← catalogue

Twice Bought

by R. M. Ballantyne · English · Gutenberg #21706 · 425,830 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Twice Bought
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Twice Bought

Author: R. M. Ballantyne


        
Release date: June 6, 2007 [eBook #21706]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21706

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWICE BOUGHT ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




TWICE BOUGHT, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.



CHAPTER ONE.

"`Honesty is the best policy,' Tom, you may depend on it," said a youth
to his companion, one afternoon, as they walked along the margin of one
of those brawling rivulets which, born amid the snows of the Rocky
Mountain peaks, run a wild and plunging course of many miles before
finding comparative rest in the celebrated goldfields of Oregon.

"I don't agree with you, Fred," said Tom, sternly; "and I don't believe
in the proverb you have quoted.  The world's maxims are not all gospel."

"You are right, Tom; many of them are false; nevertheless, some are
founded on gospel truth."

"It matters not," returned Tom, angrily.  "I have made up my mind to get
back from that big thief Gashford what he has stolen from me, for it is
certain that he cheated at play, though I could not prove it at the
time.  It is impossible to get it back by fair means, and I hold it
quite allowable to steal from a thief, especially when that which you
take is your own."

Fred Westly shook his head, but did not reply.  Many a time had he
reasoned with his friend, Tom Brixton, about the sin of gambling, and
urged him to be content with the result of each day's digging for gold,
but his words had no effect.  Young Brixton had resolved to make a
fortune rapidly.  He laboured each day with pick and shovel with the
energy of a hero and the dogged perseverance of a navvy, and each night
he went to Lantry's store to increase his gains by gambling.  As a
matter of course his "luck," as he called it, varied.  Sometimes he
returned to the tent which he shared with his friend Westly, depressed,
out of humour, and empty-handed.  At other times he made his appearance
flushed with success--occasionally, also, with drink,--and flung down a
heavy bag of golden nuggets as the result of his evening's play.
Ultimately, when under the influence of drink, he staked all that he had
in the world, except his clothes and tools, to a man named Gashford, who
was noted for his size, strength of body, and utter disregard of God and
man.  As Brixton said, Gashford had cheated him at play, and this had
rendered the ruined man unusually savage.

The sun was down when the two friends entered their tent and began to
pull off their muddy boots, while a little man in a blue flannel shirt
and a brown wide-awake busied himself in the preparation of supper.

"What have you got for us to-night, Paddy?" asked Westly.

"Salt pork it is," said the little man, looking up with a most
expressive grin; "the best o' victuals when there's nothin' better.
Bein' in a luxurious frame o' mind when I was up at the store, I bought
a few split-pays for seasonin'; but it comes hard on a man to spind his
gould on sitch things when his luck's down.  You've not done much
to-day, I see, by the looks of ye."

"Right, Paddy," said Tom Brixton, with a harsh laugh; "we've done
nothing--absolutely nothing.  See, there is my day's work."

He pulled three small grains of gold, each about the size of a pea, from
his trousers pocket, and flung them contemptuously into a washing-pan at
his elbow.

"Sure, we won't make our fortins fast at that rate," said Paddy, or
Patrick Flinders.

"This won't help it much," said Westly, with a mingled smile and sigh,
as he added a small nugget and a little gold-dust to the pile.

"Ah! then, haven't I forgot the shuggar for the tay; but I've not got
far to go for to get it.  Just kape stirrin' the pot, Mister Westly,
I'll be back in a minit."

"Tom," said Westly, when their comrade had gone out, "don't give way to
angry feelings.  Do try, like a good fellow, to look at things in a
philosophical light, since you object to a religious one.  Rightly or
wrongly, Gashford has won your gold.  Well, take heart and dig away.
You know I have saved a considerable sum, the half of which is at your
service to--"

"Do you suppose," interrupted the other sharply, "that I will consent to
become a beggar?"

"No," replied Westly, "but there is no reason why you should not consent
to accept an offer when it is made to you by an old chum.  Besides, I
offer the money on loan, the only condition being that you won't gamble
it away."

"Fred," returned Brixton, impressively, "I _must_ gamble with it if I
take it.  I can no more give up gambling than I can give up drinking.
I'm a doomed man, my boy; doomed to be either a millionaire or a
madman!"

The glittering eyes and wild expression of the youth while he spoke
induced his friend to fear that he was already the latter.

"Oh!  Tom, my dear fellow," he said, "God did not doom you.  If your
doom is fixed, you have yourself fixed it."

"Now, Fred," returned the other impatiently, "don't bore me with your
religious notions.  Religion is all very well in the old country, but it
won't work at all here at the diggin's."

"My experience has proved the contrary," returned Westly, "for
religion--or, rather, God--has saved _me_ from drink and gaming."

"If it _be_ God who has saved you, why has He not saved me?" demanded
Brixton.

"Because that mysterious and incomprehensible power of Free Will stands
in your way.  In the exercise of your free will you have rejected God,
therefore the responsibility rests with yourself.  If you will now call
upon Him, life will, by His Holy Spirit, enable you to accept salvation
through Jesus Christ."

"No use, Fred, no use," said Tom, shaking his head.  "When you and I
left England, three years ago, I might have believed and trusted as you
do, but it's too late now--too late I say, so don't worry me with your
solemn looks and sermons.  My mind's made up, I tell you.  With these
three paltry little lumps of gold I'll gamble at the store to-night with
Gashford.  I'll double the stake every game.  If I win, well--if not,
I'll--"

He stopped abruptly, because at that moment Paddy Flinders re-entered
with the sugar; possibly, also, because he did not wish to reveal all
his intentions.

That night there was more noise, drinking, and gambling than usual at
Lantry's store, several of the miners having returned from a prospecting
trip into the mountains with a considerable quantity of gold.

Loudest among the swearers, deepest among the drinkers, and most
reckless among the gamblers was Gashford "the bully," as he was styled.
He had just challenged any one present to play when Brixton entered the
room.

"We will each stake all that we own on a single chance," he said,
looking round.  "Come, that's fair, ain't it? for you know I've got lots
of dust."

There was a general laugh, but no one would accept the challenge--which
Brixton had not heard--though he heard the laugh that followed.  Many of
the diggers, especially the poorer ones, would have gladly taken him up
if they had not been afraid of the consequences if successful.

"Well, boys, I couldn't make a fairer offer--all I possess against all
that any other man owns, though it should only be half an ounce of
gold," said the bully, tossing off a glass of spirits.

"Done!  I accept your challenge," cried Tom Brixton, stepping forward.

"You!" exclaimed Gashford, with a look of contempt; "why, you've got
nothing to stake.  I cleaned you out yesterday."

"I have this to stake," said Tom, holding out the three little nuggets
of gold which he had found that day.  "It is all that I possess, and it
is more than half an ounce, which you mentioned as the lowest you'd play
for."

"Well, I'll stick to what I said," growled Gashford, "if it _be_ half an
ounce.  Come, Lantry, get out your scales."

The storekeeper promptly produced the little balance which he used for
weighing gold-dust, and the diggers crowded round with much interest to
watch, while Lantry, with a show of unwonted care, dusted the scales,
and put the three nuggets therein.

"Three-quarters of an ounce," said the storekeeper, when the balance
ceased to vibrate.

"Come along, then, an' let's have another glass of grog for luck," cried
Gashford, striking his huge fist on the counter.

A throw of the dice was to decide the matter.  While Lantry, who was
appointed to make the throw, rattled the dice in the box, the diggers
crowded round in eager curiosity, for, besides the unusual disparity
between the stakes, there was much probability of a scene of violence as
the result, Brixton having displayed a good deal of temper when he lost
to the bully on the previous day.

"Lost!" exclaimed several voices in disappointed tones, when the dice
fell on the table.

"Who's lost?" cried those in the rear of the crowd.

"Tom Brixton, to be sure," answered Gashford, with a laugh.  "He always
loses; but it's no great loss this time, and I am not much the richer."

There was no response to this sally.  Every one looked at Brixton,
expecting an outburst of rage, but the youth stood calmly contemplating
the dice with an absent look, and a pleasant smile on his lips.

"Yes," he said, recovering himself, "luck is indeed against me.  But
never mind.  Let's have a drink, Lantry; you'll have to give it me on
credit this time!"

Lantry professed himself to be quite willing to oblige an old customer
to that extent.  He could well afford it, he said; and it was
unquestionable truth that he uttered, for his charges were exorbitant.

That night, when the camp was silent in repose, and the revellers were
either steeped in oblivion or wandering in golden dreams, Tom Brixton
sauntered slowly down to the river at a point where it spread out into a
lakelet, in which the moon was brightly reflected.  The overhanging
cliffs, fringed with underwood and crowned with trees, shot reflections
of ebony blackness here and there down into the water, while beyond,
through several openings, could be seen a varied and beautiful
landscape, backed and capped by the snow-peaks of the great backbone of
America.

It was a scene fitted to solemnise and soften, but it had no such
influence on Tom Brixton, who did not give it even a passing thought
though he stood with folded arms and contracted brows, gazing at it long
and earnestly.  After a time he began to mutter to himself in broken
sentences.

"Fred is mistaken--_must_ be mistaken.  There is no law here.  Law must
be taken into one's own hands.  It cannot be wrong to rob a robber.  It
is not robbery to take back one's own.  Foul means are admissible when
fair--yet it _is_ a sneaking thing to do!  Ha! who said it was
sneaking?"  (He started and thrust his hands through his hair.) "Bah!
Lantry, your grog is too fiery.  It was the grog that spoke, not
conscience.  Pooh!  I don't believe in conscience.  Come, Tom, don't be
a fool, but go and--Mother!  What has _she_ got to do with it?  Lantry's
fire-water didn't bring _her_ to my mind.  No, it _is_ Fred, confound
him!  He's always suggesting what she would say in circumstances which
she has never been in and could not possibly understand.  And he worries
me on the plea that he promised her to stick by me through evil report
and good report.  I suppose that means through thick and thin.  Well,
he's a good fellow is Fred, but weak.  Yes, I've made up my mind to do
it and I _will_ do it."

He turned hastily as he spoke, and was soon lost in the little belt of
woodland that lay between the lake and the miner's camp.

It pleased Gashford to keep his gold in a huge leathern bag, which he
hid in a hole in the ground within his tent during the day, and placed
under his pillow during the night.  It pleased him also to dwell and
work alone, partly because he was of an unsociable disposition, and
partly to prevent men becoming acquainted with his secrets.

There did not seem to be much fear of the big miner's secrets being
discovered, for Lynch law prevailed in the camp at that time, and it was
well known that death was the usual punishment for theft.  It was also
well known that Gashford was a splendid shot with the revolver, as well
as a fierce, unscrupulous man.  But strong drink revealed that which
might have otherwise been safe.  When in his cups Gashford sometimes
became boastful, and gave hints now and then which were easily
understood.  Still his gold was safe, for, apart from the danger of the
attempt to rob the bully, it would have been impossible to discover the
particular part of his tent-floor in which the hole was dug, and, as to
venturing to touch his pillow while his shaggy head rested on it, no one
was daring enough to contemplate such an act although there were men
there capable of doing almost anything.

Here again, however, strong drink proved to be the big miner's foe.
Occasionally, though not often, Gashford drank so deeply as to become
almost helpless, and, after lying down in his bed, sank into a sleep so
profound that it seemed as if he could not have been roused even with
violence.

He was in this condition on the night in which his victim made up his
mind to rob him.  Despair and brandy had united to render Brixton
utterly reckless; so much so, that instead of creeping stealthily
towards his enemy's tent, an act which would probably have aroused the
suspicion of a light sleeper, he walked boldly up, entered it, raised
Gashford's unconscious head with one hand, pulled out the bag of gold
with the other, put it on his shoulder, and coolly marched out of the
camp.  The audacity of the deed contributed largely to its success.

Great was the rage and consternation of Gashford when he awoke the
following morning and found that his treasure had disappeared.  Jumping
at once to the conclusion that it had been stolen by Brixton, he ran to
that youth's tent and demanded to know where the thief had gone to.

"What do you mean by the thief?" asked Fred Westly, with misgiving at
his heart.

"I mean your chum, Tom Brixton," shouted the enraged miner.

"How do you know he's a thief?" asked Westly.

"I didn't come here to be asked questions by you," said Gashford.
"Where has he gone to, I say?"

"I don't know."

"That's a lie!" roared the miner, clenching his fist in a threatening
manner.

"Poor Tom!  I wish I did know where you have gone!" said Fred, shaking
his head sadly as he gazed on the floor, and taking no notice whatever
of the threatening action of his visitor.

"Look here now, Westly," said Gashford, in a low suppressed voice,
shutting the curtain of the tent and drawing a revolver from his pocket,
"you know something about this matter, and you know _me_.  If you don't
tell me all you know and where your chum has bolted to, I'll blow your
brains out as sure as there's a God in heaven."

"I thought," said Westly, quietly, and without the slightest symptom of
alarm, "you held the opinion that there is no God and no heaven."

"Come, young fellow, none o' your religious chaff, but answer my
question."

"Nothing is farther from my thoughts than chaffing you," returned
Westly, gently, "and if the mere mention of God's name is religion, then
you may claim to be one of the most religious men at the diggings, for
you are constantly praying Him to curse people.  I have already answered
your question, and can only repeat that I _don't know_ where my friend
Brixton has gone to.  But let me ask, in turn, what has happened to
_you_?"

There was no resisting the earnest sincerity of Fred's look and tone, to
say nothing of his cool courage.  Gashford felt somewhat abashed in
spite of himself.

"What has happened to me?" he repeated, bitterly.  "The worst that could
happen has happened.  My gold has been stolen, and your chum is the man
who has cribbed it.  I know that as well as if I had seen him do it.
But I'll hunt him down and have it out of him with interest; with
interest, mark you--if I should have to go to the ends o' the 'arth to
find him."

Without another word Gashford thrust the revolver into his pocket, flung
aside the tent curtain, and strode away.

Meanwhile Tom Brixton, with the gold in a game-bag slung across his
shoulder, was speeding down the valley, or mountain gorge, at the head
of which the Pine Tree Diggings lay, with all the vigour and activity of
youthful strength, but with none of the exultation that might be
supposed to characterise a successful thief.  On the contrary, a weight
like lead seemed to lie on his heart, and the faces of his mother and
his friend, Fred Westly, seemed to flit before him continually, gazing
at him with sorrowful expression.  As the fumes of the liquor which he
had drunk began to dissipate, the shame and depression of spirit
increased, and his strength, great though it was, began to give way.

By that time, however, he had placed many a mile between him and the
camp where he had committed the robbery.  The valley opened into a wide,
almost boundless stretch of comparatively level land, covered here and
there with forests so dense, that, once concealed in their recesses, it
would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible, for white men to trace
him, especially men who were so little acquainted with woodcraft as the
diggers.  Besides this, the region was undulating in form, here and
there, so that from the tops of many of the eminences, he could see over
the whole land, and observe the approach of enemies without being
himself seen.

Feeling, therefore, comparatively safe, he paused in his mad flight, and
went down on hands and knees to take a long drink at a bubbling spring.
Rising, refreshed, with a deep sigh, he slowly mounted to the top of a
knoll which was bathed at the time in the first beams of the rising sun.

From the spot he obtained a view of intermingled forest, prairie, lake,
and river, so resplendent that even _his_ mind was for a moment diverted
from its gloomy introspections, and a glance of admiration shot from his
eyes and chased the wrinkles from his brow; but the frown quickly
returned, and the glorious landscape was forgotten as the thought of his
dreadful condition returned with overwhelming power.

Up to that day Tom Brixton, with all his faults, had kept within the
circle of the world's laws.  He had been well trained in boyhood, and,
with the approval of his mother, had left England for the Oregon
goldfields in company with a steady, well-principled friend, who had
been a playmate in early childhood and at school.  The two friends had
experienced during three years the varying fortune of a digger's life;
sometimes working for long periods successfully, and gradually
increasing their "pile;" at other times toiling day after day for
nothing and living on their capital, but on the whole, making what men
called a good thing of it until Tom took to gambling, which, almost as a
matter of course, led to drinking.  The process of demoralisation had
continued until, as we have seen, the boundary line was at last
overstepped, and he had become a thief and an outlaw.

At that period and in those diggings Judge Lynch--in other words,
off-hand and speedy "justice" by the community of miners--was the order
of the day, and, as stealing had become exasperatingly common, the
penalty appointed was death, the judges being, in most cases, the prompt
executioners.

Tom Brixton knew well what his fate would be if captured, and this
unquestionably filled him with anxiety, but it was not this thought that
caused him, as he reclined on the sunny knoll, to spurn the bag of gold
with his foot.

"Trash!" he exclaimed, bitterly, repeating the kick.

But the love of gold had taken deep root in the fallen youth's heart.
After a brief rest he arose, slung the "trash" over his shoulder, and,
descending the knoll, quickly disappeared in the glades of the forests.



CHAPTER TWO.

While Brixton was hurrying with a guilty conscience deeper and deeper
into the dark woods which covered the spur of the mountains in the
neighbourhood of Pine Tree Diggings, glancing back nervously from time
to time as if he expected the pursuers to be close at his heels, an
enemy was advancing to meet him in front, of whom he little dreamed.

A brown bear, either enjoying his morning walk or on the look-out for
breakfast, suddenly met him face to face, and stood up on its hind legs
as if to have a good look at him.

Tom was no coward; indeed he was gifted with more than an average amount
of animal courage.  He at once levelled his rifle at the creature's
breast and fired.  The bear rushed at him, nevertheless, as if
uninjured.  Drawing his revolver, Tom discharged two shots before the
monster reached him.  All three shots had taken effect but bears are
noted for tenacity of life, and are frequently able to fight a furious
battle after being mortally wounded.  The rifle ball had touched its
heart, and the revolver bullets had gone deep into its chest, yet it
showed little sign of having been hurt.

Knowing full well the fate that awaited him if he stood to wrestle with
a bear, the youth turned to run, but the bear was too quick for him.  It
struck him on the back and felled him to the earth.

Strange to say, at that moment Tom Brixton's ill-gotten gains stood him
in good stead.  There can be no question that the bear's tremendous
claws would have sunk deep into the youth's back, and probably broken
his spine, if they had not been arrested by the bag of gold which was
slung at his back.  Although knocked down and slightly stunned, Brixton
was still unwounded, and, even in the act of falling, had presence of
mind to draw his long knife and plunge it up to the haft in the
creature's side, at the same time twisting himself violently round so as
to fall on his back and thus face the foe.

In this position, partly owing to the form of the ground, the bear found
it difficult to grasp its opponent in its awful embrace, but it held him
with its claws and seized his left shoulder with its teeth.  This
rendered the use of the revolver impossible, but fortunately Brixton's
right arm was still free, and he drove the keen knife a second time deep
into the animal's sides.  Whether mortal or not, the wound did not
immediately kill.  Tom felt that his hour was come, and a deadly fear
came over him as the thought of death, his recent life, and judgment,
flashed through his brain.  He drew out the knife, however, to make
another desperate thrust.  The bear's great throat was close over his
face.  He thought of its jugular vein, and made a deadly thrust at the
spot where he imagined that to run.

Instantly a flood of warm blood deluged his face and breast; at the same
time he felt as if some dreadful weight were pressing him to death.
Then consciousness forsook him.

While this desperate fight was going on, the miners of Pine Tree camp
were scouring the woods in all directions in search of the fugitive.  As
we have said, great indignation was felt at that time against thieves,
because some of them had become very daring, and cases of theft were
multiplying.  Severe penalties had been imposed on the culprits by the
rest of the community without curing the evil.  At last death was
decided on as the penalty for any act of theft, however trifling it
might be.  That these men were in earnest was proved by the summary
execution of the next two offenders who were caught.  Immediately after
that thieving came to an abrupt end, insomuch that if you had left a bag
of gold on an exposed place, men would have gone out of their way to
avoid it!

One can understand, therefore, the indignation that was roused in the
camp when Tom Brixton revived the practice in such a cool and impudent
manner.  It was felt that, despite his being a favourite with many of
the diggers, he must be made an example.  Pursuit was, therefore,
organised on an extensive scale and in a methodical manner.  Among
others, his friend Fred Westly took part in it.

It cost those diggers something thus to give up the exciting work of
gold-finding for a chase that promised to occupy time and tax
perseverance.  Some of them even refused to join in it, but on the whole
the desire for vengeance seemed general.

Bully Gashford, as he did not object to be called, was, in virtue of his
size, energy, and desperate character, tacitly appointed leader.  Indeed
he would have assumed that position if it had not been accorded to him,
for he was made of that stuff which produces either heroes of the
highest type or scoundrels of the deepest dye.  He arranged that the
pursuers should proceed in a body to the mouth of the valley, and there,
dividing into several parties, scatter themselves abroad until they
should find the thief's trail and then follow it up.  As the miners were
not much accustomed to following trails, they engaged the services of
several Indians who chanced to be at the camp at that time.

"What direction d'ye think it's likely your precious chum has taken?"
asked Gashford, turning abruptly to Fred Westly when the different
parties were about to start.

"It is impossible for me to tell."

"I know that," retorted Gashford, with a scowl and something of a sneer,
"but it ain't impossible for you to guess.  However, it will do as well
if you tell me which party you intend to join."

"I shall join that which goes to the south-west," replied Westly.

"Well, then, _I_ will join that which goes to the south-east," returned
the bully, shouldering his rifle.  "Go ahead, you red reptile," he
added, giving a sign to the Indian at the head of the party he had
selected to lead.

The Indian at once went off at a swinging walk, amounting almost to a
trot.  The others followed suit and the forest soon swallowed them all
in its dark embrace.

In making this selection Gashford had fallen into a mistake not uncommon
among scoundrels--that of judging other men by themselves.  He knew that
Westly was fond of his guilty friend, and concluded that he would tell
any falsehood or put the pursuers on any false scent that might favour
his escape.  He also guessed--and he was fond of guessing--that Fred
would answer his question by indicating the direction which he thought
it most probable his friend had _not_ taken.  In these guesses he was
only to a small extent right.  Westly did indeed earnestly hope that his
friend would escape; for he deemed the intended punishment of death most
unjustly severe, and, knowing intimately the character and tendencies of
Tom Brixton's mind and tastes, he had a pretty shrewd guess as to the
direction he had taken, but, so far from desiring to throw the pursuers
off the scent his main anxiety was to join the party which he thought
most likely to find the fugitive--if they should find him at all--in
order that he might be present to defend him from sudden or unnecessary
violence.

Of course Paddy Flinders went with the same party, and we need scarcely
add that the little Irishman sympathised with Fred.

"D'ee think it's likely we'll cotch 'im?" he asked, in a whisper, on the
evening of that day, as they went rapidly through the woods together, a
little in rear of their party.

"It is difficult to say," answered Westly.  "I earnestly hope not;
indeed I think not, for Tom has had a good start; but the search is well
organised, and there are bloodthirsty, indignant, and persevering men
among the various parties, who won't be easily baffled.  Still Tom is a
splendid runner.  We may depend on having a long chase before we come up
with him."

"Ah, then, it's glad I am that ye think so, sor," returned Paddy, "for
I've been afear'd Mister Tom hadn't got quite so much go in him, since
he tuk to gambling and drinkin'."

"Look here, Paddy," exclaimed his companion, stopping abruptly, and
pointing to the ground, "are not these the footprints of one of your
friends?"

"Sure it's a bar," said the little man, going down on his knees to
examine the footprints in question with deep interest.

Flinders was a remarkably plucky little man, and one of his great
ambitions was to meet with a bear, when alone, and slay it
single-handed.  His ambition had not up to that time, been gratified,
fortunately for himself, for he was a bad shot and exceedingly reckless,
two qualities which would probably have insured his own destruction if
he had had his wish.

"Let's go after it, Mister Westly," he said, springing to his feet with
an excited look.

"Nonsense, it is probably miles off by this time; besides, we should
lose our party."

"Niver a taste, sor; we could soon overhaul them agin.  An' won't they
have to camp at sundown anyhow?  Moreover, if we don't come up wi' the
bar in a mile or so we can give it up."

"No, no, Paddy, we must not fall behind.  At least, _I_ must not; but
you may go after it alone if you choose."

"Well, I will, sor.  Sure it's not ivery day I git the chance; an'
there's no fear o' ye overhaulin' Mister Tom this night.  We'll have to
slape over it, I'll be bound.  Just tell the boys I'll be after them in
no time."

So saying Paddy shouldered his rifle, felt knife and axe to make sure of
their being safe in his belt, and strode away in the track of the bear.

He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he came to the spot where
the mortal combat had taken place, and found Tom Brixton and the bear
dead--as he imagined--on the blood-stained turf.

He uttered a mighty cry, partly to relieve his feelings and partly to
recall his friend.  The imprudence of this flashed upon him when too
late, for others, besides Fred, might have heard him.

But Tom Brixton was not dead.  Soon after the dying bear had fallen on
him, he recovered consciousness, and shaking himself clear of the
carcass with difficulty had arisen; but, giddiness returning, he lay
down, and while in this position, overcome with fatigue, had fallen
asleep.  Paddy's shout aroused him.  With a sense of deadly peril
hanging over him he leaped up and sprang on the Irishman.

"Hallo, Paddy!" he cried, checking himself, and endeavouring to wipe
from his face some of the clotted blood with which he had been deluged.
"_You_ here?  Are you alone?"

"It's wishin' that I was," replied the little man, looking round
anxiously.  "Mister Fred 'll be here d'rectly, sor--an'--an' I hope
that'll be all.  But it's alive ye are, is it?  An' didn't I take ye for
dead.  Oh!  Mister Brixton, there's more blood on an' about ye, I do
belave, than yer whole body could howld."

Before an answer could be returned, Fred Westly, having heard Paddy's
shout, came running up.

"Oh!  Tom, Tom," he cried, eagerly, "are you hurt?  Can you walk?  Can
you run?  The whole camp is out after you."

"Indeed?" replied the fugitive, with a frown.  "It would seem that even
my _friends_ have joined in the chase."

"We have," said the other, hurriedly, "but not to capture--to save, if
possible.  Come, Tom, can you make an effort?  Are you hurt much?  You
are so horribly covered with blood--"

He stopped short, for at that moment a shout was heard in the distance.
It was replied to in another direction nearer at hand.

There happened to be a man in the party which Westly had joined, named
Crossby.  He had suffered much from thieves, and had a particular spite
against Brixton because he had lost to him at play.  He had heard Paddy
Flinders's unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction
whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the
fugitive's track, had followed it up.

"Too late," groaned Fred on hearing Crossby's voice.

"Not too late for _this_," growled Brixton, bitterly, as he quickly
loaded his rifle.

"For God's sake don't do that, Tom," cried his friend earnestly, as he
laid his hand on his arm; but Tom shook him off and completed the
operation just as Crossby burst from the bushes and ran towards them.
Seeing the fugitive standing ready with rifle in hand, he stopped at
once, took rapid aim, and fired.  The ball whistled close past the head
of Tom, who then raised his own rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired,
but Westly threw up the muzzle and the bullet went high among the
tree-tops.

With an exclamation of fury Brixton drew his knife, while Crossby rushed
at him with his rifle clubbed.

The digger was a strong and fierce man, and there would doubtless have
been a terrible and fatal encounter if Fred had not again interfered.
He seized his friend from behind, and, whirling him sharply round,
received on his own shoulder the blow which was meant for Tom's head.
Fred fell, dragging his friend down with him.

Flinders, who witnessed the unaccountable action of his companion with
much surprise, now sprang to the rescue, but at the moment several of
the other pursuers rushed upon the scene, and the luckless fugitive was
instantly overpowered and secured.

"Now, my young buck," said Crossby, "stand up!  Hold him, four of you,
till I fix his hands wi' this rope.  There, it's the rope that you'll
swing by, so you'll find it hard to break."

While Tom was being bound he cast a look of fierce anger on Westly, who
still lay prostrate and insensible on the ground, despite Paddy's
efforts to rouse him.

"I hope he is killed," muttered Tom between his teeth.

"Och! no fear of him, he's not so aisy kilt," said Flinders, looking up.
"Bad luck to ye for wishin' it."

As if to corroborate Paddy's opinion, Westly showed signs of returning
consciousness, and soon after sat up.

"Did ye kill that bar all by yerself?" asked one of the men who held the
fugitive.

But Tom would not condescend to reply, and in a few minutes Crossby gave
the word to march back towards Pine Tree Diggings.

They set off--two men marching on either side of the prisoner with
loaded rifles and revolvers, the rest in front and in rear.  A party was
left behind to skin the bear and bring away the tit-bits of the carcass
for supper.  Being too late to return to Pine Tree Camp that night, they
arranged to bivouac for the night in a hollow where there was a little
pond fed by a clear spring which was known as the Red Man's Teacup.

Here they kindled a large fire, the bright sparks from which, rising
above the tree-tops, soon attracted the attention of the other parties,
so that, ere long, the whole band of pursuers was gathered to the spot.

Gashford was the last to come up.  On hearing that the thief had been
captured by his former chum Westly, assisted by Flinders and Crossby, he
expressed considerable surprise, and cast a long and searching gaze on
Fred, who, however, being busy with the fire at the time, was
unconscious of it.  Whatever the bully thought, he kept his opinions to
himself.

"Have you tied him up well!" he said, turning to Crossby.

"A wild horse couldn't break his fastenings," answered the digger.

"Perhaps not," returned Gashford, with a sneer, "but you are always too
sure by half o' yer work.  Come, stand up," he added, going to where Tom
lay, and stirring his prostrate form with his toe.

Brixton having now had time to consider his case coolly, had made up his
mind to submit with a good grace to his fate, and, if it were so
decreed, to die "like a man."  "I deserve punishment," he reasoned with
himself, "though death is too severe for the offence.  However, a guilty
man can't expect to be the chooser of his reward.  I suppose it is fate,
as the Turks say, so I'll submit--like them."

He stood up at once, therefore, on being ordered to do so, and quietly
underwent inspection.

"Ha!  I thought so!" exclaimed Gashford, contemptuously.  "Any man could
free himself from that in half an hour.  But what better could be
expected from a land-lubber?"

Crossby made some sharp allusions to a "sea-lubber," but he wisely
restrained his voice so that only those nearest overheard him.

Meanwhile Gashford undid the rope that bound Tom Brixton's arms behind
him, and, holding him in his iron grip, ordered a smaller cord to be
fetched.

Paddy Flinders, who had a schoolboy tendency to stuff his various
pockets full of all sorts of miscellaneous articles, at once stepped
forward and handed the leader a piece of strong cod-line.

"There ye are, sor," said he.

"Just the thing, Paddy.  Here, catch hold of this end of it an' haul."

"Yis, gineral," said the Irishman, in a tone and with a degree of
alacrity that caused a laugh from most of those who were looking on.
Even the "gineral" observed it, and remarked with a sardonic smile--

"You seem to be pleased to see your old chum in this fix, I think."

"Well now, gineral," returned Flinders, in an argumentative tone of
voice, "I can't exactly say that, sor, for I'm troubled with what ye may
call amiable weaknesses.  Anyhow, I might see 'im in a worse fix."

"Well, you're like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough,"
returned the leader.  "Haul now on this knot.  It'll puzzle him to undo
that.  Lend me your knife."

Flinders drew his glittering bowie-knife from its sheath and handed it
to his leader, who cut off the superfluous cordage with it, after having
bound the prisoner's wrists behind his back in a sailor-like manner.

In returning the knife to its owner, Gashford, who was fond of a
practical joke, tossed it high in the air towards him with a "Here,
catch."

The keen glittering thing came twirling down, but to the surprise of
all, the Irishman caught it by the handle as deftly as though he had
been a trained juggler.

"Thank your gineralship," exclaimed Paddy, amid a shout of laughter and
applause, bowing low in mock reverence.  As he rose he made a wild
flourish with the knife, uttered an Indian war-whoop, and cut a caper.

In that flourish he managed to strike the cord that bound the prisoner,
and severed one turn of it.  The barefaced audacity of the act (like
that of a juggler) caused it to pass unobserved.  Even Tom, although he
felt the touch of the knife, was not aware of what had happened, for, of
course, a number of uncut turns of the cord still held his wrists
painfully tight.

"Now, lie down on your back," said Gashford, sternly, when the laugh
that Paddy had raised subsided.

Either the tone of this command, or the pain caused by his bonds, roused
Tom's anger, for he refused to obey.

"Lie down, ye spalpeen, whin the gineral bids ye," cried Flinders,
suddenly seizing his old friend by the collar and flinging him flat on
his back, in which act he managed to trip and fall on the top of him.

The opportunity was not a good one, nevertheless the energetic fellow
managed to whisper, "The rope's cut!  Lie still!" in the very act of
falling.

"Well done, Paddy," exclaimed several of the laughing men, as Flinders
rose with a pretended look of discomfiture, and went towards the fire,
exclaiming--

"Niver mind, boys, I'll have me supper now.  Hi! who's bin an' stole it
whin I was out on dooty?  Oh! here it is all right.  Now then, go to
work, an' whin the pipes is lighted I'll maybe sing ye a song, or tell
ye a story about ould Ireland."



CHAPTER THREE.

Obedient to orders, Tom Brixton lay perfectly still on his back, just
where he had fallen, wondering much whether the cord was really cut, for
he did not feel much relaxation of it or abatement of the pain.  He
resolved, at any rate, to give no further cause for rough treatment, but
to await the issue of events as patiently as he could.

True to his promise, the Irishman after supper sang several songs,
which, if not characterised by sweetness of tone, were delivered with a
degree of vigour that seemed to make full amends in the estimation of
his hearers.  After that he told a thrilling ghost story, which drew the
entire band of men round him.  Paddy had a natural gift in the way of
relating ghost stories, for, besides the power of rapid and sustained
discourse, without hesitation or redundancy of words, he possessed a
vivid imagination, a rich fancy, a deep bass voice, an expressive
countenance, and a pair of large coal-black eyes, which, as one of the
Yankee diggers said, "would sartinly bore two holes in a blanket if he
only looked at it long enough."

We do not intend to inflict that ghost story on the reader.  It is
sufficient to say that Paddy began it by exclaiming in a loud
voice--"`Now or niver, boys--now or niver.'  That's what the ghost
said."

"What's that you say, Paddy?" asked Gashford, leaving his own separate
and private fire, which he enjoyed with one or two chosen comrades, and
approaching that round which the great body of the diggers were already
assembled.

"I was just goin' to tell the boys, sor, a bit of a ghost story."

"Well, go on, lad, I'd like to hear it, too."

"`Now or niver!'" repeated the Irishman, with such startling emphasis
that even Tom Brixton, lying bound as he was under the shelter of a
spreading tree at some distance from the fire, had his curiosity
aroused.  "That's what the ghost said, under somewhat pecooliar
circumstances; an' he said it twice so that there might be no mistake at
all about it.  `Now or niver! now or niver!' says he, an' he said it
earnestly--"

"I didn't know that ghosts could speak," interrupted Crossby, who, when
not in a bad humour, was rather fond of thrusting bad jokes and blunt
witticisms on his comrades.

"Sure, I'm not surprised at that for there's many things ye don't know,
Crossby; besides, no ghost with the smallest taste of propriety about it
would condescind to spake wid _you_.  Well, boys, that's what the ghost
said in a muffled vice--their vices are muffled, you know, an their
virtues too, for all I know to the contrairy.  It's a good sentiment is
that `Now or niver' for every wan of ye--so ye may putt it in yer pipes
an' smoke it, an' those of ye who haven't got pipes can make a quid of
it an' chaw it, or subject it to meditation.  `Now or niver!'  Think o'
that!  You see I'm partikler about it, for the whole story turns on that
pint, as the ghost's life depended on it, but ye'll see an' onderstan'
better whin I come to the end o' the story."

Paddy said this so earnestly that it had the double effect of chaining
the attention of his hearers and sending a flash of light into Tom
Brixton's brain.

"Now or never!" he muttered to himself, and turned gently on his side so
as to be able to feel the cord that bound his wrists.  It was still
tight, but, by moving his fingers, he could feel that one of its coils
had really been cut, and that with a little patience and exertion he
might possibly free his hands.

Slight as the motion was, however, Gashford observed it, for the
fire-light shone brightly on Tom's recumbent figure.

"Lie still, there!" he cried, sternly.

Tom lay perfectly still, and the Irishman continued his story.  It grew
in mystery and in horror as he proceeded, and his audience became
entranced, while some of the more superstitious among them cast
occasional glances over their shoulders into the forest behind, which
ere long was steeped in the blackness of an unusually dark night.  A few
of those outside the circle rose and drew nearer to the story-teller.

At that moment a gleam of light which had already entered Brixton's
brain flashed into that of Fred Westly, who arose, and, under pretext of
being too far off from the speaker, went round to the opposite side of
the fire so as to face him.  By so doing he placed himself between the
fire and his friend Tom.  Two or three of the others followed his
example, though not from the same motive, and thus, when the fire burnt
low, the prisoner found himself lying in deep shadow.  By that time he
had freed his benumbed hands, chafed them into a condition of vitality,
and was considering whether he should endeavour to creep quietly away or
spring up and make a dash for life.

"`Now or niver,' said the ghost, in a solemn muffled vice," continued
Paddy--

"Who did he say that to?" asked Gashford, who was by that time as much
fascinated as the rest of the party.

"To the thief, sor, av coorse, who was standin' tremblin' fornint him,
while the sexton was diggin' the grave to putt him in alive--in the dark
shadow of a big tombstone."

The Irishman had now almost reached the climax of his story, and was
intensely graphic in his descriptions--especially at the horrible parts.
He was obviously spinning it out, and the profound silence around told
how completely he had enchained his hearers.  It also warned Tom Brixton
that his time was short, and that in his case it was indeed, "now or
never."

He crept quietly towards the bushes near him.  In passing a tree against
which several rifles had been placed he could not resist the temptation
to take one.  Laying hold of that which stood nearest, and which seemed
to be similar in make to the rifle they had taken from himself when he
was captured, he drew it towards him.  Unfortunately it formed a prop to
several other rifles, which fell with a crash, and one of them exploded
in the fall.

The effect on Paddy's highly-strung audience was tremendous.  Many of
them yelled as if they had received an electric shock.  All of them
sprang up and turned round just in time to see their captive vanish, not
unlike a ghost, into the thick darkness!

That glance, however, was sufficient to enlighten them.  With shouts of
rage many of them darted after the fugitive, and followed him up like
bloodhounds.  Others, who had never been very anxious for his capture or
death, and had been turned somewhat in his favour by the bold stand he
had made against the bear, returned to the fire after a short run.

If there had been even a glimmering of light Tom would certainly have
been retaken at once, for not a few of his pursuers were quite as active
and hardy as himself, but the intense darkness favoured him.
Fortunately the forest immediately behind him was not so dense as
elsewhere, else in his first desperate rush, regardless of consequences,
he would probably have dashed himself against a tree.  As it was he went
right through a thicket and plunged headlong into a deep hole.  He
scrambled out of this with the agility of a panther, just in time to
escape Gashford, who chanced to plunge into the same hole, but not so
lightly.  Heavy though he was, however, his strength was equal to the
shock, and he would have scrambled out quickly enough if Crossby had not
run on the same course and tumbled on the top of him.

Amid the growling half-fight, half-scramble that ensued, Tom crept
swiftly away to the left, but the pursuers had so scattered themselves
that he heard them panting and stumbling about in every direction--
before, on either hand, and behind.  Hurrying blindly on for a few
paces, he almost ran into the arms of a man whom he could hear, though
he could not see him, and stopped.

"Hallo! is that you, Bill Smith?" demanded the man.

"Ay, that's me," replied Tom, promptly, mimicking Bill Smith's voice and
gasping violently.  "I thought you were Brixton.  He's just passed this
way.  I saw him."

"Did you?--where?"

"Away there--to the left!"

Off went the pursuer as fast as he dared, and Tom continued his flight
with more caution.

"Hallo! hi! hooroo!" came at that moment from a long distance to the
right, in unmistakable tones.  "Here he is, down this way.  Stop, you
big thief!  Howld him.  Dick!  Have ye got him?"

There was a general rush and scramble towards the owner of the bass
voice, and Tom, who at once perceived the ruse, went quietly off in the
opposite direction.

Of course, the hunt came to an end in a very few minutes.  Every one,
having more or less damaged his head, knees, elbows, and shins, came to
the natural conclusion that a chase in the dark was absurd as well as
hopeless, and in a short time all were reassembled round the fire, where
Fred Westly still stood, for he had not joined in the pursuit.  Gashford
was the last to come up, with the exception of Paddy Flinders.

The bully came forward, fuming with rage, and strode up to Fred Westly
with a threatening look.

"You were at the bottom of this!" he cried, doubling his huge fist.  "It
was you who cut the rope, for no mortal man could have untied it!"

"Indeed I did not!" replied Fred, with a steady but not defiant look.

"Then it must have bin your little chum Flinders.  Where is he?"

"How could Flinders ha' done it when he was tellin' a ghost story?" said
Crossby.

Gashford turned with a furious look to the speaker, and seemed on the
point of venting his ill-humour upon him, when he was arrested by the
sound of the Irishman's voice shouting in the distance.

As he drew nearer the words became intelligible.  "Howld him tight, now!
d'ye hear?  Och! whereiver have ye gone an' lost yersilf?  Howld him
tight till I come an' help ye!  What! is it let him go ye have?  Ah then
it's wishin' I had the eyes of a cat this night for I can't rightly see
the length of my nose.  Sure ye've niver gone an' let him go?  Don't say
so, now!" wound up Paddy as, issuing from the wood, he advanced into the
circle of light.

"Who's got hold of him, Flin?" asked one of the men as he came up.

"Sorrow wan o' me knows," returned the Irishman, wiping the perspiration
from his brow; "d'ye suppose I can see in the dark like the moles?  All
I know is that half a dozen of ye have bin shoutin' `Here he is!' an'
another half-dozen, `No, he's here--this way!' an' sure I ran this way
an' then I ran that way--havin' a nat'ral disposition to obey orders,
acquired in the Louth Militia--an' then I ran my nose flat on a tree--
bad luck to it!--that putt more stars in me hid than you'll see in the
sky this night.  Ah! ye may laugh, but it's truth I'm tellin'.  See,
there's a blob on the ind of it as big as a chirry!"

"That blob's always there, Paddy," cried one of the men; "it's a
grog-blossom."

"There now, Peter, don't become personal.  But tell me--ye've got him,
av coorse?"

"No, we haven't got him," growled Crossby.

"Well, now, you're a purty lot o' hunters.  Sure if--"

"Come, shut up, Flinders," interrupted Gashford, swallowing his wrath.
(Paddy brought his teeth together with a snap in prompt obedience.) "You
know well enough that we haven't got him, and you know you're not sorry
for it; but mark my words, I'll hunt him down yet.  Who'll go with me?"

"I'll go," said Crossby, stepping forward at once.  "I've a grudge agin
the puppy, and I'll help to make him swing if I can."

Half a dozen other men, who were noted for leading idle and dissipated
lives, and who would rather have hunted men than nothing, also offered
to go, but the most of the party had had enough of it, and resolved to
return home in the morning.

"We can't go just now, however," said Crossby, "we'd only break our legs
or necks."

"The moon will rise in an hour," returned Gashford; "we can start then."

He flung himself down sulkily on the ground beside the fire and began to
fill his pipe.  Most of the others followed his example, and sat
chatting about the recent escape, while a few, rolling themselves in
their blankets, resigned themselves to sleep.

About an hour later, as had been predicted, the moon rose, and Gashford
with his men set forth.  But by that time the fugitive, groping his way
painfully with many a stumble and fall, had managed to put a
considerable distance between him and his enemies, so that when the
first silvery moonbeans tipped the tree-tops and shed a faint glimmer on
the ground, which served to make darkness barely visible, he had secured
a good start, and was able to keep well ahead.  The pursuers were not
long in finding his track, however, for they had taken a Red Indian with
them to act as guide, but the necessity for frequent halts to examine
the footprints carefully delayed them much, while Tom Brixton ran
straight on without halt or stay.  Still he felt that his chance of
escape was by no means a good one, for as he guessed rightly, they would
not start without a native guide, and he knew the power and patience of
these red men in following an enemy's trail.  What made his case more
desperate was the sudden diminution of his strength.  For it must be
borne in mind that he had taken but little rest and no food since his
flight from Pine Tree Diggings, and the wounds he had received from the
bear, although not dangerous, were painful and exhausting.

A feeling of despair crept over the stalwart youth when the old familiar
sensation of bodily strength began to forsake him.  Near daybreak he was
on the point of casting himself on the ground to take rest at all
hazards, when the sound of falling water broke upon his ear.  His spirit
revived at once, for he now knew that in his blind wandering he had come
near to a well-known river or stream, where he could slake his burning
thirst, and, by wading down its course for some distance, throw
additional difficulty in the pursuers' way.  Not that he expected by
that course to throw them entirely off the scent, he only hoped to delay
them.

On reaching the river's brink he fell down on his breast and, applying
his lips to the bubbling water, took a deep refreshing draught.

"God help me!" he exclaimed, on rising, and then feeling the burden of
gold (which, all through his flight had been concealed beneath his
shirt, packed flat so as to lie close), he took it off and flung it
down.

"There," he said bitterly, "for _you_ I have sold myself body and soul,
and now I fling you away!"

Instead of resting as he had intended, he now, feeling strengthened,
looked about for a suitable place to enter the stream and wade down so
as to leave no footprints behind.  To his surprise and joy he observed
the bow of a small Indian canoe half hidden among the bushes.  It had
apparently been dragged there by its owner, and left to await his
return, for the paddles were lying under it.

Launching this frail bark without a moment's delay, he found that it was
tight; pushed off and went rapidly down with the current.  Either he had
forgotten the gold in his haste, or the disgust he had expressed was
genuine, for he left it lying on the bank.

He now no longer fled without a purpose.  Many miles down that same
stream there dwelt a gold-digger in a lonely hut.  His name was Paul
Bevan.  He was an eccentric being, and a widower with an only child, a
daughter, named Elizabeth--better known as Betty.

One phase of Paul Bevan's eccentricity was exhibited in his selection of
a spot in which to search for the precious metal.  It was a savage,
gloomy gorge, such as a misanthrope might choose in which to end an
unlovely career.  But Bevan was no misanthrope.  On the contrary, he was
one of those men who are gifted with amiable dispositions, high spirits,
strong frames, and unfailing health.  He was a favourite with all who
knew him, and, although considerably past middle life, possessed much of
the fire, energy, and light-heartedness of youth.  There is no
accounting for the acts of eccentric men, and we make no attempt to
explain why it was that Paul Bevan selected a home which was not only
far removed from the abodes of other men, but which did not produce much
gold.  Many prospecting parties had visited the region from time to
time, under the impression that Bevan had discovered a rich mine, which
he was desirous of keeping all to himself; but, after searching and
digging all round the neighbourhood, and discovering that gold was to be
found in barely paying quantities, they had left in search of more
prolific fields, and spread the report that Paul Bevan was an eccentric
fellow.  Some said he was a queer chap; others, more outspoken, styled
him an ass, but all agreed in the opinion that his daughter Betty was
the finest girl in Oregon.

Perhaps this opinion may account for the fact that many of the miners--
especially the younger among them--returned again and again to Bevan's
Gully to search for gold although the search was not remunerative.
Among those persevering though unsuccessful diggers had been, for a
considerable time past, our hero Tom Brixton.  Perhaps the decision with
which Elizabeth Bevan repelled him had had something to do with his late
reckless life.

But we must guard the reader here from supposing that Betty Bevan was a
beauty.  She was not.  On the other hand, she was by no means plain, for
her complexion was good, her nut-brown hair was soft and wavy, and her
eyes were tender and true.  It was the blending of the graces of body
and of soul that rendered Betty so attractive.  As poor Tom Brixton once
said in a moment of confidence to his friend Westly, while excusing
himself for so frequently going on prospecting expeditions to Bevan's
Gully, "There's no question about it, Fred; she's the sweetest girl in
Oregon--pshaw! in the world, I should have said.  Loving-kindness beams
in her eyes, sympathy ripples on her brow, grace dwells in her every
motion, and honest, straightforward simplicity sits enthroned upon her
countenance!"

Even Crossby, the surly digger, entertained similar sentiments regarding
her, though he expressed them in less refined language.  "She's a
bu'ster," he said once to a comrade, "that's what _she_ is, an' no
mistake about it.  What with her great eyes glarin' affection, an' her
little mouth smilin' good-natur', an' her figure goin' about as graceful
as a small cat at play--why, I tell 'ee what it is, mate, with such a
gal for a wife a feller might snap his fingers at hunger an' thirst,
heat an' cold, bad luck an' all the rest of it.  But she's got one fault
that don't suit me.  She's overly religious--an' that don't pay at the
diggin's."

This so-called fault did indeed appear to interfere with Betty Bevan's
matrimonial prospects, for it kept a large number of dissipated diggers
at arm's-length from her, and it made even the more respectable men feel
shy in her presence.

Tom Brixton, however, had not been one of her timid admirers.  He had a
drop or two of Irish blood in his veins which rendered that impossible!
Before falling into dissipated habits he had paid his addresses to her
boldly.  Moreover, his suit was approved by Betty's father, who had
taken a great fancy to Tom.  But, as we have said, this Rose of Oregon
repelled Tom.  She did it gently and kindly, it is true, but decidedly.

It was, then, towards the residence of Paul Bevan that the fugitive now
urged his canoe, with a strange turmoil of conflicting emotions however;
for, the last time he had visited the Gully he had been at least free
from the stain of having broken the laws of man.  Now, he was a fugitive
and an outlaw, with hopes and aspirations blighted and the last shred of
self-respect gone.



CHAPTER FOUR.

When Tom Brixton had descended the river some eight or ten miles he
deemed himself pretty safe from his pursuers, at least for the time
being, as his rate of progress with the current far exceeded the pace at
which men could travel on foot; and besides, there was the strong
probability that, on reaching the spot where the canoe had been entered
and the bag of gold left on the bank, the pursuers would be partially
satisfied as well as baffled, and would return home.

On reaching a waterfall, therefore, where the navigable part of the
river ended and its broken course through Bevan's Gully began, he landed
without any show of haste, drew the canoe up on the bank, where he left
it concealed among bushes, and began quietly to descend by a narrow
footpath with which he had been long familiar.

Up to that point the unhappy youth had entertained no definite idea as
to why he was hurrying towards the hut of Paul Bevan, or what he meant
to say for himself on reaching it.  But towards noon, as he drew near to
it, the thought of Betty in her innocence and purity oppressed him.  She
rose before his mind's eye like a reproving angel.

How could he ever face her with the dark stain of a mean theft upon his
soul?  How could he find courage to confess his guilt to her? or,
supposing that he did not confess it, how could he forge the tissue of
lies that would be necessary to account for his sudden appearance, and
in such guise--bloodstained, wounded, haggard, and worn out with fatigue
and hunger?  Such thoughts now drove him to the verge of despair.  Even
if Betty were to refrain from putting awkward questions, there was no
chance whatever of Paul Bevan being so considerate.  Was he then to
attempt to deceive them, or was he to reveal all?  He shrank from
answering the question, for he believed that Bevan was an honest man,
and feared that he would have nothing further to do with him when he
learned that he had become a common thief.  A thief!  How the idea
burned into his heart, now that the influence of strong drink no longer
warped his judgment!

"Has it _really_ come to this?" he muttered, gloomily.  Then, as he came
suddenly in sight of Bevan's hut, he exclaimed more cheerfully, "Come,
I'll make a clean breast of it."

Paul Bevan had pitched his hut on the top of a steep rocky mound, the
front of which almost overhung a precipice that descended into a deep
gully, where the tormented river fell into a black and gurgling pool.
Behind the hut flowed a streamlet, which being divided by the mound into
a fork, ran on either side of it in two deep channels, so that the hut
could only be reached by a plank bridge thrown across the lower or
western fork.  The forked streamlet tumbled over the precipice and
descended into the dark pool below in the form of two tiny silver
threads.  At least it would have done so if its two threads had not been
dissipated in misty spray long before reaching the bottom of the cliff.
Thus it will be seen that the gold-digger occupied an almost impregnable
fortress, though why he had perched himself in such a position no one
could guess, and he declined to tell.  It was therefore set down, like
all his other doings, to eccentricity.

Of course there was so far a pretext for his caution in the fact that
there were scoundrels in those regions, who sometimes banded together
and attacked people who were supposed to have gold-dust about them in
large quantities, but as such assaults were not common, and as every one
was equally liable to them, there seemed no sufficient ground for
Bevan's excessive care in the selection of his fortress.

On reaching it, Tom found its owner cutting up some firewood near his
plank-bridge.

"Hallo, Brixton!" he cried, looking up in some surprise as the young man
advanced; "you seem to have bin in the wars.  What have 'e been fightin'
wi', lad?"

"With a bear, Paul Bevan," replied Tom, sitting down on a log, with a
long-drawn sigh.

"You're used up, lad, an' want rest; mayhap you want grub also.  Anyhow
you look awful bad.  No wounds, I hope, or bones broken, eh?"

"No, nothing but a broken heart," replied Tom with a faint attempt to
smile.

"Why, that's a queer bit o' you for a b'ar to break.  If you had said it
was a girl that broke it, now, I could have--"

"Where is Betty?" interrupted the youth, quickly, with an anxious
expression.

"In the hut, lookin' arter the grub.  You'll come in an' have some, of
course.  But I'm coorious to hear about that b'ar.  Was it far from here
you met him?"

"Ay, just a short way this side o' Pine Tree Diggings."

"Pine Tree Diggin's!" repeated Paul in surprise.  "Why, then, didn't you
go back to Pine Tree Diggin's to wash yourself an' rest, instead o'
comin' all the way here?"

"Because--because, Paul Bevan," said Tom with sudden earnestness, as he
gazed on the other's face, "because I'm a thief!"

"You might be worse," replied Bevan, while a peculiarly significant
smile played for a moment on his rugged features.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Tom, in amazement.

"Why, you might have bin a murderer, you know," replied Bevan, with a
nod.

The youth was so utterly disgusted with this cool, indifferent way of
regarding the matter, that he almost regretted having spoken.  He had
been condemning himself so severely during the latter part of his
journey, and the meanness of his conduct as well as its wickedness had
been growing so dark in colour, that Bevan's unexpected levity took him
aback, and for a few seconds he could not speak.

"Listen," he said at last, seizing his friend by the arm and looking
earnestly into his eyes.  "Listen, and I will tell you all about it."

The man became grave as Tom went on with his narrative.

"Yes, it's a bad business," he said, at its conclusion, "an uncommon bad
business.  Got a very ugly look about it."

"You are right, Paul," said Tom, bowing his head, while a flush of shame
covered his face.  "No one, I think, can be more fully convinced of the
meanness--the sin--of my conduct than I am now--"

"Oh! as to that," returned Bevan, with another of his peculiar smiles,
"I didn't exactly mean _that_.  You were tempted, you know, pretty bad.
Besides, Bully Gashford is a big rascal, an' richly deserves what he
got.  No, it wasn't that I meant--but it's a bad look-out for you, lad,
if they nab you.  I knows the temper o' them Pine Tree men, an' they're
in such a wax just now that they'll string you up, as sure as fate, if
they catch you."

Again Tom was silent, for the lightness with which Bevan regarded his
act of theft only had the effect of making him condemn himself the more.

"But I say, Brixton," resumed Bevan, with an altered expression, "not a
word of all this to Betty.  You haven't much chance with her as it is,
although I do my best to back you up; but if she came to know of this
affair, you'd not have the ghost of a chance at all--for you know the
gal is religious, more's the pity, though I will say it, she's a good
obedient gal, in spite of her religion, an' a 'fectionate darter to me.
But she'd never marry a thief, you know.  You couldn't well expect her
to."

The dislike with which Tom Brixton regarded his companion deepened into
loathing as he spoke, and he felt it difficult to curb his desire to
fell the man to the ground, but the thought that he was Betty's father
soon swallowed up all other thoughts and feelings.  He resolved in his
own mind that, come of it what might, he would certainly tell all the
facts to the girl, and then formally give her up, for he agreed with
Bevan at least on one point, namely, that he could not expect a good
religious girl to marry a thief!

"But you forget, Paul," he said, after a few moments' thought, "that
Betty is sure to hear about this affair the first time you have a
visitor from Pine Tree Diggings."

"That's true, lad, I did forget that.  But you know you can stoutly deny
that it was you who did it.  Say there was some mistake, and git up some
cock-an'-a-bull story to confuse her.  Anyhow, say nothing about it just
now."

Tom was still meditating what he should say in reply to this, when Betty
herself appeared, calling her father to dinner.

"Now, mind, not a word about the robbery," he whispered as he rose, "and
we'll make as much as we can of the b'ar."

"Yes, not a word about it," thought Tom, "till Betty and I are alone,
and then--a clean breast and good-bye to her, for ever!"

During dinner the girl manifested more than usual sympathy with Tom
Brixton.  She saw that he was almost worn out with fatigue, and listened
with intense interest to her father's embellished narrative of the
encounter with the "b'ar," which narrative Tom was forced to interrupt
and correct several times, in the course of its delivery.  But this
sympathy did not throw her off her guard.  Remembering past visits, she
took special care that Tom should have no opportunity of being alone
with her.

"Now, you must be off to rest," said Paul Bevan, the moment his visitor
laid down his knife and fork, "for, let me tell you, I may want your
help before night.  I've got an enemy, Tom, an enemy who has sworn to be
the death o' me, and who _will_ be the death o' me, I feel sure o' that
in the long-run.  However, I'll keep him off as long as I can.  He'd
have been under the sod long afore now, lad--if--if it hadn't bin for my
Betty.  She's a queer girl is Betty, and she's made a queer man of her
old father."

"But who is this enemy, and when--what--? explain yourself."

"Well, I've no time to explain either `when' or `what' just now, and you
have no time to waste.  Only I have had a hint from a friend, early this
morning, that my enemy has discovered my whereabouts, and is following
me up.  But I'm ready for him, and right glad to have your stout arm to
help--though you couldn't fight a babby just now.  Lie down, I say, an'
I'll call you when you're wanted."

Ceasing to press the matter, Tom entered a small room, in one corner of
which a narrow bed, or bunk, was fixed.  Flinging himself on this, he
was fast asleep in less than two minutes.  "Kind nature's sweet
restorer" held him so fast, that for three hours he lay precisely as he
fell, without the slightest motion, save the slow and regular heaving of
his broad chest.

At the end of that time he was rudely shaken by a strong hand.  The
guilty are always easily startled.  Springing from his couch he had
seized Bevan by the throat before he was quite awake.

"Hist! man, not quite so fast" gasped his host shaking him off.  "Come,
they've turned up sooner than I expected."

"What--who?" said Brixton, looking round.

"My enemy, of coorse, an' a gang of redskins to help him.  They expect
to catch us asleep, but they'll find out their mistake soon enough.
That lad there brought me the news, and, you see, he an' Betty are
getting things ready."

Tom glanced through the slightly opened doorway, as he tightened his
belt, and saw Betty and a boy of about fourteen years of age standing at
a table, busily engaged loading several old-fashioned horse-pistols with
buckshot.

"Who's the boy?" asked Tom.

"They call him Tolly.  I saved the little chap once from a grizzly b'ar,
an' he's a grateful feller, you see--has run a long way to give me
warnin' in time.  Come, here's a shot-gun for you, charged wi' slugs.
I'm not allowed to use ball, you must know, 'cause Betty thinks that
balls kill an' slugs only wound!  I humour the little gal, you see, for
she's a good darter to me.  We've both on us bin lookin' forward to this
day, for we knowed it must come sooner or later, an' I made her a
promise that, when it did come, I'd only defend the hut wi' slugs.  But
slugs ain't bad shots at a close range, when aimed low."

The man gave a sly chuckle and a huge wink as he said this, and entered
the large room of the hut.

Betty was very pale and silent.  She did not even look up from the
pistol she was loading when Tom entered.  The boy Tolly, however, looked
at his tall, strong figure with evident satisfaction.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, ramming down a charge of slugs with great energy;
"we'll be able to make a good fight without your services, Betty.  Won't
we, old man?"

The pertly-put question was addressed to Paul Bevan, between whom and
the boy there was evidently strong affection.

"Yes, Tolly," replied Bevan, with a pleasant nod, "three men are quite
enough for the defence of this here castle."

"But, I say, old man," continued the boy, shaking a powder-horn before
his face, "the powder's all done.  Where'll I git more?"

A look of anxiety flitted across Bevan's face.

"It's in the magazine.  I got a fresh keg last week, an' thought it
safest to put it there till required--an' haven't I gone an' forgot to
fetch it in!"

"Well, that don't need to trouble you," returned the boy, "just show me
the magazine, an' I'll go an' fetch it in!"

"The magazine's over the bridge," said Bevan.  "I dug it there for
safety.  Come, Tom, the keg's too heavy for the boy.  I must fetch it
myself, and you must guard the bridge while I do it."

He went out quickly as he spoke, followed by Tom and Tolly.

It was a bright moonlight night, and the forks of the little stream
glittered like two lines of silver, at the bottom of their rugged bed on
either side of the hut.  The plank-bridge had been drawn up on the bank.
With the aid of his two allies Bevan quickly thrust it over the gulf,
and, without a moment's hesitation, sprang across.  While Tom stood at
the inner end, ready with a double-barrelled gun to cover his friend's
retreat if necessary, he saw Bevan lift a trap-door not thirty yards
distant and disappear.  A few seconds, and he re-appeared with a keg on
his shoulder.

All remained perfectly quiet in the dark woods around.  The babbling
rivulet alone broke the silence of the night.  Bevan seemed to glide
over the ground, he trod so softly.

"There's another," he whispered, placing the keg at Tom's feet, and
springing back towards the magazine.  Again he disappeared, and, as
before, re-issued from the hole with the second keg on his shoulder.
Suddenly a phantom seemed to glide from the bushes, and fell him to the
earth.  He dropped without even a cry, and so swift was the act that his
friends had not time to move a finger to prevent it.  Tom, however,
discharged both barrels of his gun at the spot where the phantom seemed
to disappear, and Tolly Trevor discharged a horse pistol in the same
direction.  Instantly a rattling volley was fired from the woods, and
balls whistled all round the defenders of the hut.

Most men in the circumstances would have sought shelter, but Tom
Brixton's spirit was of that utterly reckless character that refuses to
count the cost before action.  Betty's father lay helpless on the ground
in the power of his enemies!  That was enough for Tom.  He leaped across
the bridge, seized the fallen man, threw him on his shoulder, and had
almost regained the bridge, when three painted Indians uttered a hideous
war-whoop and sprang after him.

Fortunately, having just emptied their guns, they could not prevent the
fugitive from crossing the bridge, but they reached it before there was
time to draw in the plank, and were about to follow, when Tolly Trevor
planted himself in front of them with a double-barrelled horse-pistol in
each band.

"We don't want _you_ here, you--red-faced--baboons!" he cried, pausing
between each of the last three words to discharge a shot and emphasising
the last word with one of the pistols, which he hurled with such
precision that it took full effect on the bridge of the nearest red
man's nose.  All three fell, but rose again with a united screech and
fled back to the bushes.

A few moments more and the bridge was drawn back, and Paul Bevan was
borne into the hut, amid a scattering fire from the assailants, which,
however, did no damage.

To the surprise and consternation of Tolly, who entered first, Betty was
found sitting on a chair with blood trickling from her left arm.  A ball
entering through the window had grazed her, and she sank down, partly
from the shock, coupled with alarm.  She recovered, however, on seeing
her father carried in, sprang up, and ran to him.

"Only stunned, Betty," said Tom; "will be all right soon, but we must
rouse him, for the scoundrels will be upon us in a minute.  What--what's
this--wounded?"

"Only a scratch.  Don't mind me.  Father! dear father--rouse up!  They
will be here--oh! rouse up, dear father!"

But Betty shook him in vain.

"Out o' the way, _I_ know how to stir him up," said Tolly, coming
forward with a pail of water and sending the contents violently into his
friend's face--thus drenching him from head to foot.

The result was that Paul Bevan sneezed, and, sitting up, looked
astonished.

"Ha!  I thought that 'ud fetch you," said the boy, with a grin.  "Come,
you'd better look alive if you don't want to lose yer scalp."

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed Bevan, rising with a sudden look of intelligence and
staggering to the door, "here, give me the old sword, Betty, and the
blunderbuss.  Now then."

He went out at the door, and Tom Brixton was following, when the girl
stopped him.

"Oh!  Mr Brixton," she said, "do not _kill_ any one, if you can help
it."

"I won't if I can help it.  But listen, Betty," said the youth,
hurriedly seizing the girl's hand.  "I have tried hard to speak with you
alone to-day, to tell you that I am _guilty_, and to say good-bye _for
ever_."

"Guilty! what do you mean?" she exclaimed in bewildered surprise.

"No time to explain.  I may be shot, you know, or taken prisoner, though
the latter's not likely.  In any case remember that I confess myself
_guilty_!  God bless you, dear, _dear_ girl."

Without waiting for a reply, he ran to a hollow on the top of the mound
where his friend and Tolly were already ensconced, and whence they could
see every part of the clearing around the little fortress.

"I see the reptiles," whispered Bevan, as Tom joined them.  "They are
mustering for an attack on the south side.  Just what I wish," he added,
with a suppressed chuckle, "for I've got a pretty little arrangement of
cod-hooks and man-traps in that direction."

As he spoke several dark figures were seen gliding among the trees.  A
moment later, and these made a quick silent rush over the clearing to
gain the slight shelter of the shrubs that fringed the streamlet.

"Just so," remarked Bevan, in an undertone, when a crash of branches
told that one of his traps had taken effect; "an' from the row I should
guess that two have gone into the hole at the same time.  Ha! that's a
fish hooked!" he added, as a short sharp yell of pain, mingled with
surprise, suddenly increased the noise.

"An' there goes another!" whispered Tolly, scarcely able to contain
himself with delight at such an effective yet comparatively bloodless
way of embarrassing their foes.

"And another," added Bevan; "but look out now; they'll retreat
presently.  Give 'em a dose o' slug as they go back, but take 'em low,
lads--about the feet and ankles.  It's only a fancy of my dear little
gal, but I like to humour her fancies."

Bevan was right.  Finding that they were not only surrounded by hidden
pit-falls, but caught by painfully sharp little instruments, and
entangled among cordage, the Indians used their scalping-knives to free
themselves, and rushed back again towards the wood, but before gaining
its shelter they received the slug-dose above referred to, and instantly
filled the air with shrieks of rage, rather than of pain.  At that
moment a volley was fired from the other side of the fortress, and
several balls passed close over the defenders' heads.

"Surrounded and outnumbered!" exclaimed Bevan, with something like a
groan.

As he spoke another, but more distant, volley was heard, accompanied by
shouts of anger and confusion among the men who were assaulting the
fortress.

"The attackers are attacked," exclaimed Bevan, in surprise; "I wonder
who by."

He looked round for a reply, but only saw the crouching figure of Tolly
beside him.

"Where's Brixton?" he asked.

"Bolted into the hut," answered the boy.

"Betty," exclaimed Tom, springing into the little parlour or hall, where
he found the poor girl on her knees, "you are safe now.  I heard the
voice of Gashford, and the Indians are flying.  But I too must fly.  I
am guilty, as I have said, but my crime is not worthy of death, yet
death is the award, and, God knows, I am not fit to die.  Once more--
farewell!"

He spoke rapidly, and was turning to go without even venturing to look
at the girl, when she said--

"Whatever your crime may be, remember that there is a Saviour from sin.
Stay!  You cannot leap the creek, and, even if you did, you would be
caught, for I hear voices near us.  Come with me."

She spoke in a tone of decision that compelled obedience.  Lifting a
trap-door in the floor she bade her lover descend.  He did so, and found
himself in a cellar half full of lumber and with several casks ranged
round the walls.  The girl followed, removed one of the casks, and
disclosed a hole behind it.

"It is small," she said, quickly, "but you will be able to force
yourself through.  Inside it enlarges at once to a low tunnel, along
which you will creep for a hundred yards, when you will reach open air
in a dark, rocky dell, close to the edge of the precipice above the
river.  Descend to its bed, and, when free, use your freedom to escape
from death--but much more, to escape from sin.  Go quickly!"

Tom Brixton would fain have delayed to seize and kiss his preserver's
hand, but the sound of voices overhead warned him to make haste.
Without a word he dropped on hands and knees and thrust himself through
the aperture.  Betty replaced the cask, returned to the upper room, and
closed the trap-door just a few minutes before her father ushered
Gashford and his party into the hut.



CHAPTER FIVE.

When our hero found himself in a hole, pitch dark and barely large
enough to permit of his creeping on hands and knees, he felt a sudden
sensation of fear--of undefinable dread--come over him, such as one
might be supposed to experience on awaking to the discovery that he had
been buried alive.  His first impulse was to shout for deliverance, but
his manhood returned to him, and he restrained himself.

Groping his way cautiously along the passage or tunnel, which descended
at first steeply, he came to a part which he could feel was regularly
built over with an arch of brickwork or masonry, and the sound of
running water overhead told him that this was a tunnel under the
rivulet.  As he advanced the tunnel widened a little, and began to
ascend.  After creeping what he judged to be a hundred yards or so, he
thought he could see a glimmer of light like a faint star in front of
him.  It was the opening to which Betty had referred.  He soon reached
it and emerged into the fresh air.

As he raised himself, and drew a long breath of relief, the words of his
deliverer seemed to start up before him in letters of fire--

"Use your freedom to escape from death--but _much more, to escape from
sin_."

"I will, so help me God!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands convulsively
and looking upward.  In the strength of the new-born resolution thus
induced by the Spirit of God, he fell on his knees and tried to pray.
Then he rose and sat down to think, strangely forgetful of the urgent
need there was for flight.

Meanwhile Gashford and his men proceeded to question Paul Bevan and his
daughter.  The party included, among others, Fred Westly, Paddy
Flinders, and Crossby.  Gashford more than suspected the motives of the
first two in accompanying him, but did not quite see his way to decline
their services, even if he had possessed the power to do so.  He
consoled himself, however, with the reflection that he could keep a
sharp eye on their movements.

"No, no, Bevan," he said, when the man brought out a case-bottle of rum
and invited him to drink, "we have other work on hand just now.  We have
traced that young thief Brixton to this hut, and we want to get hold of
him."

"A thief, is he?" returned Bevan, with a look of feigned surprise.
"Well, now, that _is_ strange news.  Tom Brixton don't look much like a
thief, do he?"  (appealing to the by-standers).  "There must be some
mistake, surely."

"There's no mistake," said Gashford, with an oath.  "He stole a bag o'
gold from my tent.  To be sure he dropped it in his flight so I've got
it back again, but that don't affect his guilt."

"But surely, Mister Gashford," said Bevan slowly, for, having been
hurriedly told in a whisper by Betty what she had done for Tom, he was
anxious to give his friend as much time as possible to escape, "surely
as you've come by no loss, ye can afford to let the poor young feller
off this time."

"No, we can't," shouted Gashford, fiercely.  "These mean pilferers have
become a perfect pest at the diggin's, an' we intend to stop their
little game, we do, by stoppin' their windpipes when we catch them.
Come, don't shilly-shally any longer, Paul Bevan.  He's here, and no
mistake, so you'd better hand him over.  Besides, you owe us something,
you know, for coming to your help agin the redskins in the nick of
time."

"Well, as to that I _am_ much obliged, though, after all, it wasn't to
help me you came."

"No matter," exclaimed the other impatiently, "you know he is here, an'
you're bound to give him up."

"But I _don't_ know that he's here, an' I _can't_ give him up, cause
why? he's escaped."

"Escaped! impossible, there is only one bridge to this mound, and he has
not crossed that since we arrived, I'll be bound.  There's a sentry on
it now."

"But an active young feller can jump, you know."

"No, he couldn't jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a
Rocky Mountain goat.  Come, since you won't show us where he is, we'll
take the liberty of sarchin' your premises.  But stay, your daughter's
got the name o' bein' a religious gal.  If there's any truth in that
she'd be above tellin' a lie.  Come now, Betty, tell us, like a good
gal, is Tom Brixton here?"

"No, he is not here," replied the girl.

"Where is he, then?"

"I do not know."

"That's false, you _do_ know.  But come, lads, we'll sarch, and here's a
cellar to begin with."

He laid hold of the iron ring of the trap-door, opened it, and seizing a
light descended, followed by Bevan, Crossby, Flinders, and one or two
others.  Tossing the lumber about he finally rolled aside the barrels
ranged beside the wall, until the entrance to the subterranean way was
discovered.

"Ho! ho!" he cried, lowering the light and gazing into it.  "Here's
something, anyhow."

After peering into the dark hole for some time he felt with his hand as
far as his arm could reach.

"Mind he don't bite!" suggested Paddy Flinders, in a tone that drew a
laugh from the by-standers.

"Hand me that stick, Paddy," said Gashford, "and keep your jokes to a
more convenient season."

"Ah! then 'tis always a convanient season wid me, sor," replied Paddy,
with a wink at his companions as he handed the stick.

"Does this hole go far in?" he asked, after a fruitless poking about
with the stick.

"Ay, a long way.  More'n a hundred yards," returned Bevan.

"Well, I'll have a look at it."

Saying which Gashford pushed the light as far in as he could reach, and
then, taking a bowie-knife between his teeth, attempted to follow.

We say attempted, because he was successful only in a partial degree.
It must be remembered that Gashford was an unusually large man, and that
Tom Brixton had been obliged to use a little force in order to gain an
entrance.  When, therefore, the huge bully had thrust himself in about
as far as his waist he stuck hard and fast, so that he could neither
advance nor retreat!  He struggled violently, and a muffled sound of
shouting was heard inside the hole, but no one could make out what was
said.

"Och! the poor cratur," exclaimed Paddy Flinders, with a look of
overdone commiseration, "what'll we do for 'im at all at all?"

"Let's try to pull him out," suggested Crossby.

They tried and failed, although as many as could manage it laid hold of
him.

"Sure he minds me of a stiff cork in a bottle," said Flinders, wiping
the perspiration from his forehead, "an' what a most awful crack he'll
make whin he does come out!  Let's give another heave, boys."

They gave another heave, but only caused the muffled shouting inside to
increase.  "Och! the poor cratur's stritchin' out like a injin-rubber
man; sure he's a fut longer than he used to be--him that was a sight too
long already," said Flinders.

"Let's try to shove him through," suggested the baffled Crossby.

Failure again followed their united efforts--except as regards the
muffled shouting within, which increased in vigour and was accompanied
by no small amount of kicking by what of Gashford remained in the
cellar.

"I'm afeared his legs'll come off altogether if we try to pull harder
than we've done," said Crossby, contemplating the huge and helpless
limbs of the victim with a perplexed air.

"What a chance, boys," suddenly exclaimed Flinders, "to pay off old
scores with a tree-mendous wallopin'!  We could do it aisy in five or
six minutes, an' then lave 'im to think over it for the rest of his
life."

As no one approved of Paddy's proposal, it was finally resolved to dig
the big man out and a pick and shovel were procured for the purpose.

Contrary to all expectations, Gashford was calm, almost subdued, when
his friends at last set him free.  Instead of storming and abusing every
one, he said quietly but quickly, "Let us search the bush now.  He can't
be far off yet, and there's moonlight enough."

Leading the way, he sprang up the cellar stair, out at the hut-door, and
across the bridge, followed closely by his party.

"Hooroo!" yelled Paddy Flinders, as if in the irrepressible ardour of
the chase, but in reality to give Brixton intimation of the pursuit, if
he should chance to be within earshot.

The well-meant signal did indeed take effect, but it came too late.  It
found Tom still seated in absorbed meditation.  Rudely awakened to the
consciousness of his danger and his stupidity, he leaped up and ran
along the path that Betty had described to him.  At the same moment it
chanced that Crossby came upon the same path at its river-side
extremity, and in a few moments each ran violently into the other's
arms, and both rolled upon the ground.

The embrace that Crossby gave the youth would have been creditable even
to a black bear, but Tom was a match for him in his then condition of
savage despair.  He rolled the rough digger over on his back,
half strangled him, and bumped his shaggy head against the
conveniently-situated root of a tree.  But Crossby held on with the
tenacity of sticking-plaster, shouting wildly all the time, and before
either could subdue the other, Gashford and his men coming up stopped
the combat.

It were vain attempting to describe the conflict of Brixton's feelings
as they once more bound his arms securely behind him and led him back to
Paul Bevan's hut.  The thought of death while fighting with man or beast
had never given him much concern, but to be done to death by the rope as
a petty thief was dreadful to contemplate, while to appear before the
girl he loved, humiliated and bound, was in itself a sort of preliminary
death.  Afterwards, when confined securely in the cellar and left to
himself for the night, with a few pine branches as a bed, the thought of
home and mother came to him with overwhelming power, and finally mingled
with his dreams.  But those dreams, however pleasant they might be at
first and in some respects, invariably ended with the branch of a tree
and a rope with a noose dangling at the end thereof, and he awoke again
and again with a choking sensation, under the impression that the noose
was already tightening on his throat.

The agony endured that night while alone in the dark cellar was
terrible, for Tom knew the temper of the diggers too well to doubt his
fate.  Still hope, blessed hope, did not utterly desert him.  More than
once he struggled to his knees and cried to God for mercy in the
Saviour's name.

By daybreak next morning he was awakened out of the first dreamless
sleep that he had enjoyed, and bid get up.  A slight breakfast of bread
and water was handed to him, which he ate by the light of a homemade
candle stuck in the neck of a quart bottle.  Soon afterwards Crossby
descended, and bade him ascend the wooden stair or ladder.  He did so,
and found the party of miners assembled under arms, and ready for the
road.

"I'm sorry I can't help 'ee," said Paul Bevan, drawing the unhappy youth
aside, and speaking in a low voice.  "I would if I could, for I owe my
life to you, but they won't listen to reason.  I sent Betty out o' the
way, lad, a-purpose.  Thought it better she shouldn't see you, but--"

"Come, come, old man, time's up," interrupted Gashford, roughly; "we
must be off.  Now, march, my young slippery-heels.  I needn't tell you
not to try to bolt again.  You'll find it difficult to do that."

As they moved off and began their march through the forest on foot, Tom
Brixton felt that escape was indeed out of the question, for, while
three men marched in front of him, four marched on either side, each
with rifle on shoulder, and the rest of the band brought up the rear.
But even if his chances had not been so hopeless, he would not have made
any further effort to save himself, for he had given himself thoroughly
up to despair.  In the midst of this a slight sense of relief, mingled
with the bitterness of disappointment, when he found that Betty had been
sent out of the way, and that he would see her no more, for he could not
bear the thought of her seeing him thus led away.

"May I speak with the prisoner for a few minutes?" said Fred Westly to
Gashford, as they plodded through the woods.  "He has been my comrade
for several years, and I promised his poor mother never to forsake him.
May I, Gashford?"

"No," was the sharp reply, and then, as if relenting, "Well, yes, you
may; but be brief, and no underhand dealing, mind, for if you attempt to
help him you shall be a dead man the next moment, as sure as I'm a
living one.  An' you needn't be too soft, Westly," he added, with a
cynical smile.  "Your chum has--Well, it's no business o' mine.  You can
go to him."

Poor Tom Brixton started as his old friend went up to him, and then hung
his head.

"Dear Tom," said Fred, in a low voice, "don't give way to despair.  With
God all things are possible, and even if your life is to be forfeited,
it is not too late to save the soul, for Jesus is able and willing to
save to the uttermost.  But I want to comfort you with the assurance
that I will spare no effort to save you.  Many of the diggers are not
very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and
I think Gashford may be bought over.  If so, I need not tell you that my
little private store hidden away under the pine-tree--"

"There is no such store, Fred," interrupted Tom, with a haggard look of
shame.

"What do you mean, Tom?"

"I mean that I gambled it all away unknown to you.  Oh!  Fred, you do
not--you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given
way to, especially when backed by drink.  No, it's of no use your trying
to comfort me.  I do believe, now, that I deserve to die."

"Whatever you deserve, Tom, it is my business to save you, if I can--
both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my
intentions or my hopes.  By the way, does Gashford know about this?"

"Yes, he knows that I have taken your money."

"And that's the reason," said Gashford himself, coming up at the moment,
"that I advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he's a bad lot
altogether."

"Is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not
reveal it, a much better `lot'?" demanded Fred, with some indignation.

"Perhaps not," replied Gashford, with a short laugh; "but as I never set
up for a good lot, you see, there's no need to discuss the subject.
Now, fall to the rear, my young blade.  Remember that I'm in command of
this party, and you know, or ought to know, that I suffer no insolence
in those under me."

Poor Fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out,
and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had
the power to aid his condemned friend.

It was near sunset when they reached Pine Tree Diggings.  Tom Brixton
was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine,
but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in
Gashford's pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door.

That night Fred Westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair.
True, he had not failed all along to lay his friend's case before God,
and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only
means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone.  The
hidden hoard, on which he had counted too much, had been taken and lost
by the very man he wished to save, and the weakness of his own faith was
revealed by the disappearance of the gold--for he had almost forgotten
that the Almighty can provide means at any time and in all
circumstances.

Fred would not allow himself for a moment to think that Tom had _stolen_
his gold.  He only _took_ it for a time, with the full intention of
refunding it when better times should come.  On this point Fred's style
of reasoning was in exact accord with that of his unhappy friend.  Tom
never for a moment regarded the misappropriation of the gold as a theft.
Oh no! it was merely an appropriated loan--a temporary accommodation.
It would be interesting, perhaps appalling, to know how many thousands
of criminal careers have been begun in this way!

"Now, Mister Westly," said Flinders, entering the tent in haste, "what's
to be done?  It's quite clear that Mister Tom's not to be hanged, for
there's two or three of us'll commit murder before that happens; but
I've bin soundin' the boys, an' I'm afeared there's a lot o' the worst
wans that'll be glad to see him scragged, an' there's a lot as won't
risk their own necks to save him, an' what betune the wan an' the other,
them that'll fight for him are a small minority--so, again I say, what's
to be done?"

Patrick Flinders's usually jovial face had by that time become almost as
long and lugubrious as that of Westly.

"I don't know," returned Fred, shaking his head.

"My one plan, on which I had been founding much hope, is upset.  Listen.
It was this.  I have been saving a good deal of my gold for a long time
past and hiding it away secretly, so as to have something to fall back
upon when poor Tom had gambled away all his means.  This hoard of mine
amounted, I should think, to something like five hundred pounds.  I
meant to have offered it to Gashford for the key of the prison, and for
his silence, while we enabled Tom once more to escape.  But this money
has, without my knowledge, been taken away and--"

"Stolen, you mean!" exclaimed Flinders, in surprise.

"No, not stolen--taken!  I can't explain just now.  It's enough to know
that it is gone, and that my plan is thus overturned."

"D'ee think Gashford would let him out for that?" asked the Irishman,
anxiously.

"I think so; but, after all, I'm almost glad that the money's gone, for
I can't help feeling that this way of enticing Gashford to do a thing,
as it were slily, is underhand.  It is a kind of bribery."

"Faix, then, it's not c'ruption anyhow, for the baste is as c'rupt as he
can be already.  An', sure, wouldn't it just be bribin' a blackguard not
to commit murther?"

"I don't know, Pat.  It is a horrible position to be placed in.  Poor,
poor Tom!"

"Have ye had supper?" asked Flinders, quickly.

"No--I cannot eat."

"Cook it then, an' don't be selfish.  Other people can ait, though ye
can't.  It'll kape yer mind employed--an I'll want somethin' to cheer me
up whin I come back."

Pat Flinders left the tent abruptly, and poor Fred went about the
preparation of supper in a half mechanical way, wondering what his
comrade meant by his strange conduct.

Pat's meaning was soon made plain, that night, to a dozen or so of his
friends, whom he visited personally and induced to accompany him to a
sequestered dell in an out-of-the-way thicket where the moonbeams
struggled through the branches and drew a lovely pale-blue pattern on
the green-sward.

"My frinds," he said, in a low, mysterious voice, "I know that ivery
mother's son of ye is ready to fight for poor Tom Brixton to-morrow, if
the wust comes to the wust.  Now, it has occurred to my chum Westly an'
me, that it would be better, safer, and surer to buy him up, than to
fight for him, an' as I know some o' you fellers has dug up more goold
than you knows well what to do wid, an' you've all got liberal hearts--
lastewise ye should have, if ye haven't--I propose, an' second the
resolootion, that we make up some five hundred pounds betune us, an'
presint it to Bully Gashford as a mark of our estaim--if he'll on'y give
us up the kay o' the prison, put Patrick Flinders, Esquire, sintry over
it, an' then go to slape till breakfast-time tomorry mornin'."

This plan was at once agreed to, for five hundred pounds was not a large
sum to be made up by men who--some of them at least--had nearly made
"their pile"--by which they meant their fortune, while the liberality of
heart with which they had been credited was not wanting.  Having settled
a few details, this singular meeting broke up, and Patrick Flinders--
acting as the secretary, treasurer, and executive committee--went off,
with a bag of golden nuggets and unbounded self-confidence, to transact
the business.



CHAPTER SIX.

Gashford was not quite so ready to accept Flinders's offer as that
enthusiast had expected.  The bully seemed to be in a strangely unusual
mood, too--a mood which at first the Irishman thought favourable to his
cause.

"Sit down," said Gashford, with less gruffness than usual, when his
visitor entered his hut.  "What d'ye want wi' me?"

Flinders addressed himself at once to the subject of his mission, and
became quite eloquent as he touched on the grandeur of the sum offered,
the liberality of the offerers, and the ease with which the whole thing
might be accomplished.  A very faint smile rested on Gashford's face as
he proceeded, but by no other sign did he betray his thoughts until his
petitioner had concluded.

"So you want to buy him off?" said Gashford, the smile expanding to a
broad grin.

"If yer honour had bin born a judge an' sot on the bench since iver ye
was a small spalpeen, ye couldn't have hit it off more nately.  That's
just what we want--to buy him off.  It's a purty little commercial
transaction--a man's life for five hundred pound; an', sure it's a good
price to give too, consitherin' how poor we all are, an what a dale o'
sweatin' work we've got to do to git the goold."

"But suppose I won't sell," said Gashford, "what then?"

"Fair, then, I'll blow your brains out" thought the Irishman, his
fingers tingling with a desire to grasp the loaded revolver that lay in
his pocket, but he had the wisdom to restrain himself and to say, "Och!
sor, sure ye'll niver refuse such a nat'ral request.  An' we don't ask
ye to help us.  Only to hand me the kay o' the prison, remove the
sintry, an' then go quietly to yer bed wid five hundred pound in goold
benathe yar hid to drame on."

To add weight to his proposal he drew forth the bag of nuggets from one
of his capacious coat pockets and held it up to view.

"It's not enough," said Gashford, with a stern gruffness of tone and
look which sank the petitioner's hopes below zero.

"Ah! then, Muster Gashford," said Flinders, with the deepest pathos,
"it's yer own mother would plade wid ye for the poor boy's life, av she
was here--think o' that.  Sure he's young and inexparienced, an' it's
the first offince he's iver committed--"

"No, not the first" interrupted Gashford.

"The first that I knows on," returned Flinders.

"Tell me--does Westly know of this proposal of yours?"

"No sor, he doesn't."

"Ah, I thought not.  With his religious notions, it would be difficult
for him to join in an attempt to _bribe_ me to stop the course of
justice."

"Well, sor, you're not far wrong, for Muster Westly had bin havin' a
sort o' tussle wid his conscience on that very pint.  You must know, he
had made up his mind to do this very thing an' offer you all his
savings--a thousand pound, more or less--to indooce you to help to save
his frind, but he found his goold had bin stolen, so, you see, sor, he
couldn't do it."

"Did he tell you who stole his gold?"

"No, sor, he didn't--he said that some feller had took it--on loan,
like, though I calls it stalin'--but he didn't say who."

"And have you had no tussle with _your_ conscience, Flinders, about this
business?"

The Irishman's face wrinkled up into an expression of intense amusement
at this question.

"It's jokin' ye are, Muster Gashford.  Sure, now, me conscience--if I've
got wan--doesn't bother me oftin; an' if it did, on this occasion, I'd
send it to the right-about double quick, for it's not offerin' ye five
hundred pound I am to stop the coorse o' justice, but to save ye from
committin' murther!  Give Muster Brixton what punishment the coort
likes--for stailin'--only don't hang him.  That's all we ask."

"You'll have to pay more for it then," returned the bully.  "That's not
enough."

"Sure we haven't got a rap more to kape our pots bilin', sor," returned
Flinders, in a tone of despair.  "Lastewise I can spake for myself; for
I'm claned out--all _but_."

"Row much does the `all but' represent?"

"Well, sor, to tell you the raal truth, it's about tchwo hundred pound,
more or less, and I brought it wid me, for fear you might want it, an' I
haven't got a nugget more if it was to save me own life.  It's the truth
I'm tellin' ye, sor."

There was a tone and look of such intense sincerity about the poor
fellow, as he slowly drew a second bag of gold from his pocket and
placed it beside the first, that Gashford could not help being
convinced.

"Two hundred and five hundred," he said, meditatively.

"That makes siven hundred, sor," said Flinders, suggestively.

The bully did not reply for a few seconds.  Then, taking up the bags of
gold, he threw them into a corner.  Thereafter he drew a large key from
his pocket and handed it to the Irishman, who grasped it eagerly.

"Go to the prison," said Gashford, "tell the sentry you've come to
relieve him, and send him to me.  Mind, now, the rest of this business
must be managed entirely by yourself, and see to it that the camp knows
nothing about our little commercial transaction, for, _if it does_, your
own days will be numbered."

With vows of eternal secrecy, and invoking blessings of an elaborate
nature on Gashford's head, the Irishman hastened away, and went straight
to the prison, which stood considerably apart from the huts and tents of
the miners.

"Who goes there?" challenged the sentry as he approached, for the night
was very dark.

"Mesilf, av coorse."

"An' who may that be, for yer not the only Patlander in camp, more's the
pity!"

"It's Flinders I am.  Sure any man wid half an ear might know that.
I've come to relave ye."

"But you've got no rifle," returned the man, with some hesitation.

"Aren't revolvers as good as rifles, ay, an' better at close quarters?
Shut up your tatie-trap, now, an' be off to Muster Gashford's hut for he
towld me to sind you there widout delay."

This seemed to satisfy the man, who at once went away, leaving Flinders
on guard.

Without a moment's loss of time Paddy made use of the key and entered
the prison.

"Is it there ye are, avic?" he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he advanced
with caution and outstretched hands to prevent coming against
obstructions.

"Yes; who are you?" replied Tom Brixton, in a stern voice.

"Whist, now, or ye'll git me into throuble.  Sure, I'm yer sintry, no
less, an' yer chum Pat Flinders."

"Indeed, Paddy!  I'm surprised that they should select you to be my
jailer."

"Humph! well, they didn't let me have the place for nothing--och!
musha!"

The last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair
and hitting his head on a table.

"Not hurt, I hope," said Brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the
incident.

"Not much--only a new bump--but it's wan among many, so it don't matter.
Now, listen.  Time is precious.  I've come for to set you free--not
exactly at this momint, howiver, for the boys o' the camp haven't all
gone to bed yet; but whin they're quiet, I'll come again an' help you to
escape.  I've only come now to let you know."

The Irishman then proceeded to give Tom Brixton a minute account of all
that had been done in his behalf.  He could not see how the news
affected him, the prison being as dark as Erebus, but great was his
surprise and consternation when the condemned man said, in a calm but
firm voice, "Thank you, Flinders, for your kind intentions, but I don't
mean to make a second attempt to escape."

"Ye don't intind to escape!" exclaimed his friend, with a look of blank
amazement at the spot where the voice of the other came from.

"No; I don't deserve to live, Paddy, so I shall remain and be hanged."

"I'll be hanged if ye do," said Paddy, with much decision.  "Come, now,
don't be talkin' nonsense.  It's jokin' ye are, av coorse."

"I'm very far from joking, my friend," returned Tom, in a tone of deep
despondency, "as you shall find when daylight returns.  I am guilty--
more guilty than you fancy--so I shall plead guilty, whether tried or
not, and take the consequences.  Besides, life is not worth having.  I'm
tired of it!"

"Och! but we've bought you, an' paid for you, an' you've no manner o'
right to do what ye like wi' yourself," returned his exasperated chum.
"But it's of no use talkin' to ye.  There's somethin' wrong wi' your
inside, no doubt.  When I come back for ye at the right time you'll have
thought better of it.  Come, now, give us your hand."

"I wish I could, Flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the
cord so tight that I feel as if I had no hands at all."

"I'll soon putt that right.  Where are ye?  Ah, that's it, now, kape
stidy."

Flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his
friend free.

"Now thin, remain where ye are till I come for ye; an' if any wan should
rap at the door an' ax where's the sintinel an' the kay, just tell him
ye don't know, an don't care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an' ax
his grandmother."

With this parting piece of advice Flinders left the prisoner, locked the
door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to Fred Westly, whom
he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands.

"If Tom told you he wouldn't attempt to escape," said Westly, on hearing
the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, "you may be sure
that he'll stick to it."

"D'ye raaly think so, Muster Fred?" said his companion in deep anxiety.

"I do.  I know Tom Brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing
will move him.  But, come, I must go to the prison and talk with him."

Fred's talk, however, was not more effective than that of his friend had
been.

"Well, Tom," he said, as he and Flinders were about to quit the
block-house, "we will return at the hour when the camp seems fairly
settled to sleep, probably about midnight, and I hope you will then be
ready to fly.  Remember what Flinders says is so far true--your life has
been bought and the price paid, whether you accept or refuse it.  Think
seriously of that before it be too late."

Again the prison door closed, and Tom Brixton was left, with this
thought turning constantly and persistently in his brain:

"Bought and the price paid!" he repeated to himself; for the fiftieth
time that night, as he sat in his dark prison.  "'Tis a strange way to
put it to a fellow, but that does not alter the circumstances.  No, I
won't be moved by mere sentiment.  I'll try the Turk's plan, and submit
to fate.  I fancy this is something of the state of mind that men get
into when they commit suicide.  And yet I don't feel as if I would kill
myself if I were free.  Bah! what's the use of speculating about it?
Anyhow my doom is fixed, and poor Flinders with his friends will lose
their money.  My only regret is that that unmitigated villain Gashford
will get it.  It would not be a bad thing, now that my hands are free,
to run a-muck amongst 'em.  I feel strength enough in me to rid the camp
of a lot of devils before I should be killed!  But, after all, what good
would that do me when I couldn't know it--couldn't know it!  Perhaps I
_could_ know it!  No, no!  Better to die quietly, without the stain of
human blood on my soul--if I _have_ a soul.  Escape!  Easy enough,
maybe, to escape from Pine Tree Diggings; but how escape from
conscience? how escape from facts?--the girl I love holding me in
contempt! my old friend and chum regarding me with pity! character gone!
a life of crime before me! and death, by rope, or bullet or knife,
sooner or later!  Better far to die now and have it over at once;
prevent a deal of sin, too, as well as misery.  `Bought, and the price
paid!'  'Tis a strange way to put it and there is something like logic
in the argument of Paddy, that I've got no right to do what I like with
myself!  Perhaps a casuist would say it is my _duty_ to escape.  Perhaps
it is!"

Now, while Tom Brixton was revolving this knotty question in his mind,
and Bully Gashford was revolving questions quite as knotty, and much
more complex, and Fred Westly was discussing with Flinders the best plan
to be pursued in the event of Tom refusing to fly, there was a party of
men assembled under the trees in a mountain gorge, not far distant, who
were discussing a plan of operations which, when carried out, bade fair
to sweep away, arrest, and overturn other knotty questions and deep-laid
plans altogether.

It was the band of marauders who had made the abortive attack on Bevan's
fortress.

When the attack was made, one of the redskins who guided the miners
chanced to hear the war-whoop of a personal friend in the ranks of the
attacking party.  Being troubled with no sense of honour worth
mentioning, this faithless guide deserted at once to the enemy, and not
only explained all he knew about the thief that he had been tracking,
but gave, in addition, such information about the weak points of Pine
Tree Diggings, that the leader of the band resolved to turn aside for a
little from his immediate purposes, and make a little hay while the sun
shone in that direction.

The band was a large one--a few on horseback, many on foot; some being
Indians and half-castes, others disappointed miners and desperadoes.  A
fierce villain among the latter was the leader of the band, which was
held together merely by unity of purpose and interest in regard to
robbery, and similarity of condition in regard to crime.

"Now, lads," said the leader, who was a tall, lanky, huge-boned,
cadaverous fellow with a heavy chin and hawk-nose, named Stalker, "I'll
tell 'e what it is.  Seems to me that the diggers at Pine Tree Camp are
a set of out-an'-out blackguards--like most diggers--except this poor
thief of a fellow Brixton, so I vote for attackin' the camp, carryin'
off all the gold we can lay hands on in the hurry-skurry, an' set this
gentleman--this thief Brixton--free.  He's a bold chap, I'm told by the
redskin, an' will no doubt be glad to jine us.  An' we want a few bold
men."

The reckless robber-chief looked round with a mingled expression of
humour and contempt, as he finished his speech, whereat some laughed and
a few scowled.

"But how shall we find Brixton?" asked a man named Goff, who appeared to
be second in command.  "I know the Pine Tree Camp, but I don't know
where's the prison."

"No matter," returned Stalker.  "The redskin helps us out o' that
difficulty.  He tells me the prison is a blockhouse, that was once used
as a powder-magazine, and stands on a height, a little apart from the
camp.  I'll go straight to it, set the young chap free, let him jump up
behind me and ride off, while you and the rest of the boys are makin'
the most of your time among the nuggets.  We shall all meet again at the
Red Man's Teacup."

"And when shall we go to work, captain!" asked the lieutenant.

"Now.  There's no time like the present.  Strike when the iron's hot,
boys!" he added, looking round at the men by whom he was encircled.
"You know what we've got to do.  Advance together, like cats, till we're
within a yard or two of the camp, then a silent rush when you hear my
signal, the owl's hoot.  No shouting, mind, till the first screech comes
from the enemy; then, as concealment will be useless, give tongue, all
of you, till your throats split if you like, an' pick up the gold.  Now,
don't trouble yourselves much about fighting.  Let the bags be the main
look-out--of course you'll have to defend your own heads, though I don't
think there'll be much occasion for that--an' you know, if any of them
are fools enough to fight for their gold, you'll have to dispose of them
somehow."

Having delivered this address with much energy, the captain of the band
put himself at its head and led the way.

While this thunder-cloud was drifting down on the camp, Fred Westly and
Flinders were preparing for flight.  They did not doubt that their
friend would at the last be persuaded to escape, and had made up their
minds to fly with him and share his fortunes.

"We have nothing to gain, you see, Paddy," said Fred, "by remaining
here, and, having parted with all our gold, have nothing to lose by
going."

"Thrue for ye, sor, an' nothin' to carry except ourselves, worse luck!"
said the Irishman, with a deep sigh.  "Howiver, we lave no dibts behind
us, that's wan comfort, so we may carry off our weapons an' horses wid
clear consciences.  Are ye all ready now, sor?"

"Almost ready," replied Fred, thrusting a brace of revolvers into his
belt and picking up his rifle.  "Go for the horses, Pat, and wait at the
stable for me.  Our neighbours might hear the noise if you brought them
round here."

Now, the stable referred to was the most outlying building of the camp,
in the direction in which the marauders were approaching.  It was a
small log-hut of the rudest description perched on a little knoll which
overlooked the camp, and from which Tom Brixton's prison could be
clearly seen, perched on a neighbouring knoll.

Paddy Flinders ruminated on the dangers and perplexities that might be
in store for him that night, as he went swiftly and noiselessly up to
the hut.  To reach the door he had to pass round from the back to the
front.  As he did so he became aware of voices sounding softly close at
hand.  A large log lay on the ground.  With speed worthy of a redskin he
sank down beside it.

"This way, captain; I've bin here before, an' know that you can see the
whole camp from it--if it wasn't so confoundedly dark.  There's a log
somewhere--ah, here it is; we'll be able to see better if we mount it."

"I wish we had more light," growled the so-called captain; "it won't be
easy to make off on horseback in such--is this the log?  Here, lend a
hand."

As he spoke the robber-chief put one of his heavy boots on the little
finger of Pat Flinders's left hand, and well-nigh broke it in springing
on to the log in question!

A peculiarly Irish howl all but escaped from poor Flinders's lips.

"I see," said Stalker, after a few moments.  "There's enough of us to
attack a camp twice the size.  Now we must look sharp.  I'll go round to
the prison and set Brixton free.  When that's done, I'll hoot three
times--so--only a good deal louder.  Then you an' the boys will rush in
and--you know the rest.  Come."

Descending from the log on the other side, the two desperadoes left the
spot.  Then Paddy rose and ran as if he had been racing, and as if the
prize of the race were life!

"Bad luck to you, ye murtherin' thieves," growled the Irishman, as he
ran, "but I'll stop yer game, me boys!"



CHAPTER SEVEN.

As straight, and almost as swiftly, as an arrow, Flinders ran to his
tent, burst into the presence of his amazed comrade, seized him by both
arms, and exclaimed in a sharp hoarse voice, the import of which there
could be no mistaking--

"Whisht!--howld yer tongue!  The camp'll be attacked in ten minutes!  Be
obadient now, an' foller me."

Flinders turned and ran out again, taking the path to Gashford's hut
with the speed of a hunted hare.  Fred Westly followed.  Bursting in
upon the bully, who had not yet retired to rest, the Irishman seized him
by both arms and repeated his alarming words, with this addition:

"Sind some wan to rouse the camp--but _silently_!  No noise--or it's all
up wid us!"

There was something in Paddy's manner and look that commanded respect
and constrained obedience--even in Gashford.

"Bill," he said, turning to a man who acted as his valet and cook,
"rouse the camp.  Quietly--as you hear.  Let no man act however, till my
voice is heard.  You'll know it when ye hear it!"

"No mistake about _that_!" muttered Bill, as he ran out on his errand.

"Now--foller!" cried Flinders, catching up a bit of rope with one hand
and a billet of firewood with the other, as he dashed out of the hut and
made straight for the prison, with Gashford and Westly close at his
heels.

Gashford meant to ask Flinders for an explanation as he ran, but the
latter rendered this impossible by outrunning him.  He reached the
prison first, and had already entered when the others came up and ran
in.  He shut the door and locked it on the inside.

"Now, then, listen, all of ye," he said, panting vehemently, "an' take
in what I say, for the time's short.  The camp'll be attacked in five
minits--more or less.  I chanced to overhear the blackguards.  Their
chief comes here to set Muster Brixton free.  Then--och! here he comes!
Do as I bid ye, ivery wan, an' howld yer tongues."

The latter words were said energetically, but in a low whisper, for
footsteps were heard outside as if approaching stealthily.  Presently a
rubbing sound was heard, as of a hand feeling for the door.  It touched
the handle and then paused a moment, after which there came a soft tap.

"I'll spake for ye," whispered Flinders in Brixton's ear.

Another pause, and then another tap at the door.

"Arrah! who goes there?" cried Paddy, stretching himself, as if just
awakened out of a sound slumber and giving vent to a mighty yawn.

"A friend," answered the robber-chief through the keyhole.

"A frind!" echoed Pat.  "Sure an' that's a big lie, if iver there was
one.  Aren't ye goin' to hang me i' the mornin'?"

"No indeed, I ain't one o' this camp.  But surely you can't be the man--
the--the thief--named Brixton, for you're an Irishman."

"An' why not?" demanded Flinders.  "Sure the Brixtons are Irish to the
backbone--an' thieves too--root an' branch from Adam an' Eve downwards.
But go away wid ye.  I don't belave that ye're a frind.  You've only
just come to tormint me an' spile my slape the night before my funeral.
Fie for shame!  Go away an' lave me in pace."

"You're wrong, Brixton; I've come to punish the blackguards that would
hang you, an' set you free, as I'll soon show you.  Is the door strong?"

"Well, it's not made o' cast iron, but it's pretty tough."

"Stand clear, then, an' I'll burst it in wi' my foot," said Stalker.

"Och! is it smashin' yer bones you'll be after!  Howld fast.  Are ye a
big man?"

"Yes, pretty big."

"That's a good job, for a little un would only bust hisself agin it for
no use.  You'll have to go at it like a hoy-draulic ram."

"Never fear.  There's not many doors in these diggin's that can remain
shut when I want 'em open," said the robber, as he retired a few paces
to enable him to deliver his blow with greater momentum.

"Howld on a minit, me frind," said Paddy, who had quietly turned the key
and laid hold of the handle; "let me git well out o' the way, and give
me warnin' before you come."

"All right.  Now then, look out!" cried Stalker.

Those inside heard the rapid little run that a man takes before
launching himself violently against an object.  Flinders flung the door
wide open in the nick of time.  The robber's foot dashed into empty
space, and the robber himself plunged headlong, with a tremendous crash,
on the floor.  At the same instant Flinders brought his billet of wood
down with all his might on the spot where he guessed the man's head to
be.  The blow was well aimed, and rendered the robber chief incapable of
further action for the time being.

"Faix, ye'll not `hoot' to yer frinds this night, anyhow," said
Flinders, as they dragged the fallen chief to the doorway, to make sure,
by the faint light, that he was helpless.  "Now, thin," continued Paddy,
"we'll away an' lead the boys to battle.  You go an' muster them, sor,
an' I'll take ye to the inimy."

"Have you seen their ambush, and how many there are!" asked Gashford.

"Niver a wan have I seen, and I've only a gineral notion o' their
whereabouts."

"How then can you lead us?"

"Obey orders, an' you'll see, sor.  I'm in command to-night.  If ye
don't choose to foller, ye'll have to do the best ye can widout me."

"Lead on, then," cried Gashford, half amused and half angered by the
man's behaviour.

Flinders led the way straight to Gashford's hut where, as he
anticipated, the man named Bill had silently collected most of the
able-bodied men of the camp, all armed to the teeth.  He at once desired
Gashford to put them in fighting order and lead them.  When they were
ready he went off at a rapid pace towards the stable before mentioned.

"They should be hereabouts, Muster Gashford," he said, in a low voice,
"so git yer troops ready for action."

"What do ye mean?" growled Gashford.

To this Flinders made no reply, but turning to Westly and Brixton, who
stood close at his side, whispered them to meet him at the stable before
the fight was quite over.

He then put his hand to his mouth and uttered three hoots like an owl.

"I believe you are humbugging us," said Gashford.

"Whisht, sor--listen!"

The breaking of twigs was heard faintly in the distance, and, a few
moments later, the tramp, apparently, of a body of men.  Presently dark
forms were dimly seen to be advancing.

"Now's your time, gineral!  Give it 'em hot," whispered Flinders.

"Ready!  Present!  Fire!" said Gashford, in a deep, solemn tone, which
the profound silence rendered distinctly audible.

The marauders halted, as if petrified.  Next moment a sheet of flame
burst from the ranks of the miners, and horrible yells rent the air,
high above which, like the roar of a lion, rose Gashford's voice in the
single word:--

"Charge!"

But the panic-stricken robbers did not await the onset.  They turned and
fled, hotly pursued by the men of Pine Tree Diggings.

"That'll do!" cried Flinders to Brixton; "they'll not need us any more
this night.  Come wid me now."

Fred Westly, who had rushed to the attack with the rest, soon pulled up.
Remembering the appointment, he returned to the stable, where he found
Tom gazing in silence at Flinders, who was busily employed saddling
their three horses.  He at once understood the situation.

"Of course you've made up your mind to go, Tom?" he said.

"N-no," answered Tom.  "I have not."

"Faix, thin, you'll have to make it up pritty quick now, for whin the
boys come back the prisoners an wounded men'll be sure to tell that
their chief came for the express purpose of rescuin' that `thief
Brixton'--an' it's hangin' that'll be too good for you then.  Roastin'
alive is more likely.  It's my opinion that if they catch us just now,
Muster Fred an' I will swing for it too!  Come, sor, git up!"

Tom hesitated no longer.  He vaulted into the saddle.  His comrades also
mounted, and in a few minutes more the three were riding away from Pine
Tree Diggings as fast as the nature of the ground and the darkness of
the hour would permit.

It was not quite midnight when they left the place where they had toiled
so long, and had met with so many disasters, and the morning was not far
advanced when they reached the spring of the Red Man's Teacup.  As this
was a natural and convenient halting-place to parties leaving those
diggings, they resolved to rest and refresh themselves and their steeds
for a brief space, although they knew that the robber-chief had
appointed that spot as a rendezvous after the attack on the camp.

"You see, it's not likely they'll be here for an hour or two," said Tom
Brixton, as he dismounted and hobbled his horse, "for it will take some
time to collect their scattered forces, and they won't have their old
leader to spur them on, as Paddy's rap on the head will keep him quiet
till the men of the camp find him."

"Troth, I'm not so sure o' that, sor.  The rap was a stiff wan, no
doubt, but men like that are not aisy to kill.  Besides, won't the boys
o' the camp purshoo them, which'll be spur enough, an' if they finds us
here, it'll matter little whether we fall into the hands o' diggers or
robbers.  So ye'll make haste av ye take my advice."

They made haste accordingly, and soon after left; and well was it that
they did so, for, little more than an hour later, Stalker--his face
covered with blood and his head bandaged--galloped up at the head of the
mounted men of his party.

"We'll camp here for an hour or two," he said sharply, leaping from his
horse, which he proceeded to unsaddle.  "Hallo! somebody's bin here
before us.  Their fire ain't cold yet.  Well, it don't matter.  Get the
grub ready, boys, an' boil the kettle.  My head is all but split.  If
ever I have the luck to come across that Irish blackguard Brixton
I'll--"

He finished the sentence with a deep growl and a grind of his teeth.

About daybreak the marauders set out again, and it chanced that the
direction they took was the same as that taken by Fred Westly and his
comrades.  These latter had made up their minds to try their fortune at
a recently discovered goldfield, which was well reported of, though the
yield had not been sufficient to cause a "rush" to the place.  It was
about three days' journey on horseback from the Red Man's Teacup, and
was named Simpson's Gully, after the man who discovered it.

The robbers' route lay, as we have said, in the same direction, but only
for part of the way, for Simpson's Gully was not their ultimate
destination.  They happened to be better mounted than the fugitives, and
travelled faster.  Thus it came to pass that on the second evening, they
arrived somewhat late at the camping-place where Fred and his friends
were spending the night.

These latter had encamped earlier that evening.  Supper was over, pipes
were out and they were sound asleep when the robber band rode up.

Flinders was first to observe their approach.  He awoke his comrades
roughly.

"Och! the blackguards have got howld of us.  Be aisy, Muster Brixton.
No use fightin'.  Howld yer tongues, now, an' let _me_ spake.  Yer not
half liars enough for the occasion, aither of ye."

This compliment had barely been paid when they were surrounded and
ordered to rise and give an account of themselves.

"What right have _you_ to demand an account of us?" asked Tom Brixton,
recklessly, in a supercilious tone that was meant to irritate.

"The right of might," replied Stalker, stepping up to Tom, and grasping
him by the throat.

Tom resisted, of course, but being seized at the same moment by two men
from behind, was rendered helpless.  His comrades were captured at the
same moment, and the arms of all bound behind them.

"Now, gentlemen," said the robber chief, "perhaps you will answer with
more civility."

"You are wrong, for I won't answer at all," said Tom Brixton, "which I
take to be _less_ civility."

"Neither will I," said Fred, who had come to the conclusion that total
silence would be the easiest way of getting over the difficulties that
filled his mind in regard to deception.

Patrick Flinders, however, had no such difficulties.  To the amazement
of his companions, he addressed a speech to Stalker in language so
broken with stuttering and stammering that the marauders around could
scarcely avoid laughing, though their chief seemed to be in no mood to
tolerate mirth.  Tom and Fred did not at first understand, though it
soon dawned upon them that by this means he escaped being recognised by
the man with whom he had so recently conversed through the keyhole of
Tom Brixton's prison door.

"S-s-s-sor," said he, in a somewhat higher key than he was wont to
speak, "my c-c-comrades are c-c-cross-g-grained critters b-both of 'em,
th-th-though they're g-good enough in their way, for all that.  A-a-ax
_me_ what ye w-w-want to know."

"Can't you speak without so many k-k-kays an' j-j-gees?" demanded
Stalker, impatiently.

"N-n-no, s-sor, I c-can't, an' the m-more you t-try to make me the
w-w-wus I g-gits."

"Well, then, come to the point, an' don't say more than's needful."

"Y-y-yis, sor."

"What's this man's name!" asked the chief, settling the bandages
uneasily on his head with one hand, and pointing to Brixton with the
other.

"M-Muster T-T-Tom, sor."

"That's his Christian name, I suppose?"

"W-w-well, I'm not sure about his bein' a c-c-c-Christian."

"Do you spell it T-o-m or T-h-o-m?"

"Th-that depinds on t-t-taste, sor."

"Bah! you're a fool!"

"Thank yer honour, and I'm also an I-I-Irish m-man as sure me name's
Flinders."

"There's one of your countrymen named Brixton," said the chief, with a
scowl, "who's a scoundrel of the first water, and I have a crow to pluck
with him some day when we meet.  Meanwhile I feel half-disposed to give
his countryman a sound thrashing as part payment of the debt in
advance."

"Ah! sure, sor, me counthryman'll let ye off the dibt, no doubt,"
returned Flinders.

"Hallo! you seem to have found your tongue all of a sudden!"

"F-faix, then, it's b-bekaise of yer not houndin' me on.  I c-c-can't
stand bein' hurried, ye s-see.  B-besides, I was havin' me little
j-j-joke, an' I scarcely sp-splutter at all whin I'm j-j-jokin'."

"Where did you come from?" demanded the chief, sharply.

"From P-Pine Tree D-Diggin's."

"Oh, indeed?  When did you leave the camp?"

"On M-Monday mornin', sor."

"Then of course you don't know anything about the fight that took place
there on Monday night!"

"D-don't I, sor?"

"Why don't you answer whether you do or not?" said Stalker, beginning to
lose temper.

"Sh-shure yer towld me th-that I d-d-don't know, an I'm too p-p-purlite
to c-contradic' yer honour."

"Bah! you're a fool."

"Ye t-t-towld me that before, sor."

The robber chief took no notice of the reply, but led his lieutenant
aside and held a whispered conversation with him for a few minutes.

Now, among other blessings, Flinders possessed a pair of remarkably
acute ears, so that, although he could not make out the purport of the
whispered conversation, he heard, somewhat indistinctly, the words
"Bevan" and "Betty."  Coupling these words with the character of the men
around him, he jumped to a conclusion and decided on a course of action
in one and the same instant.

Presently Stalker returned, and addressing himself to Tom and Fred,
said--

"Now, sirs, I know not your circumstances nor your plans, but I'll take
the liberty of letting you know something of mine.  Men give me and my
boys bad names.  We call ourselves Free-and-easy Boys.  We work hard for
our living.  It is our plan to go round the country collecting taxes--
revenue--or whatever you choose to call it, and punishing those who
object to pay.  Now, we want a few stout fellows to replace the brave
men who have fallen at the post of duty.  Will you join us?"

"Certainly not," said Fred, with decision.

"Of course not," said Tom, with contempt.

"Well, then, my fine fellows, you may follow your own inclinations, for
there's too many willing boys around to make us impress unwilling ones,
but I shall take the liberty of relieving you of your possessions.  I
will tax _you_ to the full amount."

He turned and gave orders in a low voice to those near him.  In a few
minutes the horses, blankets, food, arms, etcetera, of the three friends
were collected, and themselves unbound.

"Now," said the robber chief, "I mean to spend the night here.  You may
bid us good-night.  The world lies before you--go!"

"B-b-but, sor," said Flinders, with a perplexed and pitiful air.  "Ye
niver axed _me_ if I'd j-j-jine ye."

"Because I don't want you," said Stalker.

"Ah! thin, it's little ye know th-the j-j-jewel ye're th-throwin' away."

"What can you do?" asked the robber, while a slight smile played on his
disfigured face.

"What c-can I _not_ do? ye should ax.  W-w-why, I can c-c-c-cook, an'
f-f-fight, an' d-dance, an' t-t-tell stories, an' s-s-sing an'--"

"There, that'll do.  I accept you," said Stalker, turning away, while
his men burst into a laugh, and felt that Flinders would be a decided
acquisition to the party.

"Are we to go without provisions or weapons?" asked Fred Westly, before
leaving.

"You may have both," answered Stalker, "by joining us.  If you go your
own way--you go as you are.  Please yourselves."

"You may almost as well kill us as turn us adrift here in the
wilderness, without food or the means of procuring it," remonstrated
Fred.  "Is it not so, Tom?"

Tom did not condescend to reply.  He had evidently screwed his spirit
up--or down--to the Turkish condition of apathy and contempt.

"You're young, both of you, and strong," answered the robber.  "The
woods are full of game, berries, roots, and fish.  If you know anything
of woodcraft you can't starve."

"An' sh-sh-sure Tomlin's Diggin's isn't far--far off--straight
f-f-fornint you," said Flinders, going close up to his friends, and
whispering, "Kape round by Bevan's Gully.  You'll be--"

"Come, none of your whisperin' together!" shouted Stalker.  "You're one
of _us_ now, Flinders, so say goodbye to your old chums an' fall to the
rear."

"Yis, sor," replied the biddable Flinders, grasping each of his comrades
by the hand and wringing it as he said, "G-g-good-bye, f-f-foolish
b-boys, (Bevan's Gully--_sharp_!) f-farewell f-for i-i-iver!" and,
covering his face with his hands, burst into crocodile's tears while he
fell to the rear.  He separated two of his fingers, however, in passing
a group of his new comrades, in order to bestow on them a wink which
produced a burst of subdued laughter.

Surprised, annoyed, and puzzled, Tom Brixton thrust both hands into his
trousers pockets, turned round on his heel, and, without uttering a
word, sauntered slowly away.

Fred Westly, in a bewildered frame of mind, followed his example, and
the two friends were soon lost to view--swallowed up, as it were, by the
Oregon wilderness.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

After walking through the woods a considerable distance in perfect
silence--for the suddenness of the disaster seemed to have bereft the
two friends of speech--Tom Brixton turned abruptly and said--

"Well, Fred, we're in a nice fix now.  What is to be our next move in
this interesting little game?"

Fred Westly shook his head with an air of profound perplexity, but said
nothing.

"I've a good mind," continued Tom, "to return to Pine Tree Diggings,
give myself up, and get hanged right off.  It would be a good riddance
to the world at large, and would relieve me of a vast deal of trouble."

"There is a touch of selfishness in that speech, Tom--don't you think?--
for it would not relieve _me_ of trouble; to say nothing of your poor
mother!"

"You're right, Fred.  D'you know, it strikes me that I'm a far more
selfish and despicable brute than I used to think myself."

He looked at his companion with a sad sort of smile; nevertheless, there
was a certain indefinable ring of sincerity in his tone.

"Tom," said the other, earnestly, "will you wait for me here for a few
minutes while I turn aside to pray?"

"Certainly, old boy," answered Tom, seating himself on a mossy bank.
"You know I cannot join you."

"I know you can't, Tom.  It would be mockery to pray to One in whom you
don't believe; but as _I_ believe in God, the Bible, and prayer, you'll
excuse my detaining you, just for--"

"Say no more, Fred.  Go; I shall wait here for you."

A slight shiver ran through Brixton's frame as he sat down, rested his
elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands.

"God help me!" he exclaimed, under a sudden impulse, "I've come down
_very_ low, God help me!"

Fred soon returned.

"You prayed for guidance, I suppose?" said Tom, as his friend sat down
beside him.

"I did."

"Well, what is the result?"

"There is no result as yet--except, of course, the calmer state of my
mind, now that I have committed our case into our Father's hands."

"_Your_ Father's, you mean."

"No, I mean _our_, for He is your father as well as mine, whether you
admit it or not.  Jesus has bought you and paid for you, Tom, with His
own blood.  You are not your own."

"Not my own? bought and paid for!" thought Brixton, recalling the scene
in which words of somewhat similar import had been addressed to him.
"Bought and paid for--twice bought!  Body and soul!"  Then, aloud, "And
what are you going to do now, Fred?"

"Going to discuss the situation with you."

"And after you have discussed it, and acted according to our united
wisdom, you will say that you have been guided."

"Just so!  That is exactly what I will say and believe, for `He is
faithful who has promised.'"

"And if you make mistakes and go wrong, you will still hold, I suppose,
that you have been guided?"

"Undoubtedly I will--not guided, indeed, into the mistakes, but guided
to what will be best in the long-run, in spite of them."

"But Fred, how can you call guidance in the wrong direction _right_
guidance?"

"Why, Tom, can you not conceive of a man being guided wrongly as regards
some particular end he has in view, and yet that same guidance being
right, because leading him to something far better which, perhaps, he
has _not_ in view?"

"So that" said Tom, with a sceptical laugh, "whether you go right or go
wrong, you are sure to come right in the end!"

"Just so!  `_All_ things work together for good to them that love God.'"

"Does not that savour of Jesuitism, Fred, which teaches the detestable
doctrine that you may do evil if good is to come of it?"

"Not so, Tom; because I did not understand you to use the word _wrong_
in the sense of _sinful_, but in the sense of erroneous--mistaken.  If I
go in a wrong road, knowing it to be wrong, I sin; but if I go in a
wrong road mistakenly, I still count on guidance, though not perhaps to
the particular end at which I aimed--nevertheless, guidance to a _good_
end.  Surely you will admit that no man is perfect?"

"Admitted."

"Well, then, imperfection implies mistaken views and ill-directed
action, more or less, in every one, so that if we cannot claim to be
guided by God except when free from error in thought and act, then there
is no such thing as Divine guidance at all.  Surely you don't hold
that!"

"Some have held it."

"Yes; `the fool hath said in his heart, There is no God,'--some have
even gone the length of letting it out of the heart and past the lips.
With such we cannot argue; their case admits only of pity and prayer."

"I agree with you there, Fred; but if your views are not Jesuitical,
they seem to me to be strongly fatalistic.  Commit one's way to God, you
say; then, shut one's eyes, drive ahead anyhow, and--the end will be
sure to be all right!"

"No, I did not say that.  With the exception of the first sentence, Tom,
that is your way of stating the case, not God's way.  If you ask in any
given difficulty, `What shall I do?'  His word replies, `Commit thy way
unto the Lord.  Trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass.'  If
you ask, `How am I to know what is best?' the Word again replies, `hear,
ye deaf; look, ye blind, that you may see.'  Surely that is the reverse
of shutting the eyes, isn't it?  If you say, `how shall I act?' the Word
answers, `A good man will guide his affairs with discretion.'  That's
not driving ahead anyhow, is it?"

"You may be right," returned Tom, "I hope you are.  But, come, what does
your wisdom suggest in the present difficulty?"

"The first thing that occurs to me," replied the other, "is what
Flinders said, just before we were ordered off by the robbers.  `Keep
round by Bevan's Gully,' he said, in the midst of his serio-comic
leave-taking; and again he said, `Bevan's Gully--sharp!'  Of course
Paddy, with his jokes and stammering, has been acting a part all through
this business, and I am convinced that he has heard something about
Bevan's Gully; perhaps an attack on Bevan himself, which made him wish
to tell us to go there."

"Of course; how stupid of me not to see that before!  Let's go at once!"
cried Tom, starting up in excitement.  "Undoubtedly he meant that.  He
must have overheard the villains talk of going there, and we may not be
in time to aid them unless we push on."

"But in what direction does the gully lie?" asked Fred, with a puzzled
look.

Tom returned the look with one of perplexity, for they were now a
considerable distance both from Bevan's Gully and Pine Tree Diggings, in
the midst of an almost unknown wilderness.  From the latter place either
of the friends could have travelled to the former almost blindfold; but,
having by that time lost their exact bearings, they could only guess at
the direction.

"I think," said Fred, after looking round and up at the sky for some
time, "considering the time we have been travelling, and the position of
the sun, that the gully lies over yonder.  Indeed, I feel almost sure it
does."

He pointed, as he spoke, towards a ridge of rocky ground that cut across
the western sky and hid much of the more distant landscape in that
direction.

"Nonsense, man!" returned Tom, sharply, "it lies in precisely the
opposite direction.  Our adventures have turned your brain, I think.
Come, don't let us lose time.  Think of Betty; that poor girl may be
killed if there is another attack.  She was slightly wounded last time.
Come!"

Fred looked quickly in his friend's face.  It was deeply flushed, and
his eye sparkled with unwonted fire.

"Poor fellow! his case is hopeless; she will never wed him," thought
Fred, but he only said, "I, too, would not waste time, but it seems to
me we shall lose much if we go in that direction.  The longer I study
the nature of the ground, and calculate our rate of travelling since we
left the diggings, the more am I convinced that our way lies westward."

"I feel as certain as you do," replied Tom with some asperity, for he
began to chafe under the delay.  "But if you are determined to go that
way you must go by yourself, old boy, for I can't afford to waste time
on a wrong road."

"Nay, if you are so sure, I will give in and follow.  Lead on," returned
Tom's accommodating friend, with a feeling of mingled surprise and
chagrin.

In less than an hour they reached a part of the rocky ridge before
mentioned, from which they had a magnificent view of the surrounding
country.  It was wilderness truly, but such a wilderness of tree and
bush, river and lake, cascade and pool, flowering plant and festooned
shrub, dense thicket and rolling prairie, backed here and there by
cloud-capped hills, as seldom meets the eye or thrills the heart of
traveller, except in alpine lands.  Deep pervading silence marked the
hour, for the air was perfectly still, and though the bear, the deer,
the wolf, the fox, and a multitude of wild creatures were revelling
there in the rich enjoyment of natural life, the vast region, as it
were, absorbed and dissipated their voices almost as completely as their
persons, so that it seemed but a grand untenanted solitude, just freshly
laid out by the hand of the wonder-working Creator.  Every sheet of
water, from the pool to the lake, reflected an almost cloudless blue,
excepting towards the west, where the sun, by that time beginning to
descend, converted all into sheets of liquid gold.

The two friends paused on the top of a knoll, more to recover breath
than to gaze on the exquisite scene, for they both felt that they were
speeding on a mission that might involve life or death.  Fred's
enthusiastic admiration, however, would no doubt have found vent in
fitting words if he had not at the moment recognised a familiar
landmark.

"I knew it!" he cried, eagerly.  "Look, Tom, that is Ranger's Hill on
the horizon away to the left.  It is very faint from distance, but I
could not mistake its form."

"Nonsense, Fred! you never saw it from this point of view before, and
hills change their shape amazingly from different points of view.  Come
along."

"No, I am too certain to dispute the matter any longer.  If you will
have it so, we must indeed part here.  But oh!  Tom, don't be obstinate!
Why, what has come over you, my dear fellow?  Don't you see--"

"I see that evening is drawing on, and that we shall be too late.
Good-bye!  One friendly helping hand will be better to her than none.  I
_know_ I'm right."

Tom hurried away, and poor Fred, after gazing in mingled surprise and
grief at his comrade until he disappeared, turned with a heavy sigh and
went off in the opposite direction.

"Well," he muttered to himself, as he sped along at a pace that might
have made even a red man envious, "we are both of us young and strong,
so that we are well able to hold out for a considerable time on such
light fare as the shrubs of the wilderness produce, and when Tom
discovers his mistake he'll make good use of his long legs to overtake
me.  I cannot understand his infatuation.  But with God's blessing, all
shall yet be well."

Comforting himself with the last reflection, and offering up a heartfelt
prayer as he pressed on, Fred Westly was soon separated from his friend
by many a mile of wilderness.

Meanwhile Tom Brixton traversed the land with strides not only of
tremendous length, but unusual rapidity.  His "infatuation" was not
without its appropriate cause.  The physical exertions and sufferings
which the poor fellow had undergone for so long a period, coupled with
the grief, amounting almost to despair, which tormented his brain, had
at last culminated in fever; and the flushed face and glittering eyes,
which his friend had set down to anxiety about Bevan's pretty daughter,
were, in reality, indications of the gathering fires within.  So also
was the obstinacy.  For it must be admitted that the youth's natural
disposition was tainted with that objectionable quality which, when
fever, drink, or any other cause of madness operates in any man, is apt
to assert itself powerfully.

At first he strode over the ground with terrific energy, thinking only
of Betty and her father in imminent danger; pausing now and then
abruptly to draw his hand across his brow and wonder if he was getting
near Bevan's Gully.  Then, as his mind began to wander, he could not
resist a tendency to shout.

"What a fool I am!" he muttered, after having done this once or twice.
"I suppose anxiety about that dear girl is almost driving me mad.  But
she can never--never be mine.  I'm a thief! a thief!  Ha! ha-a-a-ah!"

The laugh that followed might have appalled even a red and painted
warrior.  It did terrify, almost into fits, all the tree and ground
squirrels within a mile of him, for these creatures went skurrying off
to holes and topmost boughs in wild confusion when they heard it echoing
through the woods.

When this fit passed off Tom took to thinking again.  He strode over
hillock, swamp, and plain in silence, save when, at long intervals, he
muttered the words, "Think, think, thinking.  Always thinking!  Can't
stop think, thinking!"

Innumerable wild fowl, and many of the smaller animals of the woods, met
him in his mad career, and fled from his path, but one of these seemed
at last inclined to dispute the path with him.

It was a small brown bear, which creature, although insignificant when
compared with the gigantic grizzly, is, nevertheless, far more than a
match for the most powerful unarmed man that ever lived.  This rugged
creature chanced to be rolling sluggishly along as if enjoying an
evening saunter at the time when Tom approached.  The place was dotted
with willow bushes, so that when the two met there was not more than a
hundred yards between them.  The bear saw the man instantly, and rose on
its hind legs to do battle.  At that moment Tom lifted his eyes.
Throwing up his arms, he uttered a wild yell of surprise, which
culminated in a fit of demoniacal laughter.  But there was no laughter
apparent on poor Tom's flushed and fierce visage, though it issued from
his dry lips.  Without an instant's hesitation he rushed at the bear
with clenched fists.  The animal did not await the charge.  Dropping
humbly on its fore-legs, it turned tail and fled, at such a pace that it
soon left its pursuer far behind!

Just as it disappeared over a distant ridge Tom came in sight of a small
pond or lakelet covered with reeds, and swarming with ducks and geese,
besides a host of plover and other aquatic birds--most of them with
outstretched necks, wondering no doubt what all the hubbub could be
about.  Tom incontinently bore down on these, and dashing in among them
was soon up to his neck in water!

He remained quiet for a few minutes and deep silence pervaded the scene.
Then the water began to feel chill.  The wretched man crept out and,
remembering his errand, resumed his rapid journey.  Soon the fever
burned again with intensified violence, and the power of connected
thought began to depart from its victim altogether.

While in this condition Tom Brixton wandered aimlessly about, sometimes
walking smartly for a mile or so, at other times sauntering slowly, as
if he had no particular object in view, and occasionally breaking into a
run at full speed, which usually ended in his falling exhausted on the
ground.

At last, as darkness began to overspread the land, he became so worn-out
that he flung himself down under a tree, with a hazy impression on his
mind that it was time to encamp for the night.  The fever was fierce and
rapid in its action.  First it bereft him of reason and then left him
prostrate, without the power to move a limb except with the greatest
difficulty.

It was about the hour of noon when his reasoning powers returned, and,
strange to say, the first conscious act of his mind was to recall the
words "_twice bought_," showing that the thought had been powerfully
impressed on him before delirium set in.  What he had said or done
during his ravings he knew not, for memory was a blank, and no human
friend had been there to behold or listen.  At that time, however, Tom
did not think very deeply about these words, or, indeed, about anything
else.  His prostration was so great that he did not care at first to
follow out any line of thought or to move a limb.  A sensation of
absolute rest and total indifference seemed to enchain all his
faculties.  He did not even know where he was, and did not care, but lay
perfectly still, gazing up through the overhanging branches into the
bright blue sky, sometimes dozing off into a sleep that almost resembled
death, from which he awoke gently, to wonder, perhaps, in an idle way,
what had come over him, and then ceasing to wonder before the thought
had become well defined.

The first thing that roused him from this condition was a passing
thought of Betty Bevan.  He experienced something like a slight shock,
and the blood which had begun to stagnate received a new though feeble
impulse at its fountain-head, the heart.  Under the force of it he tried
to rise, but could not although he strove manfully.  At last, however,
he managed to raise himself on one elbow, and looked round with dark and
awfully large eyes, while he drew his left hand tremblingly across his
pale brow.  He observed the trembling fingers and gazed at them
inquiringly.

"I--I must have been ill.  So weak, too!  Where am I?  The forest--
everywhere!  What can it all mean?  There was a--a thought--what could
it--Ah!  Betty--dear girl--that was it.  But what of her?  Danger--yes--
in danger.  Ha! _now_ I have it!"

There came a slight flush on his pale cheeks, and, struggling again with
his weakness, he succeeded in getting on his feet, but staggered and
fell with a crash that rendered him insensible for a time.

On recovering, his mind was clearer and more capable of continuous
thought; but this power only served to show him that he was lost, and
that, even if he had known his way to Bevan's Gully, his strength was
utterly gone, so that he could not render aid to the friends who stood
in need of it so sorely.

In the midst of these depressing thoughts an intense desire for food
took possession of him, and he gazed around with a sort of wolfish
glare, but there was no food within his reach--not even a wild berry.

"I believe that I am dying," he said at last, with deep solemnity.  "God
forgive me!  Twice bought!  Fred said that Jesus had bought my soul
before the miners bought my life."

For some time he lay motionless; then, rousing himself, again began to
speak in low, disjointed sentences, among which were words of prayer.

"It is terrible to die here--alone!" he murmured, recovering from one of
his silent fits.  "Oh that mother were here now! dear, dishonoured, but
still beloved mother!  Would that I had a pen to scratch a few words
before--stay, I have a pencil."

He searched his pockets and found the desired implement, but he could
not find paper.  The lining of his cap occurred to him; it was soft and
unfit for his purpose.  Looking sadly round, he observed that the tree
against which he leaned was a silver-stemmed birch, the inner bark of
which, he knew, would serve his purpose.  With great difficulty he tore
off a small sheet of it and began to write, while a little smile of
contentment played on his lips.

From time to time weakness compelled him to pause, and more than once he
fell asleep in the midst of his labour.  Heavy labour it was, too, for
the nerveless hands almost refused to form the irregular scrawl.  Still
he persevered--till evening.  Then a burning thirst assailed him, and he
looked eagerly round for water, but there was none in view.  His eyes
lighted up, however, as he listened, for the soft tinkling of a tiny
rill filled his ear.

With a desperate effort he got upon his hands and knees, and crept in
the direction whence the sound came.  He found the rill in a few
moments, and, falling on his breast, drank with feelings of intense
gratitude in his heart.  When satisfied he rose to his knees again and
tried to return to his tree, but even while making the effort he sank
slowly on his breast, pillowed his head on the wet green moss, and fell
into a profound slumber.



CHAPTER NINE.

We left Fred hastening through the forest to the help of his friends at
Bevan's Gully.

At first, after parting from his comrade, he looked back often and
anxiously, in the hope that Tom might find out his mistake and return to
him; but as mile after mile was placed between them, he felt that this
hope was vain, and turned all his energies of mind and body to the task
that lay before him.  This was to outwalk Stalker's party of bandits and
give timely warning to the Bevans; for, although Flinders's hints had
been vague enough, he readily guessed that the threatened danger was the
descent of the robbers on their little homestead, and it naturally
occurred to his mind that this was probably the same party which had
made the previous attack, especially as he had observed several Indians
among them.

Young, sanguine, strong, and active, Fred, to use a not inapt phrase,
devoured the ground with his legs!  Sometimes he ran, at other times he
walked, but more frequently he went along at an easy trot, which,
although it looked slower than quick walking, was in reality much
faster, besides being better suited to the rough ground he had to
traverse.

Night came at last but night could not have arrested him if it had not
been intensely dark.  This, however, did not trouble him much, for he
knew that the same cause would arrest the progress of his foes, and
besides, the moon would rise in an hour.  He therefore flung himself on
the ground for a short rest, and fell asleep, while praying that God
would not suffer him to sleep too long.

His prayer was answered, for he awoke with a start an hour afterwards,
just as the first pale light of the not quite risen moon began to tinge
the clear sky.

Fred felt very hungry, and could not resist the tendency to meditate on
beefsteaks and savoury cutlets for some time after resuming his journey;
but, after warming to the work, and especially after taking a long
refreshing draught at a spring that bubbled like silver in the
moonlight, these longings passed away.  Hour after hour sped by, and
still the sturdy youth held on at the same steady pace, for he knew well
that to push beyond his natural strength in prolonged exertion would
only deduct from the end of his journey whatever he might gain at the
commencement.

Day broke at length.  As it advanced the intense longing for food
returned, and, to his great anxiety, it was accompanied by a slight
feeling of faintness.  He therefore glanced about for wild fruits as he
went along, without diverging from his course, and was fortunate to fall
in with several bushes which afforded him a slight meal of berries.  In
the strength of these he ran on till noon, when the faint feeling
returned, and he was fain to rest for a little beside a brawling brook.

"Oh!  Father, help me!" he murmured, as he stooped to drink.  On rising,
he continued to mutter to himself, "If only a tithe of my ordinary
strength were left, or if I had one good meal and a short rest, I could
be there in three hours; but--"

Whatever Fred's fears were, he did not express them.  He arose and
recommenced his swinging trot with something like the pertinacity of a
bloodhound on the scent.  Perhaps he was thinking of his previous
conversation with Tom Brixton about being guided by God in _all_
circumstances, for the only remark that escaped him afterwards was, "It
is my duty to act and leave results to Him."

Towards the afternoon of that day Paul Bevan was busy mending a small
cart in front of his hut, when he observed a man to stagger out of the
wood as if he had been drunk, and approach the place where his
plank-bridge usually spanned the brook.  It was drawn back, however, at
the time, and lay on the fortress side, for Paul had been rendered
somewhat cautious by the recent assault on his premises.

"Hallo, Betty!" he cried.

"Yes, father," replied a sweet musical voice, the owner of which issued
from the doorway with her pretty arms covered with flour and her face
flushed from the exertion of making bread.

"Are the guns loaded, lass?"

"Yes, father," replied Betty, turning her eyes in the direction towards
which Paul gazed.  "But I see only one man," she added.

"Ay, an' a drunk man too, who couldn't make much of a fight if he wanted
to.  But lass, the drunk man may have any number of men at his back,
both drunk and sober, so it's well to be ready.  Just fetch the
revolvers an' have 'em handy while I go down to meet him."

"Father, it seems to me I should know that figure.  Why, it's--no,
surely it cannot be young Mister Westly!"

"No doubt of it, girl.  Your eyes are better than mine, but I see him
clearer as he comes on.  Young Westly--drunk--ha! ha!--as a hatter!
I'll go help him over."

Paul chuckled immensely--as sinners are wont to do when they catch those
whom they are pleased to call "saints" tripping--but when he had pushed
the plank over, and Fred, plunging across, fell at his feet in a state
of insensibility, his mirth vanished and he stooped to examine him.  His
first act was to put his nose to the youth's mouth and sniff.

"No smell o' drink there," he muttered.  Then he untied Fred's neckcloth
and loosened his belt.  Then, as nothing resulted from these acts, he
set himself to lift the fallen man in his arms.  Being a sturdy fellow
he succeeded, though with considerable difficulty, and staggered with
his burden towards the hut, where he was met by his anxious daughter.

"Why, lass, he's no more drunk than you are!" cried Paul, as he laid
Fred on his own bed.  "Fetch me the brandy--flask--no?  Well, get him a
cup of coffee, if ye prefer it."

"It will be better for him, father; besides, it is fortunately ready and
hot."

While the active girl ran to the outer room or "hall" of the hut for the
desired beverage, Paul slily forced a teaspoonful of diluted brandy into
Fred's mouth.  It had, at all events, the effect of restoring him to
consciousness, for he opened his eyes and glanced from side to side with
a bewildered air.  Then he sat up suddenly, and said--

"Paul, the villains are on your track again.  I've hastened ahead to
tell you.  I'd have been here sooner--but--but I'm--starving."

"Eat, then--eat before you speak, Mr Westly," said Betty, placing food
before him.

"But the matter is urgent!" cried Fred.

"Hold on, Mr Fred," said Paul; "did you an' the enemy--whoever he may
be, though I've a pretty fair guess--start to come here together?"

"Within the same hour, I should think."

"An' did you camp for the night?"

"No.  At least I rested but one hour."

"Then swallow some grub an' make your mind easy.  They won't be here for
some hours yet, for you've come on at a rate that no party of men could
beat, I see that clear enough--unless they was mounted."

"But a few of the chief men _were_ mounted, Paul."

"Pooh! that's nothing.  Chief men won't come on without the or'nary men.
It needs or'nary men, you know, to make chief 'uns.  Ha! ha!  Come,
now, if you can't hold your tongue, try to speak and eat at the same
time."

Thus encouraged, Fred set to work on some bread and cheese and coffee
with all the _gusto_ of a starving man, and, at broken intervals,
blurted out all he knew and thought about the movements of the robber
band, as well as his own journey and his parting with Brixton.

"'Tis a pity, an' strange, too, that he was so obstinate," observed
Paul.

"But he thought he was right" said Betty; and then she blushed with
vexation at having been led by impulse even to appear to justify her
lover.  But Paul took no notice.

"It matters not," said he, "for it happens that you have found us almost
on the wing, Westly.  I knew full well that this fellow Buxley--"

"They call him Stalker, if you mean the robber chief" interrupted Fred.

"Pooh!  Did you ever hear of a robber chief without half a dozen
aliases?" rejoined Paul.  "This Buxley, havin' found out my quarters,
will never rest till he kills me; so as I've no fancy to leave my little
Betty in an unprotected state yet a while, we have packed up our goods
and chattels--they ain't much to speak of--and intend to leave the old
place this very night.  Your friend Stalker won't attack till night--I
know the villain well--but your news inclines me to set off a little
sooner than I intended.  So, what you have got to do is to lie down an'
rest while Betty and I get the horse an' cart ready.  We've got a spare
horse, which you're welcome to.  We sent little Tolly Trevor off to
Briant's Gulch to buy a pony for my little lass.  He should have been
back by this time if he succeeded in gettin' it."

"But where do you mean to go to?" asked Fred.

"To Simpson's Gully."

"Why, that's where Tom and I were bound for when we fell in with Stalker
and his band!  We shall probably meet Tom returning.  But the road is
horrible--indeed there is no road at all, and I don't think a cart
could--"

"Oh!  I know that" interrupted Paul, "and have no intention of smashing
up my cart in the woods.  We shall go round by the plains, lad.  It is
somewhat longer, no doubt, but once away, we shall be able to laugh at
men on foot if they are so foolish as to follow us.  Come now, Betty,
stir your stumps and finish your packing.  I'll go get the--"

A peculiar yell rent the air outside at that moment, cutting short the
sentence, and almost petrifying the speaker, who sprang up and began
frantically to bar the door and windows of the hut, at the same time
growling, "They've come sooner than I expected.  Who'd have thought it!
Bar the small window at the back, Betty, an' then fetch all the weapons.
I was so taken up wi' you, Fred, that I forgot to haul back the plank;
that's how they've got over.  Help wi' this table--so--they'll have some
trouble to batter in the door wi' that agin it, an' I've a flankin'
battery at the east corner to prevent them settin' the place on fire."

While the man spoke he acted with violent haste.  Fred sprang up and
assisted him, for the shock--coupled, no doubt, with the hot coffee and
bread and cheese--had restored his energies, at least for the time,
almost as effectually as if he had had a rest.

They were only just in time, for at that moment a man ran with a wild
shout against the door.  Finding it fast, he kept thundering against it
with his heavy boots, and shouting Paul Bevan's name in unusually fierce
tones.

"Are ye there?" he demanded at last and stopped to listen.

"If you'll make less noise mayhap ye'll find out" growled Paul.

"Och!  Paul, dear, open av ye love me," entreated the visitor, in a
voice there was no mistaking.

"I do believe it's my mate Flinders!" said Fred.

Paul said nothing, but proved himself to be of the same opinion by
hastily unbarring and opening the door, when in burst the irrepressible
Flinders, wet from head to foot, splashed all over with mud and blood,
and panting like a race-horse.

"Is that--tay ye've got there--my dear?" he asked in gasps.

"No, it is coffee.  Let me give you some."

"Thank 'ee kindly--fill it up--my dear.  Here's wishin'--ye all luck!"

Paddy drained the cup to the dregs, wiped his mouth on the cuff of his
coat, and thus delivered himself--

"Now, don't all spake at wance.  Howld yer tongues an' listen.  Av
coorse, Muster Fred's towld ye when an' where an' how I jined the
blackguards.  Ye'll be able now to guess why I did it.  Soon after I
jined 'em I began to boast o' my shootin' in a way that would ha'
shocked me nat'ral modesty av I hadn't done it for a raisin o' me own.
Well, they boasted back, so I defied 'em to a trial, an' soon showed 'em
what I could do.  There wasn't wan could come near me wi' the rifle.  So
they made me hunter-in-chief to the band then an' there.  I wint out at
wance an' brought in a good supply o' game.  Then, as my time was short,
you see, I gave 'em the slip nixt day an' comed on here, neck an' crop,
through fire an' water, like a turkey-buzzard wi' the cholera.  An' so
here I am, an' they'll soon find out I've given 'em the slip, an'
they'll come after me, swearin', perhaps; an' if I was you, Paul Bevan,
I wouldn't stop to say how d'ye do to them."

"No more I will, Paddy--an', by good luck, we're about ready to start
only I've got a fear for that poor boy Tolly.  If he comes back arter
we're gone an' falls into their hands it'll be a bad look-out for him."

"No fear o' Tolly," said Flinders; "he's a 'cute boy as can look after
himself.  By the way, where's Muster Tom?"

The reason of Brixton's absence was explained to him by Betty, who
bustled about the house packing up the few things that could be carried
away, while her father and Fred busied themselves with the cart and
horses outside.  Meanwhile the Irishman continued to refresh himself
with the bread and cheese.

"Ye see it's o' no manner o' use me tryin' to help ye, my dear," he
said, apologetically, "for I niver was much of a hand at packin', my
exparience up to this time havin' run pretty much in the way o' havin'
little or nothin' to pack.  Moreover, I'm knocked up as well as hungry,
an' ye seem such a good hand that it would be a pity to interfere wid
ye.  Is there any chance o' little Tolly turnin' up wi' the pony before
we start?"

"Every chance," replied the girl, smiling, in spite of herself, at the
man's free-and-easy manner rather than his words.  "He ought to have
been here by this time.  We expect him every moment."

But these expectations were disappointed, for, when they had packed the
stout little cart, harnessed and saddled the horses, and were quite
ready to start, the boy had not appeared.

"We durstn't delay," said Paul, with a look of intense annoyance, "an' I
can't think of how we are to let him know which way we've gone, for I
didn't think of telling him why we wanted another pony."

"He can read, father.  We might leave a note for him on the table, and
if he arrives before the robbers that would guide him."

"True, Betty; but if the robbers should arrive before _him_, that would
also guide _them_."

"But we're so sure of his returning almost immediately," urged Betty.

"Not so sure o' that, lass.  No, we durstn't risk it, an' I can't think
of anything else.  Poor Tolly! he'll stand a bad chance, for he's sure
to come gallopin' up, an' singin' at the top of his voice in his usual
reckless way."

"Cudn't we stick up a bit o' paper in the way he's bound to pass, wid a
big wooden finger to point it out and the word `notice' on it writ big?"

"Oh!  I know what I'll do," cried Betty.  "Tolly will be sure to search
all over the place for us, and there's one place, a sort of half cave in
the cliff, where he and I used to read together.  He'll be quite certain
to look there."

"Right, lass, an' we may risk that, for the reptiles won't think o'
sarchin' the cliff.  Go, Betty; write, `We're off to Simpson's Gully, by
the plains.  Follow hard.'  That'll bring him on if they don't catch
him--poor Tolly!"

In a few minutes the note was written and stuck on the wall of the cave
referred to; then the party set off at a brisk trot, Paul, Betty, and
Flinders in the cart, while Fred rode what its owner styled the spare
horse.

They had been gone about two hours, when Stalker, alias Buxley, and his
men arrived in an unenviable state of rage, for they had discovered
Flinders's flight, had guessed its object, and now, after hastening to
Bevan's Gully at top speed, had reached it to find the birds flown.

This they knew at once from the fact that the plank-bridge, quadrupled
in width to let the horse and cart pass, had been left undrawn as if to
give them a mocking invitation to cross.  Stalker at once accepted the
invitation.  The astute Bevan had, however, anticipated and prepared for
this event by the clever use of a saw just before leaving.  When the
robber-chief gained the middle of the bridge it snapped in two and let
him down with a horrible rending of wood into the streamlet, whence he
emerged like a half-drowned rat, amid the ill-suppressed laughter of his
men.  The damage he received was slight.  It was only what Flinders
would have called, "a pleasant little way of showing attintion to his
inimy before bidding him farewell."

Of course every nook and corner of the stronghold was examined with the
utmost care--also with considerable caution, for they knew not how many
more traps and snares might have been laid for them.  They did not,
however, find those for whom they sought, and, what was worse in the
estimation of some of the band, they found nothing worth carrying away.
Only one thing did they discover that was serviceable, namely, a large
cask of gunpowder in the underground magazine formerly mentioned.  Bevan
had thought of blowing this up before leaving, for his cart was already
too full to take it in, but the hope that it might not be discovered,
and that he might afterwards return to fetch it away, induced him to
spare it.

Of course all the flasks and horns of the band were replenished from
this store, but there was still left a full third of the cask which they
could not carry away.  With this the leader determined to blow up the
hut, for he had given up all idea of pursuing the fugitives, he and his
men being too much exhausted for that.

Accordingly the cask was placed in the middle of the hut and all the
unportable remains of Paul Bevan's furniture were piled above it.  Then
a slow match was made by rubbing gunpowder on some long strips of
calico.  This was applied and lighted, and the robbers retired to a spot
close to a spring about half a mile distant, where they could watch the
result in safety while they cooked some food.

But these miscreants were bad judges of slow matches!  Their match
turned out to be very slow.  So slow that they began to fear it had gone
out--so slow that the daylight had time to disappear and the moon to
commence her softly solemn journey across the dark sky--so slow that
Stalker began seriously to think of sending a man to stir up the spark,
though he thought there might be difficulty in finding a volunteer for
the dangerous job--so slow that a certain reckless little boy came
galloping towards the fortress on a tall horse with a led pony plunging
by his side--all before the spark of the match reached its destination
and did its work.

Then, at last, there came a flush that made the soft moon look suddenly
paler, and lighted up the world as if the sun had shot a ray right
through it from the antipodes.  This was followed by a crash and a roar
that caused the solid globe itself to vibrate and sent Paul Bevan's
fortress into the sky a mass of blackened ruins.  One result was that a
fiendish cheer arose from the robbers' camp, filling the night air with
discord.  Another result was that the happy-go-lucky little boy and his
horses came to an almost miraculous halt and remained so for some time,
gazing straight before them in a state of abject amazement!



CHAPTER TEN.

How long Tolly Trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one
can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being
alone.  On returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards
the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he
approached the bank of the rivulet.  Reflecting that a thoroughbred
hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull
up, but his horse refused.  It had run away with him.

Although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of
some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for,
even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching
the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile.

"Stop! won't you?  Wo-o-o!" cried Tolly, straining at the reins till the
veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst.

But the horse would neither "stop" nor "wo-o-o!"  It was otherwise,
however, with the pony.  That amiable creature had been trained well,
and had learned obedience.  Blessed quality!  Would that the human
race--especially its juvenile section--understood better the value of
that inestimable virtue!  The pony began to pull back at the sound of
"wo!"  Its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to
recognise the order.  The result was that poor Tolly's right arm, over
which was thrown the pony's rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting
opinions.

A bright idea struck his mind at this moment.  Bright ideas always do
strike the mind of genius at critical moments!  He grasped both the
reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them
round his wrist.  Then he turned about--not an instant too soon--looked
the pony straight in the face, and said "Wo!" in a voice of command that
was irresistible.  The pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs,
and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground.  The strain on
Tolly's arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small.  It
stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of
destruction with an almost broken jaw.

The boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree.
Even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating
himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey
self-will.

But these and all other feelings of humour and satisfaction were
speedily put to flight when, after crossing the remains of the plank
bridge with some difficulty, he stood before the hideous wreck of his
friend's late home, where he had spent so many glad hours listening to
marvellous adventures from Paul Bevan, or learning how to read and
cipher, as well as drinking in wisdom generally, from the Rose of
Oregon.

It was an awful collapse.  A yawning gulf had been driven into the
earth, and the hut--originally a solid structure--having been hurled
bodily skyward, shattered to atoms, and inextricably mixed in its parts,
had come down again into the gulf as into a ready-made grave.

It would be vain to search for any sort of letter, sign, or
communication from his friends among the _debris_.  Tolly felt that at
once, yet he could not think of leaving without a search.  After one
deep and prolonged sigh he threw off his lethargy, and began a close
inspection of the surroundings.

"You see," he muttered to himself, as he moved quickly yet stealthily
about, "they'd never have gone off without leavin' some scrap of
information for me, to tell me which way they'd gone, even though they'd
gone off in a lightnin' hurry.  But p'raps they didn't.  The reptiles
may have comed on 'em unawares, an' left 'em no time to do anything.  Of
_course_ they can't have killed 'em.  Nobody ever could catch Paul Bevan
asleep--no, not the sharpest redskin in the land.  That's quite out o'
the question."

Though out of the question, however, the bare thought of such a
catastrophe caused little Trevor's under lip to tremble, a mist to
obscure his vision, and a something-or-other to fill his throat, which
he had to swallow with a gulp.  Moreover, he went back to the ruined hut
and began to pull about the wreck with a fluttering heart, lest he
should come on some evidence that his friends had been murdered.  Then
he went to the highest part of the rock to rest a little, and consider
what had best be done next.

While seated there, gazing on the scene of silent desolation, which the
pale moonlight rendered more ghastly, the poor boy's spirit failed him a
little.  He buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.

Soon this weakness, as he deemed it, passed away.  He dried his eyes,
roughly, and rose to resume his search, and it is more than probable
that he would ere long have bethought him of the cave where Betty had
left her note, if his attention had not been suddenly arrested by a
faint glimmer of ruddy light in a distant part of the forest.  The
robbers were stirring up their fires, and sending a tell-tale glow into
the sky.

"O-ho!" exclaimed Tolly Trevor.

He said nothing more, but there was a depth of meaning in the tone and
look accompanying that "O-ho!" which baffles description.

Tightening his belt, he at once glided down the slope, flitted across
the rivulet, skimmed over the open space, and melted into the forest
after the most approved method of Red Indian tactics.

The expedition from which he had just returned having been peaceful,
little Trevor carried no warlike weapons--for the long bowie-knife at
his side, and the little hatchet stuck in his girdle, were, so to speak,
merely domestic implements, without which he never moved abroad.  But as
war was not his object, the want of rifle and revolver mattered little.
He soon reached the neighbourhood of the robbers' fire, and, when close
enough to render extreme caution necessary, threw himself flat on the
ground and advanced a la "snake-in-the-grass."

Presently he came within earshot, and listened attentively, though
without much interest, to a deal of boastful small talk with which the
marauders beguiled the time, while they fumigated their mouths and noses
preparatory to turning in for the night.

At last the name of Paul Bevan smote his ear, causing it,
metaphorically, to go on full cock.

"I'm sartin sure," said one of the speakers, "that the old screw has
gone right away to Simpson's Gully."

"If I thought that, I'd follow him up, and make a dash at the Gully
itself," said Stalker, plucking a burning stick from the fire to
rekindle his pipe.

"If you did you'd get wopped," remarked Goff, with a touch of sarcasm,
for the lieutenant of the band was not so respectful to his commander as
a well-disciplined man should be.

"What makes you think so?" demanded the chief.

"The fact that the diggers are a sight too many for us," returned Goff.
"Why, we'd find 'em three to one, if not four."

"Well, that, coupled with the uncertainty of his having gone to
Simpson's Gully," said the chief, "decides me to make tracks down south
to the big woods on the slopes of the Sawback Hills.  There are plenty
of parties travelling thereabouts with lots of gold, boys, and
difficulties enough in the way of hunting us out o' the stronghold.
I'll leave you there for a short time and make a private excursion to
Simpson's Gully, to see if my enemy an' the beautiful Betty are there."

"An' get yourself shot or stuck for your pains," said Goff.  "Do you
suppose that such a hulking, long-legged fellow as you are, can creep
into a camp like an or'nary man without drawin' attention?"

"Perhaps not," returned Stalker; "but are there not such things as
disguises?  Have you not seen me with my shootin'-coat and botanical box
an' blue spectacles, an' my naturally sandy hair."

"No, no, captain!" cried Goff, with a laugh, "not sandy; say yellow, or
golden."

"Well, golden, then, if you will.  You've seen it dyed black, haven't
you?"

"Oh yes!  I've seen you in these humblin' circumstances before now,"
returned the lieutenant, "and I must say your own mother wouldn't know
you.  But what's the use o' runnin' the risk, captain?"

"Because I owe Bevan a grudge!" said the chief, sternly, "and mean to be
revenged on him.  Besides, I want the sweet Betty for a wife, and intend
to have her, whether she will or no.  She'll make a capital bandit's
wife--after a little while, when she gets used to the life.  So now you
know some of my plans, and you shall see whether the hulking botanist
won't carry all before him."

"O-ho!" muttered the snake-in-the-grass, very softly; and there was
something so compound and significant in the tone of that second "O-ho!"
soft though it was, that it not only baffles description, but--really,
you know, it would be an insult to your understanding, good reader, to
say more in the way of explanation!  There was also a heaving of the
snake's shoulders, which, although unaccompanied by sound, was eminently
suggestive.

Feeling that he had by that time heard quite enough, Tolly Trevor
effected a masterly retreat, and returned to the place where he had left
the horses.  On the way he recalled with satisfaction the fact that Paul
Bevan had once pointed out to him the exact direction of Simpson's Gully
at a time when he meant to send him on an errand thither.  "You've on'y
to go over there, lad," Paul had said, pointing towards the forest in
rear of his hut, "and hold on for two days straight as the crow flies
till you come to it.  You can't well miss it."

Tolly knew that there was also an easier though longer route by the
plains, but as he was not sure of it he made up his mind to take to the
forest.

The boy was sufficiently trained in woodcraft to feel pretty confident
of finding his way, for he knew the north side of trees by their bark,
and could find out the north star when the sky was clear, besides
possessing a sort of natural aptitude for holding on in a straight line.
He mounted the obstinate horse, therefore, took the rein of the
obedient pony on his right arm, and, casting a last look of profound
regret on Bevan's desolated homestead, rode swiftly away.  So eager was
he that he took no thought for the morrow.  He knew that the wallet
slung at his saddle-bow contained a small supply of food--as much,
probably, as would last three days with care.  That was enough to render
Tolly Trevor the most independent and careless youth in Oregon.

While these events were occurring in the neighbourhood of Bevan's Gully,
three red men, in all the glory of vermilion, charcoal, and feathers,
were stalking through the forest in the vicinity of the spot where poor
Tom Brixton had laid him down to die.  These children of the wilderness
stalked in single file--from habit we presume, for there was ample space
for them to have walked abreast if so inclined.  They seemed to be
unsociable beings, for they also stalked in solemn silence.

Suddenly the first savage came to an abrupt pause, and said, "Ho!" the
second savage said, "He!" and the third said, "Hi!"  After which, for
full a minute, they stared at the ground in silent wonder and said
nothing.  They had seen a footprint!  It did not by any means resemble
that deep, well developed, and very solitary footprint at which Robinson
Crusoe is wont to stare in nursery picture-books.  No; it was a print
which was totally invisible to ordinary eyes, and revealed itself to
these children of the woods in the form of a turned leaf and a cracked
twig.  Such as it was, it revealed a track which the three children
followed up until they found Tom Brixton--or his body--lying on the
ground near to the little spring.

Again these children said, "Ho!"  "He!" and "Hi!" respectively, in
varying tones according to their varied character.  Then they commenced
a jabber, which we are quite unable to translate, and turned Tom over on
his back.  The motion awoke him, for he sat up and stared.

Even that effort proved too much for him in his weak state, for he fell
back and fainted.

The Indians proved to be men of promptitude.  They lifted the white man
up; one got Tom's shoulders on his back, another put his legs over his
shoulders, and thus they stalked away with him.  When the first child of
the wood grew tired, the unburdened one stepped in to his relief; when
the second child grew tired, the first one went to his aid; when all the
children grew tired, they laid their burden on the ground and sat down
beside it.  Thus, by easy stages, was Tom Brixton conveyed away from the
spot where he had given himself up as hopelessly lost.

Now, it could not have been more than six hours after Tom had thus been
borne away that poor Tolly Trevor came upon the same scene.  We say
"poor" advisedly, for he had not only suffered the loss of much
fragmentary clothing in his passage through that tangled wood, but also
most of the food with which he had started, and a good deal of skin from
his shins, elbows, knuckles, and knees, as well as the greater part of
his patience.  Truly, he was in a pitiable plight, for the forest had
turned out to be almost impassable for horses, and in his journey he had
not only fallen off, and been swept out of the saddle by overhanging
branches frequently, but had to swim swamps, cross torrents, climb
precipitous banks, and had stuck in quagmires innumerable.

As for the horses--their previous owner could not have recognised them.
It is true they were what is styled "all there," but there was an
inexpressible droop of their heads and tails, a weary languor in their
eyes, and an abject waggle about their knees which told of hope deferred
and spirit utterly gone.  The pony was the better of the two.  Its
sprightly glance of amiability had changed into a gaze of humble
resignation, whereas the aspect of the obstinate horse was one of
impotent ill-nature.  It would have bitten, perhaps, if strength had
permitted, but as to its running away--ha!

Well, Tolly Trevor approached--it could hardly be said he rode up to--
the spring before mentioned, where he passed the footprints in stupid
blindness.

He dismounted, however, to drink and rest a while.

"Come on--you brute!" he cried, almost savagely, dragging the horse to
the water.

The creature lowered its head and gazed as though to say, "What liquid
is that?"

As the pony, however, at once took a long and hearty draught it also
condescended to drink, while Tolly followed suit.  Afterwards he left
the animals to graze, and sat down under a neighbouring tree to rest and
swallow his last morsel of food.

It was sad to see the way in which the poor boy carefully shook out and
gathered up the few crumbs in his wallet so that not one of them should
be lost; and how slowly he ate them, as if to prolong the sensation of
being gratified!  During the two days which he had spent in the forest
his face had grown perceptibly thinner, and his strength had certainly
diminished.  Even the reckless look of defiant joviality, which was one
of the boy's chief characteristics, had given place to a restless
anxiety that prevented his seeing humour in anything, and induced a
feeling of impatience when a joke chanced irresistibly to bubble up in
his mind.  He was once again reduced almost to the weeping point, but
his sensations were somewhat different for, when he had stood gazing at
the wreck of Bevan's home, the nether lip had trembled because of the
sorrows of friends, whereas now he was sorrowing because of an exhausted
nature, a weakened heart, and a sinking spirit.  But the spirit had not
yet utterly given way!

"Come!" he cried, starting up.  "This won't do, Tolly.  Be a man!  Why,
only think--you have got over two days and two nights.  That was the
time allowed you by Paul, so your journey's all but done--must be.  Of
course those brutes--forgive me, pony, _that_ brute, I mean--has made me
go much slower than if I had come on my own legs, but notwithstanding,
it cannot be--hallo! what's that!"

The exclamation had reference to a small dark object which lay a few
yards from the spot on which he sat.  He ran and picked it up.  It was
Tom Brixton's cap--with his name rudely written on the lining.  Beside
it lay a piece of bark on which was pencil-writing.

With eager, anxious haste the boy began to peruse it, but he was
unaccustomed to read handwriting, and when poor Tom had pencilled the
lines his hand was weak and his brain confused, so that the characters
were doubly difficult to decipher.  After much and prolonged effort the
boy made out the beginning.  It ran thus:

"This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write.
(I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.)  O dearest
mother!--"

Emotion had no doubt rendered the hand less steady at this point, for
here the words were quite illegible--at least to little Trevor--who
finally gave up the attempt in despair.  The effect of this discovery,
however, was to send the young blood coursing wildly through the veins,
so that a great measure of strength returned, as if by magic.

The boy's first care was naturally to look for traces of the lost man,
and he set about this with a dull fear at his heart, lest at any moment
he should come upon the dead body of his friend.  In a few minutes he
discovered the track made by the Indians, which led him to the spot near
to the spring where Tom had fallen.  To his now fully-awakened senses
Trevor easily read the story, as far as signs could tell it.

Brixton had been all but starved to death.  He had lain down under a
tree to die--the very tree under which he himself had so recently given
way to despair.  While lying there he--Brixton--had scrawled his last
words on the bit of birch-bark.  Then he had tried to reach the spring,
but had fainted either before reaching it or after leaving.  This he
knew, because the mark of Tom's coat, part of his waist-belt and the
handle of his bowie-knife were all impressed on the softish ground with
sufficient distinctness to be discerned by a sharp eye.  The moccasined
footprints told of Indians having found Brixton--still alive, for they
would not have taken the trouble to carry him off if he had been dead.
The various sizes of the moccasined feet told that the party of Indians
numbered three; and the trail of the red men, with its occasional
halting-places, pointed out clearly the direction in which they had
gone.  Happily this was also the direction in which little Trevor was
going.

Of course the boy did not read this off as readily as we have written it
all down.  It cost him upwards of an hour's patient research; but when
at last he did arrive at the result of his studies he wasted no time in
idle speculation.  His first duty was to reach Simpson's Gully, discover
his friend Paul Bevan, and deliver to him the piece of birch-bark he had
found, and the information he had gleaned.

By the time Tolly had come to this conclusion his horse and pony had
obtained both rest and nourishment enough to enable them to raise their
drooping heads and tails an inch or two, so that when the boy mounted
the former with some of his old dash and energy, it shook its head, gave
a short snort, and went off at a fair trot.

Fortunately the ground improved just beyond this point, opening out into
park-like scenery, which, in another mile or two, ran into level prairie
land.  This Trevor knew from description was close to the mountain
range, in which lay the gully he was in quest of.  The hope which had
begun to rise increased, and communicating itself, probably by
sympathetic electricity, to the horse, produced a shuffling gallop,
which ere long brought them to a clump of wood.  On rounding this they
came in sight of the longed-for hills.

Before nightfall Simpson's Gully was reached, and little Trevor was
directed to the tent of Paul Bevan, who had arrived there only the day
before.

"It's a strange story, lad," said Paul, after the boy had run rapidly
over the chief points of the news he had to give, to which Betty, Fred,
and Flinders sat listening with eager interest.

"We must be off to search for him without delay," said Fred Westly,
rising.

"It's right ye are, sor," cried Flinders, springing up.  "Off to-night
an' not a moment to lose."

"We'll talk it over first, boys," said Paul.  "Come with me.  I've a
friend in the camp as'll help us."

"Did you not bring the piece of bark?" asked Betty of the boy, as the
men went out.

"Oh!  I forgot.  Of course I did," cried Trevor, drawing it from his
breast-pocket.  "The truth is I'm so knocked up that I scarce know what
I'm about."

"Lie down here on this deer-skin, poor boy, and rest while I read it."

Tolly Trevor flung himself on the rude but welcome couch, and almost
instantly fell asleep, while Betty Bevan, spreading the piece of
birch-bark on her knee, began to spell out the words and try to make
sense of Tom Brixton's last epistle.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

With considerable difficulty Betty Bevan succeeded in deciphering the
tremulous scrawl which Tom Brixton had written on the piece of
birch-bark.  It ran somewhat as follows:--

"This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write.
(I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.)  O dearest mother!
what would I not now give to unsay all the hard things I have ever said
to you, and to undo all the evil I have done.  But this cannot be.
`Twice bought!'  It is strange how these words run in my mind.  I was
condemned to death at the gold-fields--my comrades bought me off.
Fred--dear Fred--who has been true and faithful to the last--reminded me
that I had previously been bought with the blood of Jesus--that I have
been _twice bought_!  I think he put it in this way to fix my obstinate
spirit on the idea, and he has succeeded.  The thought has been burned
in upon my soul as with fire.  I am very, _very_ weak--dying, I fear, in
the forest, and alone!  How my mind seems to wander!  I have slept since
writing the last sentence, and dreamed of food!  Curious mixing of
ideas!  I also dreamed of Betty Bevan.  Ah, sweet girl! if this ever
meets your eye, believe that I loved you sincerely.  It is well that I
should die, perhaps, for I have been a thief, and would not ask your
hand now even if I might.  I would not sully it with a touch of mine,
and I could not expect you to believe in me after I tell you that I not
only robbed Gashford, but also Fred--my chum Fred--and gambled it all
away, and drank away my reason almost at the same time...  I have slept
again, and dreamed of water this time--bright, pure, crystal water--
sparkling and gushing in the sunshine.  O God! how I despised it once,
and how I long for it now!  I am too weak and wandering, mother, to
think about religion now.  But why should I?  Your teaching has not been
altogether thrown away; it comes back like a great flood while I lie
here dreaming and trying to write.  The thoughts are confused, but the
sense comes home.  All is easily summed up in the words you once taught
me, `I am a poor sinner, and nothing at all, but Jesus Christ is all in
all.'  Not sure that I quote rightly.  No matter, the sense is there
also.  And yet it seems--it is--such a mean thing to sin away one's life
and ask for pardon only at the end--the very end!  But the thief on the
cross did it; why not I?  Sleep--_is_ it sleep? may it not be
slowly-approaching death?--has overpowered me again.  I have been
attempting to read this.  I seem to have mixed things somehow.  It is
sadly confused--or my mind is.  A burning thirst c

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/21706