Twice Bought
“What direction d’ye think it’s 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 ain’t 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 scoundrels—that 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 guessed—and he was fond of guessing—that 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 Brixton’s 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 fugitive—if they should find him at all—in 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.
“D’ee think it’s likely we’ll 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 won’t 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, it’s glad I am that ye think so, sor,” returned Paddy, “for I’ve been afear’d Mister Tom hadn’t 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 it’s 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.
“Let’s 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’ won’t they have to camp at sundown anyhow? Moreover, if we don’t 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 it’s not ivery day I git the chance; an’ there’s no fear o’ ye overhaulin’ Mister Tom this night. We’ll have to slape over it, I’ll be bound. Just tell the boys I’ll 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 dead—as he imagined—on 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. Paddy’s 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?”
“It’s wishin’ that I was,” replied the little man, looking round anxiously. “Mister Fred ’ll be here d’rectly, sor—an’—an’ I hope that’ll be all. But it’s alive ye are, is it? An’ didn’t I take ye for dead. Oh! Mister Brixton, there’s 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 Paddy’s 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 capture—to 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 Flinders’s unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the fugitive’s track, had followed it up.
“Too late,” groaned Fred on hearing Crossby’s voice.
“Not too late for this,” growled Brixton, bitterly, as he quickly loaded his rifle.
“For God’s sake don’t 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 Tom’s 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, it’s the rope that you’ll swing by, so you’ll 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 Paddy’s efforts to rouse him.
“I hope he is killed,” muttered Tom between his teeth.
“Och! no fear of him, he’s not so aisy kilt,” said Flinders, looking up. “Bad luck to ye for wishin’ it.”
As if to corroborate Paddy’s 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 off—two 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 Man’s 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 couldn’t 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 can’t expect to be the chooser of his reward. I suppose it is fate, as the Turks say, so I’ll submit—like 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 Brixton’s 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 can’t exactly say that, sor, for I’m troubled with what ye may call amiable weaknesses. Anyhow, I might see ’im in a worse fix.”
“Well, you’re like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough,” returned the leader. “Haul now on this knot. It’ll 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 prisoner’s 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 Tom’s 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 rope’s 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, I’ll have me supper now. Hi! who’s 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 I’ll 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 voice—“‘Now or niver, boys—now or niver.’ That’s what the ghost said.”
“What’s 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, I’d 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. “That’s 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 didn’t 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, I’m not surprised at that for there’s many things ye don’t know, Crossby; besides, no ghost with the smallest taste of propriety about it would condescind to spake wid you. Well, boys, that’s what the ghost said in a muffled vice—their vices are muffled, you know, an their virtues too, for all I know to the contrairy. It’s a good sentiment is that ‘Now or niver’ for every wan of ye—so ye may putt it in yer pipes an’ smoke it, an’ those of ye who haven’t got pipes can make a quid of it an’ chaw it, or subject it to meditation. ‘Now or niver!’ Think o’ that! You see I’m partikler about it, for the whole story turns on that pint, as the ghost’s life depended on it, but ye’ll 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 Brixton’s 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 Tom’s 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 Brixton’s 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 alive—in the dark shadow of a big tombstone.”
The Irishman had now almost reached the climax of his story, and was intensely graphic in his descriptions—especially 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 Paddy’s 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.
Amid the growling half-fight, half-scramble that ensued, Tom crept swiftly away to the left, but the pursuers had so scattered themselves that he heard them panting and stumbling about in every direction—before, on either hand, and behind. Hurrying blindly on for a few paces, he almost ran into the arms of a man whom he could hear, though he could not see him, and stopped.
“Hallo! is that you, Bill Smith?” demanded the man.
“Ay, that’s me,” replied Tom, promptly, mimicking Bill Smith’s voice and gasping violently. “I thought you were Brixton. He’s just passed this way. I saw him.”
“Did you?—where?”
“Away there—to the left!”
Off went the pursuer as fast as he dared, and Tom continued his flight with more caution.
“Hallo! hi! hooroo!” came at that moment from a long distance to the right, in unmistakable tones. “Here he is, down this way. Stop, you big thief! Howld him. Dick! Have ye got him?”
There was a general rush and scramble towards the owner of the bass voice, and Tom, who at once perceived the ruse, went quietly off in the opposite direction.
Of course, the hunt came to an end in a very few minutes. Every one, having more or less damaged his head, knees, elbows, and shins, came to the natural conclusion that a chase in the dark was absurd as well as hopeless, and in a short time all were reassembled round the fire, where Fred Westly still stood, for he had not joined in the pursuit. Gashford was the last to come up, with the exception of Paddy Flinders.
The bully came forward, fuming with rage, and strode up to Fred Westly with a threatening look.
“You were at the bottom of this!” he cried, doubling his huge fist. “It was you who cut the rope, for no mortal man could have untied it!”
“Indeed I did not!” replied Fred, with a steady but not defiant look.
“Then it must have bin your little chum Flinders. Where is he?”
“How could Flinders ha’ done it when he was tellin’ a ghost story?” said Crossby.
Gashford turned with a furious look to the speaker, and seemed on the point of venting his ill-humour upon him, when he was arrested by the sound of the Irishman’s voice shouting in the distance.
As he drew nearer the words became intelligible. “Howld him tight, now! d’ye hear? Och! whereiver have ye gone an’ lost yersilf? Howld him tight till I come an’ help ye! What! is it let him go ye have? Ah then it’s wishin’ I had the eyes of a cat this night for I can’t rightly see the length of my nose. Sure ye’ve niver gone an’ let him go? Don’t say so, now!” wound up Paddy as, issuing from the wood, he advanced into the circle of light.
“Who’s got hold of him, Flin?” asked one of the men as he came up.
“Sorrow wan o’ me knows,” returned the Irishman, wiping the perspiration from his brow; “d’ye suppose I can see in the dark like the moles? All I know is that half a dozen of ye have bin shoutin’ ‘Here he is!’ an’ another half-dozen, ‘No, he’s here—this way!’ an’ sure I ran this way an’ then I ran that way—havin’ a nat’ral disposition to obey orders, acquired in the Louth Militia—an’ then I ran my nose flat on a tree—bad luck to it!—that putt more stars in me hid than you’ll see in the sky this night. Ah! ye may laugh, but it’s truth I’m tellin’. See, there’s a blob on the ind of it as big as a chirry!”