When Tom Brixton sternly set his face like a flint to what he believed
to be his duty, he wandered, as we have said, into the mountains, with a
heavy heart and without any definite intentions as to what he intended
to do.
If his thoughts had taken the form of words they would probably have run
somewhat as follows:--
"Farewell for ever, sweet Rose of Oregon! Dear Betty! You have been
the means, in God's hand, of saving at least one soul from death, and it
would be requiting you ill indeed were I to persuade you to unite
yourself to a man whose name is disgraced even among rough men, whose
estimate of character is not very high. No! henceforth our lives
diverge wider and wider apart. May God bless you and give you a good
hus--give you happiness in His own way! And now I have the world before
me where to choose. It is a wide world, and there is much work to be
done. Surely I shall be led in the right way to fill the niche which
has been set apart for me. I wonder what it is to be! Am I to hunt for
gold, or to become a fur-trader, or go down to the plains and turn
cattle-dealer, or to the coast and become a sailor, or try farming? One
thing is certain, I must not be an idler; must not join the ranks of
those who merely hunt that they may eat and sleep, and who eat and sleep
that they may hunt. I have a work to do for Him who bought me with His
precious blood, and my first step must be to commit my way to Him."
Tom Brixton took that step at once. He knelt down on a mossy bank, and
there, with the glorious prospect of the beautiful wilderness before
him, and the setting sun irradiating his still haggard countenance, held
communion with God.
That night he made his lonely bivouac under a spreading pine, and that
night while he was enjoying a profound and health-giving slumber, the
robber-chief stepped into his encampment and laid his hand roughly on
his shoulder.
In his days of high health Tom would certainly have leaped up and given
Stalker a considerable amount of trouble, but starvation and weakness,
coupled with self-condemnation and sorrow, had subdued his nerves and
abated his energies, so that, when he opened his eyes and found himself
surrounded by as disagreeable a set of cut-throats as could well be
brought together, he at once resigned himself to his fate, and said,
without rising, and with one of his half-humorous smiles--
"Well, Mister Botanist, sorry I can't say it gives me pleasure to see
you. I wonder you're not ashamed to return to the country of the great
chief Unaco after running away from him as you did."
"I'm in no humour for joking," answered Stalker, gruffly. "What has
become of your friend Paul Bevan?"
"I'm not aware that anything particular has become of him," replied Tom,
sitting up with a look of affected surprise.
"Come, you know what I mean. Where is he?"
"When I last saw him he was in Oregon. Whether he has now gone to
Europe or the moon or the sun I cannot tell, but I should think it
unlikely."
"If you don't give me a direct and civil answer I'll roast you alive,
you young puppy!" growled Stalker.
"If you roast me dead instead of alive you'll get no answer from me but
such as I choose to give, you middle-aged villain!" retorted Tom, with a
glare of his eyes which quite equalled that of the robber-chief in
ferocity, for Tom's nature was what we may style volcanic, and he found
it hard to restrain himself when roused to a certain point, so that he
was prone to speak unadvisedly with his lips.
A half-smothered laugh from some of the band who did not care much for
their chief, rendered Stalker furious.
He sprang forward with a savage oath, drew the small hatchet which he
carried in his belt, and would certainly then and there have brained the
rash youth with it, if his hand had not been unexpectedly arrested. The
gleaming weapon was yet in the air when the loud report of a rifle close
at hand burst from the bushes with a sheet of flame and smoke, and the
robber's right arm fell powerless at his side, hit between the elbow and
shoulder.
It was the rifle of Mahoghany Drake that had spoken so opportunely.
That stalwart backwoodsman had, as we have seen, followed up the trail
of the robbers, and, with Tolly Trevor and his friend Leaping Buck, had
lain for a considerable time safely ensconced in a moss-covered crevice
of the cliff that overlooked the camping-place. There, quietly
observing the robbers, and almost enjoying the little scene between Tom
and the chief, they remained inactive until Stalker's hatchet gleamed in
the air. The boys were almost petrified by the suddenness of the act.
Not so the trapper, who with rapid aim saved Tom's life, as we have
seen.
Dropping his rifle, he seized the boys by the neck and thrust their
faces down on the moss: not a moment too soon, for a withering volley
was instantly sent by the bandits in the direction whence the shots had
come. It passed harmlessly over their heads.
"Now, home like two arrows, and rouse your father, Leaping Buck,"
whispered the trapper, "and keep well out o' sight."
Next moment, picking up his empty rifle, he stalked from the fringe of
bushes that partially screened the cliff, and gave himself up.
"Ha! I know you--Mahoghany Drake! Is it not so?" cried Stalker,
savagely. "Seize him, men. You shall swing for this, you rascal."
Two or three of the robbers advanced, but Drake quietly held up his
hand, and they stopped.
"I'm in your power, you see," he said, laying his rifle on the ground.
"Yes," he continued, drawing his tall figure up to its full height and
crossing his arms on his breast, "my name is Drake. As to Mahoghany,
I've no objection to it though it ain't complimentary. If, as you say,
Mister Stalker, I'm to swing for this, of course I must swing. Yet it
do seem raither hard that a man should swing for savin' his friend's
life an' his enemy's at the same time."
"How--what do you mean?"
"I mean that Mister Brixton is my friend," answered the trapper, "and
I've saved his life just now, for which I thank the Lord. At the same
time, Stalker is my enemy--leastwise I fear he's no friend--an' didn't I
save _his_ life too when I put a ball in his arm, that I could have as
easily put into his head or his heart?"
"Well," responded Stalker, with a fiendish grin, that the increasing
pain of his wound did not improve, "at all events you have not saved
your own life, Drake. As I said, you shall swing for it. But I'll give
you one chance. If you choose to help me I will spare your life. Can
you tell me where Paul Bevan and his daughter are?"
"They are with Unaco and his tribe."
"I could have guessed as much as that. I ask you _where_ they are!"
"On the other side of yonder mountain range, where the chief's village
lies."
Somewhat surprised at the trapper's readiness to give the information
required, and rendered a little suspicious, Stalker asked if he was
ready and willing to guide him to the Indian village.
"Surely. If that's the price I'm to pay for my life, it can be easily
paid," replied the trapper.
"Ay, but you shall march with your arms bound until we are there, and
the fight wi' the redskins is over," said the robber-chief, "and if I
find treachery in your acts or looks I'll blow your brains out on the
spot. My left hand, you shall find, can work as well as the right wi'
the revolver."
"A beggar, they say, must not be a chooser," returned the trapper. "I
accept your terms."
"Good. Here, Goff," said Stalker, turning to his lieutenant, "bind his
hands behind him after he's had some supper, and then come an' fix up
this arm o' mine. I think the bone has escaped."
"Hadn't we better start off at once," suggested Drake, "an' catch the
redskins when they're asleep?"
"Is it far off?" asked Stalker.
"A goodish bit. But the night is young. We might git pretty near by
midnight, and then encamp so as to git an hour's sleep before makin' the
attack. You see, redskins sleep soundest just before daybreak."
While he was speaking the trapper coughed a good deal, and sneezed once
or twice, as if he had a bad cold.
"Can't you keep your throat and nose quieter?" said the chief, sternly.
"Well, p'r'aps I might," replied Drake, emitting a highly suppressed
cough at the moment, "but I've got a queer throat just now. The least
thing affects it."
After consultation with the principal men of his band, Stalker
determined to act on Drake's advice, and in a few minutes the trapper
was guiding them over the hills in a state of supreme satisfaction,
despite his bonds, for had he not obtained the power to make the robbers
encamp on a spot which the Indians could not avoid passing on their way
to the rescue, and had he not established a sort of right to emit sounds
which would make his friends aware of his exact position, and thus bring
both parties into collision before daybreak, which could not have been
the case if the robbers had remained in the encampment where he found
them?
Turn we now to Leaping Buck and Tolly Trevor. Need it be said that
these intelligent lads did not, as the saying is, allow grass to grow
under their feet? The former went over the hills at a pace and in a
manner that fully justified his title; and the latter followed with as
much vigour and resolution, if not as much agility, as his friend.
In a wonderfully short space of time, considering the distance, they
burst upon the Indian village, and aroused it with the startling news.
Warfare in those regions was not the cumbrous and slow affair that it is
in civilised places. There was no commissariat, no ammunition wagons,
no baggage, no camp-followers to hamper the line of march. In five or
ten minutes after the alarm was given about two hundred Indian braves
marched out from the camp in a column which may be described as
one-deep--i.e. one following the other--and took their rapid way up the
mountain sides, led by Unaco in person. Next to him marched Paul Bevan,
who was followed in succession by Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, Leaping
Buck, and Tolly.
For some time the long line could be seen by the Rose of Oregon passing
swiftly up the mountain-side. Then, as distance united the individuals,
as it were, to each other, it assumed the form of a mighty snake
crawling _slowly_ along. By degrees it crawled over the nearest ridge
and disappeared, after which Betty went to discuss the situation with
Unaco's old mother.
It was near midnight when the robber-band encamped in a wooded hollow
which was backed on two sides by precipices and on the third by a deep
ravine.
"A good spot to set a host at defiance," remarked Stalker, glancing
round with a look that would have expressed satisfaction if the wounded
arm had allowed.
"Yes," added the trapper, "and--" A violent fit of coughing prevented
the completion of the sentence, which, however, when thought out in
Drake's mind ran--"a good spot for hemming you and your scoundrels in,
and starving you into submission!"
A short time sufficed for a bite of cold supper and a little whiff, soon
after which the robber camp, with the exception of the sentinels, was
buried in repose.
Tom Brixton was not allowed to have any intercourse whatever with his
friend Drake. Both were bound and made to sleep in different parts of
the camp. Nevertheless, during one brief moment, when they chanced to
be near each other, Drake whispered, "Be ready!" and Tom heard him.
Ere long no sound was heard in the camp save an occasional snore or
sigh, and Drake's constant and hacking, but highly suppressed, cough.
Poor fellow! He was obviously consumptive, and it was quite touching to
note the careful way in which he tried to restrain himself, giving vent
to as little sound as was consistent with his purpose.
Turning a corner of jutting rock in the valley which led to the spot,
Unaco's sharp and practised ear caught the sound. He stopped and stood
like a bronze statue by Michael Angelo in the attitude of suddenly
arrested motion. Upwards of two hundred bronze arrested statues
instantly tailed away from him.
Presently a smile, such as Michael Angelo probably never thought of
reproducing, rippled on the usually grave visage of the chief.
"M'ogany Drake!" he whispered, softly, in Paul Bevan's ear.
"I didn't know Drake had sitch a horrid cold," whispered Bevan, in
reply.
Tolly Trevor clenched his teeth and screwed himself up internally to
keep down the laughter that all but burst him, for he saw through the
device at once. As for Leaping Buck, he did more than credit to his
sire, because he kept as grave as Michael Angelo himself could have
desired while chiselling his features.
"Musha! but that is a quare sound," whispered Flinders to Westly.
"Hush!" returned Westly.
At a signal from their chief the whole band of Indians sank, as it
seemed, into the ground, melted off the face of the earth, and only the
white men and the chief remained.
"I must go forward alone," whispered Unaco, turning to Paul. "White man
knows not how to go on his belly like the serpent."
"Mahoghany Drake would be inclined to dispute that p'int with 'ee,"
returned Bevan. "However, you know best, so we'll wait till you give us
the signal to advance."
Having directed his white friends to lie down, Unaco divested himself of
all superfluous clothing, and glided swiftly but noiselessly towards the
robber camp, with nothing but a tomahawk in his hand and a
scalping-knife in his girdle. He soon reached the open side of the
wooded hollow, guided thereto by Drake's persistent and evidently
distressing cough. Here it became necessary to advance with the utmost
caution. Fortunately for the success of his enterprise, all the
sentinels that night had been chosen from among the white men. The
consequence was that although they were wide awake and on the _qui
vive_, their unpractised senses failed to detect the very slight sounds
that Unaco made while gliding slowly--inch by inch, and with many an
anxious pause--into the very midst of his foes. It was a trying
situation, for instant death would have been the result of discovery.
As if to make matters more difficult for him just then, Drake's hacking
cough ceased, and the Indian could not make out where he lay. Either
his malady was departing or he had fallen into a temporary slumber!
That the latter was the case became apparent from his suddenly
recommencing the cough. This, however, had the effect of exasperating
one of the sentinels.
"Can't you stop that noise?" he muttered, sternly.
"I'm doin' my best to smother it," said Drake in a conciliatory tone.
Apparently he had succeeded, for he coughed no more after that. But the
fact was that a hand had been gently laid upon his arm.
"So soon!" he thought. "Well done, boys!" But he said never a word,
while a pair of lips touched his ear and said, in the Indian tongue--
"Where lies your friend?"
Drake sighed sleepily, and gave a short and intensely subdued cough, as
he turned his lips to a brown ear which seemed to rise out of the grass
for the purpose, and spoke something that was inaudible to all save that
ear. Instantly hand, lips, and ear withdrew, leaving the trapper in
apparently deep repose. A sharp knife, however, had touched his bonds,
and he knew that he was free.
A few minutes later, and the same hand touched Tom Brixton's arm. He
would probably have betrayed himself by an exclamation, but remembering
Drake's "Be ready," he lay perfectly still while the hands, knife, and
lips did their work. The latter merely said, in broken English, "Rise
when me rise, an' run!"
Next instant Unaco leaped to his feet and, with a terrific yell of
defiance, bounded into the bushes. Tom Brixton followed him like an
arrow, and so prompt was Mahoghany Drake to act that he and Tom came
into violent collision as they cleared the circle of light thrown by the
few sinking embers of the camp-fires. No damage, however, was done. At
the same moment the band of Indians in ambush sprang up with their
terrible war whoop, and rushed towards the camp. This effectually
checked the pursuit which had been instantly begun by the surprised
bandits, who at once retired to the shelter of the mingled rocks and
shrubs in the centre of the hollow, from out of which position they
fired several tremendous volleys.
"That's right--waste yer ammunition," said Paul Bevan, with a short
laugh, as he and the rest lay quickly down to let the leaden shower pass
over.
"It's always the way wi' men taken by surprise," said Drake, who, with
Brixton and the chief, had stopped in their flight and turned with their
friends. "They blaze away wildly for a bit, just to relieve their
feelin's, I s'pose. But they'll soon stop."
"An' what'll we do now?" inquired Flinders, "for it seems to me we've
got all we want out o' them, an' it's no use fightin' them for mere
fun--though it's mesilf that used to like fightin' for that same; but I
think the air of Oregon has made me more peaceful inclined."
"But the country has been kept for a long time in constant alarm and
turmoil by these men," said Fred Westly, "and, although I like fighting
as little as any man, I cannot help thinking that we owe it as a duty to
society to capture as many of them as we can, especially now that we
seem to have caught them in a sort of trap."
"What says Mahoghany Drake on the subject!" asked Unaco.
"I vote for fightin', 'cause there'll be no peace in the country till
the band is broken up."
"Might it not be better to hold them prisoners here?" suggested Paul
Bevan. "They can't escape, you tell me, except by this side, and
there's nothin' so good for tamin' men as hunger."
"Ah!" said Tom Brixton, "you speak the truth, Bevan; I have tried it."
"But what does Unaco himself think?" asked Westly.
"We must fight 'em at once, an' root them out neck and crop!"
These words were spoken, not by the Indian, but by a deep bass voice
which sent a thrill of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, to more
hearts than one; and no wonder, for it was the voice of Gashford, the
big bully of Pine Tree Diggings!