering over the whys and wherefores of their issuance, knocked at the door of John Ringo's cabin in Galeyville a few days later; and then, being a prudent man, stepped to one side where he would be beyond the zone of fire.
He was sitting in his office with young William Breckenbridge, his diplomatic deputy, when some one brought word that John Ringo had made a gun-play and was holding down the main street with drawn revolvers. "Go and fetch him in," the sheriff bade Breckenbridge.
After spending three months in one of the convict hulks they were sent out to Sydney in the Breckenbridge transport.
"Hot day," Breckenbridge announced cheerfully. The desperado swore at the sun in the drawling monotone wherein your artist at profanity intones his curses when he means them. His face was a good shade darker than usual; his eyes were satanic. He reached to his hip and brought forth a flask of whisky. "Have a drink." He uttered it rather as a demand than an offer.
It so happened that this agent, a Mr Thomas Campbell, was a friend of my father's, who also knew Mr Bent, and so when the Breckenbridge arrived at Sydney he succeeded in having Trenfield assigned to him, and Thomas May to a contractor who was building a bridge for the Government over a river in the vicinity of Bar Harbour.
But although some of the slugs from their rifles came uncomfortably close none found its mark and Breckenbridge was fast drawing away from them. However, they were not the men to give up so long as there was any chance remaining, and they swung back into their saddles to "burn up the road" in his wake.
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