Gashford was not quite so ready to accept Flinders's offer as that
enthusiast had expected. The bully seemed to be in a strangely unusual
mood, too--a mood which at first the Irishman thought favourable to his
cause.
"Sit down," said Gashford, with less gruffness than usual, when his
visitor entered his hut. "What d'ye want wi' me?"
Flinders addressed himself at once to the subject of his mission, and
became quite eloquent as he touched on the grandeur of the sum offered,
the liberality of the offerers, and the ease with which the whole thing
might be accomplished. A very faint smile rested on Gashford's face as
he proceeded, but by no other sign did he betray his thoughts until his
petitioner had concluded.
"So you want to buy him off?" said Gashford, the smile expanding to a
broad grin.
"If yer honour had bin born a judge an' sot on the bench since iver ye
was a small spalpeen, ye couldn't have hit it off more nately. That's
just what we want--to buy him off. It's a purty little commercial
transaction--a man's life for five hundred pound; an', sure it's a good
price to give too, consitherin' how poor we all are, an what a dale o'
sweatin' work we've got to do to git the goold."
"But suppose I won't sell," said Gashford, "what then?"
"Fair, then, I'll blow your brains out" thought the Irishman, his
fingers tingling with a desire to grasp the loaded revolver that lay in
his pocket, but he had the wisdom to restrain himself and to say, "Och!
sor, sure ye'll niver refuse such a nat'ral request. An' we don't ask
ye to help us. Only to hand me the kay o' the prison, remove the
sintry, an' then go quietly to yer bed wid five hundred pound in goold
benathe yar hid to drame on."
To add weight to his proposal he drew forth the bag of nuggets from one
of his capacious coat pockets and held it up to view.
"It's not enough," said Gashford, with a stern gruffness of tone and
look which sank the petitioner's hopes below zero.
"Ah! then, Muster Gashford," said Flinders, with the deepest pathos,
"it's yer own mother would plade wid ye for the poor boy's life, av she
was here--think o' that. Sure he's young and inexparienced, an' it's
the first offince he's iver committed--"
"No, not the first" interrupted Gashford.
"The first that I knows on," returned Flinders.
"Tell me--does Westly know of this proposal of yours?"
"No sor, he doesn't."
"Ah, I thought not. With his religious notions, it would be difficult
for him to join in an attempt to _bribe_ me to stop the course of
justice."
"Well, sor, you're not far wrong, for Muster Westly had bin havin' a
sort o' tussle wid his conscience on that very pint. You must know, he
had made up his mind to do this very thing an' offer you all his
savings--a thousand pound, more or less--to indooce you to help to save
his frind, but he found his goold had bin stolen, so, you see, sor, he
couldn't do it."
"Did he tell you who stole his gold?"
"No, sor, he didn't--he said that some feller had took it--on loan,
like, though I calls it stalin'--but he didn't say who."
"And have you had no tussle with _your_ conscience, Flinders, about this
business?"
The Irishman's face wrinkled up into an expression of intense amusement
at this question.
"It's jokin' ye are, Muster Gashford. Sure, now, me conscience--if I've
got wan--doesn't bother me oftin; an' if it did, on this occasion, I'd
send it to the right-about double quick, for it's not offerin' ye five
hundred pound I am to stop the coorse o' justice, but to save ye from
committin' murther! Give Muster Brixton what punishment the coort
likes--for stailin'--only don't hang him. That's all we ask."
"You'll have to pay more for it then," returned the bully. "That's not
enough."
"Sure we haven't got a rap more to kape our pots bilin', sor," returned
Flinders, in a tone of despair. "Lastewise I can spake for myself; for
I'm claned out--all _but_."
"Row much does the `all but' represent?"
"Well, sor, to tell you the raal truth, it's about tchwo hundred pound,
more or less, and I brought it wid me, for fear you might want it, an' I
haven't got a nugget more if it was to save me own life. It's the truth
I'm tellin' ye, sor."
There was a tone and look of such intense sincerity about the poor
fellow, as he slowly drew a second bag of gold from his pocket and
placed it beside the first, that Gashford could not help being
convinced.
"Two hundred and five hundred," he said, meditatively.
"That makes siven hundred, sor," said Flinders, suggestively.
The bully did not reply for a few seconds. Then, taking up the bags of
gold, he threw them into a corner. Thereafter he drew a large key from
his pocket and handed it to the Irishman, who grasped it eagerly.
"Go to the prison," said Gashford, "tell the sentry you've come to
relieve him, and send him to me. Mind, now, the rest of this business
must be managed entirely by yourself, and see to it that the camp knows
nothing about our little commercial transaction, for, _if it does_, your
own days will be numbered."
With vows of eternal secrecy, and invoking blessings of an elaborate
nature on Gashford's head, the Irishman hastened away, and went straight
to the prison, which stood considerably apart from the huts and tents of
the miners.
"Who goes there?" challenged the sentry as he approached, for the night
was very dark.
"Mesilf, av coorse."
"An' who may that be, for yer not the only Patlander in camp, more's the
pity!"
"It's Flinders I am. Sure any man wid half an ear might know that.
I've come to relave ye."
"But you've got no rifle," returned the man, with some hesitation.
"Aren't revolvers as good as rifles, ay, an' better at close quarters?
Shut up your tatie-trap, now, an' be off to Muster Gashford's hut for he
towld me to sind you there widout delay."
This seemed to satisfy the man, who at once went away, leaving Flinders
on guard.
Without a moment's loss of time Paddy made use of the key and entered
the prison.
"Is it there ye are, avic?" he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he advanced
with caution and outstretched hands to prevent coming against
obstructions.
"Yes; who are you?" replied Tom Brixton, in a stern voice.
"Whist, now, or ye'll git me into throuble. Sure, I'm yer sintry, no
less, an' yer chum Pat Flinders."
"Indeed, Paddy! I'm surprised that they should select you to be my
jailer."
"Humph! well, they didn't let me have the place for nothing--och!
musha!"
The last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair
and hitting his head on a table.
"Not hurt, I hope," said Brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the
incident.
"Not much--only a new bump--but it's wan among many, so it don't matter.
Now, listen. Time is precious. I've come for to set you free--not
exactly at this momint, howiver, for the boys o' the camp haven't all
gone to bed yet; but whin they're quiet, I'll come again an' help you to
escape. I've only come now to let you know."
The Irishman then proceeded to give Tom Brixton a minute account of all
that had been done in his behalf. He could not see how the news
affected him, the prison being as dark as Erebus, but great was his
surprise and consternation when the condemned man said, in a calm but
firm voice, "Thank you, Flinders, for your kind intentions, but I don't
mean to make a second attempt to escape."
"Ye don't intind to escape!" exclaimed his friend, with a look of blank
amazement at the spot where the voice of the other came from.
"No; I don't deserve to live, Paddy, so I shall remain and be hanged."
"I'll be hanged if ye do," said Paddy, with much decision. "Come, now,
don't be talkin' nonsense. It's jokin' ye are, av coorse."
"I'm very far from joking, my friend," returned Tom, in a tone of deep
despondency, "as you shall find when daylight returns. I am guilty--
more guilty than you fancy--so I shall plead guilty, whether tried or
not, and take the consequences. Besides, life is not worth having. I'm
tired of it!"
"Och! but we've bought you, an' paid for you, an' you've no manner o'
right to do what ye like wi' yourself," returned his exasperated chum.
"But it's of no use talkin' to ye. There's somethin' wrong wi' your
inside, no doubt. When I come back for ye at the right time you'll have
thought better of it. Come, now, give us your hand."
"I wish I could, Flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the
cord so tight that I feel as if I had no hands at all."
"I'll soon putt that right. Where are ye? Ah, that's it, now, kape
stidy."
Flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his
friend free.
"Now thin, remain where ye are till I come for ye; an' if any wan should
rap at the door an' ax where's the sintinel an' the kay, just tell him
ye don't know, an don't care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an' ax
his grandmother."
With this parting piece of advice Flinders left the prisoner, locked the
door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to Fred Westly, whom
he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands.
"If Tom told you he wouldn't attempt to escape," said Westly, on hearing
the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, "you may be sure
that he'll stick to it."
"D'ye raaly think so, Muster Fred?" said his companion in deep anxiety.
"I do. I know Tom Brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing
will move him. But, come, I must go to the prison and talk with him."
Fred's talk, however, was not more effective than that of his friend had
been.
"Well, Tom," he said, as he and Flinders were about to quit the
block-house, "we will return at the hour when the camp seems fairly
settled to sleep, probably about midnight, and I hope you will then be
ready to fly. Remember what Flinders says is so far true--your life has
been bought and the price paid, whether you accept or refuse it. Think
seriously of that before it be too late."
Again the prison door closed, and Tom Brixton was left, with this
thought turning constantly and persistently in his brain:
"Bought and the price paid!" he repeated to himself; for the fiftieth
time that night, as he sat in his dark prison. "'Tis a strange way to
put it to a fellow, but that does not alter the circumstances. No, I
won't be moved by mere sentiment. I'll try the Turk's plan, and submit
to fate. I fancy this is something of the state of mind that men get
into when they commit suicide. And yet I don't feel as if I would kill
myself if I were free. Bah! what's the use of speculating about it?
Anyhow my doom is fixed, and poor Flinders with his friends will lose
their money. My only regret is that that unmitigated villain Gashford
will get it. It would not be a bad thing, now that my hands are free,
to run a-muck amongst 'em. I feel strength enough in me to rid the camp
of a lot of devils before I should be killed! But, after all, what good
would that do me when I couldn't know it--couldn't know it! Perhaps I
_could_ know it! No, no! Better to die quietly, without the stain of
human blood on my soul--if I _have_ a soul. Escape! Easy enough,
maybe, to escape from Pine Tree Diggings; but how escape from
conscience? how escape from facts?--the girl I love holding me in
contempt! my old friend and chum regarding me with pity! character gone!
a life of crime before me! and death, by rope, or bullet or knife,
sooner or later! Better far to die now and have it over at once;
prevent a deal of sin, too, as well as misery. `Bought, and the price
paid!' 'Tis a strange way to put it and there is something like logic
in the argument of Paddy, that I've got no right to do what I like with
myself! Perhaps a casuist would say it is my _duty_ to escape. Perhaps
it is!"
Now, while Tom Brixton was revolving this knotty question in his mind,
and Bully Gashford was revolving questions quite as knotty, and much
more complex, and Fred Westly was discussing with Flinders the best plan
to be pursued in the event of Tom refusing to fly, there was a party of
men assembled under the trees in a mountain gorge, not far distant, who
were discussing a plan of operations which, when carried out, bade fair
to sweep away, arrest, and overturn other knotty questions and deep-laid
plans altogether.
It was the band of marauders who had made the abortive attack on Bevan's
fortress.
When the attack was made, one of the redskins who guided the miners
chanced to hear the war-whoop of a personal friend in the ranks of the
attacking party. Being troubled with no sense of honour worth
mentioning, this faithless guide deserted at once to the enemy, and not
only explained all he knew about the thief that he had been tracking,
but gave, in addition, such information about the weak points of Pine
Tree Diggings, that the leader of the band resolved to turn aside for a
little from his immediate purposes, and make a little hay while the sun
shone in that direction.
The band was a large one--a few on horseback, many on foot; some being
Indians and half-castes, others disappointed miners and desperadoes. A
fierce villain among the latter was the leader of the band, which was
held together merely by unity of purpose and interest in regard to
robbery, and similarity of condition in regard to crime.
"Now, lads," said the leader, who was a tall, lanky, huge-boned,
cadaverous fellow with a heavy chin and hawk-nose, named Stalker, "I'll
tell 'e what it is. Seems to me that the diggers at Pine Tree Camp are
a set of out-an'-out blackguards--like most diggers--except this poor
thief of a fellow Brixton, so I vote for attackin' the camp, carryin'
off all the gold we can lay hands on in the hurry-skurry, an' set this
gentleman--this thief Brixton--free. He's a bold chap, I'm told by the
redskin, an' will no doubt be glad to jine us. An' we want a few bold
men."
The reckless robber-chief looked round with a mingled expression of
humour and contempt, as he finished his speech, whereat some laughed and
a few scowled.
"But how shall we find Brixton?" asked a man named Goff, who appeared to
be second in command. "I know the Pine Tree Camp, but I don't know
where's the prison."
"No matter," returned Stalker. "The redskin helps us out o' that
difficulty. He tells me the prison is a blockhouse, that was once used
as a powder-magazine, and stands on a height, a little apart from the
camp. I'll go straight to it, set the young chap free, let him jump up
behind me and ride off, while you and the rest of the boys are makin'
the most of your time among the nuggets. We shall all meet again at the
Red Man's Teacup."
"And when shall we go to work, captain!" asked the lieutenant.
"Now. There's no time like the present. Strike when the iron's hot,
boys!" he added, looking round at the men by whom he was encircled.
"You know what we've got to do. Advance together, like cats, till we're
within a yard or two of the camp, then a silent rush when you hear my
signal, the owl's hoot. No shouting, mind, till the first screech comes
from the enemy; then, as concealment will be useless, give tongue, all
of you, till your throats split if you like, an' pick up the gold. Now,
don't trouble yourselves much about fighting. Let the bags be the main
look-out--of course you'll have to defend your own heads, though I don't
think there'll be much occasion for that--an' you know, if any of them
are fools enough to fight for their gold, you'll have to dispose of them
somehow."
Having delivered this address with much energy, the captain of the band
put himself at its head and led the way.
While this thunder-cloud was drifting down on the camp, Fred Westly and
Flinders were preparing for flight. They did not doubt that their
friend would at the last be persuaded to escape, and had made up their
minds to fly with him and share his fortunes.
"We have nothing to gain, you see, Paddy," said Fred, "by remaining
here, and, having parted with all our gold, have nothing to lose by
going."
"Thrue for ye, sor, an' nothin' to carry except ourselves, worse luck!"
said the Irishman, with a deep sigh. "Howiver, we lave no dibts behind
us, that's wan comfort, so we may carry off our weapons an' horses wid
clear consciences. Are ye all ready now, sor?"
"Almost ready," replied Fred, thrusting a brace of revolvers into his
belt and picking up his rifle. "Go for the horses, Pat, and wait at the
stable for me. Our neighbours might hear the noise if you brought them
round here."
Now, the stable referred to was the most outlying building of the camp,
in the direction in which the marauders were approaching. It was a
small log-hut of the rudest description perched on a little knoll which
overlooked the camp, and from which Tom Brixton's prison could be
clearly seen, perched on a neighbouring knoll.
Paddy Flinders ruminated on the dangers and perplexities that might be
in store for him that night, as he went swiftly and noiselessly up to
the hut. To reach the door he had to pass round from the back to the
front. As he did so he became aware of voices sounding softly close at
hand. A large log lay on the ground. With speed worthy of a redskin he
sank down beside it.
"This way, captain; I've bin here before, an' know that you can see the
whole camp from it--if it wasn't so confoundedly dark. There's a log
somewhere--ah, here it is; we'll be able to see better if we mount it."
"I wish we had more light," growled the so-called captain; "it won't be
easy to make off on horseback in such--is this the log? Here, lend a
hand."
As he spoke the robber-chief put one of his heavy boots on the little
finger of Pat Flinders's left hand, and well-nigh broke it in springing
on to the log in question!
A peculiarly Irish howl all but escaped from poor Flinders's lips.
"I see," said Stalker, after a few moments. "There's enough of us to
attack a camp twice the size. Now we must look sharp. I'll go round to
the prison and set Brixton free. When that's done, I'll hoot three
times--so--only a good deal louder. Then you an' the boys will rush in
and--you know the rest. Come."
Descending from the log on the other side, the two desperadoes left the
spot. Then Paddy rose and ran as if he had been racing, and as if the
prize of the race were life!
"Bad luck to you, ye murtherin' thieves," growled the Irishman, as he
ran, "but I'll stop yer game, me boys!"