To account for the sudden appearance of Gashford, as told in our last
chapter, it is necessary to explain that two marauding Indians chanced
to pay Pine Tree Diggings a visit one night, almost immediately after
the unsuccessful attack made by Stalker and his men. The savages were
more successful than the white robbers had been. They managed to carry
off a considerable quantity of gold without being discovered, and
Gashford, erroneously attributing their depredations to a second visit
from Stalker, was so enraged that he resolved to pursue and utterly root
out the robber-band. Volunteers were not wanting. Fifty stout young
fellows offered their services, and, at the head of these, Gashford set
out for the Sawback Mountains, which were known to be the retreat of the
bandits. An Indian, who knew the region well, and had once been
ill-treated by Stalker, became a willing guide.
He led the gold-diggers to the robbers' retreat, and there, learning
from a brother savage that the robber-chief and his men had gone off to
hunt up Paul Bevan in the region that belonged to Unaco, he led his
party by a short cut over the mountains, and chanced to come on the
scene of action at the critical moment, when Unaco and his party were
about to attack the robbers. Ignorant of who the parties were that
contended, yet feeling pretty sure that the men he sought for probably
formed one of them, he formed the somewhat hazardous determination,
personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of
the darkness; telling his lieutenant, Crossby, to await his return, or
to bring on his men at the run if they should hear his well-known
signal.
On joining the attacking party without having been observed--or, rather,
having been taken for one of the band in the uncertain light--he
recognised Westly's and Flinders's voices at once, and thus it was that
he suddenly gave his unasked advice on the subject then under
discussion.
But Stalker's bold spirit settled the question for them in an unexpected
manner. Perceiving at once that he had been led into a trap, he felt
that his only chance lay in decisive and rapid action.
"Men," he said to those who crowded round him in the centre of the
thicket which formed their encampment, "we've bin caught. Our only
chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter. Are you ready?"
"Ready!" responded nearly every man. Those who might have been
unwilling were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless.
"Come on, then, an' give them a screech when ye burst out!"
Like an avalanche of demons the robber band rushed down the slope and
crashed into their foes, and a yell that might well have been born of
the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the Indians were not
daunted. Taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in
the rush, when high above the din arose the bass roar of Gashford.
Crossby heard the signal and led his men down to the scene of battle at
a rapid run. But the robbers were too quick for them; most of them were
already scattering far and wide through the wilderness. Only one group
had been checked, and, strange to say, that was the party that happened
to cluster round and rush with their chief.
But the reason was clear enough, for that section of the foe had been
met by Mahoghany Drake, Bevan, Westly, Brixton, Flinders, and the rest,
while Gashford at last met his match, in the person of the gigantic
Stalker. But they did not meet on equal terms, for the robber's wounded
arm was almost useless. Still, with the other arm he fired a shot at
the huge digger, missed, and, flinging the weapon at his head, grappled
with him. There was a low precipice or rocky ledge, about fifteen feet
high, close to them. Over this the two giants went after a brief but
furious struggle, and here, after the short fight was over, they were
found, grasping each other by their throats, and in a state of
insensibility.
Only two other prisoners were taken besides Stalker--one by Bevan, the
other by Flinders. But these were known by Drake to be poor wretches
who had only joined the band a few weeks before, and as they protested
that they had been captured and forced to join, they were set free.
"You see, it's of no manner o' use hangin' the wretched critters,"
observed Drake to Bevan, confidentially, when they were returning to the
Indian village the following morning. "It would do them no good. All
that we wanted was to break up the band and captur' the chief, which
bein' done, it would be a shame to shed blood uselessly."
"But we must hang Stalker," said little Tolly, who had taken part in the
attack, and whose sense of justice, it seems, would have been violated
if the leader of the band had been spared.
"I'm inclined to think he won't want hangin', Tolly," replied Drake,
gravely. "That tumble didn't improve his wounded arm, for Gashford fell
atop of him."
The trapper's fear was justified. When Stalker was carried into the
Indian village and examined by Fred Westly, it was found that, besides
other injuries, two of his ribs had been broken, and he was already in
high fever.
Betty Bevan, whose sympathy with all sufferers was strong, volunteered
to nurse him, and, as she was unquestionably the best nurse in the
place, her services were accepted. Thus it came about that the
robber-chief and the Rose of Oregon were for a time brought into close
companionship.
On the morning after their return to the Indian village, Paul Bevan and
Betty sauntered away towards the lake. The Rose had been with Stalker
the latter part of the night, and after breakfast had said she would
take a stroll to let the fresh air blow sleepiness away. Paul had
offered to go with her.
"Well, Betty, lass, what think ye of this robber-chief, now you've seen
somethin' of him at close quarters?" asked Paul, as they reached the
margin of the lake.
"I have scarcely seen him in his right mind, father, for he has been
wandering a little at times during the night; and, oh! you cannot think
what terrible things he has been talking about."
"Has he?" said Paul, glancing at Betty with sudden earnestness. "What
did he speak about?"
"I can scarcely tell you, for at times he mixed up his ideas so that I
could not understand him, but I fear he has led a very bad life and done
many wicked things. He brought in your name, too, pretty often, and
seemed to confuse you with himself, putting on you the blame of deeds
which just a minute before he had confessed he had himself done."
"Ay, did he?" said Paul, with a peculiar expression and tone. "Well, he
warn't far wrong, for I _have_ helped him sometimes."
"Father!" exclaimed Betty, with a shocked look--"but you misunderstand.
He spoke of such things as burglary and highway robbery, and you could
never have helped him in deeds of that kind."
"Oh! he spoke of such things as these, did he?" returned Paul. "Well,
yes, he's bin up to a deal of mischief in his day. And what did you say
to him, lass? Did you try to quiet him?"
"What could I say, father, except tell him the old, old story of Jesus
and His love; that He came to seek and to save the lost, even the chief
of sinners?"
"An' how did he take it?" inquired Paul, with a grave, almost an anxious
look.
"At first he would not listen, but when I began to read the Word to him,
and then tried to explain what seemed suitable to him, he got up on his
unhurt elbow and looked at me with such a peculiar and intense look that
I felt almost alarmed, and was forced to stop. Then he seemed to wander
again in his mind, for he said such a strange thing."
"What was that, Betty?"
"He said I was like his mother."
"Well, lass, he wasn't far wrong, for you _are_ uncommon like her."
"Did you know his mother, then?"
"Ay, Betty, I knowed her well, an' a fine, good-lookin' woman she was,
wi' a kindly, religious soul, just like yours. She was a'most
heartbroken about her son, who was always wild, but she had a strong
power over him, for he was very fond of her, and I've no doubt that your
readin' the Bible an' telling him about Christ brought back old times to
his mind."
"But if his mother was so good and taught him so carefully, and, as I
doubt not, prayed often and earnestly for him, how was it that he fell
into such awful ways?" asked Betty.
"It was the old, old story, lass, on the other side o' the question--
drink and bad companions--and--and _I_ was one of them."
"You, father, the companion of a burglar and highway robber?"
"Well, he wasn't just that at the time, though both him and me was bad
enough. It was my refusin' to jine him in some of his jobs that made a
coolness between us, an' when his mother died I gave him some trouble
about money matters, which turned him into my bitterest foe. He vowed
he would take my life, and as he was one o' those chaps that, when they
say they'll do a thing, are sure to do it, I thought it best to bid
adieu to old England, especially as I was wanted at the time by the
police."
Poor Rose of Oregon! The shock to her feelings was terrible, for,
although she had always suspected from some traits in his character that
her father had led a wild life, it had never entered her imagination
that he was an outlaw. For some time she remained silent with her face
in her hands, quite unable to collect her thoughts or decide what to
say, for whatever her father might have been in the past he had been
invariably kind to her, and, moreover, had given very earnest heed to
the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the
Saviour. At last she looked up quickly.
"Father," she said, "I will nurse this man with more anxious care and
interest, for his mother's sake."
"You may do it, dear lass, for his own sake," returned Paul,
impressively, "for he is your own brother."
"My brother?" gasped Betty. "Why, what do you mean, father? Surely you
are jesting!"
"Very far from jesting, lass. Stalker is your brother Edwin, whom you
haven't seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead. But,
come, as the cat's out o' the bag at last, I may as well make a clean
breast of it. Sit down here on the bank, Betty, and listen."
The poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned
by the unexpected news, which Paul had given her, and of which, from her
knowledge of her father's character, she could not doubt the truth.
"Then Stalker--Edwin--must be your own son!" she said, looking at Paul
earnestly.
"Nay, he's not my son, no more than you are my daughter. Forgive me,
Betty. I've deceived you throughout, but I did it with a good
intention. You see, if I hadn't passed myself off as your father, I'd
never have bin able to git ye out o' the boardin'-school where ye was
putt. But I did it for the best, Betty, I did it for the best; an' all
to benefit your poor mother an' you. That is how it was."
He paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and Betty sat with her
hands clasped, gazing in Paul's face like a fascinated creature, unable
to speak or move.
"You see, Betty," he resumed, "your real father was a doctor in the
army, an' I'm sorry to have to add, he was a bad man--so bad that he
went and deserted your mother soon after you was born. I raither think
that your brother Edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as
you got your goodness from your mother; but I've bin told that your
father became a better man before he died, an' I can well believe it,
wi' such a woman as your mother prayin' for him every day, as long as he
lived. Well, when you was about six, your brother Edwin, who was then
about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an' used to kick up sitch
shindies in the house, an' swore so terrible, that your mother made up
her mind to send you to a boardin'-school, to keep you out o' harm's
way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only
comfort she had in life.
"About that time I was goin' a good deal about the house, bein', as I've
said, a chum o' your brother. But he was goin' too fast for me, and
that made me split with him. I tried at first to make him hold in a
bit; but what was the use of a black sheep like me tryin' to make a
white sheep o' _him_! The thing was so absurd that he laughed at it;
indeed, we both laughed at it. Your mother was at that time very poorly
off--made a miserable livin' by dressmakin'. Indeed, she'd have bin
half starved if I hadn't given her a helpin' hand in a small way now an'
then. She was very grateful, and very friendly wi' me, for I was very
fond of her, and she know'd that, bad as I was, I tried to restrain her
son to some extent. So she told me about her wish to git you well out
o' the house, an' axed me if I'd go an' put you in a school down at
Brighton, which she know'd was a good an' a cheap one.
"Of course I said I would, for, you see, the poor thing was that hard
worked that she couldn't git away from her stitch-stitchin', not even
for an hour, much less a day. When I got down to the school, before
goin' up to the door it came into my head that it would be better that
the people should know you was well looked after, so says I to you,
quite sudden, `Betty, remember you're to call me father when you speak
about me.' You turned your great blue eyes to my face, dear lass, when
I said that, with a puzzled look.
"`Me sought mamma say father was far far away in other country,' says
you.
"`That's true,' says I, `but I've come home from the other country, you
see, so don't you forget to call me father.'
"`Vewy well, fadder,' says you, in your own sweet way, for you was
always a biddable child, an' did what you was told without axin'
questions.
"Well, when I'd putt you in the school an' paid the first quarter in
advance, an' told 'em that the correspondence would be done chiefly
through your mother, I went back to London, puzzlin' my mind all the way
what I'd say to your mother for what I'd done. Once it came into my
head I would ax her to marry me--for she was a widow by that time--an'
so make the deception true. But I quickly putt that notion a one side,
for I know'd I might as well ax an angel to come down from heaven an
dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty--but, after all," said Paul, with a
quiet laugh, "I did get an angel to dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty
when I got you, Betty! Howsever, as things turned out I was saved the
trouble of explainin'.
"When I got back I found your mother in a great state of excitement.
She'd just got a letter from the West Indies, tellin' her that a distant
relation had died an' left her a small fortin! People's notions about
the size o' fortins differs. Enough an' to spare is ocean's wealth to
some. Thousands o' pounds is poverty to others. She'd only just got
the letter, an' was so taken up about it that she couldn't help showin'
it to me.
"`Now,' says I, `Mrs Buxley,'--that was her name, an' your real name
too, Betty--says I, `make your will right off, an putt it away safe,
leavin' every rap o' that fortin to Betty, for you may depend on't, if
Edwin gits wind o' this, he'll worm it out o' you, by hook or by crook--
you know he will--and go straight to the dogs at full gallop.'
"`What!' says she, `an' leave nothin' to my boy?--my poor boy, for whom
I have never ceased to pray! He may repent, you know--he _will_ repent.
I feel sure of it--and then he will find that his mother left him
nothing, though God had sent her a fortune.'
"`Oh! as to that,' says I, `make your mind easy. If Edwin does repent
an' turn to honest ways, he's got talents and go enough in him to make
his way in the world without help; but you can leave him what you like,
you know, only make sure that you leave the bulk of it to Betty.'
"This seemed to strike her as a plan that would do, for she was silent
for some time, and then, suddenly makin' up her mind, she said, `I'll go
and ask God's help in this matter, an' then see about gettin' a lawyer--
for I suppose a thing o' this sort can't be done without one.'
"`No, mum,' says I, `it can't. You may, if you choose, make a muddle of
it without a lawyer, but you can't do it right without one.'
"`Can you recommend one to me?' says she.
"I was greatly tickled at the notion o' the likes o' me bein' axed to
recommend a lawyer. It was so like your mother's innocence and
trustfulness. Howsever, she'd come to the right shop, as it happened,
for I did know a honest lawyer! Yes, Betty, from the way the world
speaks, an' what's often putt in books, you'd fancy there warn't such'n
a thing to be found on 'arth. But that's all bam, Betty. Leastwise I
know'd one honest firm. `Yes, Mrs Buxley,' says I, `there's a firm o'
the name o' Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger in the City, who can do a'most
anything that's possible to man. But you'll have to look sharp, for if
Edwin comes home an' diskivers what's doin', it's all up with the fortin
an' Betty.'
"Well, to make a long story short, your mother went to the lawyer's, an'
had her will made, leavin' a good lump of a sum to your brother, but the
most of the fortin to you. By the advice o' Truefoot Tickle, and
Badger, she made it so that you shouldn't touch the money till you come
to be twenty-one, `for,' says she, `there's no sayin' what bad men will
be runnin' after the poor thing an deceivin' her for the sake of her
money before she is of an age to look after herself.' `Yes,' thought I,
`an' there's no sayin' what bad men'll be runnin' after the poor thing
an' deceivin' of her for the sake of her money _after_ she's of an age
to look after herself,' but I didn't say that out, for your mother was
excited enough and over-anxious about things, I could see that.
"Well, when the will was made out all right, she took it out of her
chest one night an' read it all over to me. I could see it was
shipshape, though I couldn't read a word of its crabbed letters myself.
"`Now Mrs Buxley,' says I, `where are you goin' to keep that
dockiment?'
"`In my chest,' says she.
"`Won't be safe there,' says I, for I knowed her forgivin' and confidin'
natur' too well, an' that she'd never be able to keep it from your
brother; but, before I could say more, there was a tremendous knockin'
wi' a stick at the front door. Your poor mother turned pale--she know'd
the sound too well. `That's Edwin,' she says, jumpin' up an runnin' to
open the door, forgetting all about the will, so I quietly folded it up
an' shoved it in my pocket.
"When Edwin was comin' up stairs I know'd he was very drunk and savage
by the way he was goin' on, an' when he came into the room an' saw me he
gave a yell of rage. `Didn't I tell you never to show your face here
again?' says he. `Just so,' says I, `but not bein' subjec' to your
orders, d'ye see, I _am_ here again.'
"Wi' that he swore a terrible oath an' rushed at me, but he tripped over
a footstool and fell flat on the floor. Before he could recover himself
I made myself scarce an' went home.
"Next mornin', when I'd just finished breakfast a thunderin' rap came to
the door. I know'd it well enough. `Now look out for squalls,' said I
to myself, as I went an' opened it. Edwin jumped in, banged the door
to, an' locked it.
"`You've no occasion to do that' says I, `for I don't expect no
friends--not even bobbies.'
"`You double-faced villain!' says he; `you've bin robbin' my mother!'
"`Come, come,' says I, `civility, you know, between pals. What have I
done to your mother?'
"`You needn't try to deceive me, Paul,' says he, tryin' to keep his
temper down. `Mother's bin took bad, wi' over-excitement, the doctor
says, an' she's told me all about the fortin an' the will, an' where
Betty is down at Brighton.'
"`My Betty at Brighton!' says I--pretendin' great surprise, for I had a
darter at that time whom I had called after your mother, for that was
her name too--but she's dead, poor thing!--she was dyin' in hospital at
the very time we was speakin', though I didn't know at the time that her
end was so near--`my Betty at Brighton!' says I. `Why, she's in
hospital. Bin there for some weeks.'
"`I don't mean _your_ brat, but my sister,' says Edwin, quite fierce.
`Where have you put her? What's the name of the school? What have you
done wi' the will?'
"`You'd better ax your mother,' says I. `It's likely that she knows the
partiklers better nor me.'
"He lost patience altogether at this, an' sprang at me like a tiger.
But I was ready for him. We had a regular set-to then an' there. By
good luck there was no weapons of any kind in the room, not even a table
knife, for I'd had to pawn a'most everything to pay my rent, and the
clasp-knife I'd eat my breakfast with was in my pocket. But we was both
handy with our fists. We kep' at it for about half an hour. Smashed
all the furniture, an' would have smashed the winders too, but there was
only one, an' it was a skylight. In the middle of it the door was burst
open, an' in rushed half a dozen bobbies, who put a stop to it at once.
"`We're only havin' a friendly bout wi' the gloves,' says I, smilin'
quite sweet.
"`I don't see no gloves,' says the man as held me.
"`That's true,' says I, lookin' at my hands. `They must have dropped
off an' rolled up the chimbly.'
"`Hallo! Edwin Buxley!' said the sargeant, lookin' earnestly at your
brother; `why you've bin wanted for some time. Here, Joe! the
bracelets.'
"In half a minute he was marched off. `I'll have your blood, Paul, for
this,' he said bitterly, looking back as he went out.
"As _I_ wasn't `wanted' just then, I went straight off to see your
mother, to find out how much she had told to Edwin, for, from what he
had said, I feared she must have told all. I was anxious, also, to see
if she'd bin really ill. When I got to the house I met a nurse who said
she was dyin', an' would hardly let me in, till I got her persuaded I
was an intimate friend. On reachin' the bedroom I saw by the looks o'
two women who were standin' there that it was serious. And so it was,
for there lay your poor mother, as pale as death; her eyes closed and
her lips white; but there was a sweet, contented smile on her face, and
her thin hands clasped her well-worn Bible to her breast."
Paul Bevan stopped, for the poor girl had burst into tears. For a time
he was silent and laid his heavy hand gently on her shoulder.
"I did not ventur' to speak to her," he continued, "an' indeed it would
have been of no use, for she was past hearin'. A few minutes later and
her gentle spirit went up to God.
"I had no time now to waste, for I knew that your brother would give
information that might be bad for me, so I asked the nurse to write
down, while I repeated it, the lawyer's address.
"`Now,' says I, `go there an' tell 'em what's took place. It'll be the
better for yourself if you do.' An' then I went straight off to
Brighton."