"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.