My Friend The Murderer | Page 9

and there I settled,
right under the nose of the police. I'd been there ever since, leading a
quiet life, but for little difficulties like the one I'm in for now, and for
that devil, Tattooed Tom, of Hawkesbury. I don't know what made me
tell you all this, doctor, unless it is that being lonely makes a man
inclined to jaw when he gets a chance. Just you take warning from me,
though. Never put yourself out to serve your country; for your country
will do precious little for you. Just you let them look after their own
affairs; and if they find difficulty in hanging a set of scoundrels, never
mind chipping in, but let them alone to do as best they can. Maybe
they'll remember how they treated me after I'm dead, and be sorry for
neglecting me, I was rude to you when you came in, and swore a trifle
promiscuous: but don't you mind me, it's only my way. You'll allow,
though, that I have cause to be a bit touchy now and again when I think
of all that's passed. You're not going, are you? Well, if you must, you
must; but I hope you will look me up at odd times when you are going
your rounds. Oh, I say, you've left the balance of that cake of tobacco
behind you, haven't you? No; it's in your pocket--that's all right. Thank
ye, doctor, you're a good sort, and as quick at a hint as any man I've
met.
A couple of months after narrating his experiences, Wolf Tone
Maloney finished his term, and was released. For a long time I neither
saw him nor heard of him, and he had almost slipped from my memory,
until I was reminded, in a somewhat tragic manner, of his existence. I
had been attending a patient some distance off in the country, and was
riding back, guiding my tired horse among the boulders which strewed
the pathway, and endeavoring to see my way through the gathering
darkness, when I came suddenly upon a little wayside inn. As I walked
my horse up toward the door, intending to make sure of my bearings
before proceeding further, I heard the sound of a violent altercation
within the little bar.
There seemed to be a chorus of expostulation or remonstrance, above
which two powerful voices rang out loud and angry. As I listened, there

was a momentary hush, two pistol shots sounded almost simultaneously,
and with a crash the door burst open and a pair of dark figures
staggered out into the moonlight. They struggled for a moment in a
deadly wrestle, and then went down together among the loose stones. I
had sprung off my horse, and, with the help of half a dozen rough
fellows from the bar, dragged them away from one another.
A glance was sufficient to convince me that one of them was dying fast.
He was a thick-set burly fellow, with a determined cast of countenance.
The blood was welling from a deep stab in his throat, and it was
evident that an important artery had been divided. I turned away from
him in despair, and walked over to where his antagonist was lying. He
was shot through the lungs, but managed to raise himself up on his
hand as I approached, and peered anxiously up into my face. To my
surprise, I saw before me the haggard features and flaxen hair of my
prison acquaintance, Maloney.
"Ah, doctor!" he said, recognizing me. "How is he? Will he die?"
He asked the question so earnestly that I imagined he had softened at
the last moment, and feared to leave the world with another homicide
upon his conscience. Truth, however, compelled me to shake my head
mournfully, and to intimate that the wound would prove a mortal one.
Maloney gave a wild cry of triumph, which brought the blood welling
out from between his lips. "Here, boys," he gasped to the little group
around him. "There's money in my inside pocket. Damn the expense!
Drinks round. There's nothing mean about me. I'd drink with you, but
I'm going. Give the doc my share, for he's as good--" Here his head fell
back with a thud, his eye glazed, and the soul of Wolf Tone Maloney,
forger, convict, ranger, murderer, and government peach, drifted away
into the Great Unknown.
I cannot conclude without borrowing the account of the fatal quarrel
which appeared in the column of the West Australian Sentinel. The
curious will find it in the issue of October 4,1881:
"Fatal Affray.--W. T. Maloney, a well-know citizen of New Montrose,

and proprietor of the Yellow Boy gambling saloon, has met with his
death under rather painful circumstances. Mr. Maloney was a man who
had led a