'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.