War Drums (Scharkie)/The Flight of Thunderbolt

by Louis Edward Scharkie

THE FLIGHT OF THUNDERBOLT.

There are hoof-beats in the valley
 Striking echoes in the glen;
There are shoutings, fast and furious,
 Of a multitude of men.

Rifle-cracks run up the ridges;
 Dust-clouds chase the horses' heels,
Like a whirling troop of turkeys,
 Or a wriggling shoal of eels.

"Stop him; shoot him; faster, faster,"
 Roars a squatter on his colt.
"Half my land, and half my daughters
 For the head of Thunderbolt."

Well, he might reward at random,
 With a kingdom or a crown,
Half his land, and half his daughters,
 For to run the robber down.

Easier, far, to chain the thunder,
 Bind the lightning on the hills,
Than outrun the flying robber—
 Baker, Parker, Ward, or Wills.

Over bridge, and over gulleys,
 Over broken mountain track,
Lightsome flew the Bolt of Thunder
 With the squatters at his back.

See! he halts along the ridges;
 Slow dismounts, and looks around;
Leads his courser down a hollow
 Dipping gently underground.

Then within a darksome cavern,
 Bastioned round with ferns and rocks,
Primes his gun with fitter trimmings,
 Oils his stiff revolvers' locks.

Nearer grows the horses' clatter;
 Shouts and curses reach his ear;
"Where's the robber, mountain-devil?
 Last we saw him flying here."

Right before his cave they falter,
 Swearing vengeance on his life;
Curse the muscle of his courser,
 Damn his father and his wife.

Then they turn, and winding slowly
 Down the hill-side, through the glen,
Left him Thunderbolt the Robber-
 Left him laughing in his den.

And when dusk was on the mountains
 And the valleys reft of light,
Like a dingoe from the ridges,
 Forth he crept into the night.

"I was Thunderbolt the Robber,"
 Quoth he, "now I'm squatter Wills;
Bolt of Thunder in the valleys,
 Bolt of Thunder on the hills."

Then he rode him down the mountain
 To a cottage he had passed
When the yelling pack of squatters
 Urged his courser far and fast.

Knocked he lightly at the portal,
 Straight the door was flung apart;
"Take my humble welcome, sir, and
 Know an honest squatter's heart."

Then they talk of land and timber,
 And the price of cattle too,
Of the rage of gold beyond them
 And the bold bushranger crew.

How that afternoon, the squatters,
 Ris'n in resolute array,
O'er the hilltops, down the valley,
 Chased the Thunderbolt away.

Quoth the robber, "strange demeanour
 Wears this ranger Thunderbolt.
Very gallant, no mistake, sir,
 Sooth he is a cunning colt.

"Well I'd like to meet him broadly.
 Then his head would get its due,
With an aim as true as steady,
 And a bullet whizzing through."

Then he drew his shining pistols;
 Wiped them clean of dust and dew,
Looking personating vengeance
 On the deed he smiled to do.

And, retiring to his chamber,
 Slept the sleep of righteous rest—
Rising with the red-bill, early,
 To betake his journey west.

"Prithee, stranger! quoth the squatter,
 "I forgot to ask your name."
Quoth the robber "Do I wonder?
 Or hast thou been aught to blame.

"Many names I travel under
 To elude police and dolt,—
Wills or Parker, Ward or Baker,
 But my chief is Thunderbolt."

Had a cloud as dark as midnight
 Flung a bolt upon their track,
Thunderbolt had ne'er flown faster,
 Squatter ne'er had grown as black.

Black with hate he roared and shouted
 "Damned the wily devil be."
While the maidens muttered lowly,
 "Gentlemanly fellow, he."