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.
Too late, groaned Fred on hearing Crossbys voice.
Not too late for this, growled Brixton, bitterly, as he quickly loaded his rifle.
For Gods sake dont do that, Tom, cried his friend earnestly, as he laid his hand on his arm; but Tom shook him off and completed the operation just as Crossby burst from the bushes and ran towards them. Seeing the fugitive standing ready with rifle in hand, he stopped at once, took rapid aim, and fired. The ball whistled close past the head of Tom, who then raised his own rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired, but Westly threw up the muzzle and the bullet went high among the tree-tops.
With an exclamation of fury Brixton drew his knife, while Crossby rushed at him with his rifle clubbed.
The digger was a strong and fierce man, and there would doubtless have been a terrible and fatal encounter if Fred had not again interfered. He seized his friend from behind, and, whirling him sharply round, received on his own shoulder the blow which was meant for Toms head. Fred fell, dragging his friend down with him.
Flinders, who witnessed the unaccountable action of his companion with much surprise, now sprang to the rescue, but at the moment several of the other pursuers rushed upon the scene, and the luckless fugitive was instantly overpowered and secured.
Now, my young buck, said Crossby, stand up! Hold him, four of you, till I fix his hands wi this rope. There, its the rope that youll swing by, so youll find it hard to break.
While Tom was being bound he cast a look of fierce anger on Westly, who still lay prostrate and insensible on the ground, despite Paddys efforts to rouse him.
I hope he is killed, muttered Tom between his teeth.
Och! no fear of him, hes not so aisy kilt, said Flinders, looking up. Bad luck to ye for wishin it.
As if to corroborate Paddys opinion, Westly showed signs of returning consciousness, and soon after sat up.
Did ye kill that bar all by yerself? asked one of the men who held the fugitive.
But Tom would not condescend to reply, and in a few minutes Crossby gave the word to march back towards Pine Tree Diggings.
They set offtwo men marching on either side of the prisoner with loaded rifles and revolvers, the rest in front and in rear. A party was left behind to skin the bear and bring away the tit-bits of the carcass for supper. Being too late to return to Pine Tree Camp that night, they arranged to bivouac for the night in a hollow where there was a little pond fed by a clear spring which was known as the Red Mans Teacup.
Here they kindled a large fire, the bright sparks from which, rising above the tree-tops, soon attracted the attention of the other parties, so that, ere long, the whole band of pursuers was gathered to the spot.
Gashford was the last to come up. On hearing that the thief had been captured by his former chum Westly, assisted by Flinders and Crossby, he expressed considerable surprise, and cast a long and searching gaze on Fred, who, however, being busy with the fire at the time, was unconscious of it. Whatever the bully thought, he kept his opinions to himself.
Have you tied him up well! he said, turning to Crossby.
A wild horse couldnt break his fastenings, answered the digger.
Perhaps not, returned Gashford, with a sneer, but you are always too sure by half o yer work. Come, stand up, he added, going to where Tom lay, and stirring his prostrate form with his toe.
Brixton having now had time to consider his case coolly, had made up his mind to submit with a good grace to his fate, and, if it were so decreed, to die like a man. I deserve punishment, he reasoned with himself, though death is too severe for the offence. However, a guilty man cant expect to be the chooser of his reward. I suppose it is fate, as the Turks say, so Ill submitlike them.
He stood up at once, therefore, on being ordered to do so, and quietly underwent inspection.
Ha! I thought so! exclaimed Gashford, contemptuously. Any man could free himself from that in half an hour. But what better could be expected from a land-lubber?
Crossby made some sharp allusions to a sea-lubber, but he wisely restrained his voice so that only those nearest overheard him.
Meanwhile Gashford undid the rope that bound Tom Brixtons arms behind him, and, holding him in his iron grip, ordered a smaller cord to be fetched.
Paddy Flinders, who had a schoolboy tendency to stuff his various pockets full of all sorts of miscellaneous articles, at once stepped forward and handed the leader a piece of strong cod-line.
There ye are, sor, said he.
Just the thing, Paddy. Here, catch hold of this end of it an haul.
Yis, gineral, said the Irishman, in a tone and with a degree of alacrity that caused a laugh from most of those who were looking on. Even the gineral observed it, and remarked with a sardonic smile
You seem to be pleased to see your old chum in this fix, I think.
Well now, gineral, returned Flinders, in an argumentative tone of voice, I cant exactly say that, sor, for Im troubled with what ye may call amiable weaknesses. Anyhow, I might see im in a worse fix.
Well, youre like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough, returned the leader. Haul now on this knot. Itll puzzle him to undo that. Lend me your knife.
Flinders drew his glittering bowie-knife from its sheath and handed it to his leader, who cut off the superfluous cordage with it, after having bound the prisoners wrists behind his back in a sailor-like manner.
In returning the knife to its owner, Gashford, who was fond of a practical joke, tossed it high in the air towards him with a Here, catch.
The keen glittering thing came twirling down, but to the surprise of all, the Irishman caught it by the handle as deftly as though he had been a trained juggler.
Thank your gineralship, exclaimed Paddy, amid a shout of laughter and applause, bowing low in mock reverence. As he rose he made a wild flourish with the knife, uttered an Indian war-whoop, and cut a caper.
In that flourish he managed to strike the cord that bound the prisoner, and severed one turn of it. The barefaced audacity of the act (like that of a juggler) caused it to pass unobserved. Even Tom, although he felt the touch of the knife, was not aware of what had happened, for, of course, a number of uncut turns of the cord still held his wrists painfully tight.
Now, lie down on your back, said Gashford, sternly, when the laugh that Paddy had raised subsided.
Either the tone of this command, or the pain caused by his bonds, roused Toms anger, for he refused to obey.
Lie down, ye spalpeen, whin the gineral bids ye, cried Flinders, suddenly seizing his old friend by the collar and flinging him flat on his back, in which act he managed to trip and fall on the top of him.
The opportunity was not a good one, nevertheless the energetic fellow managed to whisper, The ropes cut! Lie still! in the very act of falling.
Well done, Paddy, exclaimed several of the laughing men, as Flinders rose with a pretended look of discomfiture, and went towards the fire, exclaiming
Niver mind, boys, Ill have me supper now. Hi! whos bin an stole it whin I was out on dooty? Oh! here it is all right. Now then, go to work, an whin the pipes is lighted Ill maybe sing ye a song, or tell ye a story about ould Ireland.
Chapter Three
Obedient to orders, Tom Brixton lay perfectly still on his back, just where he had fallen, wondering much whether the cord was really cut, for he did not feel much relaxation of it or abatement of the pain. He resolved, at any rate, to give no further cause for rough treatment, but to await the issue of events as patiently as he could.
True to his promise, the Irishman after supper sang several songs, which, if not characterised by sweetness of tone, were delivered with a degree of vigour that seemed to make full amends in the estimation of his hearers. After that he told a thrilling ghost story, which drew the entire band of men round him. Paddy had a natural gift in the way of relating ghost stories, for, besides the power of rapid and sustained discourse, without hesitation or redundancy of words, he possessed a vivid imagination, a rich fancy, a deep bass voice, an expressive countenance, and a pair of large coal-black eyes, which, as one of the Yankee diggers said, would sartinly bore two holes in a blanket if he only looked at it long enough.
We do not intend to inflict that ghost story on the reader. It is sufficient to say that Paddy began it by exclaiming in a loud voiceNow or niver, boysnow or niver. Thats what the ghost said.
Whats that you say, Paddy? asked Gashford, leaving his own separate and private fire, which he enjoyed with one or two chosen comrades, and approaching that round which the great body of the diggers were already assembled.
I was just goin to tell the boys, sor, a bit of a ghost story.
Well, go on, lad, Id like to hear it, too.
Now or niver! repeated the Irishman, with such startling emphasis that even Tom Brixton, lying bound as he was under the shelter of a spreading tree at some distance from the fire, had his curiosity aroused. Thats what the ghost said, under somewhat pecooliar circumstances; an he said it twice so that there might be no mistake at all about it. Now or niver! now or niver! says he, an he said it earnestly
I didnt know that ghosts could speak, interrupted Crossby, who, when not in a bad humour, was rather fond of thrusting bad jokes and blunt witticisms on his comrades.
Sure, Im not surprised at that for theres many things ye dont know, Crossby; besides, no ghost with the smallest taste of propriety about it would condescind to spake wid you. Well, boys, thats what the ghost said in a muffled vicetheir vices are muffled, you know, an their virtues too, for all I know to the contrairy. Its a good sentiment is that Now or niver for every wan of yeso ye may putt it in yer pipes an smoke it, an those of ye who havent got pipes can make a quid of it an chaw it, or subject it to meditation. Now or niver! Think o that! You see Im partikler about it, for the whole story turns on that pint, as the ghosts life depended on it, but yell see an onderstan better whin I come to the end o the story.
Paddy said this so earnestly that it had the double effect of chaining the attention of his hearers and sending a flash of light into Tom Brixtons brain.
Now or never! he muttered to himself, and turned gently on his side so as to be able to feel the cord that bound his wrists. It was still tight, but, by moving his fingers, he could feel that one of its coils had really been cut, and that with a little patience and exertion he might possibly free his hands.
Slight as the motion was, however, Gashford observed it, for the fire-light shone brightly on Toms recumbent figure.
Lie still, there! he cried, sternly.
Tom lay perfectly still, and the Irishman continued his story. It grew in mystery and in horror as he proceeded, and his audience became entranced, while some of the more superstitious among them cast occasional glances over their shoulders into the forest behind, which ere long was steeped in the blackness of an unusually dark night. A few of those outside the circle rose and drew nearer to the story-teller.
At that moment a gleam of light which had already entered Brixtons brain flashed into that of Fred Westly, who arose, and, under pretext of being too far off from the speaker, went round to the opposite side of the fire so as to face him. By so doing he placed himself between the fire and his friend Tom. Two or three of the others followed his example, though not from the same motive, and thus, when the fire burnt low, the prisoner found himself lying in deep shadow. By that time he had freed his benumbed hands, chafed them into a condition of vitality, and was considering whether he should endeavour to creep quietly away or spring up and make a dash for life.
Now or niver, said the ghost, in a solemn muffled vice, continued Paddy
Who did he say that to? asked Gashford, who was by that time as much fascinated as the rest of the party.
To the thief, sor, av coorse, who was standin tremblin fornint him, while the sexton was diggin the grave to putt him in alivein the dark shadow of a big tombstone.
The Irishman had now almost reached the climax of his story, and was intensely graphic in his descriptionsespecially at the horrible parts. He was obviously spinning it out, and the profound silence around told how completely he had enchained his hearers. It also warned Tom Brixton that his time was short, and that in his case it was indeed, now or never.
He crept quietly towards the bushes near him. In passing a tree against which several rifles had been placed he could not resist the temptation to take one. Laying hold of that which stood nearest, and which seemed to be similar in make to the rifle they had taken from himself when he was captured, he drew it towards him. Unfortunately it formed a prop to several other rifles, which fell with a crash, and one of them exploded in the fall.
The effect on Paddys highly-strung audience was tremendous. Many of them yelled as if they had received an electric shock. All of them sprang up and turned round just in time to see their captive vanish, not unlike a ghost, into the thick darkness!
That glance, however, was sufficient to enlighten them. With shouts of rage many of them darted after the fugitive, and followed him up like bloodhounds. Others, who had never been very anxious for his capture or death, and had been turned somewhat in his favour by the bold stand he had made against the bear, returned to the fire after a short run.
If there had been even a glimmering of light Tom would certainly have been retaken at once, for not a few of his pursuers were quite as active and hardy as himself, but the intense darkness favoured him. Fortunately the forest immediately behind him was not so dense as elsewhere, else in his first desperate rush, regardless of consequences, he would probably have dashed himself against a tree. As it was he went right through a thicket and plunged headlong into a deep hole. He scrambled out of this with the agility of a panther, just in time to escape Gashford, who chanced to plunge into the same hole, but not so lightly. Heavy though he was, however, his strength was equal to the shock, and he would have scrambled out quickly enough if Crossby had not run on the same course and tumbled on the top of him.