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.