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 consumes me--and--I
_think_ I hear water running!  I will--"

Here the letter ended abruptly.

"No doubt," murmured Betty, as she let the piece of bark fall on the
table and clasped her hands over her eyes, "he rose and tried to reach
the water.  Praise God that there is hope!"

She sat for a few seconds in profound silence, which was broken by Paul
and his friends re-entering the tent.

"It's all arranged, Betty," he said, taking down an old rifle which hung
above the door; "old Larkins has agreed to look arter my claim and take
care of you, lass, while we're away."

"I shall need no one to take care of me."

"Ah! so you think, for you're as brave as you're good; but--I think
otherwise.  So he'll look arter you."

"Indeed he won't, father!" returned Betty, smiling, "because I intend
that _you_ shall look after me."

"Impossible, girl!  I'm going to sarch for Tom Brixton, you see, along
with Mister Fred an' Flinders, so I can't stop here with you."

"But I am going too, father!"

"But--but we can't wait for you, my good girl," returned Paul, with a
perplexed look; "we're all ready to start, an' there ain't a hoss for
you except the poor critters that Tolly Trevor brought wi' him, an', you
know, they need rest very badly."

"Well, well, go off, father; I won't delay you," said Betty; "and don't
disturb Tolly, let him sleep, he needs it, poor boy.  I will take care
of him and his horses."

That Tolly required rest was very obvious, for he lay sprawling on the
deer-skin couch just as he had flung himself down, buried in the
profoundest sleep he perhaps ever experienced since his career in the
wilderness began.

After the men had gone off, Betty Bevan--who was by that time better
known, at least among those young diggers whose souls were poetical, as
the Rose of Oregon, and among the matter-of-fact ones as the Beautiful
Nugget--conducted herself in a manner that would have increased the
admiration of her admirers, if they had seen her, and awakened their
curiosity also.  First of all she went out to the half-ruined log-hut
that served her father for a stable, and watered, fed, and rubbed down
the horse and pony which Tolly had brought, in a manner that would have
done credit to a regular groom.  Then, returning to the tent, she
arranged and packed a couple of saddle-bags with certain articles of
clothing, as well as biscuits, dried meat, and other provisions.  Next
she cleaned and put in order a couple of revolvers, a bowie-knife, and a
small hatchet; and ultimately, having made sundry other mysterious
preparations, she lifted the curtain which divided the tent into two
parts, and entered her own private apartment.  There, after reading her
nightly portion of God's Word and committing herself, and those who were
out searching in the wilderness for the lost man, to His care, she lay
down with her clothes on, and almost instantly fell into a slumber as
profound as that which had already overwhelmed Tolly.  As for that
exhausted little fellow, he did not move during the whole night, save
once, when an adventurous insect of the earwig type walked across his
ruddy cheek and upper lip and looked up his nose.  There are sensitive
portions of the human frame which may not be touched with impunity.  The
sleeper sneezed, blew the earwig out of existence, rolled over on his
back, flung his arms wide open, and, with his mouth in the same
condition, spent the remainder of the night in motionless repose.

The sun was well up next morning, and the miners of Simpson's Gully were
all busy, up to their knees in mud and gold, when Betty Bevan awoke,
sprang up, ran into the outer apartment of her tent, and gazed
admiringly at Tolly's face.  A band of audacious and early flies were
tickling it, and causing the features to twitch, but they could not
waken the sleeper.  Betty gazed only for a moment with an amused
expression, and then shook the boy somewhat vigorously.

"Come, Tolly, rise!"

"Oh! d-on't b-borrer."

"But I must bother.  Wake up, I say.  Fire!"

At the last word the boy sat up and gazed idiotically.

"Hallo!  Betty--my dear Nugget--is that you?  Why, where am I?"

"Your body is here," said Betty, laughing.  "When your mind comes to the
same place I'll talk to you."

"I'm _all_ here now, Betty; so go ahead," said the boy, with a hearty
yawn as he arose and stretched himself.  "Oh!  I remember now all about
it.  Where is your father?"

"I will tell you presently, but first let me know what you mean by
calling me Nugget."

"Why, don't you know?  It's the name the men give you everywhere--one of
the names at least--the Beautiful Nugget."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Nugget with a laugh and blush; "very impudent of
the men; and, pray, if this is one of the names, what may the others
be?"

"There's only one other that I know of--the Rose of Oregon.  But come,
it's not fair of you to screw my secrets out o' me when I'm only half
awake; and you haven't yet told me where Paul Bevan is."

"I'll tell you that when I see you busy with this pork pie," returned
the Rose.  "I made it myself, so you ought to find it good.  Be quick,
for I have work for you to do, and there is no time to lose.  Content
yourself with a cold breakfast for once."

"Humph! as if I hadn't contented myself with a cold breakfast at any
time.  Well, it _is_ a good pie.  Now--about Paul?"

"He has gone away with Mr Westly and Flinders to search for Mr
Brixton."

"What! without _me_?" exclaimed Tolly, overturning his chair as he
started up and pushed his plate from him.

"Yes, without you, Tolly; I advised him not to awake you."

"It's the unkindest thing you've ever done to me," returned the boy,
scarcely able to restrain his tears at the disappointment.  "How can
they know where to search for him without me to guide them?  Why didn't
you let them waken me!"

"You forget, Tolly, that my father knows every inch of these woods and
plains for at least fifty miles round the old house they have blown up;
and, as to waking you, it would have been next to impossible to have
done so, you were so tired, and you would have been quite unable to keep
your eyes open.  Besides, I had a little plan of my own which I want you
to help me to carry out.  Go on with your breakfast and I'll explain."

The boy sat down to his meal again without speaking, but with a look of
much curiosity on his expressive face.

"You know, without my telling you," continued Betty, "that I, like my
father, have a considerable knowledge of this part of the country, and
of the ways of Indians and miners, and from what you have told me,
coupled with what father has said, I think it likely that the Indians
have carried poor T---Mr Brixton, I mean--through the Long Gap rather
than by the plains--"

"So _I_ would have said, had they consulted _me_," interrupted the boy,
with an offended air.

"Well, but," continued Betty, "they would neither have consulted you nor
me, for father has a very decided will, you know, and a belief in his
own judgment--which is quite right of course, only I cannot help
differing from him on this occasion--"

"No more can I," growled Tolly, thrusting his fork into the pie at a
tempting piece of pork.

"So, you see, I'm going to take the big horse you brought here and ride
round by the Long Gap to see if I'm right, and I want you to go with me
on the pony and take care of me."

Tolly Trevor felt his heart swell with gratification at the idea of his
being the chosen protector of the Rose of Oregon--the Beautiful Nugget;
selected by herself, too.  Nevertheless his good sense partially subdued
his vanity on the point.

"But, I say," he remarked, looking up with a half-serious expression,
"d'you think that you and I are a sufficient party to make a good fight
if we are attacked by Redskins?  You know your father will hold me
responsible, for carrying you off into the midst of danger in this
fashion."

"I don't mean to fight at all," returned Betty, with a pleasant laugh,
"and I will free you from all responsibility; so, have done, now, and
come along."

"It's _so_ good," said Tolly, looking as though he were loath to quit
the pork pie; "but, come, I'm your man!  Only don't you think it would
be as well to get up a good fighting party among the young miners to go
with us?  They'd only be too happy to take service under the Beautiful
Nugget, you know."

"Tolly," exclaimed the Nugget, with more than her wonted firmness, "if
you are to take service under _me_ you must learn to obey without
question.  Now, go and saddle the horses.  The big one for me, the pony
for yourself.  Put the saddle-bags on the horse, and be quick."

There was a tone and manner about the usually quiet and gentle girl
which surprised and quite overawed little Trevor, so that he was reduced
at once to an obedient and willing slave.  Indeed he was rather glad
than otherwise that Betty had declined to listen to his suggestion about
the army of young diggers--which an honest doubt as to his own capacity
to fight and conquer all who might chance to come in his way had induced
him to make--while he was by no means unwilling to undertake,
singlehanded, any duties his fair conductor should require of him.

In a few minutes, therefore, the steeds were brought round to the door
of the tent, where Betty already stood equipped for the journey.

Our fair readers will not, we trust, be prejudiced against the Rose of
Oregon when we inform them that she had adopted man's attitude in
riding.  Her costume was arranged very much after the pattern of the
Indian women's dress--namely, a close-fitting body, a short woollen
skirt reaching a little below the knees, and blue cloth leggings in
continuation.  These latter were elegantly wrought with coloured silk
thread, and the pair of moccasins which covered her small feet were
similarly ornamented.  A little cloth cap, in shape resembling that of a
cavalry foraging cap, but without ornaments, graced her head, from
beneath which her wavy hair tumbled in luxuriant curls on her shoulders,
and, as Tolly was wont to remark, looked after itself anyhow.  Such a
costume was well adapted to the masculine position on horseback, as well
as to the conditions of a land in which no roads, but much underwood,
existed.

Bevan's tent having been pitched near the outskirts of Simpson's Camp,
the maiden and her gallant protector had no difficulty in quitting it
unobserved.  Riding slowly at first, to avoid attracting attention as
well as to pick their steps more easily over the somewhat rugged ground
near the camp, they soon reached the edge of an extensive plain, at the
extremity of which a thin purple line indicated a range of hills.  Here
Tolly Trevor, unable to restrain his joy at the prospect of adventure
before him, uttered a war-whoop, brought his switch down smartly on the
pony's flank, and shot away over the plain like a wild creature.  The
air was bracing, the prospect was fair, the sunshine was bright.  No
wonder that the obedient pony, forgetting for the moment the fatigues of
the past, and strong in the enjoyment of the previous night's rest and
supper, went over the ground at a pace that harmonised with its young
rider's excitement; and no wonder that the obstinate horse was inclined
to emulate the pony, and stretched its long legs into a wild gallop,
encouraged thereto by the Rose on its back.

The gallop was ere long pressed to racing speed, and there is no saying
when the young pair would have pulled up--had they not met with a sudden
check by the pony putting his foot into a badger-hole.  The result was
frightful to witness, though trifling in result.  The pony went heels
over head upon the plain like a rolling wheel, and its rider shot into
the air like a stone from a catapult.  Describing a magnificent curve,
and coming down head foremost, Tolly would then and there have ended his
career if he had not fortunately dropped into a thick bush, which broke
his fall instead of his neck, and saved him.  Indeed, excepting several
ugly scratches, he was none the worse for the misadventure.

Poor horrified Betty attempted to pull up, but the obstinate horse had
got the bit in his teeth and declined, so that when Tolly had scrambled
out of the bush she was barely visible in the far distance, heading
towards the blue hills.

"Hallo!" was her protector's anxious remark as he gazed at the flying
fair one.  Then, without another word, he leaped on the pony and went
after her at full speed, quite regardless of recent experience.

The blue hills had become green hills, and the Long Gap was almost
reached, before the obstinate horse suffered itself to be reined in--
probably because it was getting tired.  Soon afterwards the pony came
panting up.

"You're not hurt, I hope?" said Betty, anxiously, as Tolly came
alongside.

"Oh no.  All right," replied the boy; "but I say what a run you have
given me!  Why didn't you wait for me?"

"Ask that of the horse, Tolly."

"What!  Did he bolt with you?"

"Truly he did.  I never before rode such a stubborn brute.  My efforts
to check it were useless, as it had the bit in its teeth, and I did my
best, for I was terribly anxious about you, and cannot imagine how you
escaped a broken neck after such a flight."

"It was the bush that saved me, Betty.  But, I say, we seem to be
nearing a wildish sort of place."

"Yes; this is the Long Gap," returned the girl, flinging back her curls
and looking round.  "It cuts right through the range here, and becomes
much wilder and more difficult to traverse on horseback farther on."

"And what d'ye mean to do, Betty?" inquired the boy as they rode at a
foot-pace towards the opening, which seemed like a dark portal to the
hills.  "Suppose you discover that the Redskins _have_ carried Tom
Brixton off in this direction, what then?  You and I won't be able to
rescue him, you know."

"True, Tolly.  If I find that they have taken him this way I will ride
straight to father's encampment--he told me before starting where he
intends to sleep to-night, so I shall easily find him--tell him what we
have discovered and lead him back here."

"And suppose you don't find that the Redskins have come this way,"
rejoined Tolly, after a doubtful shake of his head, "what then?"

"Why, then, I shall return to our tent and leave father and Mr Westly
to hunt them down."

"And suppose," continued Tolly--but Tolly never finished the
supposition, for at that moment two painted Indians sprang from the
bushes on either side of the narrow track, and, almost before the riders
could realise what had happened, the boy found himself on his back with
a savage hand at his throat and the girl found herself on the ground
with the hand of a grinning savage on her shoulder.

Tolly Trevor struggled manfully, but alas! also boyishly, for though his
spirit was strong his bodily strength was small--at least, as compared
with that of the savage who held him.  Yes, Tolly struggled like a hero.
He beheld the Rose of Oregon taken captive, and his blood boiled!  He
bit, he kicked, he scratched, and he hissed with indignation--but it
would not do.

"Oh, if you'd only let me up and give me _one_ chance!" he gasped.

But the red man did not consent--indeed, he did not understand.
Nevertheless, it was obvious that the savage was not vindictive, for
although Tolly's teeth and fists and toes and nails had wrought him some
damage, he neither stabbed nor scalped the boy.  He only choked him into
a state of semi-unconsciousness, and then, turning him on his face, tied
his hands behind his back with a deerskin thong.

Meanwhile the other savage busied himself in examining the saddle-bags
of the obstinate horse.  He did not appear to think it worth while to
tie the hands of Betty!  During the short scuffle between his comrade
and the boy he had held her fast, because she manifested an intention to
run to the rescue.  When that was ended he relieved her of the weapons
she carried and let her go, satisfied, no doubt that, if she attempted
to run away, he could easily overtake her, and if she were to attempt
anything else he could restrain her.

When, however, Betty saw that Tolly's antagonist meant no harm, she
wisely attempted nothing, but sat down on a fallen tree to await the
issue.  The savages did not keep her long in suspense.  Tolly's foe,
having bound him, lifted him on the back of the pony, and then, taking
the bridle, quietly led it away.  At the same time the other savage
assisted Betty to remount the horse, and, grasping the bridle of that
obstinate creature, followed his comrade.  The whole thing was so
sudden, so violent, and the result so decisive, that the boy looked back
at Betty and burst into a half-hysterical fit of laughter, but the girl
did not respond.

"It's a serious business, Tolly!" she said.

"So it is, Betty," he replied.

Then, pursing his little mouth, and gathering his eyebrows into a frown,
he gave himself up to meditation, while the Indians conducted them into
the dark recesses of the Long Gap.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

Now, the Indians, into whose hands the Rose of Oregon and our little
hero had fallen, happened to be part of the tribe to which the three who
had discovered Tom Brixton belonged, and although his friends little
knew it, Tom himself was not more than a mile or so distant from them at
the time, having been carried in the same direction, towards the main
camp or headquarters of the tribe in the Sawback Hills.

They had not met on the journey, because the two bands of the tribe were
acting independently of each other.

We will leave them at this point and ask the reader to return to another
part of the plain over which Tolly and Betty had galloped so furiously.

It is a small hollow, at the bottom of which a piece of marshy ground
has encouraged the growth of a few willows.  Paul Bevan had selected it
as a suitable camping-ground for the night, and while Paddy Flinders
busied himself with the kettle and frying-pan, he and Fred Westly went
among the bushes to procure firewood.

Fred soon returned with small twigs sufficient to kindle the fire; his
companion went on further in search of larger boughs and logs.

While Fred was busily engaged on hands and knees, blowing the fire into
a flame, a sharp "hallo!" from his companion caused him to look up.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Goliath of Gath--or his brother!" said Paddy, pointing to a little
eminence behind which the sun had but recently set.

The horseman, who had come to a halt on the eminence and was quietly
regarding them, did indeed look as if he might have claimed kinship with
the giant of the Philistines, for he and his steed looked stupendous.
No doubt the peculiarity of their position, with the bright sky as a
glowing background, had something to do with the gigantic appearance of
horse and man, for, as they slowly descended the slope towards the fire,
both of them assumed a more natural size.

The rider was a strange-looking as well as a large man, for he wore a
loose shooting-coat, a tall wideawake with a broad brim, blue spectacles
with side-pieces to them, and a pair of trousers which appeared to have
been made for a smaller man, as, besides being too tight, they were much
too short.  Over his shoulder was slung a green tin botanical box.  He
carried no visible weapons save a small hatchet and a bowie-knife,
though his capacious pockets might easily have concealed half a dozen
revolvers.

"Goot night, my frunds," said the stranger, in broken English, as he
approached.

"The same to yersilf, sor," returned Flinders.

Anyone who had been closely watching the countenance of the stranger
might have observed a sudden gleam of surprise on it when the Irishman
spoke, but it passed instantly, and was replaced by a pleasant air of
good fellowship as he dismounted and led his horse nearer the fire.

"Good night, and welcome to our camp.  You are a foreigner, I perceive,"
said Fred Westly in French, but the stranger shook his head.

"I not un'erstan'."

"Ah! a German, probably," returned Fred, trying him with the language of
the Fatherland; but again the stranger shook his head.

"You mus' spok English.  I is a Swedish man; knows noting but a leetil
English."

"I'm sorry that I cannot speak Swedish," replied Fred, in English; "so
we must converse in my native tongue.  You are welcome to share our
camp.  Have you travelled far?"

Fred cast a keen glance of suspicion at the stranger as he spoke, and,
in spite of himself, there was a decided diminution in the heartiness of
his tones, but the stranger did not appear to observe either the change
of tone or the glance, for he replied, with increased urbanity and
openness of manner, "Yis; I has roden far--very far--an' moche wants
meat an' sleep."

As he spoke Paul Bevan came staggering into camp under a heavy load of
wood, and again it may be said that a close observer might have noticed
on the stranger's face a gleam of surprise much more intense than the
previous one when he saw Paul Bevan.  But the gleam had utterly vanished
when that worthy, having thrown down his load, looked up and bade him
good evening.

The urbanity of manner and blandness of expression increased as he
returned the salutation.

"T'anks, t'anks.  I vill go for hubble--vat you call--hobble me horse,"
he said, taking the animal's bridle and leading it a short distance from
the fire.

"I don't like the look of him," whispered Fred to Paul when he was out
of earshot.

"Sure, an' I howld the same opinion," said Flinders.

"Pooh!  Never judge men by their looks," returned Bevan--"specially in
the diggin's.  They're all blackguards or fools, more or less.  This one
seems to be one o' the fools.  I've seed sitch critters before.  They
keep fillin' their little boxes wi' grass an' stuff; an' never makes any
use of it that I could see.  But every man to his taste.  I'll be bound
he's a good enough feller when ye come to know him, an' git over yer
contempt for his idle ways.  Very likely he draws, too--an' plays the
flute; most o' these furriners do.  Come now, Flinders, look alive wi'
the grub."

When the stranger returned to the fire he spread his huge hands over it
and rubbed them with apparent satisfaction.

"Fat a goot t'ing is supper!" he remarked, with a benignant look all
round; "the very smell of him be deliciowse!"

"An' no mistake!" added Flinders.  "Sure, the half the good o' victuals
would be lost av they had no smell."

"Where have you come from, stranger?" asked Bevan, as they were about to
begin supper.

"From de Sawbuk Hills," answered the botanist, filling his mouth with an
enormous mass of dried meat.

"Ay, indeed!  That's just where _we_ are goin' to," returned Bevan.

"An' vere may you be come from?" asked the stranger.

"From Simpson's Gully," said Fred.

"Ha! how cooriouse!  Dat be joost vere I be go to."

The conversation flagged a little at this point as they warmed to the
work of feeding; but after a little it was resumed, and then their
visitor gradually ingratiated himself with his new friends to such an
extent that the suspicions of Fred and Flinders were somewhat, though
not altogether, allayed.  At last they became sufficiently confidential
to inform the stranger of their object in going to the Sawback Hills.

"Ha!  Vat is dat you say?" he exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise;
"von yoong man carried avay by Ridskins.  I saw'd dem!  Did pass dem not
longe ago.  T'ree mans carry von man.  I t'ink him a sick comrade, but
now I reklect hims face vas vhitish."

"Could ye guide us to the place where ye met them?" asked Bevan,
quickly.

The botanist did not reply at once, but seemed to consider.

"Vell, I has not moche time to spare; but come, I has pity for you, an'
don't mind if I goes out of de vay to help you.  I vill go back to the
Sawbuk Hills so far as need be."

"Thank 'ee kindly," returned Bevan, who possessed a grateful spirit;
"I'll think better of yer grass-gatherin' after this, though it does
puzzle me awful to make out what's the use ye put it to.  If you kep'
tame rabbits, now, I could understand it, but to carry it about in a
green box an' go squeezin' it between the leaves o' books, as I've seed
some of 'ee do, seems to me the most outrageous--"

"Ha, ha!" interrupted the botanist, with a loud laugh; "you is not the
first what t'ink hims nonsense.  But you mus' know dere be moche sense
in it,"--(he looked very grave and wise here)--"very moche.  First, ye
finds him; den ye squeezes an' dries him; den ye sticks him in von book,
an' names him; den ye talks about him; oh! dere is moche use in him,
very moche!"

"Well, but arter you've found, an' squeezed, an' dried, an' stuck, an'
named, an' talked about him," repeated Paul, with a slight look of
contempt, "what the better are ye for it all?"

"Vy, ve is moche de better," returned the botanist, "for den ve tries to
find out all about him.  Ve magnifies him, an' writes vat ve zee about
him, an' compares him vid oders of de same family, an' boils, an' stews,
an' fries, an' melts, an' dissolves, an' mixes him, till ve gits
somet'ing out of him."

"It's little I'd expect to git out of him after tratin' him so badly,"
remarked Flinders, whose hunger was gradually giving way before the
influence of venison steaks.

"True, me frund," returned the stranger, "it is ver' leetil ve gits; but
den dat leetil is ver' goot--valooable you calls it."

"Humph!" ejaculated Bevan, with an air that betokened doubt.  Flinders
and Fred said nothing, but the latter felt more than ever inclined to
believe that their guest was a deceiver, and resolved to watch him
narrowly.  On his part, the stranger seemed to perceive that Fred
suspected him, but he was not rendered less hearty or free-and-easy on
that account.

In the course of conversation Paul chanced to refer to Betty.

"Ah! me frund," said the stranger, "has you brought you's vife to dis
vile contry!"

"No, I haven't," replied Paul, bluntly.

"Oh, pardon.  I did t'ink you spoke of Bettie; an surely dat is vooman's
name?"

"Ay, but Betty's my darter, not my wife," returned Paul, who resented
this inquisition with regard to his private affairs.

"Is you not 'fraid," said the botanist, quietly helping himself to a
marrow-bone, "to leave you's darter at Simpson's Gully?"

"Who told you I left her there?" asked Bevan, with increasing asperity.

"Oh!  I only t'ink so, as you's come from dere."

"An' why should I be afraid?"

"Because, me frund, de contry be full ob scoundrils."

"Yes, an' you are one of the biggest of them," thought Fred Westly, but
he kept his thoughts to himself, while Paul muttered something about
being well protected, and having no occasion to be afraid.

Perceiving the subject to be distasteful, the stranger quickly changed
it.  Soon afterwards each man, rolling himself in his blanket, went to
sleep--or appeared to do so.  In regard to Paddy Flinders, at least,
there could be no doubt, for the trombone-tones of his nose were
eloquent.  Paul, too, lay on his back with eyes tight shut and mouth
wide open, while the regular heaving of his broad chest told that his
slumbers were deep.  But more than once Fred Westly raised his head
gently and looked suspiciously round.  At last, in his case also, tired
Nature asserted herself, and his deep regular breathing proved that the
"sweet restorer" was at work, though an occasional movement showed that
his sleep was not so profound as that of his comrades.

The big botanist remained perfectly motionless from the time he lay
down, as if the sleep of infancy had passed with him into the period of
manhood.  It was not till the fire had died completely down, and the
moon had set, leaving only the stars to make darkness visible, that he
moved.  He did so, not as a sleeper awaking, but with the slow stealthy
action of one who is already wide awake and has a purpose in view.

Gradually his huge shoulders rose till he rested on his left elbow.

A sense of danger, which had never left him even while he slept, aroused
Fred, but he did not lose his self-possession.  He carefully watched,
from the other side of the extinct fire, the motions of the stranger,
and lay perfectly still--only tightening his grasp on the knife-handle
that he had been instinctively holding when he dropped asleep.

The night was too dark for Fred to distinguish the man's features.  He
could only perceive the outline of his black figure, and that for some
time he rested on his elbow without moving, as if he were contemplating
the stars.  Despite his efforts to keep awake, Fred felt that drowsiness
was again slowly, but surely, overcoming him.  Maintaining the struggle,
however, he kept his dreamy eyes riveted on their guest until he seemed
to swell into gigantic proportions.

Presently Fred was again thoroughly aroused by observing that the right
arm of the man moved slowly upwards, and something like a knife appeared
in the hand; he even fancied he saw it gleam, though there was not light
enough to render that possible.

Feeling restrained, as if under the horrible influence of nightmare,
Fred lay there spell-bound and quite unable to move, until he perceived
the stranger's form bend over in the direction of Paul Bevan, who lay on
the other side of him.

Then, indeed, Fred's powers returned.  Shouting, "look out, Paul!" he
sprang up, drew his bowie-knife, and leaped over the blackened logs,
but, to his surprise and confusion, found that the stranger lay extended
on the ground as if sound asleep.  He roused himself, however, and sat
up, as did the others, on hearing Fred's shout.

"Fat is wrong, yoong man?" he inquired, with a look of sleepy surprise.

"Ye may well ax that, sor," said Flinders, staggering to his feet and
seizing his axe, which always lay handy at his side.  Paul had glanced
round sharply, like a man inured to danger, but seeing nothing to alarm
him, had remained in a sitting position.

"Why, Westly, you've been dreaming," he said with a broad grin.

"So I must have been," returned the youth, looking very much ashamed,
"but you've no notion what a horrible dream I had.  It seemed so real,
too, that I could not help jumping up and shouting.  Pardon me,
comrades, and, as bad boys say when caught in mischief, `I won't do it
again!'"

"Ve pardon you, by all means," said the botanist stretching himself and
yawning, "and ve do so vid de more pleasure for you has rouse us in time
for start on de joorney."

"You're about right.  It's time we was off," said Paul, rising slowly to
his feet and looking round the horizon and up at the sky, while he
proceeded to fill a beloved little black pipe, which invariably
constituted his preliminary little breakfast.

Pat Flinders busied himself in blowing up the embers of the fire.

A slight and rapidly eaten meal sufficed to prepare these hardy
backwoodsmen for their journey, and, long before daybreak illumined the
plains, they were far on their way towards the Sawback mountain range.

During the journey of two days, which this trip involved, the botanist
seemed to change his character to some extent.  He became silent--almost
morose; did not encourage the various efforts made by his companions to
draw him into conversation, and frequently rode alone in advance of the
party, or occasionally fell behind them.

The day after the stranger had joined them, as they were trotting slowly
over the plains that lay between the Rangers Hill and the Sawbacks, Fred
rode close up to Bevan, and said in a low voice, glancing at the
botanist, who was in advance--

"I am convinced, Paul, that he is a scoundrel."

"That may be so, Mr Fred, but what then?"

"Why, then I conclude that he is deceiving us for some purpose of his
own."

"Nonsense," replied Bevan, who was apt to express himself bluntly, "what
purpose can he serve in deceiving strangers like us!  We carry no
gold-dust and have nothing worth robbing us of, even if he were fool
enough to think of attemptin' such a thing.  Then, he can scarcely be
deceivin' us in sayin' that he met three Redskins carryin' off a white
man--an' what good could it do him if he is?  Besides, he is goin' out
of his way to sarve us."

"It is impossible for me to answer your question, Paul, but I understand
enough of both French and German to know that his broken English is a
mere sham--a mixture, and a bad one too, of what no German or Frenchman
would use--so it's not likely to be the sort of bad English that a Swede
would speak.  Moreover, I have caught him once or twice using English
words correctly at one time and wrongly at another.  No, you may depend
on it that, whatever his object may be, he is deceiving us."

"It's mesilf as agrees wid ye, sor," said Flinders, who had been
listening attentively to the conversation.  "The man's no more a Swede
than an Irishman, but what can we do wid oursilves!  True or false, he's
ladin' us in the diriction we want to go, an' it would do no good to say
to him, `Ye spalpeen, yer decavin' of us,' for he'd only say he wasn't;
or may be he'd cut up rough an' lave us--but after all, it might be the
best way to push him up to that."

"I think not" said Bevan.  "Doesn't English law say that a man should be
held innocent till he's proved guilty?"

"It's little I know or care about English law," answered Flinders, "but
I'm sure enough that Irish law howlds a bad man to be guilty till he's
proved innocent--at laste av it dosn't it should."

"You'd better go an' pump him a bit, Mr Fred," said Bevan; "we're close
up to the Sawback range; another hour an' we'll be among the mountains."

They were turning round the spur of a little hillock as he spoke.
Before Fred could reply a small deer sprang from its lair, cast on the
intruders one startled gaze, and then bounded gracefully into the bush,
too late, however, to escape from Bevan's deadly rifle.  It had barely
gone ten yards when a sharp crack was heard; the animal sprang high into
the air, and fell dead upon the ground.

"Bad luck to ye, Bevan!" exclaimed Flinders, who had also taken aim at
it, but not with sufficient speed, "isn't that always the way ye do?--
plucks the baste out o' me very hand.  Sure I had me sights lined on it
as straight as could be; wan second more an' I'd have sent a bullet
right into its brain, when _crack_! ye go before me.  Och! it's onkind,
to say the laste of it.  Why cudn't ye gi' me a chance?"

"I'm sorry, Flinders, but I couldn't well help it.  The critter rose
right in front o' me."

"Vat a goot shote you is!" exclaimed the botanist riding back to them
and surveying the prostrate deer through his blue spectacles.

"Ay, and it's a lucky shot too," said Fred, "for our provisions are
running low.  But perchance we shan't want much more food before
reaching the Indian camp.  You said, I think, that you have a good guess
where the camp lies, Mister--what shall we call you?"

"Call me vat you please," returned the stranger, with a peculiar smile;
"I is not partickler.  Some of me frunds calls me Mr Botaniste."

"Well, Mr Botanist, the camp cannot be far off now, an' it seems to me
that we should have overtaken men travelling on foot by this time."

"Ye vill surely come on de tracks dis naight or de morrow," replied the
botanist, riding forward, after Bevan had secured the carcass of the
deer to his saddle-bow, "bot ye must have patience, yoong blood be
always too hote.  All in goot time."

With this reply Fred was fain to content himself, for no amount of
pressure availed to draw anything more satisfactory out of their strange
guide.

Before sunset they had penetrated some distance into the Sawback range,
and then proceeded to make their encampment for the night under the
spreading branches of a lordly pine!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Tables are frequently turned in this world in more senses than one.  As
was said in the last chapter, the romantic pair who were in search of
the Indians did not find those for whom they sought but as fickle
fortune willed it, those for whom they sought found _them_.  It happened
thus.

Soon after the Rose of Oregon and her young champion, with their
captors, had passed through the Long Gap, crossed the plain, and entered
the Sawback Hills, they fell in with a band of twenty Indians, who from
their appearance and costume evidently belonged to the same tribe as
their captors.  From the manner in which they met also, it seemed that
they had been in search of each other, and had something interesting to
communicate, for they gesticulated much, pointed frequently to the sky,
and to various directions of the compass, chattered excitedly, showed
their brilliant teeth in fitful gleams, and glittered quite awfully
about the eyes.

They paid little attention at first to their prisoners, who remained
sitting on their steeds looking on with interest and some anxiety.

"O Betty, what would I not give to have my arms free just now!  What a
chance it would be for a bold dash and a glorious run!"

"You'd make little of it on such rough ground, Tolly."

"Pooh!  I'd try it on any ground.  Just fancy, I'd begin with a clear
leap over that chief's head--the one there wi' the feathers an' the long
nose that's makin' such hideous faces--then away up the glen, over the
stones, down the hollows, shoutin' like mad, an' clearin' the brooks and
precipices with a band o' yellin' Redskins at my tail!  Isn't it enough
to drive a fellow wild to be on the brink of such a chance an' miss it?
I say, haven't you got a penknife in your pocket--no?  Not even a pair
o' scissors?  Why, I thought you women never travelled without
scissors!"

"Alas!  Tolly, I have not even scissors; besides, if I had, it would
take me at least two minutes with all the strength of my fingers to cut
the thongs that bind you with scissors, and I don't think the Redskins
would stand quietly by and look on while I did it.  But what say you to
_me_ trying it by myself?"

"Quite useless," returned Tolly.  "You'd be caught at once--or break
your neck.  And you'd never get on, you know, without me.  No, no, we've
got fairly into a fix, an' I don't see my way out of it.  If my hands
were free we might attempt anything, but what can a fellow do when tied
up in this fashion?"

"He can submit, Tolly, and wait patiently."

Tolly did not feel inclined to submit, and was not possessed of much
patience, but he was too fond of Betty to answer flippantly.  He
therefore let his feelings escape through the safety-valve of a great
sigh, and relapsed into pensive silence.

Meanwhile the attention of the band of savages was attracted to another
small band of natives which approached them from the eastward.  That
these were also friends was evident from the fact that the larger band
made no hostile demonstration, but quietly awaited the coming up of the
others.  The newcomers were three in number, and two of them bore on
their shoulders what appeared to be the body of a man wrapped up in a
blanket.

"They've got a wounded comrade with them, I think," said little Trevor.

"So it would seem," replied Betty, with a dash of pity in her tone, for
she was powerfully sympathetic.

The savages laid the form in the blanket on the ground, and began to
talk earnestly with their comrades.

"It's not dead yet anyhow," remarked Tolly, "for I see it move.  I
wonder whether it is a man or a woman.  Mayhap it's their old
grandmother they're giving a little exercise to.  I've heard that some
o' the Redskins are affectionate sort o' fellows, though most of 'em are
hard enough on the old folk."

As he spoke he looked up in Betty's face.  Just as he did so a startling
change came over that face.  It suddenly became ashy pale, the large
eyes dilated to their utmost extent, and the mouth opened with a short
gasp.

In great alarm the boy turned his eyes in the direction in which the
girl gazed so fixedly, and then his own visage assumed a somewhat
similar appearance as he beheld the pale, thin, cadaverous countenance
of his friend Tom Brixton, from off which a corner of the blanket had
just slipped.  But for the slight motion above referred to Tom might
have been mistaken for a dead man, for his eyes were closed and his lips
bloodless.

Uttering a sudden shout Tolly Trevor flung himself headlong off the pony
and tried to get on his feet but failed, owing to his hands being tied
behind him.  Betty also leaped to the ground, and, running to where Tom
lay, went down on her knees and raised his head in her hands.

The poor youth, being roused, opened his eyes.  They were terribly
sunken and large, but when they met those of Betty they enlarged to an
extent that seemed positively awful, and a faint tinge of colour came to
his hollow cheeks.

"Betty!" he whispered; "can--can it be possible?"

"Yes, it is I!  Surely God must have sent me to save your life!"

"I fear not, dear--"

He stopped abruptly and shut his eyes.  For a few moments it seemed as
if he were dead, but presently he opened them again, and said, faintly,
"It is too late, I fear.  You are very kind, but I--I feel so terribly
weak that I think I am dying."

By this time Tolly, having managed to get on his feet stood beside his
friend, on whom he gazed with intense anxiety.  Even the Indians were
solemnised by what appeared to be a death-scene.

"Have you been wounded!" asked the girl, quickly.

"No; _only_ starved!" returned Tom, a slight smile of humour flickering
for a second on his pale face even in that hour of his extremity.

"Have the Indians given you anything to eat since they found you?"

"They have tried to, but what they offered me was dry and tough; I could
not get it down."

The girl rose promptly.  "Tolly, fetch me some water and make a fire.
Quick!" she said, and going up to an Indian, coolly drew from its sheath
his scalping-knife, with which she cut Tolly's bonds.  The savage
evidently believed that such a creature could not possibly do evil, for
he made no motion whatever to check her.  Then, without a word more, she
went to the saddle-bags on the obstinate horse, and, opening one of
them, took out some soft sugar.  The savage who held the horse made no
objection.  Indeed, from that moment the whole band stood silently by,
observing the pretty maiden and the active boy as they moved about,
regardless of everything but the work in hand.

The Rose of Oregon constituted herself a sick-nurse on that occasion
with marvellous facility.  True, she knew nothing whatever about the
duties of a sick-nurse or a doctor, for her father was one of those
fortunate men who are never ill, but her native tact and energy
sufficed.  It was not her nature to stand by inactive when anything
urgent had to be done.  If she knew not what to do, and no one else did,
she was sure to attempt something.  Whether sugar-and-water was the best
food for a starving man she knew not, but she did know--at least she
thought--that the starvation ought to be checked without delay.

"Here, Mr Brixton, sip a little of this," she said, going down on her
knees, and putting a tin mug to the patient's mouth.

Poor Tom would have sipped prussic acid cheerfully from _her_ hand!  He
obeyed, and seemed to like it.

"Now, a little more."

"God bless you, dear girl!" murmured Tom, as he sipped a little more.

"There, that will do you good till I can prepare something better."

She rose and ran to the fire which Tolly had already blown up almost to
furnace heat.

"I filled the kettle, for I knew you'd want it," said the boy, turning
up his fiery-red visage for a moment, "It can't be long o' boiling with
such a blaze below it."

He stooped again and continued to blow while Betty cut some dried meat
into small pieces.  Soon these were boiled, and the resulting soup was
devoured by the starving man with a zest that he had never before
experienced.

"Nectar!" he exclaimed faintly, smiling as he raised his eyes to Betty's
face.

"But you must not take too much at a time," she said, gently drawing
away the mug.

Tom submitted patiently.  He would have submitted to anything patiently
just then!

During these proceedings the Indians, who seemed to be amiably disposed,
looked on with solemn interest and then, coming apparently to the
conclusion that they might as well accommodate themselves to
circumstances, they quietly made use of Tolly's fire to cook a meal for
themselves.

This done, one of them--a noble-looking savage, who, to judge from his
bearing and behaviour, was evidently their chief--went up to Betty, and,
with a stately bend of the head, said, in broken English, "White woman
git on horse!"

"And what are you going to do with this man?" asked Betty, pointing to
the prostrate form of Tom.

"Unaco will him take care," briefly replied the chief (meaning himself),
while with a wave of his hand he turned away, and went to Tolly, whom he
ordered to mount the pony, which he styled the "littil horse."

The boy was not slow to obey, for he was by that time quite convinced
that his only chance of being allowed to have his hands left free lay in
prompt submission.  Any lurking thought that might have remained of
making a grand dash for liberty was effectually quelled by a big savage,
who quietly took hold of the pony's rein and led it away.  Another
Indian led Betty's horse.  Then the original three who had found Tom
took him up quite gently and carried him off, while the remainder of the
band followed in single file.  Unaco led the way, striding over the
ground at a rate which almost forced the pony to trot, and glancing from
side to side with a keen look of inquiry that seemed to intimate an
expectation of attack from an enemy in ambush.

But if any such enemy existed he was careful not to show himself, and
the Indian band passed through the defiles and fastnesses of the Sawback
Hills unmolested until the shades of evening began to descend.

Then, on turning round a jutting rock that obstructed the view up a
mountain gorge, Unaco stopped abruptly and held up his hand.  This
brought the band to a sudden halt and the chief, apparently sinking on
his knees, seemed to melt into the bushes.  In a few minutes he returned
with a look of stern resolve on his well-formed countenance.

"He has discovered something o' some sort, I--"

Tolly's remark to his fair companion was cut short by the point of a
keen knife touching his side, which caused him to end with "hallo!"

The savage who held his bridle gave him a significant look that said,
"Silence!"

After holding a brief whispered conversation with several of his braves,
the chief advanced to Betty and said--

"White man's in the bush.  Does white woman know why?"

Betty at once thought of her father and his companions, and said--

"I have not seen the white men.  How can I tell why they are here?  Let
me ride forward and look at them--then I shall be able to speak."

A very slight smile of contempt curled the chiefs lip for an instant as
he replied--

"No.  The white woman see them when they be trapped.  Unaco knows one.
He is black--a devil with two face--many face, but Unaco's eyes be
sharp.  They see far."

So saying, he turned and gave some directions to his warriors, who at
once scattered themselves among the underwood and disappeared.  Ordering
the Indians who carried Tom Brixton to follow him, and the riders to
bring up the rear, he continued to advance up the gorge.

"A devil with two faces!" muttered Tolly; "that must be a queer sort o'
beast!  I _have_ heard of a critter called a Tasmanian devil, but never
before heard of an Oregon one with two faces."

An expressive glance from the Indian who guarded him induced the lad to
continue his speculations in silence.

On passing round the jutting rock, where Unaco had been checked in his
advance, the party at once beheld the cause of anxiety.  Close to the
track they were following were seen four men busily engaged in making
arrangements to encamp for the night.

It need scarcely be said that these were our friends Paul Bevan, Fred
Westly, Flinders, and the botanist.

The moment that these caught sight of the approaching party they sprang
to their arms, which of course lay handy, for in those regions, at the
time we write of, the law of might was in the ascendant.  The appearance
and conduct of Unaco, however, deceived them, for that wily savage
advanced towards them with an air of confidence and candour which went
far to remove suspicion, and when, on drawing nearer, he threw down his
knife and tomahawk, and held up his empty hands, their suspicions were
entirely dispelled.

"They're not likely to be onfriendly," observed Flinders, "for there's
only five o' them altogither, an' wan o' them's only a bit of a boy an'
another looks uncommon like a wo--"

He had got thus far when he was checked by Paul Bevan's exclaiming, with
a look of intense surprise, "Why, that's Betty!--or her ghost!"

Flinders's astonishment was too profound to escape in many words.  He
only gave vent to, "Musha! there's Tolly!" and let his lower jaw drop.

"Yes, it's me an' the Beautiful Nugget" cried Tolly, jumping off the
pony and running to assist the Nugget to dismount, while the bearers of
Tom Brixton laid him on the ground, removed the blanket, and revealed
his face.

The exclamations of surprise would no doubt have been redoubled at this
sight if the power of exclamation had not been for the time destroyed.
The sham botanist in particular was considerably puzzled, for he at once
recognised Tom and also Betty, whom he had previously known.  Of course
he did not know Tolly Trevor; still less did he know that Tolly knew
_him_.

Unaco himself was somewhat surprised at the mutual recognitions, though
his habitual self-restraint enabled him to conceal every trace of
emotion.  Moreover, he was well aware that he could not afford to lose
time in the development of his little plot.  Taking advantage,
therefore, of the surprise which had rendered every one for the moment
more or less confused, he gave a sharp signal which was well understood
by his friends in the bush.

Instantly, and before Tolly or Betty could warn their friends of what
was coming, the surrounding foliage parted, as if by magic, and a circle
of yelling and painted Redskins sprang upon the white men.  Resistance
was utterly out of the question.  They were overwhelmed as if by a
cataract and, almost before they could realise what had happened, the
arms of all the men were pinioned behind them.

At that trying hour little Tolly Trevor proved himself to be more of a
man than most of his friends had hitherto given him credit for.

The savages, regarding him as a weak little boy, had paid no attention
to him, but confined their efforts to the overcoming of the powerful and
by no means submissive men with whom they had to deal.

Tolly's first impulse was to rush to the rescue of Paul Bevan; but he
was remarkably quick-witted, and, when on the point of springing,
observed that no tomahawk was wielded or knife drawn.  Suddenly grasping
the wrist of Betty, who had also naturally felt the impulse to succour
her father, he exclaimed--

"Stop!  Betty.  They don't mean murder.  You an' I can do nothing
against so many.  Keep quiet; p'r'aps they'll leave us alone."

As he spoke a still deeper idea flashed into his little brain.  To the
surprise of Betty, he suddenly threw his arms round her waist and clung
to her as if for protection with a look of fear in his face, and when
the work of binding the captives was completed the Indians found him
still labouring to all appearance under great alarm.  Unaco cast on him
one look of supreme scorn, and then, leaving him, like Betty, unbound,
turned towards Paul Bevan.

"The white man is one of wicked band?" he said, in his broken English.

"I don't know what ye mean, Redskin," replied Paul; "but speak your own
tongue, I understand it well enough to talk with ye."

The Indian repeated the question in his native language, and Paul,
replying in the same, said--

"No, Redskin, I belong to no band, either wicked or good."

"How come you, then, to be in company with this man?" demanded the
Indian.

In reply Paul gave a correct account of the cause and object of his
being there, explained that the starving man before them was the friend
for whom he sought, that Betty was his daughter, though how she came to
be there beat his comprehension entirely, and that the botanist was a
stranger, whose name even he did not yet know.

"It is false," returned the chief.  "The white man speaks with a forked
tongue.  He is one of the murderers who have slain my wife and my
child."

A dark fierce frown passed over the chief's countenance as he spoke, but
it was quickly replaced by the habitual look of calm gravity.

"What can stop me," he said, reverting again to English as he turned and
addressed Betty, "from killing you as my wife was killed by white man?"

"My God can stop you," answered the girl, in a steady voice, though her
heart beat fast and her face was very pale.

"Your God!" exclaimed the savage.  "Will your God defend the wicked?"

"No, but He will pardon the wicked who come to Him in the name of Jesus,
and He will defend the innocent."

"Innocent!" repeated Unaco, vehemently, as he turned and pointed to the
botanist.  "Does you call _this_ man innocent?"

"I know nothing about that man," returned the girl, earnestly; "but I do
know that my father and I, and all the rest of us, are innocent of any
crime against you."

For a few seconds the savage chief gazed steadily at Betty, then turning
towards the botanist he took a step towards the spot where he sat and
looked keenly into his face.

The botanist returned the gaze with equal steadiness through his blue
spectacles.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"The big man with the blue glass eyes is a villain," said the Indian
chief, after a long scrutiny of the botanist's countenance.

"So some of my mistaken friends have thought," returned the man,
speaking for the first time in his natural voice, which caused a thrill
to pass through Paul Bevan's frame.

"He is a thief," continued the chief, still gazing steadily at the blue
glasses, "and a murderer!"

"He's all that, and liar and deceiver into the bargain," thought Tolly
Trevor, but Tolly did not speak; he only vented his feelings in a low
chuckle, for he saw, or thought he saw, that the robber's career was
about to receive a check.  As the thought passed through his brain,
however, he observed from the position in which he stood that Stalker--
for, as the reader has doubtless perceived, it was he--was working his
hands about in a very soft slow, mysterious, and scarcely observable
manner.

"Oho!" thought Tolly, "is that your little game?  Ha!  I'll spoil it for
you!"

He quietly took up a piece of firewood and began, as it were, to amuse
himself therewith.

"You has many faces, many colours," continued Unaco, "and too many
eyes."

At the last word he plucked the blue glasses off the botanist's nose and
flung them into the fire.

"My enemy!" gasped Paul Bevan, turning first very pale and then very
red, as he glared like a chained tiger at his foe.

"You knows him _now_?" said Unaco, turning abruptly to Paul.

"Yes; _I_ knows him!"

"The white man with the forked tongue say jus' now he _not_ knows him."

"Ay, Redskin, an' I said the truth, for he's a rare deceiver--always has
been--an' can pass himself off for a'most anything.  I knows him as my
mortal foe.  Cast my hands loose an' give me a knife an' you shall see."

"O father! your promise--remember!" exclaimed Betty.

"True, dear lass, true; I forgot," returned Paul, with a humbled look;
"yet it _is_ hard for a man to see him there, grinning like a big
baboon, an' keep his hands off him."

During this dialogue the Indians looked from one speaker to another with
keen interest, although none but their chief understood a word of what
was said; and Stalker took advantage of their attention being turned for
the moment from himself to carry out what Tolly had styled his "little
game," all unaware that the boy was watching him like a lynx.

Among other shifts and devices with which the robber chief had become
familiar, he had learned the conjuror's method of so arranging his limbs
while being bound, that he could untie his bonds in a marvellous manner.
On the present occasion, however, he had been tied by men who were
expert in the use of deerskin thongs, and he found some difficulty in
loosening them without attracting attention, but he succeeded at last.
He had been secured only by the wrists and forearms, and remained
sitting still a few seconds after he was absolutely free; then, seizing
what he believed to be his opportunity, he leapt up, dashed the Indian
nearest him to the earth, and sprang like a deer towards the bushes.

But Tolly Trevor was ready for him.  That daring youth plunged right in
front of the big botanist and stooped.  Stalker tripped over him and
came violently to the ground on his forehead and nose.  Before he could
rise Tolly had jumped up, and swinging his billet of wood once in the
air, brought it down with all his little might on the robber's crown.
It sufficed to stupefy him, and when he recovered he found himself in
the close embrace of three muscular Redskins.

"Well done, Tolly Trevor!" shouted Paul Bevan, enthusiastically.

Even Tom Brixton, who had been looking on in a state of inexpressible
surprise, managed to utter a feeble cheer.

But the resources of the robber were not yet exhausted.  Finding himself
in the grasp of overwhelming numbers, he put forth all his strength, as
if to make a final effort, and then, suddenly collapsing, dropped limp
and helpless to the ground, as a man does when he is stabbed to the
heart.

The savages knew the symptoms well--too well!  They rose, breathless,
and each looked inquiringly at the other, as though to say, "Who did the
deed?"  Before they discovered that the deed had not been done at all,
Stalker sprang up, knocked down two of them, overturned the third, and,
bounding into the bushes, was out of sight in a few seconds.

The whole band, of course, went yelling after him, except their chief,
who stood with an angry scowl upon his visage, and awaited the return of
his braves.

One by one they came back panting and discomfited, for the white robber
had outrun them all and got clear away.

"Well, now, it was cliverly done," remarked Paddy Flinders, finding his
tongue at last; "an' I raly can't but feel that he desarves to git off
this time.  All the same I hope he'll be nabbed at last an' recaive his
due--bad luck to him!"

"Now, Redskin--" began Bevan.

"My name is Unaco," interrupted the chief, with a look of dignity.

"Well, then, Unaco," continued Bevan, "since ye must see that we have
nothing whatever to do wi' the blackguard that's just given ye the slip,
I hope you'll see your way to untie our hands an' let us go."

"You may not belong to that man's band," answered the chief, in his own
tongue, "but you are a white man, and by white men I have been robbed of
my wife and child.  Your lives are forfeited.  You shall be slaves to
those whom you call Redskins, and this girl with the sunny hair shall
replace the lost one in my wigwam."

Without deigning to listen to a reply, Unaco turned and gave orders to
his men, who at once brought up the horse and pony, set Betty and Tolly
thereon, lifted Tom Brixton on their shoulders as before, and resumed
their march deeper into the fastnesses of the Sawback Hills.

It was growing rapidly dark as they advanced, but the chief who led the
party was intimately acquainted with every foot of the way, and as the
moon rose before daylight had quite disappeared, they were enabled to
continue their journey by night.

"No doubt" remarked Fred Westly to Paul, who was permitted to walk
beside him, though Flinders was obliged to walk behind--"no doubt the
chief fears that Stalker will pursue him when he is rejoined by his
robber band, and wants to get well out of his way."

"Very likely," returned Bevan; "an' it's my opinion that he'll find some
more of his tribe hereabouts, in which case Master Stalker and his
blackguards will have pretty stiff work cut out for them."

"What think you of the threat of the chief to take Betty to be one of
his wives?" asked Fred.

"Well, I don't think he'll do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I've got a hold over him that he's not aware of just yet."

"What is that, and why did you not make use of it just now to prevent
our being needlessly led farther into these mountains?" asked Fred, in
surprise.

"What the hold is," returned Bevan, "you shall know at supper-time.  The
reason why I didn't make use of it sooner is that on the whole, I think
it better to stick by the Redskins yet awhile--first, because if Stalker
should look for us, as he's sartin sure to do, we would not be strong
enough to fight him in the open; and, secondly, because poor Tom Brixton
needs rest, and he has more chance o' that in the circumstances, wi' the
Redskins than he could have with us while being hunted by robbers; and,
lastly, because Betty would come to grief if she fell into that villain
Stalker's hands just now."

While Paul and Fred were thus conversing, the Rose of Oregon and her
little protector rode silently beside each other, buried, apparently, in
profound thought.

At last Tolly raised his head and voice.

"Betty," said he, "what a lucky thing it was that we fell in wi' Tom
Brixton, and that you were able to give him somethin' to eat."

"Yes, thank God," replied the girl, fervently.

"He'd have died but for you," said the boy.

"And you, Tolly," added Betty.

"Well, yes, I did have a finger in the pie," returned the boy, with a
self-satisfied air; "but I say, Betty," he added, becoming suddenly
serious, "what d'ye think o' what that rascally chief said about takin'
you to his wigwam?  You know that means he intends to make you his
wife."

"Yes, I know; but God will deliver me," answered the girl.

"How d'ye know that?"

"Because I put my trust in Him."

"Oh! but," returned the boy, with a slight look of surprise, "unless God
works a miracle I don't see how He can deliver us from the Redskins, and
you know He doesn't work miracles nowadays."

"I'm not so sure of that," replied the girl.  "More than once I have
seen a man who had been nearly all his life given to drinking, fighting,
thieving, and swearing, and every sort of wickedness, surrender himself
body and soul to Jesus Christ, so that he afterwards gave up all his
evil ways, and led a pure and peaceable life, trying not only to serve
God himself, but doing his best to bring his old companions to the same
state of mind.  What would you call that, Tolly?"

"I'm bound to say it's as near a miracle as can be, if not one
altogether.  But in what way do you think God will deliver you just
now?"

"That I cannot tell; but I know this, it is written in His Word that
those who put their trust in Him shall never be confounded, and I have
put my trust in Him.  He will never forsake me."

"I wish I had as strong faith as you, Betty," said the boy, with a grave
look.

"You may have it--and stronger than I have, for faith is the gift of
God, and we shall get it not in proportion to our trying to get it or to
our trying to rouse it, or to our working for it, but according as we
_ask_ for it.  The Holy Spirit can work anything in us and by us, and
_He_ is promised to those who merely ask in the name of Jesus.  Ah!
Tolly, have I not often told you this, that in God's Word it is written,
`Ye have not because ye ask not?'"

While these two were yet speaking, the chief called a halt, and, after a
brief consultation with some of his braves, ordered the band to encamp
for the night.

Soon the camp fires were lighted under the spreading trees, and their
bright blaze and myriad sparks converted the gloomy forest into a
brilliant banqueting hall, in which, unlike civilised halls, the
decorations were fresh and natural, and the atmosphere was pure.

There were at least six camp-fires, each with its circle of grave red
warriors, its roasting steaks and its bubbling kettle, in which latter
was boiled a rich mixture of dried meat and flour.  Some of the Indians
stood conversing in low tones, their faces ruddy with the brilliant
blaze and their backs as black as the surrounding background.  Others
lay at length on the ground or squatted thereon, placidly smoking their
calumets, or the little iron pipes which formed part of the heads of
their tomahawks, or tending the steaks and kettles.  To an observer
outside the circle of light the whole scene was intensely vivid and
picturesque, for the groups, being at different distances, were varied
in size, and the intense light that shone on those nearest the fires
shed a softer glow on those who were more distant, while on the few
Indians who moved about in search of firewood it cast a pale light which
barely sufficed to distinguish them from surrounding darkness.

Paul Bevan and his friends occupied a fire by themselves, the only
native who stood beside them being Unaco.  It is probable that the
savage chief constituted himself their guard in order to make quite sure
of them, for the escape of Stalker weighed heavily on his mind.  To
secure this end more effectively, and at the same time enable the
captives to feed themselves, the right arm of each was freed, while the
left was tied firmly to his body.  Of course, Betty and Tom Brixton were
left altogether unbound.

"I feel uncommon lopsided goin' about in this one-armed fashion,"
remarked Paul, as he turned the stick on which his supper was roasting.
"Couldn't ye make up yer mind to trust us, Unaco?  I'd promise for
myself an' friends that we wouldn't attempt to cut away like that big
thief Stalker."

The chief, who sat a little apart near the farther end of the blazing
pile of logs, smoking his pipe in motionless gravity, took not the
slightest notice.

"Arrah! howld yer tongue, Paul," said Flinders, who made so much use of
his one arm, in stirring the kettle, turning a roasting venison rib, and
arranging the fire, that it seemed as if he were in full possession of
two; "why d'ye disturb his majesty?  Don't ye see that he's meditatin',
or suthin' o' that sort--maybe about his forefathers?"

"Well, well, I hope his after mothers won't have many sulky ones like
him," returned Paul, rather crossly.  "It's quite impossible to cut up a
steak wi' one hand, so here goes i' the next best fashion."

He took up the steak in his fingers, and was about to tear off a
mouthful with his teeth, when Betty came to the rescue.

"Stay, father; I'll cut it into little bits for you if Unaco will kindly
lend me his scalping-knife."

Without a word or look the chief quietly drew the glittering weapon from
its sheath and handed it to Betty, who at once, using a piece of
sharpened stick as a fork, cut her father's portion into manageable
lumps.

"That's not a bad notion," said Fred.  "Perhaps you'll do the same for
me, Betty."

"With pleasure, Mr Westly."

"Ah, now, av it wouldn't be axin' too much, might I make so bowld--"

Flinders did not finish the sentence, but laid his pewter plate before
the Rose of Oregon with a significant smile.

"I'm glad to be so unexpectedly useful," said Betty, with a laugh.

When she had thus aided her half-helpless companions, Betty returned the
knife to its owner, who received it with a dignified inclination of the
head.  She then filled a mug with soup, and went to Tom, who lay on a
deerskin robe, gazing at her in rapt admiration, and wondering when he
was going to awake out of this most singular dream, for, in his weak
condition, he had taken to disbelieving all that he saw.

"And yet it can't well be a dream," he murmured, with a faint smile, as
the girl knelt by his side, "for I never dreamed anything half so real.
What is this--soup?"

"Yes; try to take a little.  It will do you good, with God's blessing."

"Ah, yes, with God's blessing," repeated the poor youth, earnestly.
"You know what that means, Betty, and--and--I _think_ I am beginning to
understand it."

Betty made no reply, but a feeling of profound gladness crept into her
heart.

When she returned to the side of her father she found that he had
finished supper, and was just beginning to use his pipe.

"When are you going to tell me, Paul, about the--the--subject we were
talking of on our way here?" asked Fred, who was still devoting much of
his attention to a deer's rib.

"I'll tell ye now," answered Paul, with a short glance at the Indian
chief, who still sat, profoundly grave, in the dreamland of smoke.
"There's no time like after supper for a good pipe an' a good story--not
that what I'm goin' to tell ye is much of a story either, but it's true,
if that adds vally to it, an' it'll be short.  It's about a brave young
Indian I once had the luck to meet with.  His name was Oswego."

At the sound of the name Unaco cast a sharp glance at Bevan.  It was so
swift that no one present observed it save Bevan himself, who had
expected it.  But Paul pretended not to notice it, and turning himself
rather more towards Fred, addressed himself pointedly to him.

"This young Indian," said Paul, "was a fine specimen of his race, tall
and well made, with a handsome countenance, in which truth was as plain
as the sun in the summer sky.  I was out after grizzly b'ars at the
time, but hadn't had much luck, an' was comin' back to camp one evenin'
in somethin' of a sulky humour, when I fell upon a trail which I knowed
was the trail of a Redskin.  The Redskins was friendly at that time wi'
the whites, and as I was out alone, an' am somethin' of a sociable
critter, I thought I'd follow him up an' take him to my camp wi' me, if
he was willin', an' give him some grub an' baccy.  Well, I hadn't gone
far when I came to a precipiece.  The trail followed the edge of it for
some distance, an' I went along all right till I come to a bit where the
trail seemed to go right over it.  My heart gave a jump, for I seed at a
glance that a bit o' the cliff had given way there, an' as there was no
sign o' the trail farther on, of course I knowed that the Injin, whoever
he was, must have gone down with it.

"I tried to look over, but it was too steep an' dangerous, so I sought
for a place where I could clamber down.  Sure enough, when I reached the
bottom, there lay the poor Redskin.  I thought he was dead, for he'd
tumbled from a most awful height, but a tree had broke his fall to some
extent, and when I went up to him I saw by his eyes that he was alive,
though he could neither speak nor move.

"I soon found that the poor lad was damaged past recovery; so, after
tryin' in vain to get him to speak to me, I took him in my arms as
tenderly as I could and carried him to my camp.  It was five miles off,
and the road was rough, and although neither groan nor complaint escaped
him, I knew that poor Oswego suffered much by the great drops o'
perspiration that rolled from his brow; so, you see, I had to carry him
carefully.  When I'd gone about four miles I met a small Injin boy who
said he was Oswego's brother, had seen him fall, an', not bein' able to
lift him, had gone to seek for help, but had failed to find it.

"That night I nursed the lad as I best could, gave him some warm tea,
and did my best to arrange him comfortably.  The poor fellow tried to
speak his gratitude, but couldn't; yet I could see it in his looks.  He
died next day, and I buried him under a pine-tree.  The poor
heart-broken little brother said he knew the way back to the wigwams of
his tribe, so I gave him the most of the provisions I had, told him my
name, and sent him away."

At this point in the story Unaco rose abruptly, and said to Bevan--

"The white man will follow me."

Paul rose, and the chief led him into the forest a short way, when he
turned abruptly, and, with signs of emotion unusual in an Indian, said--

"Your name is Paul Bevan?"

"It is."

"I am the father of Oswego," said the chief, grasping Paul by the hand
and shaking it vigorously in the white man's fashion.

"I know it, Unaco, and I know you by report, though we've never met
before, and I told that story in your ear to convince ye that my tongue
is _not_ `forked.'"

When Paul Bevan returned to the camp fire, soon afterwards, he came
alone, and both his arms were free.  In a few seconds he had the
satisfaction of undoing the bonds of his companions, and relating to
them the brief but interesting conversation which had just passed
between him and the Indian chief.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

At the edge of a small plain, or bit of prairie land, that shone like a
jewel in a setting of bush-clad hills, dwelt the tribe of natives who
owned Unaco as their chief.

It was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded portions of the
Sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the
gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous "prospector" would make
his way to these remote solitudes in quest of the precious metal.  Up to
that time those prospectors had met with nothing to reward them for
their pains, save the gratification to be derived from fresh mountain
air and beautiful scenery.

It required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his
party to reach the wigwams of the tribe.  The sun was just setting, on
the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile
and came in sight of the Indian village.

"It seems to me, Paul," remarked Fred Westly, as they halted to take a
brief survey of the scene, "that these Indians have found an admirable
spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and
difficult of access to tempt many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it
could be easily defended by a handful of resolute men."

"That is true," replied Bevan, as they continued on their way.
"Nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to
surprise and capture the place."

"Perchance Stalker and his villains may attempt to prove the truth of
what you say," suggested Fred.

"They will certainly attempt it" returned Paul, "but they are not what I
call resolute men.  Scoundrels are seldom blessed wi' much resolution,
an' they're never heartily united."

"What makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, Paul?"

"The fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six
years," answered Bevan, with a frown.

"Is it touching too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy,
and why so vindictive?"

"The reason Is simple enough.  Buxley hates me, and would kill me if he
could.  Indeed I'm half afraid that he will manage it at last, for I've
promised my little gal that I won't kill _him_ 'cept in self-defence,
an' of course if I don't kill him he's pretty sure to kill me."

"Does Betty know why this man persecutes you so?"

"No--she don't."

As it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that Bevan did not
mean to be communicative on the subject, Fred forbore to ask more
questions about it.

"So you think Unaco may be depended on?" he asked, by way of changing
the subject.

"Ay, surely.  You may depend on it that the Almighty made all men pretty
much alike as regards their feelin's.  The civilised people an' the
Redskins ain't so different as some folk seem to think.  They can both
of 'em love an' hate pretty stiffly, an' they are both able to feel an'
show gratitude as well as the reverse--also, they're pretty equal in the
matter of revenge."

"But don't we find," said Fred, "that among Christians revenge is pretty
much held in check?"

"Among Christians--ay," replied Bevan; "but white men ain't always
Christians, any more than red men are always devils.  Seems to me it's
six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other.  Moreover, when the
missionaries git among the Redskins, some of 'em turns Christians an'
some hypocrites--just the same as white men.  What Unaco is, in the
matter o' Christianity, is not for me to say, for I don't know; but from
what I do know, from hearsay, of his character, I'm sartin sure that
he's a good man and true, an' for that little bit of sarvice I did to
his poor boy, he'd give me his life if need be."

"Nevertheless, I can't help thinking that we might have returned to
Simpson's Gully, and taken the risk of meeting with Stalker," said Fred.

"Ha! that's because you don't know him," returned Bevan.  "If he had met
with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he'd have overtook us by
this time.  Anyway, he's sure to send scouts all round, and follow up
the trail as soon as he can."

"But think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor Tom
Brixton," said Fred.

"No doubt," returned Paul; "but haven't we got him on Tolly's pony
to-day? and isn't that a sign he's better?  An' would you have me risk
Betty fallin' Into the hands o' Buxley?"

Paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument
and Fred admitted that it was.

"Besides," he went on, "it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a
friendly tribe o' Injins, an' we may chance to fall in wi' gold, who
knows?  An' when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin' us, we shall
have the help o' the Redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause
is a good 'un an' their wigwams are in danger."

"It may be so, Paul.  However, right or wrong, here we are, and a most
charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it."

As Fred spoke, Betty Bevan, who rode in advance, reined in her horse,--
which, by the way, had become much more docile in her hands,--and waited
till her father overtook her.

"Is it not like paradise, father?"

"Not havin' been to paradise, dear, I can't exactly say," returned her
matter-of-fact sire.

"Oh, I say, ain't it splendatious!" said Tolly Trevor, coming up at the
moment, and expressing Betty's idea in somewhat different phraseology;
"just look at the lake--like a lookin'-glass, with every wigwam pictur'd
upside down, so clear that a feller can't well say which is which.  An'
the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, Redskins above and
Redskins below.  Hallo!  I say, what's that?"

The excited lad pointed, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent
motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair.
Next moment a beautiful little antelope bounded into an open space, and
stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders.  That
pause proved fatal.  A concealed hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp
crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through
the head.

"Poor, poor creature!" exclaimed the tender-hearted Betty.

"Not a bad supper for somebody," remarked her practical father.

As he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and
the man who had fired the shot appeared.

He was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow.  As he advanced
towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil,
but a white man--at least as regards blood, though his face, hands,
neck, and bared bosom had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as
that of any Indian.

"He's a trapper," exclaimed Tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them
to perceive that he was middle-aged and of rather slow and deliberate
temperament with a sedate expression on his rugged countenance.

"Ay, he looks like one o' these wanderin' chaps," said Bevan, "that seem
to be fond of a life o' solitude in the wilderness.  I've knowed a few
of 'em.  Queer customers some, that stick at nothin' when their blood's
up; though I have met wi' one or two that desarved an easier life, an'
more o' this world's goods.  But most of 'em prefer to hunt for their
daily victuals, an' on'y come down to the settlements when they run out
o' powder an' lead, or want to sell their furs.  Hallo!  Why, Tolly,
boy, it is--yes!  I do believe it's Mahoghany Drake himself!"

Tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper,
having already recognised him.

"His name is a strange one," remarked Fred Westly, gazing steadily at
the man as he approached.

"Drake is his right name," explained Bevan, "an' Mahoghany is a handle
some fellers gave him 'cause he's so much tanned wi' the sun.  He's one
o' the right sort, let me tell ye.  None o' your boastin', bustin'
critters, like Gashford, but a quiet, thinkin' man, as is ready to
tackle any subject a'most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie
till it's time to speak.  He can hold his own, too wi' man or beast.
Ain't he friendly wi' little Tolly Trevor?  He'll shake his arm out o'
the socket if he don't take care.  I'll have to go to the rescue."

In a few seconds Paul Bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by
the friendly shake of the trapper's hand, for, although fond of
solitude, Mahoghany Drake was also fond of human beings, and especially
of old friends.

"Glad to see you, gentlemen," he said, in a low, soft voice, when
introduced by Paul to the travellers.  At the same time he gave a
friendly little nod to Unaco, thus indicating that with the Indian chief
he was already acquainted.

"Well, Drake," said Bevan, after the first greetings were over, "all
right at the camp down there?"

"All well," he replied, "and the Leaping Buck quite recovered."

He cast a quiet glance at the Indian chief as he spoke, for the Leaping
Buck was Unaco's little son, who had been ailing when his father left
his village a few weeks before.

"No sign o' gold-seekers yet?" asked Paul.

"None--'cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but
they seemed to know nothin'.  Sartinly they found nothin', an' went away
disgusted."

The trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle as he said this.

"What are ye larfin' at?" asked Paul.

"At the gold-seekers," replied Drake.

"What was the matter wi' 'em," asked Tolly.

"Not much, lad, only they was blind, and also ill of a strong appetite."

"Ye was always fond o' speakin' in riddles," said Paul.  "What d'ye
mean, Mahoghany!"

"I mean that though there ain't much gold in these hills, maybe, what
little there is the seekers couldn't see, though they was walkin' over
it, an' they was so blind they couldn't hit what they fired at, so their
appetites was stronger than was comfortable.  I do believe they'd have
starved if I hadn't killed a buck for them."

During this conversation Paddy Flinders had been listening attentively
and in silence.  He now sidled up to Tom Brixton, who, although
bestriding Tolly's pony, seemed ill able to travel.

"D'ye hear what the trapper says, Muster Brixton?"

"Yes, Paddy, what then?"

"Och!  I only thought to cheer you up a bit by p'intin' out that he says
there's goold hereabouts."

"I'm glad for your sake and Fred's," returned Tom, with a faint smile,
"but it matters little to me; I feel that my days are numbered."

"Ah then, sor, don't spake like that," returned Flinders, with a
woebegone expression on his countenance.  "Sure, it's in the dumps ye
are, an' no occasion for that same.  Isn't Miss--"

The Irishman paused.  He had it in his heart to say, "Isn't Miss Betty
smilin' on ye like one o'clock?" but, never yet having ventured even a
hint on that subject to Tom, an innate feeling of delicacy restrained
him.  As the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that
moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.

The Indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of
deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the
commanding ridge along which the party travelled.  It occupied a piece
of green level land on the margin of the lake before referred to, and,
with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged
purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect as the eye of man could dwell
upon.

The distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated
towards them soft and musical.  Even the barking of the dogs and the
shouting of the little Redskins at play came up to them in a mellow,
almost peaceful, tone.  To the right of the village lay a swamp, from
out of which arose the sweet and plaintive cries of innumerable gulls,
plovers, and other wild-fowl, mingled with the trumpeting of geese and
the quacking of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the
glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic gambols among the
reeds and sedges.

After they had descended the hill-side by a zigzag path, and reached the
plain below, they obtained a nearer view of the eminently joyful scene,
the sound of the wild-fowl became more shrill, and the laughter of the
children more boisterous.  A number of the latter who had observed the
approaching party were seen hurrying towards them with eager haste, led
by a little lad, who bounded and leaped as if wild with excitement.
This was Unaco's little son, Leaping Buck, who had recognised the
well-known figure of his sire a long way off, and ran to meet him.

On reaching him the boy sprang like an antelope into his father's arms
and seized him round the neck, while others crowded round the gaunt
trapper and grasped his hands and legs affectionately.  A few of the
older boys and girls stood still somewhat shyly, and gazed in silence at
the strangers, especially at Betty, whom they evidently regarded as a
superior order of being--perhaps an angel--in which opinion they were
undoubtedly backed by Tom Buxton.

After embracing his father, Leaping Buck recognised Paul Bevan as the
man who had been so kind to him and his brother Oswego at the time when
the latter got his death-fall over the precipice.  With a shout of
joyful surprise he ran to him, and, we need scarcely add, was warmly
received by the kindly backwoodsman.

"I cannot help thinking," remarked Betty to Tom, as they gazed on the
pleasant meeting, "that God must have some way of revealing the Spirit
of Jesus to these Indians that we Christians know not of."

"It is strange," replied Tom, "that the same thought has occurred to me
more than once of late, when observing the character and listening to
the sentiments of Unaco.  And I have also been puzzled with this
thought--if God has some method of revealing Christ to the heathen that
we know not of, why are Christians so anxious to send the Gospel to the
heathen?"

"That thought has never occurred to me," replied Betty, "because our
reason for going forth to preach the Gospel to the heathen is the simple
one that God commands us to do so.  Yet it seems to me quite consistent
with that command that God may have other ways and methods of making His
truth known to men, but this being a mere speculation does not free us
from our simple duty."

"You are right.  Perhaps I am too fond of reasoning and speculating,"
answered Tom.

"Nay, that you are not" rejoined the girl, quickly; "it seems to me that
to reason and speculate is an important part of the duty of man, and
cannot but be right, so long as it does not lead to disobedience.  `Let
every man be fully persuaded in his own mind,' is our title from God to
_think_ fully and freely; but `Go ye into all the world and preach the
Gospel to every creature,' is a command so plain and peremptory that it
does not admit of speculative objection."

"Why, Betty, I had no idea you were such a reasoner!" said Tom, with a
look of surprise.  "Surely it is not your father who has taught you to
think thus?"

"I have had no teacher, at least of late years, but the Bible," replied
the girl, blushing deeply at having been led to speak so freely on a
subject about which she was usually reticent.  "But see," she added
hastily, giving a shake to the reins of her horse, "we have been left
behind.  The chief has already reached his village.  Let us push on."

The obstinate horse went off at an accommodating amble under the sweet
sway of gentleness, while the obedient pony followed at a brisk trot
which nearly shook all the little strength that Tom Brixton possessed
out of his wasted frame.

The manner in which Unaco was received by the people of his tribe, young
and old, showed clearly that he was well beloved by them; and the
hospitality with which the visitors were welcomed was intensified when
it was made known that Paul Bevan was the man who had shown kindness to
their chief's son Oswego in his last hours.  Indeed, the influence which
an Indian chief can have on the manners and habits of his people was
well exemplified by this small and isolated tribe, for there was among
them a pervading tone of contentment and goodwill, which was one of
Unaco's most obvious characteristics.  Truthfulness, also, and justice
were more or less manifested by them.  Even the children seemed to be
free from disputation; for, although there were of course differences of
opinion during games, these differences were usually settled without
quarrelling, and the noise, of which there was abundance, was the result
of gleeful shouts or merry laughter.  They seemed, in short, to be a
happy community, the various members of which had leaned--to a large
extent from their chief--"how good a thing it is for brethren to dwell
together in unity."

A tent was provided for Bevan, Flinders, and Tolly Trevor near to the
wigwam of Unaco, with a separate little one for the special use of the
Rose of Oregon.  Not far from these another tent was erected for Fred
and his invalid friend Tom Brixton.  As for Mahoghany Drake, that lanky,
lantern-jawed individual encamped under a neighbouring pine-tree in
quiet contempt of any more luxurious covering.

But, although the solitary wanderer of the western wilderness thus
elected to encamp by himself, he was by no means permitted to enjoy
privacy, for during the whole evening and greater part of that night his
campfire was surrounded by an admiring crowd of boys, and not a few
girls, who listened in open-eyed-and-mouthed attention to his thrilling
tales of adventure, giving vent now and then to a "waugh!" or a "ho!" of
surprise at some telling point in the narrative, or letting fly sudden
volleys of laughter at some humorous incident, to the amazement, no
doubt of the neighbouring bucks and bears and wild-fowl.

"Tom," said Fred that night, as he sat by the couch of his friend, "we
shall have to stay here some weeks, I suspect until you get strong
enough to travel, and, to say truth, the prospect is a pleasant as well
as an unexpected one, for we have fallen amongst amiable natives."

"True, Fred.  Nevertheless I shall leave the moment my strength
permits--that is, if health be restored to me--and I shall go off by
myself."

"Why, Tom, what do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say.  Dear Fred," answered the sick man, feebly
grasping his friend's hand, "I feel that it is my duty to get away from
all who have ever known me, and begin a new career of honesty, God
permitting.  I will not remain with the character of a thief stamped
upon me, to be a drag round your neck, and I have made up my mind no
longer to persecute dear Betty Bevan with the offer of a dishonest and
dishonoured hand.  In my insolent folly I had once thought her somewhat
below me in station.  I now know that she is far, far above me in every
way, and also beyond me."

"Tom, my dear boy," returned Fred, earnestly, "you are getting weak.  It
is evident that they have delayed supper too long.  Try to sleep now,
and I'll go and see why Tolly has not brought it."

So saying, Fred Westly left the tent and went off in quest of his little
friend.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Little Tolly Trevor and Leaping Buck--being about the same age, and
having similar tastes and propensities, though very unlike each other in
temperament--soon became fast friends, and they both regarded Mahoghany
Drake, the trapper, with almost idolatrous affection.

"Would you care to come wi' me to-day, Tolly?  I'm goin' to look for
some meat on the heights."

It was thus that Drake announced his intention to go a-hunting one fine
morning after he had disposed of a breakfast that might have sustained
an ordinary man for several days.

"Care to go with ye!" echoed Tolly, "I just think I should.  But, look
here, Mahoghany," continued the boy, with a troubled expression, "I've
promised to go out on the lake to-day wi' Leaping Buck, an' I _must_
keep my promise.  You know you told us only last night in that story
about the Chinaman and the grizzly that no true man ever breaks his
promise."

"Right, lad, right" returned the trapper, "but you can go an' ask the
little Buck to jine us, an' if he's inclined you can both come--only you
must agree to leave yer tongues behind ye if ye do, for it behoves
hunters to be silent, and from my experience of you I raither think yer
too fond o' chatterin'."

Before Drake had quite concluded his remark Tolly was off in search of
his red-skinned bosom friend.

The manner in which the friendship between the red boy and the white was
instituted and kept up was somewhat peculiar and almost
incomprehensible, for neither spoke the language of the other except to
a very slight extent.  Leaping Buck's father had, indeed, picked up a
pretty fair smattering of English during his frequent expeditions into
the gold-fields, which, at the period we write of, were being rapidly
developed.  Paul Bevan, too, during occasional hunting expeditions among
the red men, had acquired a considerable knowledge of the dialect spoken
in that part of the country, but Leaping Buck had not visited the
diggings with his father, so that his knowledge of English was confined
to the smattering which he had picked up from Paul and his father.  In
like manner Tolly Trevor's acquaintance with the native tongue consisted
of the little that had been imparted to him by his friend Paul Bevan.
Mahoghany Drake, on the contrary, spoke Indian fluently, and it must be
understood that in the discourses which he delivered to the two boys he
mixed up English and Indian in an amazing compound which served to
render him intelligible to both, but which, for the reader's sake, we
feel constrained to give in the trapper's ordinary English.

"It was in a place just like this," said Drake, stopping with his two
little friends on reaching a height, and turning round to survey the
scene behind him, "that a queer splinter of a man who was fond o'
callin' himself an ornithologist shot a grizzly b'ar wi' a mere popgun
that was only fit for a squawkin' babby's plaything."

"Oh! do sit down, Mahoghany," cried little Trevor, in a voice of
entreaty; "I'm so fond of hearin' about grizzlies, an' I'd give all the
world to meet one myself, so would Buckie here, wouldn't you?"

The Indian boy, whose name Tolly had thus modified, tried to assent to
this proposal by bending his little head in a stately manner, in
imitation of his dignified father.

"Well, I don't mind if I do," replied the trapper, with a twinkle of his
eyes.

Mahoghany Drake was blessed with that rare gift, the power to invest
with interest almost any subject, no matter how trivial or commonplace,
on which he chose to speak.  Whether it was the charm of a musical
voice, or the serious tone and manner of an earnest man, we cannot tell,
but certain it is, that whenever or wherever he began to talk, men
stopped to listen, and were held enchained until he had finished.

On the present occasion the trapper seated himself on a green bank that
lay close to the edge of a steep precipice, and laid his rifle across
his knees, while the boys sat down one on each side of him.

The view from the elevated spot on which they sat was most exquisite,
embracing the entire length of the valley at the other end of which the
Indian village lay, its inhabitants reduced to mere specks and its
wigwams to little cones, by distance.  Owing also to the height of the
spot, the view of surrounding mountains was extended, so that range upon
range was seen in softened perspective, while a variety of lakelets,
with their connecting watercourses, which were hidden by foliage in the
lower grounds, were now opened up to view.  Glowing sunshine glittered
on the waters and bathed the hills and valleys, deepening the near
shadows and intensifying the purple and blue of those more distant.

"It often makes me wonder," said the trapper, in a reflective tone, as
if speaking rather to himself than to his companions, "why the Almighty
has made the world so beautiful an' parfect an' allowed mankind to grow
so awful bad."

The boys did not venture to reply, but as Drake sat gazing in dreamy
silence at the far-off hills, little Trevor, who recalled some of his
conversations with the Rose of Oregon, ventured to say, "P'r'aps we'll
find out some day, though we don't understand it just now."

"True, lad, true," returned Drake.  "It would be well for us if we
always looked at it in that light, instead o' findin' fault wi' things
as they are, for it stands to reason that the Maker of all can fall into
no mistakes."

"But what about the ornithologist?" said Tolly, who had no desire that
the conversation should drift into abstruse subjects.

"Ay, ay, lad, I'm comin' to him," replied the trapper, with the humorous
twinkle that seemed to hover always about the corners of his eyes, ready
for instant development.  "Well, you must know, this was the way of it--
and it do make me larf yet when I think o' the face o' that
spider-legged critter goin' at the rate of twenty miles an hour or
thereabouts wi' that most awful-lookin' grizzly b'ar peltin' after
him.--Hist!  Look there, Tolly.  A chance for your popgun."

The trapper pointed as he spoke to a flock of wild duck that was coming
straight towards the spot on which they sat.  The "popgun" to which he
referred was one of the smooth-bore flint-lock single-barrelled
fowling-pieces which traders were in the habit of supplying to the
natives at that time, and which Unaco had lent to the boy for the day,
with his powder-horn and ornamented shot-pouch.

For the three hunters to drop behind the bank on which they had been
sitting was the work of a moment.

Young though he was, Tolly had already become a fair and ready shot.  He
selected the largest bird in the flock, covered it with a deadly aim,
and pulled the trigger.  But the click of the lock was not followed by
an explosion as the birds whirred swiftly on.

"Ah! my boy," observed the trapper, taking the gun quietly from the
boy's hand and proceeding to chip the edge of the flint, "you should
never go a-huntin' without seein' that your flint is properly fixed."

"But I did see to it," replied Tolly, in a disappointed tone, "and it
struck fire splendidly when I tried it before startin'."

"True, boy, but the thing is worn too short, an' though its edge is
pretty well, you didn't screw it firm enough, so it got drove back a bit
and the hammer-head, as well as the flint, strikes the steel, d'ye see?
There now, prime it again, an' be sure ye wipe the pan before puttin' in
the powder.  It's not worth while to be disap'inted about so small a
matter.  You'll git plenty more chances.  See, there's another flock
comin'.  Don't hurry, lad.  If ye want to be a good hunter always keep
cool, an' take time.  Better lose a chance than hurry.  A chance lost
you see, is only a chance lost, but blazin' in a hurry is a bad lesson
that ye've got to unlarn."

The trapper's advice was cut short by the report of Tolly's gun, and
next moment a fat duck, striking the ground in front of them, rolled
fluttering to their feet.

"Not badly done, Tolly," said the trapper, with a nod, as he reseated
himself on the bank, while Leaping Buck picked up the bird, which was by
that time dead, and the young sportsman recharged his gun; "just a
leetle too hurried.  If you had taken only half a second more time to
put the gun to your shoulder, you'd have brought the bird to the ground
dead; and you boys can't larn too soon that you should never give
needless pain to critters that you've got to kill.  You must shoot, of
course, or you'd starve; but always make sure of killin' at once, an'
the only way to do that is to keep cool an' take time.  You see, it
ain't the aim you take that matters so much, as the coolness an'
steadiness with which ye put the gun to your shoulder.  If you only do
that steadily an' without hurry, the gun is sure to p'int straight
for'ard an' the aim'll look arter itself.  Nevertheless, it was smartly
done, lad, for it's a difficult shot when a wild duck comes straight for
your head like a cannon-ball."

"But what about the ornithologist;" said Tolly, who, albeit well pleased
at the trapper's complimentary remarks, did not quite relish his
criticism.

"Yes, yes; I'm comin' to that.  Well, as I was sayin', it makes me larf
yet, when I thinks on it.  How he did run, to be sure!  Greased
lightnin' could scarce have kep' up wi' him."

"But where was he a-runnin' to, an' why?" asked little Trevor,
impatiently.

"Now, you leetle boy," said Drake, with a look of grave remonstrance,
"don't you go an' git impatient.  Patience is one o' the backwoods
vartues, without which you'll never git on at all.  If you don't
cultivate patience you may as well go an' live in the settlements or the
big cities--where it don't much matter what a man is--but it'll be no
use to stop in the wilderness.  There's Leapin' Buck, now, a-sittin' as
quiet as a Redskin warrior on guard!  Take a lesson from him, lad, an'
restrain yourself.  Well, as I was goin' to say, I was out settin' my
traps somewheres about the head-waters o' the Yellowstone river at the
time when I fell in wi' the critter.  I couldn't rightly make out what
he was, for, though I've seed mostly all sorts o' men in my day, I'd
never met in wi' one o' this sort before.  It wasn't his bodily shape
that puzzled me, though that was queer enough, but his occupation that
staggered me.  He was a long, thin, spider-shaped article that seemed to
have run to seed--all stalk with a frowsy top, for his hair was long an'
dry an' fly-about.  I'm six-futt one myself, but my step was a mere joke
to his stride!  He seemed split up to the neck, like a pair o' human
compasses, an' his clo's fitted so tight that he might have passed for a
livin' skeleton!

"Well, it was close upon sundown, an' I was joggin' along to my tent in
the bush when I came to an openin' where I saw the critter down on one
knee an' his gun up takin' aim at somethin'.  I stopped to let him have
his shot, for I count it a mortal sin to spoil a man's sport, an' I
looked hard to see what it was he was goin' to let drive at, but never a
thing could I see, far or near, except a small bit of a bird about the
size of a big bee, sittin' on a branch not far from his nose an' cockin'
its eye at him as much as to say, `Well, you air a queer 'un!'
`Surely,' thought I, `he ain't a-goin' to blaze at _that_!'  But I'd
scarce thought it when he did blaze at it an' down it came flop on its
back, as dead as mutton!

"`Well, stranger,' says I, goin' for'ard, `you do seem to be hard up for
victuals when you'd shoot a small thing like that!'  `Not at all, my
good man,' says he--an' the critter had a kindly smile an' a sensible
face enough--`you must know that I am shootin' birds for scientific
purposes.  I am an ornithologist.'

"`Oh!' say I, for I didn't rightly know what else to say to that.

"`Yes,' says he; `an' see here.'

"Wi' that he opens a bag he had on his back an' showed me a lot o'
birds, big an' small, that he'd been shootin'; an' then he pulls out a
small book, in which he'd been makin' picturs of 'em--an' r'ally I was
raither took wi' that for the critter had got 'em down there almost as
good as natur'.  They actooally looked as if they was alive!

"`Shut the book, sir,' says I, `or they'll all escape!'

"It was only a small joke I meant, but the critter took it for a big 'un
an' larfed at it till he made me half ashamed.

"`D'ye know any of these birds?' he axed, arter we'd looked at a lot of
'em.

"`Know 'em?' says I; `I should think I does!  Why, I've lived among 'em
ever since I was a babby!'

"`Indeed!' says he, an' he got quite excited, `how interestin'!  An' do
you know anythin' about their habits?'

"`If you mean by that their ways o' goin' on,' says I, `there's hardly a
thing about 'em that I don't know, except what they _think_, an'
sometimes I've a sort o' notion I could make a pretty fair guess at that
too.'

"`Will you come to my camp and spend the night with me?' he asked,
gettin' more an' more excited.

"`No, stranger, I won't,' says I; `but if you'll come to mine I'll feed
you an' make you heartily welcome,' for somehow I'd took quite a fancy
to the critter.

"`I'll go,' says he, an' he went an' we had such a night of it!  He
didn't let me have a wink o' sleep till pretty nigh daylight the next
mornin', an' axed me more questions about birds an' beasts an' fishes
than I was iver axed before in the whole course o' my life--an' it
warn't yesterday I was born.  I began to feel quite like a settlement
boy at school.  An' he set it all down, too, as fast as I could speak,
in the queerest hand-writin' you ever did see.  At last I couldn't stand
it no longer.

"`Mister Ornithologist' says I.

"`Well,' says he.

"`There's a pecooliar beast in them parts,' says I, `'as has got some
pretty stiff an' settled habits.'

"`Is there?' says he, wakin' up again quite fresh, though he had been
growin' sleepy.

"`Yes,' says I, `an' it's a obstinate sort o' brute that won't change
its habits for nobody.  One o' these habits is that it turns in of a
night quite reg'lar an' has a good snooze before goin' to work next day.
Its name is Mahoghany Drake, an' that's me, so I'll bid you good-night,
stranger.'

"Wi' that I knocked the ashes out o' my pipe, stretched myself out wi'
my feet to the fire, an' rolled my blanket round me.  The critter larfed
again at this as if it was a great joke, but he shut up his book, put it
and the bag o' leetle birds under his head for a pillow, spread himself
out over the camp like a great spider that was awk'ard in the use o' its
limbs, an' went off to sleep even before I did--an' that was sharp
practice, let me tell you.

"Well," continued the trapper, clasping his great bony hands over one of
his knees, and allowing the lines of humour to play on his visage, while
the boys drew nearer in open-eyed expectancy, "we slep' about three
hours, an' then had a bit o' breakfast, after which we parted, for he
said he knew his way back to the camp, where he left his friends; but
the poor critter didn't know nothin'--'cept ornithology.  He lost
himself an took to wanderin' in a circle arter I left him.  I came to
know it 'cause I struck his trail the same arternoon, an' there could be
no mistakin' it, the length o' stride bein' somethin' awful!  So I
followed it up.

"I hadn't gone far when I came to a place pretty much like this, as I
said before, and when I was lookin' at the view--for I'm fond of a fine
view, it takes a man's mind off trappin' an' victuals somehow--I heerd a
most awful screech, an' then another.  A moment later an' the
ornithologist busted out o' the bushes with his long legs goin' like the
legs of a big water-wagtail.  He was too fur off to see the look of his
face, but his hair was tremendous to behold.  When he saw the precipice
before him he gave a most horrible yell, for he knew that he couldn't
escape that way from whatever was chasin' him.  I couldn't well help
him, for there was a wide gully between him an' me, an' it was too fur
off for a fair shot.  Howsever, I stood ready.  Suddenly I seed the
critter face right about an' down on one knee like a pair o' broken
compasses; up went the shot-gun, an' at the same moment out busted a
great old grizzly b'ar from the bushes.  Crack! went my rifle at once,
but I could see that the ball didn't hurt him much, although it hit him
fair on the head.  Loadin' in hot haste, I obsarved that the
ornithologist sat like a post till that b'ar was within six foot of him,
when he let drive both barrels of his popgun straight into its face.
Then he jumped a one side with a spurt like a grasshopper, an' the b'ar
tumbled heels over head and got up with an angry growl to rub its face,
then it made a savage rush for'ard and fell over a low bank, jumped up
again, an' went slap agin a face of rock.  I seed at once that it was
blind.  The small shot used by the critter for his leetle birds had put
out both its eyes, an' it went blunderin' about while the ornithologist
kep' well out of its way.  I knew he was safe, so waited to see what
he'd do, an' what d'ye think he did?"

"Shoved his knife into him," suggested Tolly Trevor, in eager anxiety.

"What! shove his knife into a healthy old b'ar with nothin' gone but his
sight?  No, lad, he did do nothing so mad as that, but he ran coolly up
to it an' screeched in its face.  Of course the b'ar went straight at
the sound, helter-skelter, and the ornithologist turned an' ran to the
edge o' the precipice, screechin' as he went.  When he got there he
pulled up an' darted a one side, but the b'ar went slap over, an' I
believe I'm well within the mark when I say that that b'ar turned five
complete somersaults before it got to the bottom, where it came to the
ground with a whack that would have busted an elephant.  I don't think
we found a whole bone in its carcass when the ornithologist helped me to
cut it up that night in camp."

"Well done!" exclaimed little Trevor, with enthusiasm, "an' what came o'
the orny-what-d'ye-callum?"

"That's more than I can tell, lad.  He went off wi' the b'ar's claws to
show to his friends, an' I never saw him again.  But look there, boys,"
continued the trapper in a suddenly lowered tone of voice, while he
threw forward and cocked his rifle, "d'ye see our supper?"

"What?  Where?" exclaimed Tolly, in a soft whisper, straining his eyes
in the direction indicated.

The sharp crack of the trapper's rifle immediately followed, and a fine
buck lay prone upon the ground.

"'Twas an easy shot," said Drake, recharging his weapon, "only a man
needs a leetle experience before he can fire down a precipice correctly.
Come along, boys."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Nothing further worth mentioning occurred to the hunters that day, save
that little Tolly Trevor was amazed--we might almost say petrified--by
the splendour and precision of the trapper's shooting, besides which he
was deeply impressed with the undercurrent of what we may style grave
fun, coupled with calm enthusiasm, which characterised the man, and the
utter absence of self-assertion or boastfulness.

But if the remainder of the day was uneventful, the stories round the
camp-fire more than compensated him and his friend Leaping Buck.  The
latter was intimately acquainted with the trapper, and seemed to derive
more pleasure from watching the effect of his anecdotes on his new
friend than in listening to them himself.  Probably this was in part
owing to the fact that he had heard them all before more than once.

The spot they had selected for their encampment was the summit of a
projecting crag, which was crowned with a little thicket, and surrounded
on three sides by sheer precipices.  The neck of rock by which it was
reached was free from shrubs, besides being split across by a deep chasm
of several feet in width, so that it formed a natural fortress, and the
marks of old encampments seemed to indicate that it had been used as a
camping-place by the red man long before his white brother--too often
his white foe--had appeared in that western wilderness to disturb him.
The Indians had no special name for the spot, but the roving trappers
who first came to it had named it the Outlook, because from its summit a
magnificent view of nearly the whole region could be obtained.  The
great chasm or fissure already mentioned descended sheer down, like the
neighbouring precipices, to an immense depth, so that the Outlook, being
a species of aerial island, was usually reached by a narrow plank which
bridged the chasm.  It had stood many a siege in times past, and when
used as a fortress, whether by white hunters or savages, the plank
bridge was withdrawn, and the place rendered--at least esteemed--
impregnable.

When Mahoghany Drake and his young friends came up to the chasm a little
before sunset Leaping Buck took a short run and bounded clear over it.

"Ha!  I knowed he couldn't resist the temptation," said Mahoghany, with
a quiet chuckle, "an' it's not many boys--no, nor yet men--who could
jump that.  I wouldn't try it myself for a noo rifle--no, though ye was
to throw in a silver-mounted powder-horn to the bargain."

"But you _have_ jumped it?" cried the Indian boy, turning round with a
gleeful face.

"Ay, lad, long ago, and then I was forced to, when runnin' for my life.
A man'll do many a deed when so sitooate that he couldn't do in cold
blood.  Come, come, young feller," he added, suddenly laying his heavy
hand on little Trevor's collar and arresting him, "you wasn't thinkin'
o' tryin' it was ye?"

"Indeed I was, and I _think_ I could manage it," said the foolishly
ambitious Tolly.

"Thinkin' is not enough, boy," returned the trapper, with a grave shake
of the head.  "You should always make _sure_.  Suppose you was wrong in
your thinkin', now, who d'ee think would go down there to pick up the
bits of 'ee an' carry them home to your mother."

"But I haven't got a mother," said Tolly.

"Well, your father, then."

"But I haven't got a father."

"So much the more reason," returned the trapper, in a softened tone,
"that you should take care o' yourself, lest you should turn out to be
the last o' your race.  Come, help me to carry this plank.  After we're
over I'll see you jump on safe ground, and if you can clear enough,
mayhap I'll let 'ee try the gap.  Have you a steady head?"

"Ay, like a rock," returned Tolly, with a grin.

"See that you're _sure_, lad, for if you ain't I'll carry you over."

In reply to this Tolly ran nimbly over the plank bridge like a
tight-rope dancer.  Drake followed, and they were all soon busily
engaged clearing a space on which to encamp, and collecting firewood.

"Tell me about your adventure at the time you jumped the gap,
Mahoghany," begged little Trevor, when the first volume of smoke arose
from their fire and went straight up like a pillar into the calm air.

"Not now, lad.  Work first, talk afterwards.  That's my motto."

"But work is over now--the fire lighted and the kettle on," objected
Tolly.

"Nay, lad, when you come to be an old hunter you'll look on supper as
about the most serious work o' the day.  When that's over, an' the pipe
a-goin', an' maybe a little stick-whittlin' for variety, a man may let
his tongue wag to some extent."

Our small hero was fain to content himself with this reply, and for the
next half-hour or more the trio gave their undivided attention to steaks
from the loin of the fat buck and slices from the breast of the wild
duck which had fallen to Tolly's gun.  When the pipe-and-stick-whittling
period arrived, however, the trapper disposed his bulky length in front
of the fire, while his young admirers lay down beside him.

The stick-whittling, it may be remarked, devolved upon the boys, while
the smoking was confined to the man.

"I can't see why it is," observed Tolly, when the first whiffs curled
from Mahoghany Drake's lips, "that you men are so strong in discouragin'
us boys from smokin'.  You keep it all selfishly to yourselves, though
Buckie an' I would give anythin' to be allowed to try a whiff now an'
then.  Paul Bevan's just like you--won't hear o' _me_ touchin' a pipe,
though he smokes himself like a wigwam wi' a greenwood fire!"

Drake pondered a little before replying.

"It would never do, you know," he said, at length, "for you boys to do
'zackly as we men does."

"Why not?" demanded Tolly, developing an early bud of independent
thought.

"Why, 'cause it wouldn't" replied Drake.  Then, feeling that his answer
was not a very convincing argument he added, "You see, boys ain't men,
no more than men are boys, an' what's good for the one ain't good for
the tother."

"I don't see that" returned the radical-hearted Tolly.  "Isn't eatin',
an' drinkin', an' sleepin', an' walkin', an' runnin', an' talkin', an'
thinkin', an' huntin', equally good for boys and men?  If all these
things is good for us both, why not smokin'?"

"That's more than I can tell 'ee, lad," answered the honest trapper,
with a somewhat puzzled look.

If Mahoghany Drake had thought the matter out a little more closely he
might perhaps have seen that smoking _is_ as good for boys as for men--
or, what comes to much the same thing, is equally bad for both of them!
But the sturdy trapper liked smoking; hence, like many wiser men, he did
not care to think the matter out.  On the contrary, he changed the
subject, and, as the change was very much for the better in the
estimation of his companions, Tolly did not object.

"Well now, about that jump," he began, emitting a prolonged and delicate
whiff.

"Ah, yes!  How did you manage to do it?" asked little Trevor, eagerly.

"Oh, for the matter o' that it's easy to explain; but it wasn't _my_
jump I was goin' to tell about; it was the jump o' a poor critter--a
sort o' ne'er-do-well who jined a band o' us trappers the day before we
arrived at this place, on our way through the mountains on a huntin'
expedition.  He was a miserable specimen o' human natur'--all the worse
that he had a pretty stout body o' his own, an' might have made a
fairish man if he'd had the spirit even of a cross-grained rabbit.  His
name was Miffy, an' it sounded nat'ral to him, for there was no go in
him whatever.  I often wonder what sitch men was made for.  They're o'
no use to anybody, an' a nuisance to themselves."

"P'r'aps they wasn't made for any use at all," suggested Tolly, who,
having whittled a small piece of stick down to nothing, commenced
another piece with renewed interest.

"No, lad," returned the trapper, with a look of deeper gravity.  "Even
poor, foolish man does not construct anything without some sort o'
purpose in view.  It's an outrage on common sense to think the Almighty
could do so.  Mayhap sitch critters was meant to act as warnin's to
other men.  He told us that he'd runned away from home when he was a boy
'cause he didn't like school.  Then he engaged as a cabin-boy aboard a
ship tradin' to some place in South America, an' runned away from his
ship the first port they touched at 'cause he didn't like the sea.  Then
he came well-nigh to the starvin' p'int an' took work on a farm as a
labourer, but left that 'cause it was too hard, after which he got a
berth as watchman at a warehouse, or some place o' the sort but left
that, for it was too easy.  Then he tried gold-diggin', but could make
nothin' of it; engaged in a fur company, but soon left it; an' then
tried his hand at trappin' on his own account but gave it up 'cause he
could catch nothin'.  When he fell in with our band he was redooced to
two rabbits an' a prairie hen, wi' only three charges o' powder in his
horn, an' not a drop o' lead.

"Well, we tuck pity on the miserable critter, an' let him come along wi'
us.  There was ten of us altogether, an' he made eleven.  At first we
thought he'd be of some use to us, but we soon found he was fit for
nothin'.  However, we couldn't cast him adrift in the wilderness, for
he'd have bin sure to come to damage somehow, so we let him go on with
us.  When we came to this neighbourhood we made up our minds to trap in
the valley, and as the Injins were wild at that time, owin' to some
rascally white men who had treated them badly and killed a few, we
thought it advisable to pitch our camp on the Outlook here.  It was a
well-known spot to most o' my comrades, tho' I hadn't seen it myself at
that time.

"When we came to the gap, one of the young fellows named Bounce gave a
shout, took a run, and went clear over it just as Leapin' Buck did.  He
was fond o' showin' off, you know!  He turned about with a laugh, and
asked us to follow.  We declined, and felled a small tree to bridge it.
Next day we cut the tree down to a plank, as bein' more handy to shove
across in a hurry if need be.

"Well, we had good sport--plenty of b'ar and moose steaks, no end of
fresh eggs of all sorts, and enough o' pelts to make it pay.  You see we
didn't know there was gold here in those days, so we didn't look for it,
an' wouldn't ha' knowed it if we'd seen it.  But I never myself cared to
look for gold.  It's dirty work, grubbin' among mud and water like a
beaver.  It's hard work, too, an' I've obsarved that the men who get
most gold at the diggin's are not the diggers but the storekeepers, an'
a bad lot they are, many of 'em, though I'm bound to say that I've
knowed a few as was real honest men, who kep' no false weights or
measures, an' had some sort of respec' for their Maker.

"However," continued the trapper, filling a fresh pipe, while Tolly and
his little red friend, whittling their sticks less vigorously as the
story went on and at length dropping them altogether, kept their bright
eyes riveted on Drake's face.  "However, that's not what I've got to
tell 'ee about.  You must know that one evening, close upon sundown, we
was all returnin' from our traps more or less loaded wi' skins an' meat,
all except Miffy, who had gone, as he said, a huntin'.  Bin truer if
he'd said he meant to go around scarin' the animals.  Well, just as we
got within a mile o' this place we was set upon by a band o' Redskins.
There must have bin a hundred of 'em at least.  I've lived a longish
time now in the wilderness, but I never, before or since, heard sitch a
yellin' as the painted critters set up in the woods all around when they
came at us, sendin' a shower o' arrows in advance to tickle us up; but
they was bad shots, for only one took effect, an' that shaft just grazed
the point o' young Bounce's nose as neat as if it was only meant to make
him sneeze.  It made him jump, I tell 'ee, higher than I ever seed him
jump before.  Of course fightin' was out o' the question.

"Ten trappers under cover might hold their own easy enough agin a
hundred Redskins, but not in the open.  We all knew that, an' had no
need to call a council o' war.  Every man let his pack fall, an' away we
went for the Outlook, followed by the yellin' critters closer to our
heels than we quite liked.  But they couldn't shoot runnin', so we got
to the gap.  The plank was there all right.  Over we went, faced about,
and while one o' us hauled it over, the rest gave the savages a volley
that sent them back faster than they came.

"`Miffy's lost!' obsarved one o' my comrades as we got in among the
bushes here an' prepared to fight it out.

"`No great loss,' remarked another.

"`No fear o' Miffy,' said Bounce, feelin' his nose tenderly, `he's a bad
shillin', and bad shillin's always turn up, they say.'

"Bounce had barely finished when we heard another most awesome burst o'
yellin' in the woods, followed by a deep roar.

"`That's Miffy,' says I, feelin' quite excited, for I'd got to have a
sneakin' sort o' pity for the miserable critter.  `It's a twin roar to
the one he gave that day when he mistook Hairy Sam for a grizzly b'ar,
an' went up a spruce-fir like a squirrel.'  Sure enough, in another
moment Miffy burst out o' the woods an' came tearin' across the open
space straight for the gap, followed by a dozen or more savages.

"`Run, Bounce--the plank!' says I, jumpin' up.  `We'll drive the
reptiles back!'

"While I was speakin' we were all runnin' full split to meet the poor
critter, Bounce far in advance.  Whether it was over-haste, or the pain
of his nose, I never could make out, but somehow, in tryin' to shove the
plank over, Bounce let it slip.  Down it went an' split to splinters on
the rock's a hundred feet below!  Miffy was close up at the time.  His
cheeks was yaller an' his eyes starin' as he came on, but his face
turned green and his eyes took to glarin' when he saw what had happened.
I saw a kind o' hesitation in his look as he came to the unbridged
gulf.  The savages, thinkin' no doubt it was all up with him, gave a
fiendish yell o' delight.  That yell saved the poor ne'er-do-well.  It
was as good as a Spanish spur to a wild horse.  Over he came with legs
an' arms out like a flyin' squirrel, and down he fell flat on his
stummick at our feet wi' the nearest thing to a fair bu'st that I ever
saw, or raither heard, for I was busy sightin' a Redskin at the time an'
didn't actually see it.  When the savages saw what he'd done they turned
tail an' scattered back into the woods, so we only gave them a loose
volley, for we didn't want to kill the critters.  I just took the bark
off the thigh of one to prevent his forgettin' me.  We held the place
here for three days, an' then findin' they could make nothin' of us, or
havin' other work on hand, they went away an' left us in peace."

"An' what became o' poor Miffy?" asked little Trevor, earnestly.

"We took him down with us to a new settlement that had been started in
the prairie-land west o' the Blue Mountains, an' there he got a
sitooation in a store, but I s'pose he didn't stick to it long.  Anyhow
that was the last I ever saw of him.  Now, boys, it's time to turn in."

That night when the moon had gone down and the stars shed a feeble light
on the camp of those who slumbered on the Outlook rock, two figures,
like darker shades among the surrounding shadows, glided from the woods,
and, approaching the edge of the gap, gazed down into the black abyss.

"I told you, redskin, that the plank would be sure to be drawn over,"
said one of the figures, in a low but gruff whisper.

"When the tomahawk is red men do not usually sleep unguarded," replied
the other, in the Indian tongue.

"Speak English, Maqua, I don't know enough o' your gibberish to make out
what you mean.  Do you think, now, that the villain Paul Bevan is in the
camp?"

"Maqua is not a god, that he should be able to tell what he does not
know."

"No, but he could guess," retorted Stalker--for it was the robber-chief.
"My scouts said they thought it was his figure they saw.  However, it
matters not.  If you are to earn the reward I have offered, you must
creep into the camp, put your knife in Bevan's heart, and bring me his
scalp.  I would do it myself, redskin, and be indebted to nobody, but I
can't creep as you and your kindred can."

"I'd be sure to make row enough to start them in time for self-defence.
As to the scalp, I don't want it--only want to make certain that you've
done the deed.  You may keep it to ornament your dress or to boast about
to your squaw.  If you should take a fancy to do a little murder on your
own account do so.  It matters nothin' to me.  I'll be ready to back you
up if they give chase."

While the robber-chief was speaking he searched about for a suitable
piece of wood to span the chasm.  He soon found what he wanted, for
there was much felled timber lying about the work of previous visitors
to the Outlook.

In a few minutes Maqua had crossed, and glided in a stealthy, stooping
position towards the camp, seeming more like a moving shadow than a real
man.  When pretty close he went down on hands and knees and crept
forward, with his scalping-knife between his teeth.

It would have been an interesting study to watch the savage, had his
object been a good one--the patience; the slow, gliding movements; the
careful avoidance of growing branches, and the gentle removal of dead
ones from his path, for well did Maqua know that a snapping twig would
betray him if the camp contained any of the Indian warriors of the Far
West.

At last he drew so near that by stretching his neck he could see over
the intervening shrubs and observe the sleepers.  Just then Drake
chanced to waken.  Perhaps it was a presentiment of danger that roused
him, for the Indian had, up to that moment, made not the slightest
sound.  Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the trapper looked cautiously
round; then he lay down and turned over on his other side to continue
his slumbers.

Like the tree-stems around him, Maqua remained absolutely motionless
until he thought the trapper was again sleeping.  Then he retired, as he
had come, to his anxiously-awaiting comrade.

"Bevan not there," he said briefly, when they had retired to a safe
distance; "only Mahoghany Drake an' two boy."

"Well, why didn't ye scalp them!" asked Stalker, savagely, for he was
greatly disappointed to find that his enemy was not in the camp.  "You
said that all white men were your enemies."

"No, not all," replied the savage.  "Drake have the blood of white mans,
but the heart of red mans.  He have be good to Injins."

"Well, well; it makes no odds to me," returned Stalker, "Come along, an'
walk before me, for I won't trust ye behind.  As for slippery Paul, I'll
find him yet; you shall see.  When a man fails in one attempt, all he's
got to do is to make another.  Now then, redskin, move on!"



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

As widely different as night is from day, summer from winter, heat from
cold, are some members of the human family; yet God made them all, and
has a purpose of love and mercy towards each!  Common sense says this;
the general opinion of mankind holds this; highest of all, the Word
clearly states this: "God willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather
that he should turn from his wickedness and live;" and, "He maketh His
sun to shine upon the just and on the unjust."  Nevertheless, it seemed
difficult to believe that the same God formed and spared and guarded and
fed the fierce, lawless man Stalker, and the loving, gentle delicate
Rose of Oregon.

About the same hour that the former was endeavouring to compass the
destruction of Paul Bevan, Betty was on her knees in her little tented
room, recalling the deeds, the omissions, and the shortcomings of the
past day, interceding alike for friends and foes--if we may venture to
assume that a rose without a thorn could have foes!  Even the
robber-chief was remembered among the rest, and you may be very sure
that Tom Brixton was not forgotten.

Having slept the sleep of innocence and purity, Betty rose refreshed on
the following day, and, before the Indian village was astir, went out to
ramble along a favourite walk in a thicket on the mountain-side.  It so
fell out that Tom had selected the same thicket for his morning ramble.
But poor Tom did not look like one who hoped to meet with his lady-love
that morning.  He had, under good nursing, recovered some of his former
strength and vigour of body with wonderful rapidity, but his face was
still haggard and careworn in an unusual degree for one so young.  When
the two met Tom did not pretend to be surprised.  On the contrary, he
said:--

"I expected to meet you here, Betty, because I have perceived that you
are fond of the place, and, believe me, I would not have presumed to
intrude, were it not that I wish to ask one or two questions, the
answers to which may affect my future movements."

He paused, and Betty's heart fluttered, for she could not help
remembering former meetings when Tom had tried to win her affections,
and when she had felt it her duty to discourage him.  She made no reply
to this rather serious beginning to the interview, but dropped her eyes
on the turf, for she saw that the youth was gazing at her with a very
mingled and peculiar expression.

"Tell me," he resumed, after a few moments' thought, "do you feel quite
safe with these Indians?"

"Quite," replied the girl with a slight elevation of the eyebrows; "they
are unusually gentle and good-natured people.  Besides, their chief
would lay down his life for my father--he is so grateful.  Oh yes, I
feel perfectly safe here."

"But what does your father think.  He is always so fearless--I might say
reckless--that I don't feel certain as to his real opinion.  Have you
heard him speaking about the chance of that rascal Stalker following him
up?"

"Yes; he has spoken freely about that.  He fully expects that Stalker
will search for us, but considers that he will not dare to attack us
while we live with so strong a band of Indians, and, as Stalker's
followers won't hang about here very long for the mere purpose of
pleasing their chief, especially when nothing is to be gained by it,
father thinks that his enemy will be forced to go away.  Besides, he has
made up his mind to remain here for a long time--many months, it may
be."

"That will do," returned Tom, with a sigh of relief; "then there will be
no need for me to--"

"To what?" asked Betty, seeing that the youth paused.

"Forgive me if I do not say what I meant to.  I have reasons for--" (he
paused again)--"Then you are pleased with the way the people treat you?"

"Of course I am.  They could not be kinder if I were one of themselves.
And some of the women are so intelligent, too!  You know I have picked
up a good deal of the Indian language, and understand them pretty well,
though I can't speak much, and you've no idea what deep thinkers some of
them are!  There is Unaco's mother, who looks so old and dried up and
stupid--she is one of the dearest old things I ever knew.  Why,"
continued the girl, with increasing animation, as she warmed with her
subject, "that old creature led me, the other night, into quite an
earnest conversation about religion, and asked me ever so many questions
about the ways of God with man--speculative, difficult questions too,
that almost puzzled me to answer.  You may be sure I took the
opportunity to explain to her God's great love to man in and through
Jesus, and--"

She stopped abruptly, for Tom Brixton was at that moment regarding her
with a steady and earnest gaze.

"Yes," he said, slowly, almost dreamily, "I can well believe you took
your opportunity to commend Jesus to her.  You did so once to me, and--"

Tom checked himself, as if with a great effort.  The girl longed to hear
more, but he did not finish the sentence.  "Well," he said, with a
forced air of gaiety, "I have sought you here to tell you that I am
going off on--on--a long hunting expedition.  Going at once--but I would
not leave without bidding you good-bye."

"Going away, Mr Brixton!" exclaimed Betty, in genuine surprise.

"Yes.  As you see, I am ready for the field, with rifle and wallet,
firebag and blanket."

"But you are not yet strong enough," said Betty.

"Oh! yes, I am--stronger than I look.  Besides, that will mend every
day.  I don't intend to say goodbye to Westly or any one, because I hate
to have people try to dissuade me from a thing when my mind is made up.
I only came to say good-bye to you, because I wish you to tell Fred and
your father that I am grateful for all their kindness to me, and that it
will be useless to follow me.  Perhaps we may meet again, Betty," he
added, still in the forced tone of lightness, while he gently took the
girl's hand in his and shook it; "but the dangers of the wilderness are
numerous, and, as you have once or twice told me, we `know not what a
day or an hour may bring forth.'" (His tone had deepened suddenly to
that of intense earnestness)--"God bless you, Betty; farewell."

He dropped her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly
away, never once casting a look behind.

Poor Tom!  It was a severe wrench, but he had fought the battle manfully
and gained the victory.  In his new-born sense of personal unworthiness
and strict Justice, he had come to the conclusion that he had forfeited
the right to offer heart or hand to the Rose of Oregon.  Whether he was
right or wrong in his opinion we do not pretend to judge, but this does
not alter the fact that a hard battle with self had been fought by him,
and a great victory won.

But Tom neither felt nor looked very much like a conqueror.  His heart
seemed to be made of lead, and the strength of which he had so recently
boasted seemed to have deserted him altogether after he had walked a few
miles, insomuch that he was obliged to sit down on a bank to rest.  Fear
lest Fred or Paul should follow up his trail, however, infused new
strength into his limbs, and he rose and pushed steadily on, for he was
deeply impressed with the duty that lay upon him--namely, to get
quickly, and as far as possible, away from the girl whom he could no
longer hope to wed.

Thus, advancing at times with great animation, sitting down occasionally
for short rests, and then resuming the march with renewed vigour, he
travelled over the mountains without any definite end in view, beyond
that to which we have already referred.

For some time after he was gone Betty stood gazing at the place in the
thicket where he had disappeared, as if she half expected to see him
return; then, heaving a deep sigh, and with a mingled expression of
surprise, disappointment, and anxiety on her fair face, she hurried away
to search for her father.

She found him returning to their tent with a load of firewood, and at
once told him what had occurred.

"He'll soon come back, Betty," said Paul, with a significant smile.
"When a young feller is fond of a lass, he's as sure to return to her as
water is sure to find its way as fast as it can to the bottom of a
hill."

Fred Westly thought the same, when Paul afterwards told him about the
meeting, though he did not feel quite so sure about the return being
immediate; but Mahoghany Drake differed from them entirely.

"Depend on't," he said to his friend Paul, when, in the privacy of a
retired spot on the mountain-side, they discussed the matter--"depend
on't, that young feller ain't made o' butter.  What he says he will do
he'll stick to, if I'm any judge o' human natur.  Of course it ain't for
me to guess why he should fling off in this fashion.  Are ye sure he's
fond o' your lass?"

"Sure?  Ay, as sure as I am that yon is the sun an' not the moon
a-shinin' in the sky."

"H'm! that's strange.  An' they've had no quarrel?"

"None that I knows on.  Moreover, they ain't bin used to quarrel.
Betty's not one o' that sort--dear lass.  She's always fair an' above
board; honest an' straight for'ard.  Says 'zactly what she means, an'
means what she says.  Mister Tom ain't given to shilly-shallyin',
neither.  No, I'm sure they've had no quarrel."

"Well, it's the old story," said Drake, while a puzzled look flitted
across his weather-beaten countenance, and the smoke issued more slowly
from his unflagging pipe, "the conduct o' lovers is not to be accounted
for.  Howsever, there's one thing I'm quite sure of--that he must be
looked after."

"D'ye think so?" said Paul.  "I'd have thought he was quite able to look
arter himself."

"Not just now," returned the trapper; "he's not yet got the better of
his touch o' starvation, an' there's a chance o' your friend Stalker, or
Buxley, which d'ye call him?"

"Whichever you like; he answers to either, or neither, as the case may
be.  He's best known as Stalker in these parts, though Buxley is his
real name."

"Well, then," resumed Drake, "there's strong likelihood o' him prowlin'
about here, and comin' across the tracks o' young Brixton; so, as I said
before, he must be looked after, and I'll take upon myself to do it."

"Well, I'll jine ye," said Paul, "for of course ye'll have to make up a
party."

"Not at all," returned the trapper, with decision.  "I'll do it best
alone; leastwise I'll take only little Tolly Trevor an' Leapin' Buck
with me, for they're both smart an' safe lads, and are burnin' keen to
learn somethin' o' woodcraft."

In accordance with this determination, Mahoghany Drake, Leaping Buck,
and little Trevor set off next day and followed Tom Brixton's trail into
the mountains.  It was a broad trail and very perceptible, at least to
an Indian or a trapper, for Tom had a natural swagger, which he could
not shake off, even in the hour of his humiliation, and, besides, he had
never been an adept at treading the western wilderness with the care
which the red man finds needful in order to escape from, or baffle, his
foes.

"'Tis as well marked, a'most" said Drake, pausing to survey the trail,
"as if he'd bin draggin' a toboggan behind him."

"Yet a settlement man wouldn't see much of it," remarked little Trevor;
"eh!  Buckie?"

The Indian boy nodded gravely.  He emulated his father in this respect,
and would have been ashamed to have given way to childish levity on what
he was pleased to consider the war-path, but he had enough of the
humorous in his nature to render the struggle to keep grave in Tolly's
presence a pretty severe one.  Not that Tolly aimed at being either
witty or funny, but he had a peculiarly droll expression of face, which
added much point to whatever he said.

"Ho!" exclaimed the trapper, after they had gone a little farther;
"here's a trail that even a settlement man could hardly fail to see.
There's bin fifty men or more.  D'ye see it Tolly?"

"See it?  I should think so.  D'you suppose I carry my eyes in my
pocket?"

"Come now, lad," said Drake, turning to Leaping Buck, "you want to walk
in your father's tracks, no doubt.  Read me this trail if ye can."

The boy stepped forward with an air of dignity that Drake regarded as
sublime and Tolly thought ludicrous, but the latter was too fond of his
red friend to allow his feelings to betray themselves.

"As the white trapper has truly said," he began, "fifty men or more have
passed this way.  They are most of them white men, but three or four are
Indians."

"Good!" said Drake, with an approving nod; "I thought ye'd notice that.
Well, go on."

"They were making straight for my father's camp," continued the lad,
bending a stern look on the trail, "but they turned sharp round, like
the swallow, on coming to the trail of the white man Brixton, and
followed it."

"How d'ye know that, lad?" asked the trapper.

"Because I see it" returned the boy, promptly, pointing at the same time
to a spot on the hill-side considerably above them, where the
conformation of the land at a certain spot revealed enough of the trail
of the "fifty men or more," to show the change of direction.

"Good again, lad.  A worthy son of your father.  I didn't give 'e credit
for sharpness enough to perceive that.  Can you read anything more?"

"One man was a horseman, but he left his horse behind on getting to the
rough places of the hills and walked with the rest.  He is Paul Bevan's
enemy."

"And how d'ye know all _that_?" said Drake, regarding the little fellow
with a look of pride.

"By the footprints," returned Leaping Buck.  "He wears boots and spurs."

"Just so," returned the trapper, "and we've bin told by Paul that
Stalker was the only man of his band who wouldn't fall in wi' the ways
o' the country, but sticks to the clumsy Jack-boots and spurs of old
England.  Yes, the scoundrel has followed you up, Tolly, as Paul Bevan
said he would, and, havin' come across Brixton's track, has gone after
him, from all which I now come to the conclusion that your friend Mister
Tom is a prisoner, an' stands in need of our sarvices.  What say you,
Tolly?"

"Go at 'em at once," replied the warlike Trevor, "an' set him free."

"What! us three attack fifty men?"

"Why not?" responded Tolly, "We're more than a match for 'em.  Paul
Bevan has told me oftentimes that honest men are, as a rule, ten times
more plucky than dishonest ones.  Well, you are one honest man, that's
equal to ten; an' Buckie and I are two honest boys, equal, say, to five
each, that's ten more, making twenty among three of us.  Three times
twenty's sixty, isn't it? so, surely that's more than enough to fight
fifty."

"Ah, boy," answered the trapper, with a slightly puzzled expression, "I
never could make nothin' o' 'rithmetic, though my mother put me to
school one winter with a sort o' half-mad parson that came to the head
waters o' the Yellowstone river, an' took to teachin'--dear me, how long
ago was it now?  Well, I forget, but somehow you seem to add up the
figgurs raither faster than I was made to do.  Howsever, we'll go an'
see what's to be done for Tom Brixton."

The trapper, who had been leaning on his gun, looking down at his bold
little comrades during the foregoing conversation, once more took the
lead, and, closely following the trail of the robber-band, continued the
ascent of the mountains.

The Indian village was by that time far out of sight behind them, and
the scenery in the midst of which they were travelling was marked by
more than the average grandeur and ruggedness of the surrounding region.

On their right arose frowning precipices which were fringed and crowned
with forests of pine, intermingled with poplar, birch, maple, and other
trees.  On their left a series of smaller precipices, or terraces,
descended to successive levels, like giant steps, till they reached the
bottom of the valley up which our adventurers were moving, where a
brawling river appeared in the distance like a silver thread.  The view
both behind and in advance was extremely wild, embracing almost every
variety of hill scenery, and in each case was shut in by snow-capped
mountains.  These, however, were so distant and so soft in texture as to
give the impression of clouds rather than solid earth.

Standing on one of the many jutting crags from which could be had a wide
view of the vale lying a thousand feet below, Tolly Trevor threw up his
arms and waved them to and fro as if in an ecstasy, exclaiming--"Oh, if
I had only wings, _what_ a swoop I'd make--down there!"

"Ah, boy, you ain't the first that's wished for wings in the like
circumstances.  But we've bin denied these advantages.  P'r'aps we'd
have made a bad use of 'em.  Sartinly we've made a bad use o' sich
powers as we do possess.  Just think, now, if men could go about through
the air as easy as the crows, what a row they'd kick up all over the
'arth!  As it is, when we want to fight we've got to crawl slowly from
place to place, an' make roads for our wagins, an' big guns, an'
supplies, to go along with us; but if we'd got wings--why, the first
fire eatin' great man that could lead his fellows by the nose would only
have to give the word, when up would start a whole army o' men, like
some thousand Jack-in-the-boxes, an' away they'd go to some place they'd
took a fancy to, an' down they'd come, all of a heap, quite onexpected--
take their enemy by surprise, sweep him off the face o' the 'arth, and
enter into possession."

"Well, it would be a blue lookout," remarked Tolly, "if that was to be
the way of it.  There wouldn't be many men left in the world before
long."

"That's true, lad, an' sitch as was left would be the worst o' the race.
No, on the whole I think we're better without wings."

While he was talking to little Trevor, the trapper had been watching the
countenance of the Indian boy with unusual interest.  At last he turned
to him and asked--

"Has Leaping Buck nothin' to say?"

"When the white trapper speaks, the Indian's tongue should be silent,"
replied the youth.

"A good sentiment and does you credit, lad.  But I am silent now.  Has
Leaping Buck no remark to make on what he sees?"

"He sees the smoke of the robber's camp far up the heights," replied the
boy, pointing as he spoke.

"Clever lad!" exclaimed the trapper, "I know'd he was his father's son."

"Where?  I can see nothing," cried Tolly, who understood the Indian
tongue sufficiently to make out the drift of the conversation.

"Of course ye can't; the smoke is too far off an' too thin for eyes not
well practised in the signs o' the wilderness.  But come; we shall go
and pay the robbers a visit; mayhap disturb their rest a little--who
knows!"

With a quiet laugh, Mahoghany Drake withdrew from the rocky ledge, and,
followed by his eager satellites, continued to wend his way up the
rugged mountain-sides, taking care, however, that he did not again
expose himself to view, for well did he know that sharp eyes and ears
would be on the _qui vive_ that night.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

When Tom Brixton sternly set his face like a flint to what he believed
to be his duty, he wandered, as we have said, into the mountains, with a
heavy heart and without any definite intentions as to what he intended
to do.

If his thoughts had taken the form of words they would probably have run
somewhat as follows:--

"Farewell for ever, sweet Rose of Oregon!  Dear Betty!  You have been
the means, in God's hand, of saving at least one soul from death, and it
would be requiting you ill indeed were I to persuade you to unite
yourself to a man whose name is disgraced even among rough men, whose
estimate of character is not very high.  No! henceforth our lives
diverge wider and wider apart.  May God bless you and give you a good
hus--give you happiness in His own way!  And now I have the world before
me where to choose.  It is a wide world, and there is much work to be
done.  Surely I shall be led in the right way to fill the niche which
has been set apart for me.  I wonder what it is to be!  Am I to hunt for
gold, or to become a fur-trader, or go down to the plains and turn
cattle-dealer, or to the coast and become a sailor, or try farming?  One
thing is certain, I must not be an idler; must not join the ranks of
those who merely hunt that they may eat and sleep, and who eat and sleep
that they may hunt.  I have a work to do for Him who bought me with His
precious blood, and my first step must be to commit my way to Him."

Tom Brixton took that step at once.  He knelt down on a mossy bank, and
there, with the glorious prospect of the beautiful wilderness before
him, and the setting sun irradiating his still haggard countenance, held
communion with God.

That night he made his lonely bivouac under a spreading pine, and that
night while he was enjoying a profound and health-giving slumber, the
robber-chief stepped into his encampment and laid his hand roughly on
his shoulder.

In his days of high health Tom would certainly have leaped up and given
Stalker a considerable amount of trouble, but starvation and weakness,
coupled with self-condemnation and sorrow, had subdued his nerves and
abated his energies, so that, when he opened his eyes and found himself
surrounded by as disagreeable a set of cut-throats as could well be
brought together, he at once resigned himself to his fate, and said,
without rising, and with one of his half-humorous smiles--

"Well, Mister Botanist, sorry I can't say it gives me pleasure to see
you.  I wonder you're not ashamed to return to the country of the great
chief Unaco after running away from him as you did."

"I'm in no humour for joking," answered Stalker, gruffly.  "What has
become of your friend Paul Bevan?"

"I'm not aware that anything particular has become of him," replied Tom,
sitting up with a look of affected surprise.

"Come, you know what I mean.  Where is he?"

"When I last saw him he was in Oregon.  Whether he has now gone to
Europe or the moon or the sun I cannot tell, but I should think it
unlikely."

"If you don't give me a direct and civil answer I'll roast you alive,
you young puppy!" growled Stalker.

"If you roast me dead instead of alive you'll get no answer from me but
such as I choose to give, you middle-aged villain!" retorted Tom, with a
glare of his eyes which quite equalled that of the robber-chief in
ferocity, for Tom's nature was what we may style volcanic, and he found
it hard to restrain himself when roused to a certain point, so that he
was prone to speak unadvisedly with his lips.

A half-smothered laugh from some of the band who did not care much for
their chief, rendered Stalker furious.

He sprang forward with a savage oath, drew the small hatchet which he
carried in his belt, and would certainly then and there have brained the
rash youth with it, if his hand had not been unexpectedly arrested.  The
gleaming weapon was yet in the air when the loud report of a rifle close
at hand burst from the bushes with a sheet of flame and smoke, and the
robber's right arm fell powerless at his side, hit between the elbow and
shoulder.

It was the rifle of Mahoghany Drake that had spoken so opportunely.

That stalwart backwoodsman had, as we have seen, followed up the trail
of the robbers, and, with Tolly Trevor and his friend Leaping Buck, had
lain for a considerable time safely ensconced in a moss-covered crevice
of the cliff that overlooked the camping-place.  There, quietly
observing the robbers, and almost enjoying the little scene between Tom
and the chief, they remained inactive until Stalker's hatchet gleamed in
the air.  The boys were almost petrified by the suddenness of the act.

Not so the trapper, who with rapid aim saved Tom's life, as we have
seen.

Dropping his rifle, he seized the boys by the neck and thrust their
faces down on the moss: not a moment too soon, for a withering volley
was instantly sent by the bandits in the direction whence the shots had
come.  It passed harmlessly over their heads.

"Now, home like two arrows, and rouse your father, Leaping Buck,"
whispered the trapper, "and keep well out o' sight."

Next moment, picking up his empty rifle, he stalked from the fringe of
bushes that partially screened the cliff, and gave himself up.

"Ha!  I know you--Mahoghany Drake!  Is it not so?" cried Stalker,
savagely.  "Seize him, men.  You shall swing for this, you rascal."

Two or three of the robbers advanced, but Drake quietly held up his
hand, and they stopped.

"I'm in your power, you see," he said, laying his rifle on the ground.
"Yes," he continued, drawing his tall figure up to its full height and
crossing his arms on his breast, "my name is Drake.  As to Mahoghany,
I've no objection to it though it ain't complimentary.  If, as you say,
Mister Stalker, I'm to swing for this, of course I must swing.  Yet it
do seem raither hard that a man should swing for savin' his friend's
life an' his enemy's at the same time."

"How--what do you mean?"

"I mean that Mister Brixton is my friend," answered the trapper, "and
I've saved his life just now, for which I thank the Lord.  At the same
time, Stalker is my enemy--leastwise I fear he's no friend--an' didn't I
save _his_ life too when I put a ball in his arm, that I could have as
easily put into his head or his heart?"

"Well," responded Stalker, with a fiendish grin, that the increasing
pain of his wound did not improve, "at all events you have not saved
your own life, Drake.  As I said, you shall swing for it.  But I'll give
you one chance.  If you choose to help me I will spare your life.  Can
you tell me where Paul Bevan and his daughter are?"

"They are with Unaco and his tribe."

"I could have guessed as much as that.  I ask you _where_ they are!"

"On the other side of yonder mountain range, where the chief's village
lies."

Somewhat surprised at the trapper's readiness to give the information
required, and rendered a little suspicious, Stalker asked if he was
ready and willing to guide him to the Indian village.

"Surely.  If that's the price I'm to pay for my life, it can be easily
paid," replied the trapper.

"Ay, but you shall march with your arms bound until we are there, and
the fight wi' the redskins is over," said the robber-chief, "and if I
find treachery in your acts or looks I'll blow your brains out on the
spot.  My left hand, you shall find, can work as well as the right wi'
the revolver."

"A beggar, they say, must not be a chooser," returned the trapper.  "I
accept your terms."

"Good.  Here, Goff," said Stalker, turning to his lieutenant, "bind his
hands behind him after he's had some supper, and then come an' fix up
this arm o' mine.  I think the bone has escaped."

"Hadn't we better start off at once," suggested Drake, "an' catch the
redskins when they're asleep?"

"Is it far off?" asked Stalker.

"A goodish bit.  But the night is young.  We might git pretty near by
midnight, and then encamp so as to git an hour's sleep before makin' the
attack.  You see, redskins sleep soundest just before daybreak."

While he was speaking the trapper coughed a good deal, and sneezed once
or twice, as if he had a bad cold.

"Can't you keep your throat and nose quieter?" said the chief, sternly.

"Well, p'r'aps I might," replied Drake, emitting a highly suppressed
cough at the moment, "but I've got a queer throat just now.  The least
thing affects it."

After consultation with the principal men of his band, Stalker
determined to act on Drake's advice, and in a few minutes the trapper
was guiding them over the hills in a state of supreme satisfaction,
despite his bonds, for had he not obtained the power to make the robbers
encamp on a spot which the Indians could not avoid passing on their way
to the rescue, and had he not established a sort of right to emit sounds
which would make his friends aware of his exact position, and thus bring
both parties into collision before daybreak, which could not have been
the case if the robbers had remained in the encampment where he found
them?

Turn we now to Leaping Buck and Tolly Trevor.  Need it be said that
these intelligent lads did not, as the saying is, allow grass to grow
under their feet?  The former went over the hills at a pace and in a
manner that fully justified his title; and the latter followed with as
much vigour and resolution, if not as much agility, as his friend.

In a wonderfully short space of time, considering the distance, they
burst upon the Indian village, and aroused it with the startling news.

Warfare in those regions was not the cumbrous and slow affair that it is
in civilised places.  There was no commissariat, no ammunition wagons,
no baggage, no camp-followers to hamper the line of march.  In five or
ten minutes after the alarm was given about two hundred Indian braves
marched out from the camp in a column which may be described as
one-deep--i.e. one following the other--and took their rapid way up the
mountain sides, led by Unaco in person.  Next to him marched Paul Bevan,
who was followed in succession by Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, Leaping
Buck, and Tolly.

For some time the long line could be seen by the Rose of Oregon passing
swiftly up the mountain-side.  Then, as distance united the individuals,
as it were, to each other, it assumed the form of a mighty snake
crawling _slowly_ along.  By degrees it crawled over the nearest ridge
and disappeared, after which Betty went to discuss the situation with
Unaco's old mother.

It was near midnight when the robber-band encamped in a wooded hollow
which was backed on two sides by precipices and on the third by a deep
ravine.

"A good spot to set a host at defiance," remarked Stalker, glancing
round with a look that would have expressed satisfaction if the wounded
arm had allowed.

"Yes," added the trapper, "and--" A violent fit of coughing prevented
the completion of the sentence, which, however, when thought out in
Drake's mind ran--"a good spot for hemming you and your scoundrels in,
and starving you into submission!"

A short time sufficed for a bite of cold supper and a little whiff, soon
after which the robber camp, with the exception of the sentinels, was
buried in repose.

Tom Brixton was not allowed to have any intercourse whatever with his
friend Drake.  Both were bound and made to sleep in different parts of
the camp.  Nevertheless, during one brief moment, when they chanced to
be near each other, Drake whispered, "Be ready!" and Tom heard him.

Ere long no sound was heard in the camp save an occasional snore or
sigh, and Drake's constant and hacking, but highly suppressed, cough.
Poor fellow!  He was obviously consumptive, and it was quite touching to
note the careful way in which he tried to restrain himself, giving vent
to as little sound as was consistent with his purpose.

Turning a corner of jutting rock in the valley which led to the spot,
Unaco's sharp and practised ear caught the sound.  He stopped and stood
like a bronze statue by Michael Angelo in the attitude of suddenly
arrested motion.  Upwards of two hundred bronze arrested statues
instantly tailed away from him.

Presently a smile, such as Michael Angelo probably never thought of
reproducing, rippled on the usually grave visage of the chief.

"M'ogany Drake!" he whispered, softly, in Paul Bevan's ear.

"I didn't know Drake had sitch a horrid cold," whispered Bevan, in
reply.

Tolly Trevor clenched his teeth and screwed himself up internally to
keep down the laughter that all but burst him, for he saw through the
device at once.  As for Leaping Buck, he did more than credit to his
sire, because he kept as grave as Michael Angelo himself could have
desired while chiselling his features.

"Musha! but that is a quare sound," whispered Flinders to Westly.

"Hush!" returned Westly.

At a signal from their chief the whole band of Indians sank, as it
seemed, into the ground, melted off the face of the earth, and only the
white men and the chief remained.

"I must go forward alone," whispered Unaco, turning to Paul.  "White man
knows not how to go on his belly like the serpent."

"Mahoghany Drake would be inclined to dispute that p'int with 'ee,"
returned Bevan.  "However, you know best, so we'll wait till you give us
the signal to advance."

Having directed his white friends to lie down, Unaco divested himself of
all superfluous clothing, and glided swiftly but noiselessly towards the
robber camp, with nothing but a tomahawk in his hand and a
scalping-knife in his girdle.  He soon reached the open side of the
wooded hollow, guided thereto by Drake's persistent and evidently
distressing cough.  Here it became necessary to advance with the utmost
caution.  Fortunately for the success of his enterprise, all the
sentinels that night had been chosen from among the white men.  The
consequence was that although they were wide awake and on the _qui
vive_, their unpractised senses failed to detect the very slight sounds
that Unaco made while gliding slowly--inch by inch, and with many an
anxious pause--into the very midst of his foes.  It was a trying
situation, for instant death would have been the result of discovery.

As if to make matters more difficult for him just then, Drake's hacking
cough ceased, and the Indian could not make out where he lay.  Either
his malady was departing or he had fallen into a temporary slumber!
That the latter was the case became apparent from his suddenly
recommencing the cough.  This, however, had the effect of exasperating
one of the sentinels.

"Can't you stop that noise?" he muttered, sternly.

"I'm doin' my best to smother it," said Drake in a conciliatory tone.

Apparently he had succeeded, for he coughed no more after that.  But the
fact was that a hand had been gently laid upon his arm.

"So soon!" he thought.  "Well done, boys!"  But he said never a word,
while a pair of lips touched his ear and said, in the Indian tongue--

"Where lies your friend?"

Drake sighed sleepily, and gave a short and intensely subdued cough, as
he turned his lips to a brown ear which seemed to rise out of the grass
for the purpose, and spoke something that was inaudible to all save that
ear.  Instantly hand, lips, and ear withdrew, leaving the trapper in
apparently deep repose.  A sharp knife, however, had touched his bonds,
and he knew that he was free.

A few minutes later, and the same hand touched Tom Brixton's arm.  He
would probably have betrayed himself by an exclamation, but remembering
Drake's "Be ready," he lay perfectly still while the hands, knife, and
lips did their work.  The latter merely said, in broken English, "Rise
when me rise, an' run!"

Next instant Unaco leaped to his feet and, with a terrific yell of
defiance, bounded into the bushes.  Tom Brixton followed him like an
arrow, and so prompt was Mahoghany Drake to act that he and Tom came
into violent collision as they cleared the circle of light thrown by the
few sinking embers of the camp-fires.  No damage, however, was done.  At
the same moment the band of Indians in ambush sprang up with their
terrible war whoop, and rushed towards the camp.  This effectually
checked the pursuit which had been instantly begun by the surprised
bandits, who at once retired to the shelter of the mingled rocks and
shrubs in the centre of the hollow, from out of which position they
fired several tremendous volleys.

"That's right--waste yer ammunition," said Paul Bevan, with a short
laugh, as he and the rest lay quickly down to let the leaden shower pass
over.

"It's always the way wi' men taken by surprise," said Drake, who, with
Brixton and the chief, had stopped in their flight and turned with their
friends.  "They blaze away wildly for a bit, just to relieve their
feelin's, I s'pose.  But they'll soon stop."

"An' what'll we do now?" inquired Flinders, "for it seems to me we've
got all we want out o' them, an' it's no use fightin' them for mere
fun--though it's mesilf that used to like fightin' for that same; but I
think the air of Oregon has made me more peaceful inclined."

"But the country has been kept for a long time in constant alarm and
turmoil by these men," said Fred Westly, "and, although I like fighting
as little as any man, I cannot help thinking that we owe it as a duty to
society to capture as many of them as we can, especially now that we
seem to have caught them in a sort of trap."

"What says Mahoghany Drake on the subject!" asked Unaco.

"I vote for fightin', 'cause there'll be no peace in the country till
the band is broken up."

"Might it not be better to hold them prisoners here?" suggested Paul
Bevan.  "They can't escape, you tell me, except by this side, and
there's nothin' so good for tamin' men as hunger."

"Ah!" said Tom Brixton, "you speak the truth, Bevan; I have tried it."

"But what does Unaco himself think?" asked Westly.

"We must fight 'em at once, an' root them out neck and crop!"

These words were spoken, not by the Indian, but by a deep bass voice
which sent a thrill of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, to more
hearts than one; and no wonder, for it was the voice of Gashford, the
big bully of Pine Tree Diggings!



CHAPTER TWENTY.

To account for the sudden appearance of Gashford, as told in our last
chapter, it is necessary to explain that two marauding Indians chanced
to pay Pine Tree Diggings a visit one night, almost immediately after
the unsuccessful attack made by Stalker and his men.  The savages were
more successful than the white robbers had been.  They managed to carry
off a considerable quantity of gold without being discovered, and
Gashford, erroneously attributing their depredations to a second visit
from Stalker, was so enraged that he resolved to pursue and utterly root
out the robber-band.  Volunteers were not wanting.  Fifty stout young
fellows offered their services, and, at the head of these, Gashford set
out for the Sawback Mountains, which were known to be the retreat of the
bandits.  An Indian, who knew the region well, and had once been
ill-treated by Stalker, became a willing guide.

He led the gold-diggers to the robbers' retreat, and there, learning
from a brother savage that the robber-chief and his men had gone off to
hunt up Paul Bevan in the region that belonged to Unaco, he led his
party by a short cut over the mountains, and chanced to come on the
scene of action at the critical moment, when Unaco and his party were
about to attack the robbers.  Ignorant of who the parties were that
contended, yet feeling pretty sure that the men he sought for probably
formed one of them, he formed the somewhat hazardous determination,
personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of
the darkness; telling his lieutenant, Crossby, to await his return, or
to bring on his men at the run if they should hear his well-known
signal.

On joining the attacking party without having been observed--or, rather,
having been taken for one of the band in the uncertain light--he
recognised Westly's and Flinders's voices at once, and thus it was that
he suddenly gave his unasked advice on the subject then under
discussion.

But Stalker's bold spirit settled the question for them in an unexpected
manner.  Perceiving at once that he had been led into a trap, he felt
that his only chance lay in decisive and rapid action.

"Men," he said to those who crowded round him in the centre of the
thicket which formed their encampment, "we've bin caught.  Our only
chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter.  Are you ready?"

"Ready!" responded nearly every man.  Those who might have been
unwilling were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless.
"Come on, then, an' give them a screech when ye burst out!"

Like an avalanche of demons the robber band rushed down the slope and
crashed into their foes, and a yell that might well have been born of
the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the Indians were not
daunted.  Taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in
the rush, when high above the din arose the bass roar of Gashford.

Crossby heard the signal and led his men down to the scene of battle at
a rapid run.  But the robbers were too quick for them; most of them were
already scattering far and wide through the wilderness.  Only one group
had been checked, and, strange to say, that was the party that happened
to cluster round and rush with their chief.

But the reason was clear enough, for that section of the foe had been
met by Mahoghany Drake, Bevan, Westly, Brixton, Flinders, and the rest,
while Gashford at last met his match, in the person of the gigantic
Stalker.  But they did not meet on equal terms, for the robber's wounded
arm was almost useless.  Still, with the other arm he fired a shot at
the huge digger, missed, and, flinging the weapon at his head, grappled
with him.  There was a low precipice or rocky ledge, about fifteen feet
high, close to them.  Over this the two giants went after a brief but
furious struggle, and here, after the short fight was over, they were
found, grasping each other by their throats, and in a state of
insensibility.

Only two other prisoners were taken besides Stalker--one by Bevan, the
other by Flinders.  But these were known by Drake to be poor wretches
who had only joined the band a few weeks before, and as they protested
that they had been captured and forced to join, they were set free.

"You see, it's of no manner o' use hangin' the wretched critters,"
observed Drake to Bevan, confidentially, when they were returning to the
Indian village the following morning.  "It would do them no good.  All
that we wanted was to break up the band and captur' the chief, which
bein' done, it would be a shame to shed blood uselessly."

"But we must hang Stalker," said little Tolly, who had taken part in the
attack, and whose sense of justice, it seems, would have been violated
if the leader of the band had been spared.

"I'm inclined to think he won't want hangin', Tolly," replied Drake,
gravely.  "That tumble didn't improve his wounded arm, for Gashford fell
atop of him."

The trapper's fear was justified.  When Stalker was carried into the
Indian village and examined by Fred Westly, it was found that, besides
other injuries, two of his ribs had been broken, and he was already in
high fever.

Betty Bevan, whose sympathy with all sufferers was strong, volunteered
to nurse him, and, as she was unquestionably the best nurse in the
place, her services were accepted.  Thus it came about that the
robber-chief and the Rose of Oregon were for a time brought into close
companionship.

On the morning after their return to the Indian village, Paul Bevan and
Betty sauntered away towards the lake.  The Rose had been with Stalker
the latter part of the night, and after breakfast had said she would
take a stroll to let the fresh air blow sleepiness away.  Paul had
offered to go with her.

"Well, Betty, lass, what think ye of this robber-chief, now you've seen
somethin' of him at close quarters?" asked Paul, as they reached the
margin of the lake.

"I have scarcely seen him in his right mind, father, for he has been
wandering a little at times during the night; and, oh! you cannot think
what terrible things he has been talking about."

"Has he?" said Paul, glancing at Betty with sudden earnestness.  "What
did he speak about?"

"I can scarcely tell you, for at times he mixed up his ideas so that I
could not understand him, but I fear he has led a very bad life and done
many wicked things.  He brought in your name, too, pretty often, and
seemed to confuse you with himself, putting on you the blame of deeds
which just a minute before he had confessed he had himself done."

"Ay, did he?" said Paul, with a peculiar expression and tone.  "Well, he
warn't far wrong, for I _have_ helped him sometimes."

"Father!" exclaimed Betty, with a shocked look--"but you misunderstand.
He spoke of such things as burglary and highway robbery, and you could
never have helped him in deeds of that kind."

"Oh! he spoke of such things as these, did he?" returned Paul.  "Well,
yes, he's bin up to a deal of mischief in his day.  And what did you say
to him, lass?  Did you try to quiet him?"

"What could I say, father, except tell him the old, old story of Jesus
and His love; that He came to seek and to save the lost, even the chief
of sinners?"

"An' how did he take it?" inquired Paul, with a grave, almost an anxious
look.

"At first he would not listen, but when I began to read the Word to him,
and then tried to explain what seemed suitable to him, he got up on his
unhurt elbow and looked at me with such a peculiar and intense look that
I felt almost alarmed, and was forced to stop.  Then he seemed to wander
again in his mind, for he said such a strange thing."

"What was that, Betty?"

"He said I was like his mother."

"Well, lass, he wasn't far wrong, for you _are_ uncommon like her."

"Did you know his mother, then?"

"Ay, Betty, I knowed her well, an' a fine, good-lookin' woman she was,
wi' a kindly, religious soul, just like yours.  She was a'most
heartbroken about her son, who was always wild, but she had a strong
power over him, for he was very fond of her, and I've no doubt that your
readin' the Bible an' telling him about Christ brought back old times to
his mind."

"But if his mother was so good and taught him so carefully, and, as I
doubt not, prayed often and earnestly for him, how was it that he fell
into such awful ways?" asked Betty.

"It was the old, old story, lass, on the other side o' the question--
drink and bad companions--and--and _I_ was one of them."

"You, father, the companion of a burglar and highway robber?"

"Well, he wasn't just that at the time, though both him and me was bad
enough.  It was my refusin' to jine him in some of his jobs that made a
coolness between us, an' when his mother died I gave him some trouble
about money matters, which turned him into my bitterest foe.  He vowed
he would take my life, and as he was one o' those chaps that, when they
say they'll do a thing, are sure to do it, I thought it best to bid
adieu to old England, especially as I was wanted at the time by the
police."

Poor Rose of Oregon!  The shock to her feelings was terrible, for,
although she had always suspected from some traits in his character that
her father had led a wild life, it had never entered her imagination
that he was an outlaw.  For some time she remained silent with her face
in her hands, quite unable to collect her thoughts or decide what to
say, for whatever her father might have been in the past he had been
invariably kind to her, and, moreover, had given very earnest heed to
the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the
Saviour.  At last she looked up quickly.

"Father," she said, "I will nurse this man with more anxious care and
interest, for his mother's sake."

"You may do it, dear lass, for his own sake," returned Paul,
impressively, "for he is your own brother."

"My brother?" gasped Betty.  "Why, what do you mean, father?  Surely you
are jesting!"

"Very far from jesting, lass.  Stalker is your brother Edwin, whom you
haven't seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead.  But,
come, as the cat's out o' the bag at last, I may as well make a clean
breast of it.  Sit down here on the bank, Betty, and listen."

The poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned
by the unexpected news, which Paul had given her, and of which, from her
knowledge of her father's character, she could not doubt the truth.

"Then Stalker--Edwin--must be your own son!" she said, looking at Paul
earnestly.

"Nay, he's not my son, no more than you are my daughter.  Forgive me,
Betty.  I've deceived you throughout, but I did it with a good
intention.  You see, if I hadn't passed myself off as your father, I'd
never have bin able to git ye out o' the boardin'-school where ye was
putt.  But I did it for the best, Betty, I did it for the best; an' all
to benefit your poor mother an' you.  That is how it was."

He paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and Betty sat with her
hands clasped, gazing in Paul's face like a fascinated creature, unable
to speak or move.

"You see, Betty," he resumed, "your real father was a doctor in the
army, an' I'm sorry to have to add, he was a bad man--so bad that he
went and deserted your mother soon after you was born.  I raither think
that your brother Edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as
you got your goodness from your mother; but I've bin told that your
father became a better man before he died, an' I can well believe it,
wi' such a woman as your mother prayin' for him every day, as long as he
lived.  Well, when you was about six, your brother Edwin, who was then
about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an' used to kick up sitch
shindies in the house, an' swore so terrible, that your mother made up
her mind to send you to a boardin'-school, to keep you out o' harm's
way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only
comfort she had in life.

"About that time I was goin' a good deal about the house, bein', as I've
said, a chum o' your brother.  But he was goin' too fast for me, and
that made me split with him.  I tried at first to make him hold in a
bit; but what was the use of a black sheep like me tryin' to make a
white sheep o' _him_!  The thing was so absurd that he laughed at it;
indeed, we both laughed at it.  Your mother was at that time very poorly
off--made a miserable livin' by dressmakin'.  Indeed, she'd have bin
half starved if I hadn't given her a helpin' hand in a small way now an'
then.  She was very grateful, and very friendly wi' me, for I was very
fond of her, and she know'd that, bad as I was, I tried to restrain her
son to some extent.  So she told me about her wish to git you well out
o' the house, an' axed me if I'd go an' put you in a school down at
Brighton, which she know'd was a good an' a cheap one.

"Of course I said I would, for, you see, the poor thing was that hard
worked that she couldn't git away from her stitch-stitchin', not even
for an hour, much less a day.  When I got down to the school, before
goin' up to the door it came into my head that it would be better that
the people should know you was well looked after, so says I to you,
quite sudden, `Betty, remember you're to call me father when you speak
about me.'  You turned your great blue eyes to my face, dear lass, when
I said that, with a puzzled look.

"`Me sought mamma say father was far far away in other country,' says
you.

"`That's true,' says I, `but I've come home from the other country, you
see, so don't you forget to call me father.'

"`Vewy well, fadder,' says you, in your own sweet way, for you was
always a biddable child, an' did what you was told without axin'
questions.

"Well, when I'd putt you in the school an' paid the first quarter in
advance, an' told 'em that the correspondence would be done chiefly
through your mother, I went back to London, puzzlin' my mind all the way
what I'd say to your mother for what I'd done.  Once it came into my
head I would ax her to marry me--for she was a widow by that time--an'
so make the deception true.  But I quickly putt that notion a one side,
for I know'd I might as well ax an angel to come down from heaven an
dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty--but, after all," said Paul, with a
quiet laugh, "I did get an angel to dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty
when I got you, Betty!  Howsever, as things turned out I was saved the
trouble of explainin'.

"When I got back I found your mother in a great state of excitement.
She'd just got a letter from the West Indies, tellin' her that a distant
relation had died an' left her a small fortin!  People's notions about
the size o' fortins differs.  Enough an' to spare is ocean's wealth to
some.  Thousands o' pounds is poverty to others.  She'd only just got
the letter, an' was so taken up about it that she couldn't help showin'
it to me.

"`Now,' says I, `Mrs Buxley,'--that was her name, an' your real name
too, Betty--says I, `make your will right off, an putt it away safe,
leavin' every rap o' that fortin to Betty, for you may depend on't, if
Edwin gits wind o' this, he'll worm it out o' you, by hook or by crook--
you know he will--and go straight to the dogs at full gallop.'

"`What!' says she, `an' leave nothin' to my boy?--my poor boy, for whom
I have never ceased to pray!  He may repent, you know--he _will_ repent.
I feel sure of it--and then he will find that his mother left him
nothing, though God had sent her a fortune.'

"`Oh! as to that,' says I, `make your mind easy.  If Edwin does repent
an' turn to honest ways, he's got talents and go enough in him to make
his way in the world without help; but you can leave him what you like,
you know, only make sure that you leave the bulk of it to Betty.'

"This seemed to strike her as a plan that would do, for she was silent
for some time, and then, suddenly makin' up her mind, she said, `I'll go
and ask God's help in this matter, an' then see about gettin' a lawyer--
for I suppose a thing o' this sort can't be done without one.'

"`No, mum,' says I, `it can't.  You may, if you choose, make a muddle of
it without a lawyer, but you can't do it right without one.'

"`Can you recommend one to me?' says she.

"I was greatly tickled at the notion o' the likes o' me bein' axed to
recommend a lawyer.  It was so like your mother's innocence and
trustfulness.  Howsever, she'd come to the right shop, as it happened,
for I did know a honest lawyer!  Yes, Betty, from the way the world
speaks, an' what's often putt in books, you'd fancy there warn't such'n
a thing to be found on 'arth.  But that's all bam, Betty.  Leastwise I
know'd one honest firm.  `Yes, Mrs Buxley,' says I, `there's a firm o'
the name o' Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger in the City, who can do a'most
anything that's possible to man.  But you'll have to look sharp, for if
Edwin comes home an' diskivers what's doin', it's all up with the fortin
an' Betty.'

"Well, to make a long story short, your mother went to the lawyer's, an'
had her will made, leavin' a good lump of a sum to your brother, but the
most of the fortin to you.  By the advice o' Truefoot Tickle, and
Badger, she made it so that you shouldn't touch the money till you come
to be twenty-one, `for,' says she, `there's no sayin' what bad men will
be runnin' after the poor thing an deceivin' her for the sake of her
money before she is of an age to look after herself.'  `Yes,' thought I,
`an' there's no sayin' what bad men'll be runnin' after the poor thing
an' deceivin' of her for the sake of her money _after_ she's of an age
to look after herself,' but I didn't say that out, for your mother was
excited enough and over-anxious about things, I could see that.

"Well, when the will was made out all right, she took it out of her
chest one night an' read it all over to me.  I could see it was
shipshape, though I couldn't read a word of its crabbed letters myself.

"`Now Mrs Buxley,' says I, `where are you goin' to keep that
dockiment?'

"`In my chest,' says she.

"`Won't be safe there,' says I, for I knowed her forgivin' and confidin'
natur' too well, an' that she'd never be able to keep it from your
brother; but, before I could say more, there was a tremendous knockin'
wi' a stick at the front door.  Your poor mother turned pale--she know'd
the sound too well.  `That's Edwin,' she says, jumpin' up an runnin' to
open the door, forgetting all about the will, so I quietly folded it up
an' shoved it in my pocket.

"When Edwin was comin' up stairs I know'd he was very drunk and savage
by the way he was goin' on, an' when he came into the room an' saw me he
gave a yell of rage.  `Didn't I tell you never to show your face here
again?' says he.  `Just so,' says I, `but not bein' subjec' to your
orders, d'ye see, I _am_ here again.'

"Wi' that he swore a terrible oath an' rushed at me, but he tripped over
a footstool and fell flat on the floor.  Before he could recover himself
I made myself scarce an' went home.

"Next mornin', when I'd just finished breakfast a thunderin' rap came to
the door.  I know'd it well enough.  `Now look out for squalls,' said I
to myself, as I went an' opened it.  Edwin jumped in, banged the door
to, an' locked it.

"`You've no occasion to do that' says I, `for I don't expect no
friends--not even bobbies.'

"`You double-faced villain!' says he; `you've bin robbin' my mother!'

"`Come, come,' says I, `civility, you know, between pals.  What have I
done to your mother?'

"`You needn't try to deceive me, Paul,' says he, tryin' to keep his
temper down.  `Mother's bin took bad, wi' over-excitement, the doctor
says, an' she's told me all about the fortin an' the will, an' where
Betty is down at Brighton.'

"`My Betty at Brighton!' says I--pretendin' great surprise, for I had a
darter at that time whom I had called after your mother, for that was
her name too--but she's dead, poor thing!--she was dyin' in hospital at
the very time we was speakin', though I didn't know at the time that her
end was so near--`my Betty at Brighton!' says I.  `Why, she's in
hospital.  Bin there for some weeks.'

"`I don't mean _your_ brat, but my sister,' says Edwin, quite fierce.
`Where have you put her?  What's the name of the school?  What have you
done wi' the will?'

"`You'd better ax your mother,' says I.  `It's likely that she knows the
partiklers better nor me.'

"He lost patience altogether at this, an' sprang at me like a tiger.
But I was ready for him.  We had a regular set-to then an' there.  By
good luck there was no weapons of any kind in the room, not even a table
knife, for I'd had to pawn a'most everything to pay my rent, and the
clasp-knife I'd eat my breakfast with was in my pocket.  But we was both
handy with our fists.  We kep' at it for about half an hour.  Smashed
all the furniture, an' would have smashed the winders too, but there was
only one, an' it was a skylight.  In the middle of it the door was burst
open, an' in rushed half a dozen bobbies, who put a stop to it at once.

"`We're only havin' a friendly bout wi' the gloves,' says I, smilin'
quite sweet.

"`I don't see no gloves,' says the man as held me.

"`That's true,' says I, lookin' at my hands.  `They must have dropped
off an' rolled up the chimbly.'

"`Hallo!  Edwin Buxley!' said the sargeant, lookin' earnestly at your
brother; `why you've bin wanted for some time.  Here, Joe! the
bracelets.'

"In half a minute he was marched off.  `I'll have your blood, Paul, for
this,' he said bitterly, looking back as he went out.

"As _I_ wasn't `wanted' just then, I went straight off to see your
mother, to find out how much she had told to Edwin, for, from what he
had said, I feared she must have told all.  I was anxious, also, to see
if she'd bin really ill.  When I got to the house I met a nurse who said
she was dyin', an' would hardly let me in, till I got her persuaded I
was an intimate friend.  On reachin' the bedroom I saw by the looks o'
two women who were standin' there that it was serious.  And so it was,
for there lay your poor mother, as pale as death; her eyes closed and
her lips white; but there was a sweet, contented smile on her face, and
her thin hands clasped her well-worn Bible to her breast."

Paul Bevan stopped, for the poor girl had burst into tears.  For a time
he was silent and laid his heavy hand gently on her shoulder.

"I did not ventur' to speak to her," he continued, "an' indeed it would
have been of no use, for she was past hearin'.  A few minutes later and
her gentle spirit went up to God.

"I had no time now to waste, for I knew that your brother would give
information that might be bad for me, so I asked the nurse to write
down, while I repeated it, the lawyer's address.

"`Now,' says I, `go there an' tell 'em what's took place.  It'll be the
better for yourself if you do.'  An' then I went straight off to
Brighton."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"Well, you must know," said Paul Bevan, continuing his discourse to the
Rose of Oregon, "when I got to Brighton I went to the school, told 'em
that your mother was just dead, and brought you straight away.  I wasn't
an hour too soon, for, as I expected, your brother had given
information, an' the p'lice were on my heels in a jiffy, but I was too
sharp for 'em.  I went into hidin' in London; an' you've no notion,
Betty, what a rare place London is to hide in!  A needle what takes to
wanderin' in a haystack ain't safer than a feller is in London, if he
only knows how to go about the business.

"I lay there nigh three months, durin' which time my own poor child
Betty continued hoverin' 'tween life an death.  At last, one night when
I was at the hospital sittin' beside her, she suddenly raised her sweet
face, an fixin' her big eyes on me, said--

"`Father, I'm goin' home.  Shall I tell mother that you're comin'?'

"`What d'ye mean, my darlin'?' says I, while an awful thump came to my
heart, for I saw a great change come over her.

"`I'll be there soon, father,' she said, as her dear voice began to
fail; `have you no message for mother?'

"I was so crushed that I couldn't speak, so she went on--

"`You'll come--won't you, father? an' we'll be so glad to welcome you to
heaven.  An' so will Jesus.  Remember, He is the only door, father, no
name but that of Jesus--' She stopped all of a sudden, and I saw that
she had gone home.

"After that" continued Paul, hurrying on as if the memory of the event
was too much for him, "havin' nothin' to keep me in England, I came off
here to the gold-fields with you, an' brought the will with me,
intendin', when you came of age, to tell you all about it, an' see
justice done both to you an' to your brother, but--"

"Fath--Paul," said Betty, checking herself, "that brown parcel you gave
me long ago with such earnest directions to keep it safe, and only to
open it if you were killed, is--"

"That's the will, my dear."

"And Edwin--does he think that I am your real daughter Betty?"

"No doubt he does, for he never heard of her bein' dead, and he never
saw you since you was quite a little thing, an' there's a great change
on you since then--a wonderful change."

"Yes, fath--Oh! it is so hard to lose my father," said Betty, almost
breaking down, and letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap.

"But why lose him, Betty?  I did it all for the best," said Paul, gently
taking hold of one of the poor girl's hands.

She made a slight motion to withdraw it, but checked herself and let it
rest in the man's rough but kindly grasp, while tears silently coursed
down her rounded cheeks.  Presently she looked up and said--

"How did Edwin find out where you had gone to?"

"That's more than I can tell, Betty, unless it was through Truefoot,
Tickle, and Badger.  I wrote to them after gettin' here, tellin' them to
look well after the property, and it would be claimed in good time, an'
I raither fear that the postmark on the letter must have let the cat out
o' the bag.  Anyhow, not long after that Edwin found me out an' you know
how he has persecuted me, though you little thought he was your own
brother when you were beggin' of me not to kill him--no more did you
guess that I was as little anxious to kill him as you were, though I did
pretend I'd have to do it now an' then in self-defence.  Sometimes,
indeed, he riled me up to sitch an extent that there wasn't much
pretence about it; but thank God! my hand has been held back."

"Yes, thank God for that; and now I must go to him," said Betty, rising
hastily and hurrying back to the Indian village.

In a darkened tent, on a soft couch of deerskins, the dying form of
Buxley, alias Stalker, lay extended.  In the fierceness of his self-will
he had neglected his wounds until too late to save his life.  A look of
stern resolution sat on his countenance--probably he had resolved to
"die game," as hardened criminals express it.  His determination, on
whatever ground based, was evidently not shaken by the arguments of a
man who sat by his couch.  It was Tom Brixton.

"What's the use o' preachin' to me, young fellow?" said the
robber-chief, testily.  "I dare say you are pretty nigh as great a
scoundrel as I am."

"Perhaps a greater," returned Tom.  "I have no wish to enter into
comparisons, but I'm quite prepared to admit that I am as bad."

"Well, then, you've as much need as I have to seek salvation for
yourself."

"Indeed I have, and it is because I have sought it and obtained it,"
said Tom, earnestly, "that I am anxious to point out the way to you.
I've come through much the same experiences, no doubt, as you have.  I
have been a scouter of my mother's teachings, a thief, and, in heart if
not in act, a murderer.  No one could be more urgently in need of
salvation _from sin_ than I, and I used to think that I was so bad that
my case was hopeless, until God opened my eyes to see that Jesus came to
save His people _from their sins_.  That is what you need, is it not?"

"Ay, but it is too late," said Stalker, bitterly.

"The crucified thief did not find it too late," returned Tom, "and it
was the eleventh hour with him."

Stalker made no reply, but the stern, hard expression of his face did
not change one iota until he heard a female voice outside asking if he
were asleep.  Then the features relaxed; the frown passed like a summer
cloud before the sun, and, with half-open lips and a look of glad,
almost childish expectancy, he gazed at the curtain-door of the tent.

"Mother's voice!" he murmured, apparently in utter forgetfulness of Tom
Brixton's presence.

Next moment the curtain was raised, and Betty, entering quickly,
advanced to the side of the couch.  Tom rose, as if about to leave.

"Don't go, Mr Brixton," said the girl, "I wish you to hear us."

"My brother!" she continued, turning to the invalid, and grasping his
hand, for the first time, as she sat down beside him.

"If you were not so young I'd swear you were my mother," exclaimed
Stalker, with a slight look of surprise at the changed manner of his
nurse.  "Ha!  I wish that I were indeed your brother."

"But you _are_ my brother, Edwin Buxley," cried the girl with intense
earnestness, "my dear and only brother, whom God will save through Jesus
Christ?"

"What do you mean, Betty?" asked Stalker, with an anxious and puzzled
look.

"I mean that I am _not_ Betty Bevan.  Paul Bevan has told me so--told me
that I am Betty Buxley, and your sister!"

The dying man's chest heaved with labouring breath, for his wasted
strength was scarcely sufficient to bear this shock of surprise.

"I would not believe it," he said, with some difficulty, "even though
Paul Bevan were to swear to it, were it not for the wonderful likeness
both in look and tone."  He pressed her hand fervently, and added, "Yes,
dear Betty.  I _do_ believe that you are my very sister."

Tom Brixton, from an instinctive feeling of delicacy, left the tent,
while the Rose of Oregon related to her brother the story of her life
with Paul Bevan, and then followed it up with the story of God's love to
man in Jesus Christ.

Tom hurried to Bevan's tent to have the unexpected and surprising news
confirmed, and Paul told him a good deal, but was very careful to make
no allusion to Betty's "fortin."

"Now, Mister Brixton," said Paul, somewhat sternly, when he had
finished, "there must be no more shilly-shallyin' wi' Betty's feelin's.
You're fond o' _her_, an' she's fond o' _you_.  In them circumstances a
man is bound to wed--all the more that the poor thing has lost her
nat'ral protector, so to speak, for I'm afraid she'll no longer look
upon me as a father."

There was a touch of pathos in Paul's tone as he concluded, which
checked the rising indignation in Brixton's breast.

"But you forget, Paul, that Gashford and his men are here, and will
probably endeavour to lay hold of me.  I can scarce look on myself as
other than an outlaw."

"Pooh! lay hold of you!" exclaimed Paul, with contempt; "d'ye think
Gashford or any one else will dare to touch you with Mahoghany Drake an'
Mister Fred an' Flinders an' me, and Unaco with all his Injins at your
back?  Besides, let me tell you that Gashford seems a changed man.  I've
had a talk wi' him about you, an' he said he was done persecutin' of
you--that you had made restitootion when you left all the goold on the
river's bank for him to pick up, and that as nobody else in partikler
wanted to hang you, you'd nothin' to fear."

"Well, that does change the aspect of affairs," said Tom, "and it may be
that you are right in your advice about Betty.  I have twice tried to
get away from her and have failed.  Perhaps it may be right now to do as
you suggest, though after all the time seems not very suitable; but, as
you truly observe, she has lost her natural protector, for of course you
cannot be a father to her any longer.  Yes, I'll go and see Fred about
it."

Tom had considerable qualms of conscience as to the propriety of the
step he meditated, and tried to argue with himself as he went in search
of his friend.

"You see," he soliloquised aloud, "her brother is dying; and then,
though I am not a whit more worthy of her than I was, the case is
nevertheless altered, for she has no father now.  Then by marrying her I
shall have a right to protect her--and she stands greatly in need of a
protector in this wild country at this time, poor thing! and some one to
work for her, seeing that she has no means whatever!"

"Troth, an' that's just what she does need, sor!" said Paddy Flinders,
stepping out of the bush at the moment.  "Excuse me, sor, but I cudn't
help hearin' ye, for ye was spakin' out loud.  But I agree with ye
intirely; an', if I may make so bowld, I'm glad to find ye in that state
o' mind.  Did ye hear the news, sor?  They've found goold at the hid o'
the valley here."

"Indeed," said Tom, with a lack of interest that quite disgusted his
volatile friend.

"Yes, indade," said he.  "Why, sor, they've found it in big nuggets in
some places, an' Muster Gashford is off wid a party not half an hour
past.  I'm goin' mesilf, only I thought I'd see first if ye wouldn't
jine me; but ye don't seem to care for goold no more nor if it was
copper; an that's quare, too, whin it was the very objec' that brought
ye here."

"Ah, Flinders, I have gained more than my object in coming.  I _have_
found gold--most fine gold, too, that I won't have to leave behind me
when it pleases God to call me home.  But never fear, I'll join you.  I
owe you and other friends a debt, and I must dig to pay that.  Then, if
I succeed in the little scheme which you overheard me planning, I shall
need some gold to keep the pot boiling!"

"Good luck to ye, sor! so ye will.  But plaze don't mintion the little
debt you say you owe me an' the other boys.  Ye don't owe us nothin' o'
the sort.  But who comes here?  Muster Fred it is--the very man I want
to see."

"Yes, and I want to see him too, Paddy, so let me speak first, for a
brief space, in private, and you can have him as long as you like
afterwards."

Fred Westly's opinion on the point which his friend put before him
entirely coincided with that of Paul Bevan.

"I'm not surprised to learn that Paul is not her father," he said.  "It
was always a puzzle to me how she came to be so lady-like and refined in
her feelings, with such a rough, though kindly, father.  But I can
easily understand it now that I hear who and what her mother was."

But the principal person concerned in Tom Brixton's little scheme held
an adverse opinion to his friends Paul and Fred and Flinders.  Betty
would by no means listen to Tom's proposals until, one day, her brother
said that he would like to see her married to Tom Brixton before he
died.  Then the obdurate Rose of Oregon gave in!

"But how is it to be managed without a clergyman?" asked Fred Westly one
evening over the camp fire when supper was being prepared.

"Ay, how indeed?" said Tom, with a perplexed look.

"Oh, bother the clergy!" cried the irreverent Flinders.

"That's just what I'd do if there was one here," responded Tom; "I'd
bother him till he married us."

"I say, what did Adam and Eve an' those sort o' people do?" asked Tolly
Trevor, with the sudden animation resulting from the budding of a new
idea; "there was no clergy in their day, I suppose?"

"True for ye, boy," remarked Flinders, as he lifted a large pot of soup
off the fire.

"I know and care not, Tolly, what those sort o' people did," said Tom;
"and as Betty and I are not Adam and Eve, and the nineteenth century is
not the first, we need not inquire."

"I'll tell 'ee what," said Mahoghany Drake, "it's just comed into my
mind that there's a missionary goes up once a year to an outlyin' post
o' the fur-traders, an' this is about the very time.  What say ye to
make an excursion there to get spliced, it's only about two hundred
miles off?  We could soon ride there an' back, for the country's all
pretty flattish after passin' the Sawback range."

"The very thing!" cried Tom; "only--perhaps Betty might object to go,
her brother being so ill."

"Not she," said Fred; "since the poor man found in her a sister as well
as a nurse he seems to have got a new lease of life.  I don't, indeed,
think it possible that he can recover, but he may yet live a good while;
and the mere fact that she has gone to get married will do him good."

So it was finally arranged that they should all go, and, before three
days had passed, they went, with a strong band of their Indian allies.
They found the missionary as had been expected.  The knot was tied, and
Tom Brixton brought back the Rose of Oregon as a blooming bride to the
Sawback range.

From that date onward Tom toiled at the goldfields as if he had been a
galley-slave, and scraped together every speck and nugget of gold he
could find, and hoarded it up as if he had been a very miser, and,
strange to say, Betty did not discourage him.

One day he entered his tent with a large canvas bag in his hand quite
full.

"It's all here at last," he said, holding it up.  "I've had it weighed,
and I'm going to square up."

"Go, dear Tom, and God speed you," said the Rose, giving him a kiss that
could not have been purchased by all the gold in Oregon.

Tom went off, and soon returned with the empty bag.

"It was hard work, Betty, to get them to take it, but they agreed when I
threatened to heave it all into the lake if they didn't!  Then--I
ventured," said Tom, looking down with something like a blush--"it does
seem presumptuous in me, but I couldn't help it--I preached to them!  I
told them of my having been twice bought; of the gold that never
perishes; and of the debt I owe, which I could never repay, like theirs,
with interest, because it is incalculable.  And now, dear Betty, we
begin the world afresh from to-day."

"Yes, and with clear consciences," returned Betty.  "I like to
re-commence life thus."

"But with empty pockets," added Tom, with a peculiar twist of his mouth.

"No, not quite empty," rejoined the young wife, drawing a very
business-looking envelope from her pocket and handing it to her husband.
"Read that, Tom."

Need we say that Tom read it with mingled amusement and amazement; that
he laughed at it, and did not believe it; that he became grave, and
inquired into it; and that finally, when Paul Bevan detailed the whole
affair, he was forced to believe it?

"An estate in the West Indies," he murmured to himself in a condition of
semi-bewilderment, "yielding over fifteen hundred a year!"

"A tidy little fortin," remarked Paddy Flinders, who overheard him.  "I
hope, sor, ye won't forgit yer owld frinds in Oregon when ye go over to
take possession."

"I won't my boy--you may depend on that."

And he did not!

But Edwin Buxley did not live to enjoy his share of the fortune.  Soon
after the wedding he began to sink rapidly, and finally died while
gazing earnestly in his sister's face, with the word "mother" trembling
faintly on his lips.  He was laid under a lordly tree not far from the
Indian village in the Sawback range.

It was six months afterwards that Betty became of age and was entitled
to go home and claim her own.  She and Tom went first to a small village
in Kent, where dwelt an old lady who for some time past had had her
heart full to the very brim with gratitude because of a long-lost
prodigal son having been brought back to her--saved by the blood of the
Lamb.  When at last she set her longing eyes on Tom, and heard his
well-remembered voice say, "Mother!" the full heart overflowed and
rushed down the wrinkled cheeks in floods of inexpressible joy.  And the
floods were increased, and the joy intensified, when she turned at last
to gaze on a little modest, tearful, sympathetic flower, whom Tom
introduced to her as the Rose of Oregon!

Thereafter Tom and the Rose paid a visit to London City and called upon
Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger.

Truefoot was the only partner in the office at the time, but he ably
represented the firm, for he tickled them with information and badgered
them with questions to such an extent that they left the place of
business in a state of mental confusion, but on the whole, very well
satisfied.

The result of all these things was that Tom Brixton settled down near
the village where his mother dwelt, and Fred Westly, after staying long
enough among the Sawback Mountains to dig out of them a sufficiency,
returned home and bought a small farm beside his old chum.

And did Tom forget his old friends in Oregon?  No!  He became noted for
the length and strength of his correspondence.  He wrote to Flinders
begging him to come home and help him with his property, and Flinders
accepted.  He wrote to Mahoghany Drake and sent him a splendid rifle,
besides good advice and many other things, at different times, too
numerous to mention.  He wrote to little Tolly Trevor endeavouring to
persuade him to come to England and be "made a man of", but Tolly
politely declined, preferring to follow the fortunes of Mahoghany and be
made a man of in the backwoods sense of the expression, in company with
his fast friend the Leaping Buck.  Tolly sent his special love to the
Rose of Oregon, and said that she would be glad to hear that the old
place in the Sawback range had become a little colony, and that a
missionary had settled in it, and Gashford had held by his promise to
her--not only giving up drink and gambling entirely, but had set up a
temperance coffee-house and a store, both of which were in the full
blast of prosperity.

Tolly also said, in quite a poetical burst, that the fragrance of the
Rose not only remained in the Colony, but was still felt as a blessed
memory and a potent influence for good throughout all the land.

Finally, Tom Brixton settled down to a life of usefulness beside his
mother--who lived to a fabulous old age--and was never tired of telling,
especially to his young friends, of his wonderful adventures in the Far
West and how he had been twice bought--once with gold and once with
blood.

THE END.