For several years the announcement \'I\'m Morgan,\' uttered in the drawling monotone which characterises one section of Australian-born natives, sufficed to ensure panic among ordinary travellers, and if it did not cause \'the stoutest heart to quail\' in the words of the old romancers, was seldom heard without accelerated cardiac action. For the hearer then became aware, if he had not earlier realised the fact, that he was in the power of a merciless enemy of his kind—blood-stained, malignant, capricious withal, desperate too, with the knowledge that the avenger of blood was ever on his trail, that if taken alive the gallows was his doom, beyond doubt or argument. A convicted felon, who had served his sentence, he bore himself as one who had suffered wrongs and injustice from society, which he repaid with usury. Patient and wary as the Red Indian, he was ruthless in his hour of triumph as the \'wolf Apache\' or the cannibal Navajo exulting with a foe, helpless at the stake.
An attempt has lately been made to rehabilitate the memory of this arch-criminal, so long the scourge and terror of the great pastoral districts lying between the Upper Murray and the Murrumbidgee rivers. We are not disposed to deny that there were individuals not wholly abandoned among the misguided outlaws who ravaged New South Wales in the \'sixties.\' There was usually some rude generosity in their dealings with victims. They encountered in fair fight, and bore no ill-will to the police, who were paid to entrap and exterminate them. They were lenient to the poorer travellers, and exhibited a kind of Robin Hood gallantry on occasion. Among them were men who would have done honour to their native land under happier auspices. For, with few exceptions, they were sons of the soil. But Daniel Morgan differed from 136Gardiner, Hall, and Gilbert, from the Clarkes and the Peisleys, from O\'Malley and Vane, from Bourke and Dunn. He differed as the wolf differs from the hound, the carrion vulture from the eagle. His cunning on all occasions equalled his malignity, his brutal cruelty, his lust for wanton bloodshed. Rarely was it, after one of his carefully-planned surprises, when he swooped down upon a defenceless station, that he abstained from injury to person or property.
He was skilful and persevering in discovering his \'enemies,\' as he called them,—a not too difficult task,—for he had abettors and sympathisers, scoundrels who harboured and spied for him, as well as those who, fearing the vengeance of an unscrupulous ruffian, dared not refuse food or assistance. Those whom he suspected of giving information to the police or providing them with horses when on his trail he never forgave, often wreaking cruel vengeance on them when the opportunity came. He would reconnoitre from the hill or thicket for days beforehand. When the men of the household were absent or otherwise employed, he would suddenly appear upon the scene, to revel in the terror he created; certain to destroy valuable property, if indeed he did not imbrue his hands in blood before he quitted the spot.
It was, for the most part, his habit to \'work\' as a solitary robber; he rarely had a companion, although in the encounter with Mr. Baylis, the Police Magistrate of Wagga Wagga, when that gentleman showed a noble example by bravely attacking him in his lair, it is supposed that his then companion was badly wounded. Mr. Baylis was shot through the body, but that man was never seen alive again. The popular impression was that Morgan killed him, so that he might not impede his flight or give information. The tale may not be true, but it shows the quality of his reputation.
It seems wonderful that Morgan should have been so long permitted to run the gauntlet of the police of two colonies. It may be doubted whether, in the present efficient state of the New South Wales force, any notorious outlaw would enjoy so protracted a \'reign,\' as the provincial phrase goes. He had great odds in his favour. A consummate horseman like most of his class, a practical bushman and stock-rider, with a command of scouts who knew every inch of the country, and could thread at midnight every range and thicket between 137Marackat and the Billabong, Piney Range and Narandera, it was no ordinary task to capture the wild rider, who was met one day on the Upper Murray and the next morning among the pine forests of Walbundree. Horses, of course, cost him nothing. He had the pick of a score of studs, the surest information as to pace and endurance. In a horse-breeding district every animal showing more than ordinary speed or stoutness is known and watched by the \'duffing\' fraternity, fellows who would cheerfully take to the road but for fear of Jack Ketch. It may be imagined how easily the hackney question is settled for a bushranger of name and fame, and what advantages he has over ordinary police troopers in eluding pursuit.
I was living on the Murrumbidgee during a portion of his career, in the years 1864 to 1869. He was seen several times within twenty miles of my station, and I have had more than one description from temporary captives, of his appearance and demeanour. There is not an instance on record of his having been taken by surprise, or viewed before he had been employed in reconnoitring his antagonist.
Some of his adventures were not wholly without an element of humour—although the victim well knew that the turn of a straw might change the intent, from robbery to murder. The late Mr. Alexander Burt, manager of Tubbo and Yarrabee, was riding on the plains, at a distance of ten or twelve miles from the head station, when a horseman emerged from a belt of pines. He wore a poncho, but differed in no respect from ordinary travellers. Without suspicion he rode towards the stranger. As he approached and, bushman-like, scrutinised horse and man, he observed the JP brand, and recognised the animal as one stolen from the station. A tall, powerful Scot, Mr. Burt ranged alongside of the individual in the poncho and reached over to collar him. At that moment a revolver appeared from under the poncho, and a drawling voice uttered the words \'Keep back!\'
It was unsafe to try a rush, and the snake-like eye of the robber told clearly that the least motion would be the signal for pulling the trigger.
\'What\'s yer name?\' queried the stranger.
\'My name is Burt.\'
\'Then Burt—you get off—that—horse.\'
138Being unarmed, he had no option but to dismount.
\'Give—me—the—bridle. So—you—tried—to—take—my—horse—did—yer? I\'ve—a—dashed—good—mind—to—shoot—yer. Now—yer—can—walk—home. I\'d—advise—yer—to—make—a—straight—track.\'
And with this parting injunction he rode slowly away, leading Mr. Burt\'s horse, while that gentleman, cursing his hard fate, had to tramp a dozen miles before relating the foregoing adventure.
At another time he surprised the Yarrabee Station, \'bailing\' Mr. Waugh the overseer, Mr. Apps, and others of the employés of Mr. John Peter, but beyond placing the JP brand in the fire, and swearing he would put it on one of them, as a suitable memento, he did nothing dreadful.
At Mr. Cochran\'s of Widgiewa, as also at Mr. M\'Laurin\'s of Yarra Yarra, preparations were openly made for his reception; yet, though he made various threats of vengeance, he never appeared at either place.
At Round Hill Station, near Germanton, he enacted one of his murderous pranks. Suddenly appearing in the shed at shearing time, he terrorised the assembled men, fired on, wounded and threatened the life of the manager. After calling for spirits and compelling all to drink with him, he turned to ride away, when, incensed by a careless remark, he wheeled his horse and fired his revolver at the crowd. A bullet took effect in the ankle of a young gentleman gaining shearing experience, breaking the bone, and producing intense agony. Appearing to regret the occurrence, Morgan suggested to another man to go for the doctor. Having started, Morgan followed at a gallop, and overtaking him, said with an oath, \'You\'re not going for the doctor—you\'re going for the police.\' With that he shot the unfortunate young man through the body, who fell from his horse mortally wounded.
About the same time he was seen by Police Sergeant M\'Ginnerty riding near the Wagga Wagga road. Having no suspicion, he galloped alongside, merely to see who he was. Without a moment\'s hesitation Morgan fired through his poncho. The bullet was but too sure—it may be noted that he rarely missed his aim—and the ill-fated officer fell to the ground in the death agony. He coolly propped up the dying man in a sitting posture, and there left him.
139When it is considered that he killed two police officers, besides civilians, Chinamen, and others, and that he shot a police magistrate through the body (inflicting a wound nearly fatal, the consequences of which were suffered for years after), it will be admitted that he was one of the most formidable outlaws that ever roamed the Australian wilds.
He is said to have encountered a pastoral tenant, of large possession, whom he thus accosted—
\'I—hear—you\'ve—been—pounding—the—Piney—boys\'—horses—haven\'t—you?\'
The witness was understood to deny, or, at any rate, shade off the unpopular act.
\'Piney Range,\' near Walbundree, was understood to be at one time the robber\'s headquarters. Here he was harboured in secret, and more comfortably lodged than was guessed at by the public or the police. The \'boys\' were a horse-and cattle-stealing band of rascals—now fortunately dispersed—who generally made themselves useful by misleading the police, as well as by giving him notice of hostile movements. Towards subsidising them the spoils of honest men were partially devoted.
But this did by no means satisfy the \'terrible cross-examiner.\'
\'You look here now! If yer don\'t drop it, the—very—next—time—I—come—over—I\'ll—shoot—yer. For—the—matter—of—that—I—don\'t—know—whether—I—won\'t—shoot—yer—now.\'
And as the dull eyes fastened with deadly gaze upon the captive\'s face—he looking meanwhile at the mouth of the levelled weapon, held in the blood-stained hand of one who at any time would rather kill a man than not—be sure Mr. Blank\'s feelings were far from enviable.
To one of his victims he is reported to have said—
\'I—hear—you\'re—a—dashed—good—step-dancer. Now—let\'s—have—a—sample—and—do—yer—bloomin\'—best—or—yer—won\'t—never—shake—a—leg—no—more.\'
Fancy performing on the light fantastic before such a critic!
A cheerful squatter (who told me the tale) was riding through his paddocks one fine afternoon, in company with his family and a couple of young friends of the \'colonial experience\' 140persuasion. They were driving—he riding a handsome blood filly. In advance of the buggy, he was quietly pacing through the woodland—probably thinking how well the filly was coming on in her walking, or that fat stock had touched their highest quotation—when he was aware of a man sitting motionless on his horse, under a tree.
The tree was slightly off his line, and as he approached it the strange horseman quietly rode towards him. He noted that he was haggard, and dark-complexioned, with an immense bushy beard. His long, black hair hung on his shoulders. His eyes, intensely black, were small and beady; his air sullen and forbidding. He rode closely up to the pastoralist without word or sign. Their knees had nearly touched when he drew a revolver and pointed it at his breast, so quickly that there was hardly time to realise the situation.
\'Which—way—are—yer—goin\'?\'
\'Only across the paddock,\' was the answer.
\'You—come—back—with—me—to—that—buggy.\'
By making a slight deto............