Chapter Ten.How long Tolly Trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being alone. On returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he approached the bank of the rivulet. Reflecting that a thoroughbred hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull up, but his horse refused. It had run away with him.Although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for, even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile.“Stop! won’t you? Wo-o-o!” cried Tolly, straining at the reins till the veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst.But the horse would neither “stop” nor “wo-o-o!” It was otherwise, however, with the pony. That amiable creature had been trained well, and had learned obedience. Blessed quality! Would that the human race—especially its juvenile section—understood better the value of that inestimable virtue! The pony began to pull back at the sound of “wo!” Its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to recognise the order. The result was that poor Tolly’s right arm, over which was thrown the pony’s rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting opinions.A bright idea struck his mind at this moment. Bright ideas always do strike the mind of genius at critical moments! He grasped both the reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them round his wrist. Then he turned about—not an instant too soon—looked the pony straight in the face, and said “Wo!” in a voice of command that was irresistible. The pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs, and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground. The strain on Tolly’s arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small. It stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of destruction with an almost broken jaw.The boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree. Even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey self-will.But these and all other feelings of humour and satisfaction were speedily put to flight when, after crossing the remains of the plank bridge with some difficulty, he stood before the hideous wreck of his friend’s late home, where he had spent so many glad hours listening to marvellous adventures from Paul Bevan, or learning how to read and cipher, as well as drinking in wisdom generally, from the Rose of Oregon.It was an awful collapse. A yawning gulf had been driven into the earth, and the hut—originally a solid structure—having been hurled bodily skyward, shattered to atoms, and inextricably mixed in its parts, had come down again into the gulf as into a ready-made grave.It would be vain to search for any sort of letter, sign, or communication from his friends among thedébris. Tolly felt that at once, yet he could not think of leaving without a search. After one deep and prolonged sigh he threw off his lethargy, and began a close inspection of the surroundings.“You see,” he muttered to himself, as he moved quickly yet stealthily about, “they’d never have gone off without leavin’ some scrap of information for me, to tell me which way they’d gone, even though they’d gone off in a lightnin’ hurry. But p’raps they didn’t. The reptiles may have comed on ’em unawares, an’ left ’em no time to do anything. Ofcoursethey can’t have killed ’em. Nobody ever could catch Paul Bevan asleep—no, not the sharpest redskin in the land. That’s quite out o’ the question.”Though out of the question, however, the bare thought of such a catastrophe caused little Trevor’s under lip to tremble, a mist to obscure his vision, and a something-or-other to fill his throat, which he had to swallow with a gulp. Moreover, he went back to the ruined hut and began to pull about the wreck with a fluttering heart, lest he should come on some evidence that his friends had been murdered. Then he went to the highest part of the rock to rest a little, and consider what had best be done next.While seated there, gazing on the scene of silent desolation, which the pale moonlight rendered more ghastly, the poor boy’s spirit failed him a little. He buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.Soon this weakness, as he deemed it, passed away. He dried his eyes, roughly, and rose to resume his search, and it is more than probable that he would ere long have bethought him of the cave where Betty had left her note, if his attention had not been suddenly arrested by a faint glimmer of ruddy light in a distant part of the forest. The robbers were stirring up their fires, and sending a tell-tale glow into the sky.“O-ho!” exclaimed Tolly Trevor.He said nothing more, but there was a depth of meaning in the tone and look accompanying that “O-ho!” which baffles description.Tightening his belt, he at once glided down the slope, flitted across the rivulet, skimmed over the open space, and melted into the forest after the most approved method of Red Indian tactics.The expedition from which he had just returned having been peaceful, little Trevor carried no warlike weapons—for the long bowie-knife at his side, and the little hatchet stuck in his girdle, were, so to speak, merely domestic implements, without which he never moved abroad. But as war was not his object, the want of rifle and revolver mattered little. He soon reached the neighbourhood of the robbers’ fire, and, when close enough to render extreme caution necessary, threw himself flat on the ground and advanced à la “snake-in-the-grass.”Presently he came within earshot, and listened attentively, though without much interest, to a deal of boastful small talk with which the marauders beguiled the time, while they fumigated their mouths and noses preparatory to turning in for the night.At last the name of Paul Bevan smote his ear, causing it, metaphorically, to go on full cock.“I’m sartin sure,” said one of the speakers, “that the old screw has gone right away to Simpson’s Gully.”“If I thought that, I’d follow him up, and make a dash at the Gully itself,” said Stalker, plucking a burning stick from the fire to rekindle his pipe.“If you did you’d get wopped,” remarked Goff, with a touch of sarcasm, for the lieutenant of the band was not so respectful to his commander as a well-disciplined man should be.“What makes you think so?” demanded the chief.“The fact that the diggers are a sight too many for us,” returned Goff. “Why, we’d find ’em three to one, if not four.”“Well, that, coupled with the uncertainty of his having gone to Simpson’s Gully,” said the chief, “decides me to make tracks down south to the big woods on the slopes of the Sawback Hills. There are plenty of parties travelling thereabouts with lots of gold, boys, and difficulties enough in the way of hunting us out o’ the stronghold. I’ll leave you there for a short time and make a private excursion to Simpson’s Gully, to see if my enemy an’ the beautiful Betty are there.”“An’ get yourself shot or stuck for your pains,” said Goff. “Do you suppose that such a hulking, long-legged fellow as you are, can creep into a camp like an or’nary man without drawin’ attention?”“Perhaps not,” returned Stalker; “but are there not such things as disguises? Have you not seen me with my shootin’-coat and botanical box an’ blue spectacles, an’ my naturally sandy hair.”“No, no, captain!” cried Goff, with a laugh, “not sandy; say yellow, or golden.”“Well, golden, then, if you will. You’ve seen it dyed black, haven’t you?”“Oh yes! I’ve seen you in these humblin’ circumstances before now,” returned the lieutenant, “and I must say your own mother wouldn’t know you. But what’s the use o’ runnin’ the risk, captain?”“Because I owe Bevan a grudge!” said the chief, sternly, “and mean to be revenged on him. Besides, I want the sweet Betty for a wife, and intend to have her, whether she will or no. She’ll make a capital bandit’s wife—after a little while, when she gets used to the life. So now you know some of my plans, and you shall see whether the hulking botanist won’t carry all before him.”“O-ho!” muttered the snake-in-the-grass, very softly; and there was something so compound and significant in the tone of that second “O-ho!” soft though it was, that it not only baffles description, but—really, you know, it would be an insult to your understanding, good reader, to say more in the way of explanation! There was also a heaving of the snake’s shoulders, which, although unaccompanied by sound, was eminently suggestive.Feeling that he had by that time heard quite enough, Tolly Trevor effected a masterly retreat, and returned to the place where he had left the horses. On the way he recalled with satisfaction the fact that Paul Bevan had once pointed out to him the exact direction of Simpson’s Gully at a time when he meant to send him on an errand thither. “You’ve on’y to go over there, lad,” Paul had said, pointing towards the forest in rear of his hut, “and hold on for two days straight as the crow flies till you come to it. You can’t well miss it.”Tolly knew that there was also an easier though longer route by the plains, but as he was not sure of it he made up his mind to take to the forest.The boy was sufficiently trained in woodcraft to feel pretty confident of finding his way, for he knew the north side of trees by their bark, and could find out the north star when the sky was clear, besides possessing a sort of natural aptitude for holding on in a straight line. He mounted the obstinate horse, therefore, took the rein of the obedient pony on his right arm, and, casting a last look of profound regret on Bevan’s desolated homestead, rode swiftly away. So eager was he that he took no thought for the morrow. He knew that the wallet slung at his saddle-bow contained a small supply of food—as much, probably, as would last three days with care. That was enough to render Tolly Trevor the most independent and careless youth in Oregon.While these events were occurring in the neighbourhood of Bevan’s Gully, three red men, in all the glory of vermilion, charcoal, and feathers, were stalking through the forest in the vicinity of the spot where poor Tom Brixton had laid him down to die. These children of the wilderness stalked in single file—from habit we presume, for there was ample space for them to have walked abreast if so inclined. They seemed to be unsociable beings, for they also stalked in solemn silence.Suddenly the first savage came to an abrupt pause, and said, “Ho!” the second savage said, “He!” and the third said, “Hi!” After which, for full a minute, they stared at the ground in silent wonder and said nothing. They had seen a footprint! It did not by any means resemble that deep, well developed, and very solitary footprint at which Robinson Crusoe is wont to stare in nursery picture-books. No; it was a print which was totally invisible to ordinary eyes, and revealed itself to these children of the woods in the form of a turned leaf and a cracked twig. Such as it was, it revealed a track which the three children followed up until they found Tom Brixton—or his body—lying on the ground near to the little spring.Again these children said, “Ho!” “He!” and “Hi!” respectively, in varying tones according to their varied character. Then they commenced a jabber, which we are quite unable to translate, and turned Tom over on his back. The motion awoke him, for he sat up and stared.Even that effort proved too much for him in his weak state, for he fell back and fainted.The Indians proved to be men of promptitude. They lifted the white man up; one got Tom’s shoulders on his back, another put his legs over his shoulders, and thus they stalked away with him. When the first child of the wood grew tired, the unburdened one stepped in to his relief; when the second child grew tired, the first one went to his aid; when all the children grew tired, they laid their burden on the ground and sat down beside it. Thus, by easy stages, was Tom Brixton conveyed away from the spot where he had given himself up as hopelessly lost.Now, it could not have been more than six hours after Tom had thus been borne away that poor Tolly Trevor came upon the same scene. We say “poor” advisedly, for he had not only suffered the loss of much fragmentary clothing in his passage through that tangled wood, but also most of the food with which he had started, and a good deal of skin from his shins, elbows, knuckles, and knees, as well as the greater part of his patience. Truly, he was in a pitiable plight, for the forest had turned out to be almost impassable for horses, and in his journey he had not only fallen off, and been swept out of the saddle by overhanging branches frequently, but had to swim swamps, cross torrents, climb precipitous banks, and had stuck in quagmires innumerable.As for the horses—their previous owner could not have recognised them. It is true they were what is styled “all there,” but there was an inexpressible droop of their heads and tails, a weary languor in their eyes, and an abject waggle about their knees which told of hope deferred and spirit utterly gone. The pony was the better of the two. Its sprightly glance of amiability had changed into a gaze of humble resignation, whereas the aspect of the obstinate horse was one of impotent ill-nature. It would have bitten, perhaps, if strength had permitted, but as to its running away—ha!Well, Tolly Trevor approached—it could hardly be said he rode up to—the spring before mentioned, where he passed the footprints in stupid blindness.He dismounted, however, to drink and rest a while.“Come on—you brute!” he cried, almost savagely, dragging the horse to the water.The creature lowered its head and gazed as though to say, “What liquid is that?”As the pony, however, at once took a long and hearty draught it also condescended to drink, while Tolly followed suit. Afterwards he left the animals to graze, and sat down under a neighbouring tree to rest and swallow his last morsel of food.It was sad to see the way in which the poor boy carefully shook out and gathered up the few crumbs in his wallet so that not one of them should be lost; and how slowly he ate them, as if to prolong the sensation of being gratified! During the two days which he had spent in the forest his face had grown perceptibly thinner, and his strength had certainly diminished. Even the reckless look of defiant joviality, which was one of the boy’s chief characteristics, had given place to a restless anxiety that prevented his seeing humour in anything, and induced a feeling of impatience when a joke chanced irresistibly to bubble up in his mind. He was once again reduced almost to the weeping point, but his sensations were somewhat different for, when he had stood gazing at the wreck of Bevan’s home, the nether lip had trembled because of the sorrows of friends, whereas now he was sorrowing because of an exhausted nature, a weakened heart, and a sinking spirit. But the spirit had not yet utterly given way!“Come!” he cried, starting up. “This won’t do, Tolly. Be a man! Why, only think—you have got over two days and two nights. That was the time allowed you by Paul, so your journey’s all but done—must be. Of course those brutes—forgive me, pony,thatbrute, 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.
How long Tolly Trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being alone. On returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he approached the bank of the rivulet. Reflecting that a thoroughbred hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull up, but his horse refused. It had run away with him.
Although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for, even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile.
“Stop! won’t you? Wo-o-o!” cried Tolly, straining at the reins till the veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst.
But the horse would neither “stop” nor “wo-o-o!” It was otherwise, however, with the pony. That amiable creature had been trained well, and had learned obedience. Blessed quality! Would that the human race—especially its juvenile section—understood better the value of that inestimable virtue! The pony began to pull back at the sound of “wo!” Its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to recognise the order. The result was that poor Tolly’s right arm, over which was thrown the pony’s rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting opinions.
A bright idea struck his mind at this moment. Bright ideas always do strike the mind of genius at critical moments! He grasped both the reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them round his wrist. Then he turned about—not an instant too soon—looked the pony straight in the face, and said “Wo!” in a voice of command that was irresistible. The pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs, and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground. The strain on Tolly’s arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small. It stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of destruction with an almost broken jaw.
The boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree. Even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey self-will.
But these and all other feelings of humour and satisfaction were speedily put to flight when, after crossing the remains of the plank bridge with some difficulty, he stood before the hideous wreck of his friend’s late home, where he had spent so many glad hours listening to marvellous adventures from Paul Bevan, or learning how to read and cipher, as well as drinking in wisdom generally, from the Rose of Oregon.
It was an awful collapse. A yawning gulf had been driven into the earth, and the hut—originally a solid structure—having been hurled bodily skyward, shattered to atoms, and inextricably mixed in its parts, had come down again into the gulf as into a ready-made grave.
It would be vain to search for any sort of letter, sign, or communication from his friends among thedébris. Tolly felt that at once, yet he could not think of leaving without a search. After one deep and prolonged sigh he threw off his lethargy, and began a close inspection of the surroundings.
“You see,” he muttered to himself, as he moved quickly yet stealthily about, “they’d never have gone off without leavin’ some scrap of information for me, to tell me which way they’d gone, even though they’d gone off in a lightnin’ hurry. But p’raps they didn’t. The reptiles may have comed on ’em unawares, an’ left ’em no time to do anything. Ofcoursethey can’t have killed ’em. Nobody ever could catch Paul Bevan asleep—no, not the sharpest redskin in the land. That’s quite out o’ the question.”
Though out of the question, however, the bare thought of such a catastrophe caused little Trevor’s under lip to tremble, a mist to obscure his vision, and a something-or-other to fill his throat, which he had to swallow with a gulp. Moreover, he went back to the ruined hut and began to pull about the wreck with a fluttering heart, lest he should come on some evidence that his friends had been murdered. Then he went to the highest part of the rock to rest a little, and consider what had best be done next.
While seated there, gazing on the scene of silent desolation, which the pale moonlight rendered more ghastly, the poor boy’s spirit failed him a little. He buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.
Soon this weakness, as he deemed it, passed away. He dried his eyes, roughly, and rose to resume his search, and it is more than probable that he would ere long have bethought him of the cave where Betty had left her note, if his attention had not been suddenly arrested by a faint glimmer of ruddy light in a distant part of the forest. The robbers were stirring up their fires, and sending a tell-tale glow into the sky.
“O-ho!” exclaimed Tolly Trevor.
He said nothing more, but there was a depth of meaning in the tone and look accompanying that “O-ho!” which baffles description.
Tightening his belt, he at once glided down the slope, flitted across the rivulet, skimmed over the open space, and melted into the forest after the most approved method of Red Indian tactics.
The expedition from which he had just returned having been peaceful, little Trevor carried no warlike weapons—for the long bowie-knife at his side, and the little hatchet stuck in his girdle, were, so to speak, merely domestic implements, without which he never moved abroad. But as war was not his object, the want of rifle and revolver mattered little. He soon reached the neighbourhood of the robbers’ fire, and, when close enough to render extreme caution necessary, threw himself flat on the ground and advanced à la “snake-in-the-grass.”
Presently he came within earshot, and listened attentively, though without much interest, to a deal of boastful small talk with which the marauders beguiled the time, while they fumigated their mouths and noses preparatory to turning in for the night.
At last the name of Paul Bevan smote his ear, causing it, metaphorically, to go on full cock.
“I’m sartin sure,” said one of the speakers, “that the old screw has gone right away to Simpson’s Gully.”
“If I thought that, I’d follow him up, and make a dash at the Gully itself,” said Stalker, plucking a burning stick from the fire to rekindle his pipe.
“If you did you’d get wopped,” remarked Goff, with a touch of sarcasm, for the lieutenant of the band was not so respectful to his commander as a well-disciplined man should be.
“What makes you think so?” demanded the chief.
“The fact that the diggers are a sight too many for us,” returned Goff. “Why, we’d find ’em three to one, if not four.”
“Well, that, coupled with the uncertainty of his having gone to Simpson’s Gully,” said the chief, “decides me to make tracks down south to the big woods on the slopes of the Sawback Hills. There are plenty of parties travelling thereabouts with lots of gold, boys, and difficulties enough in the way of hunting us out o’ the stronghold. I’ll leave you there for a short time and make a private excursion to Simpson’s Gully, to see if my enemy an’ the beautiful Betty are there.”
“An’ get yourself shot or stuck for your pains,” said Goff. “Do you suppose that such a hulking, long-legged fellow as you are, can creep into a camp like an or’nary man without drawin’ attention?”
“Perhaps not,” returned Stalker; “but are there not such things as disguises? Have you not seen me with my shootin’-coat and botanical box an’ blue spectacles, an’ my naturally sandy hair.”
“No, no, captain!” cried Goff, with a laugh, “not sandy; say yellow, or golden.”
“Well, golden, then, if you will. You’ve seen it dyed black, haven’t you?”
“Oh yes! I’ve seen you in these humblin’ circumstances before now,” returned the lieutenant, “and I must say your own mother wouldn’t know you. But what’s the use o’ runnin’ the risk, captain?”
“Because I owe Bevan a grudge!” said the chief, sternly, “and mean to be revenged on him. Besides, I want the sweet Betty for a wife, and intend to have her, whether she will or no. She’ll make a capital bandit’s wife—after a little while, when she gets used to the life. So now you know some of my plans, and you shall see whether the hulking botanist won’t carry all before him.”
“O-ho!” muttered the snake-in-the-grass, very softly; and there was something so compound and significant in the tone of that second “O-ho!” soft though it was, that it not only baffles description, but—really, you know, it would be an insult to your understanding, good reader, to say more in the way of explanation! There was also a heaving of the snake’s shoulders, which, although unaccompanied by sound, was eminently suggestive.
Feeling that he had by that time heard quite enough, Tolly Trevor effected a masterly retreat, and returned to the place where he had left the horses. On the way he recalled with satisfaction the fact that Paul Bevan had once pointed out to him the exact direction of Simpson’s Gully at a time when he meant to send him on an errand thither. “You’ve on’y to go over there, lad,” Paul had said, pointing towards the forest in rear of his hut, “and hold on for two days straight as the crow flies till you come to it. You can’t well miss it.”
Tolly knew that there was also an easier though longer route by the plains, but as he was not sure of it he made up his mind to take to the forest.
The boy was sufficiently trained in woodcraft to feel pretty confident of finding his way, for he knew the north side of trees by their bark, and could find out the north star when the sky was clear, besides possessing a sort of natural aptitude for holding on in a straight line. He mounted the obstinate horse, therefore, took the rein of the obedient pony on his right arm, and, casting a last look of profound regret on Bevan’s desolated homestead, rode swiftly away. So eager was he that he took no thought for the morrow. He knew that the wallet slung at his saddle-bow contained a small supply of food—as much, probably, as would last three days with care. That was enough to render Tolly Trevor the most independent and careless youth in Oregon.
While these events were occurring in the neighbourhood of Bevan’s Gully, three red men, in all the glory of vermilion, charcoal, and feathers, were stalking through the forest in the vicinity of the spot where poor Tom Brixton had laid him down to die. These children of the wilderness stalked in single file—from habit we presume, for there was ample space for them to have walked abreast if so inclined. They seemed to be unsociable beings, for they also stalked in solemn silence.
Suddenly the first savage came to an abrupt pause, and said, “Ho!” the second savage said, “He!” and the third said, “Hi!” After which, for full a minute, they stared at the ground in silent wonder and said nothing. They had seen a footprint! It did not by any means resemble that deep, well developed, and very solitary footprint at which Robinson Crusoe is wont to stare in nursery picture-books. No; it was a print which was totally invisible to ordinary eyes, and revealed itself to these children of the woods in the form of a turned leaf and a cracked twig. Such as it was, it revealed a track which the three children followed up until they found Tom Brixton—or his body—lying on the ground near to the little spring.
Again these children said, “Ho!” “He!” and “Hi!” respectively, in varying tones according to their varied character. Then they commenced a jabber, which we are quite unable to translate, and turned Tom over on his back. The motion awoke him, for he sat up and stared.
Even that effort proved too much for him in his weak state, for he fell back and fainted.
The Indians proved to be men of promptitude. They lifted the white man up; one got Tom’s shoulders on his back, another put his legs over his shoulders, and thus they stalked away with him. When the first child of the wood grew tired, the unburdened one stepped in to his relief; when the second child grew tired, the first one went to his aid; when all the children grew tired, they laid their burden on the ground and sat down beside it. Thus, by easy stages, was Tom Brixton conveyed away from the spot where he had given himself up as hopelessly lost.
Now, it could not have been more than six hours after Tom had thus been borne away that poor Tolly Trevor came upon the same scene. We say “poor” advisedly, for he had not only suffered the loss of much fragmentary clothing in his passage through that tangled wood, but also most of the food with which he had started, and a good deal of skin from his shins, elbows, knuckles, and knees, as well as the greater part of his patience. Truly, he was in a pitiable plight, for the forest had turned out to be almost impassable for horses, and in his journey he had not only fallen off, and been swept out of the saddle by overhanging branches frequently, but had to swim swamps, cross torrents, climb precipitous banks, and had stuck in quagmires innumerable.
As for the horses—their previous owner could not have recognised them. It is true they were what is styled “all there,” but there was an inexpressible droop of their heads and tails, a weary languor in their eyes, and an abject waggle about their knees which told of hope deferred and spirit utterly gone. The pony was the better of the two. Its sprightly glance of amiability had changed into a gaze of humble resignation, whereas the aspect of the obstinate horse was one of impotent ill-nature. It would have bitten, perhaps, if strength had permitted, but as to its running away—ha!
Well, Tolly Trevor approached—it could hardly be said he rode up to—the spring before mentioned, where he passed the footprints in stupid blindness.
He dismounted, however, to drink and rest a while.
“Come on—you brute!” he cried, almost savagely, dragging the horse to the water.
The creature lowered its head and gazed as though to say, “What liquid is that?”
As the pony, however, at once took a long and hearty draught it also condescended to drink, while Tolly followed suit. Afterwards he left the animals to graze, and sat down under a neighbouring tree to rest and swallow his last morsel of food.
It was sad to see the way in which the poor boy carefully shook out and gathered up the few crumbs in his wallet so that not one of them should be lost; and how slowly he ate them, as if to prolong the sensation of being gratified! During the two days which he had spent in the forest his face had grown perceptibly thinner, and his strength had certainly diminished. Even the reckless look of defiant joviality, which was one of the boy’s chief characteristics, had given place to a restless anxiety that prevented his seeing humour in anything, and induced a feeling of impatience when a joke chanced irresistibly to bubble up in his mind. He was once again reduced almost to the weeping point, but his sensations were somewhat different for, when he had stood gazing at the wreck of Bevan’s home, the nether lip had trembled because of the sorrows of friends, whereas now he was sorrowing because of an exhausted nature, a weakened heart, and a sinking spirit. But the spirit had not yet utterly given way!
“Come!” he cried, starting up. “This won’t do, Tolly. Be a man! Why, only think—you have got over two days and two nights. That was the time allowed you by Paul, so your journey’s all but done—must be. Of course those brutes—forgive me, pony,thatbrute, 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 beentwice 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,veryweak—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—isit 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—IthinkI 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 thatyoushall 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’mallhere 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, itisa good pie. Now—about Paul?”“He has gone away with Mr Westly and Flinders to search for Mr Brixton.”“What! withoutme?” 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—”“SoIwould have said, had they consultedme,” 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’ssogood,” 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 undermeyou 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 Redskinshavecarried 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 meonechance!” 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.
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 beentwice 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,veryweak—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—isit 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—IthinkI 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 thatyoushall 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’mallhere 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, itisa good pie. Now—about Paul?”
“He has gone away with Mr Westly and Flinders to search for Mr Brixton.”
“What! withoutme?” 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—”
“SoIwould have said, had they consultedme,” 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’ssogood,” 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 undermeyou 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 Redskinshavecarried 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 meonechance!” 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 whereweare 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, whencrack! 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!
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 whereweare 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, whencrack! 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!