There was no resisting the earnest sincerity of Freds look and tone, to say nothing of his cool courage. Gashford felt somewhat abashed in spite of himself.
What has happened to me? he repeated, bitterly. The worst that could happen has happened. My gold has been stolen, and your chum is the man who has cribbed it. I know that as well as if I had seen him do it. But Ill hunt him down and have it out of him with interest; with interest, mark youif I should have to go to the ends o the arth to find him.
Without another word Gashford thrust the revolver into his pocket, flung aside the tent curtain, and strode away.
Meanwhile Tom Brixton, with the gold in a game-bag slung across his shoulder, was speeding down the valley, or mountain gorge, at the head of which the Pine Tree Diggings lay, with all the vigour and activity of youthful strength, but with none of the exultation that might be supposed to characterise a successful thief. On the contrary, a weight like lead seemed to lie on his heart, and the faces of his mother and his friend, Fred Westly, seemed to flit before him continually, gazing at him with sorrowful expression. As the fumes of the liquor which he had drunk began to dissipate, the shame and depression of spirit increased, and his strength, great though it was, began to give way.
By that time, however, he had placed many a mile between him and the camp where he had committed the robbery. The valley opened into a wide, almost boundless stretch of comparatively level land, covered here and there with forests so dense, that, once concealed in their recesses, it would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible, for white men to trace him, especially men who were so little acquainted with woodcraft as the diggers. Besides this, the region was undulating in form, here and there, so that from the tops of many of the eminences, he could see over the whole land, and observe the approach of enemies without being himself seen.
Feeling, therefore, comparatively safe, he paused in his mad flight, and went down on hands and knees to take a long drink at a bubbling spring. Rising, refreshed, with a deep sigh, he slowly mounted to the top of a knoll which was bathed at the time in the first beams of the rising sun.
From the spot he obtained a view of intermingled forest, prairie, lake, and river, so resplendent that even his mind was for a moment diverted from its gloomy introspections, and a glance of admiration shot from his eyes and chased the wrinkles from his brow; but the frown quickly returned, and the glorious landscape was forgotten as the thought of his dreadful condition returned with overwhelming power.
Up to that day Tom Brixton, with all his faults, had kept within the circle of the worlds laws. He had been well trained in boyhood, and, with the approval of his mother, had left England for the Oregon goldfields in company with a steady, well-principled friend, who had been a playmate in early childhood and at school. The two friends had experienced during three years the varying fortune of a diggers life; sometimes working for long periods successfully, and gradually increasing their pile; at other times toiling day after day for nothing and living on their capital, but on the whole, making what men called a good thing of it until Tom took to gambling, which, almost as a matter of course, led to drinking. The process of demoralisation had continued until, as we have seen, the boundary line was at last overstepped, and he had become a thief and an outlaw.
At that period and in those diggings Judge Lynchin other words, off-hand and speedy justice by the community of minerswas the order of the day, and, as stealing had become exasperatingly common, the penalty appointed was death, the judges being, in most cases, the prompt executioners.
Tom Brixton knew well what his fate would be if captured, and this unquestionably filled him with anxiety, but it was not this thought that caused him, as he reclined on the sunny knoll, to spurn the bag of gold with his foot.
Trash! he exclaimed, bitterly, repeating the kick.
But the love of gold had taken deep root in the fallen youths heart. After a brief rest he arose, slung the trash over his shoulder, and, descending the knoll, quickly disappeared in the glades of the forests.
Chapter Two
While Brixton was hurrying with a guilty conscience deeper and deeper into the dark woods which covered the spur of the mountains in the neighbourhood of Pine Tree Diggings, glancing back nervously from time to time as if he expected the pursuers to be close at his heels, an enemy was advancing to meet him in front, of whom he little dreamed.
A brown bear, either enjoying his morning walk or on the look-out for breakfast, suddenly met him face to face, and stood up on its hind legs as if to have a good look at him.
Tom was no coward; indeed he was gifted with more than an average amount of animal courage. He at once levelled his rifle at the creatures breast and fired. The bear rushed at him, nevertheless, as if uninjured. Drawing his revolver, Tom discharged two shots before the monster reached him. All three shots had taken effect but bears are noted for tenacity of life, and are frequently able to fight a furious battle after being mortally wounded. The rifle ball had touched its heart, and the revolver bullets had gone deep into its chest, yet it showed little sign of having been hurt.
Knowing full well the fate that awaited him if he stood to wrestle with a bear, the youth turned to run, but the bear was too quick for him. It struck him on the back and felled him to the earth.
Strange to say, at that moment Tom Brixtons ill-gotten gains stood him in good stead. There can be no question that the bears tremendous claws would have sunk deep into the youths back, and probably broken his spine, if they had not been arrested by the bag of gold which was slung at his back. Although knocked down and slightly stunned, Brixton was still unwounded, and, even in the act of falling, had presence of mind to draw his long knife and plunge it up to the haft in the creatures side, at the same time twisting himself violently round so as to fall on his back and thus face the foe.
In this position, partly owing to the form of the ground, the bear found it difficult to grasp its opponent in its awful embrace, but it held him with its claws and seized his left shoulder with its teeth. This rendered the use of the revolver impossible, but fortunately Brixtons right arm was still free, and he drove the keen knife a second time deep into the animals sides. Whether mortal or not, the wound did not immediately kill. Tom felt that his hour was come, and a deadly fear came over him as the thought of death, his recent life, and judgment, flashed through his brain. He drew out the knife, however, to make another desperate thrust. The bears great throat was close over his face. He thought of its jugular vein, and made a deadly thrust at the spot where he imagined that to run.
Instantly a flood of warm blood deluged his face and breast; at the same time he felt as if some dreadful weight were pressing him to death. Then consciousness forsook him.
While this desperate fight was going on, the miners of Pine Tree camp were scouring the woods in all directions in search of the fugitive. As we have said, great indignation was felt at that time against thieves, because some of them had become very daring, and cases of theft were multiplying. Severe penalties had been imposed on the culprits by the rest of the community without curing the evil. At last death was decided on as the penalty for any act of theft, however trifling it might be. That these men were in earnest was proved by the summary execution of the next two offenders who were caught. Immediately after that thieving came to an abrupt end, insomuch that if you had left a bag of gold on an exposed place, men would have gone out of their way to avoid it!
One can understand, therefore, the indignation that was roused in the camp when Tom Brixton revived the practice in such a cool and impudent manner. It was felt that, despite his being a favourite with many of the diggers, he must be made an example. Pursuit was, therefore, organised on an extensive scale and in a methodical manner. Among others, his friend Fred Westly took part in it.
It cost those diggers something thus to give up the exciting work of gold-finding for a chase that promised to occupy time and tax perseverance. Some of them even refused to join in it, but on the whole the desire for vengeance seemed general.
Bully Gashford, as he did not object to be called, was, in virtue of his size, energy, and desperate character, tacitly appointed leader. Indeed he would have assumed that position if it had not been accorded to him, for he was made of that stuff which produces either heroes of the highest type or scoundrels of the deepest dye. He arranged that the pursuers should proceed in a body to the mouth of the valley, and there, dividing into several parties, scatter themselves abroad until they should find the thiefs trail and then follow it up. As the miners were not much accustomed to following trails, they engaged the services of several Indians who chanced to be at the camp at that time.
What direction dye think its likely your precious chum has taken? asked Gashford, turning abruptly to Fred Westly when the different parties were about to start.
It is impossible for me to tell.
I know that, retorted Gashford, with a scowl and something of a sneer, but it aint impossible for you to guess. However, it will do as well if you tell me which party you intend to join.
I shall join that which goes to the south-west, replied Westly.
Well, then, I will join that which goes to the south-east, returned the bully, shouldering his rifle. Go ahead, you red reptile, he added, giving a sign to the Indian at the head of the party he had selected to lead.
The Indian at once went off at a swinging walk, amounting almost to a trot. The others followed suit and the forest soon swallowed them all in its dark embrace.
In making this selection Gashford had fallen into a mistake not uncommon among scoundrelsthat of judging other men by themselves. He knew that Westly was fond of his guilty friend, and concluded that he would tell any falsehood or put the pursuers on any false scent that might favour his escape. He also guessedand he was fond of guessingthat Fred would answer his question by indicating the direction which he thought it most probable his friend had not taken. In these guesses he was only to a small extent right. Westly did indeed earnestly hope that his friend would escape; for he deemed the intended punishment of death most unjustly severe, and, knowing intimately the character and tendencies of Tom Brixtons mind and tastes, he had a pretty shrewd guess as to the direction he had taken, but, so far from desiring to throw the pursuers off the scent his main anxiety was to join the party which he thought most likely to find the fugitiveif they should find him at allin order that he might be present to defend him from sudden or unnecessary violence.
Of course Paddy Flinders went with the same party, and we need scarcely add that the little Irishman sympathised with Fred.
Dee think its likely well cotch im? he asked, in a whisper, on the evening of that day, as they went rapidly through the woods together, a little in rear of their party.
It is difficult to say, answered Westly. I earnestly hope not; indeed I think not, for Tom has had a good start; but the search is well organised, and there are bloodthirsty, indignant, and persevering men among the various parties, who wont be easily baffled. Still Tom is a splendid runner. We may depend on having a long chase before we come up with him.
Ah, then, its glad I am that ye think so, sor, returned Paddy, for Ive been afeard Mister Tom hadnt got quite so much go in him, since he tuk to gambling and drinkin.
Look here, Paddy, exclaimed his companion, stopping abruptly, and pointing to the ground, are not these the footprints of one of your friends?
Sure its a bar, said the little man, going down on his knees to examine the footprints in question with deep interest.
Flinders was a remarkably plucky little man, and one of his great ambitions was to meet with a bear, when alone, and slay it single-handed. His ambition had not up to that time, been gratified, fortunately for himself, for he was a bad shot and exceedingly reckless, two qualities which would probably have insured his own destruction if he had had his wish.
Lets go after it, Mister Westly, he said, springing to his feet with an excited look.
Nonsense, it is probably miles off by this time; besides, we should lose our party.
Niver a taste, sor; we could soon overhaul them agin. An wont they have to camp at sundown anyhow? Moreover, if we dont come up wi the bar in a mile or so we can give it up.
No, no, Paddy, we must not fall behind. At least, I must not; but you may go after it alone if you choose.
Well, I will, sor. Sure its not ivery day I git the chance; an theres no fear o ye overhaulin Mister Tom this night. Well have to slape over it, Ill be bound. Just tell the boys Ill be after them in no time.
So saying Paddy shouldered his rifle, felt knife and axe to make sure of their being safe in his belt, and strode away in the track of the bear.
He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he came to the spot where the mortal combat had taken place, and found Tom Brixton and the bear deadas he imaginedon the blood-stained turf.
He uttered a mighty cry, partly to relieve his feelings and partly to recall his friend. The imprudence of this flashed upon him when too late, for others, besides Fred, might have heard him.
But Tom Brixton was not dead. Soon after the dying bear had fallen on him, he recovered consciousness, and shaking himself clear of the carcass with difficulty had arisen; but, giddiness returning, he lay down, and while in this position, overcome with fatigue, had fallen asleep. Paddys shout aroused him. With a sense of deadly peril hanging over him he leaped up and sprang on the Irishman.
Hallo, Paddy! he cried, checking himself, and endeavouring to wipe from his face some of the clotted blood with which he had been deluged. You here? Are you alone?
Its wishin that I was, replied the little man, looking round anxiously. Mister Fred ll be here drectly, soranan I hope thatll be all. But its alive ye are, is it? An didnt I take ye for dead. Oh! Mister Brixton, theres more blood on an about ye, I do belave, than yer whole body could howld.
Before an answer could be returned, Fred Westly, having heard Paddys shout, came running up.
Oh! Tom, Tom, he cried, eagerly, are you hurt? Can you walk? Can you run? The whole camp is out after you.
Indeed? replied the fugitive, with a frown. It would seem that even my friends have joined in the chase.
We have, said the other, hurriedly, but not to captureto save, if possible. Come, Tom, can you make an effort? Are you hurt much? You are so horribly covered with blood
He stopped short, for at that moment a shout was heard in the distance. It was replied to in another direction nearer at hand.
There happened to be a man in the party which Westly had joined, named Crossby. He had suffered much from thieves, and had a particular spite against Brixton because he had lost to him at play. He had heard Paddy Flinderss unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the fugitives track, had followed it up.