Kitabı oku: «Twice Bought», sayfa 5
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!”
Chapter Seven
As straight, and almost as swiftly, as an arrow, Flinders ran to his tent, burst into the presence of his amazed comrade, seized him by both arms, and exclaimed in a sharp hoarse voice, the import of which there could be no mistaking—
“Whisht!—howld yer tongue! The camp’ll be attacked in ten minutes! Be obadient now, an’ foller me.”
Flinders turned and ran out again, taking the path to Gashford’s hut with the speed of a hunted hare. Fred Westly followed. Bursting in upon the bully, who had not yet retired to rest, the Irishman seized him by both arms and repeated his alarming words, with this addition:
“Sind some wan to rouse the camp—but silently! No noise—or it’s all up wid us!”
There was something in Paddy’s manner and look that commanded respect and constrained obedience—even in Gashford.
“Bill,” he said, turning to a man who acted as his valet and cook, “rouse the camp. Quietly—as you hear. Let no man act however, till my voice is heard. You’ll know it when ye hear it!”
“No mistake about that!” muttered Bill, as he ran out on his errand.
“Now—foller!” cried Flinders, catching up a bit of rope with one hand and a billet of firewood with the other, as he dashed out of the hut and made straight for the prison, with Gashford and Westly close at his heels.
Gashford meant to ask Flinders for an explanation as he ran, but the latter rendered this impossible by outrunning him. He reached the prison first, and had already entered when the others came up and ran in. He shut the door and locked it on the inside.
“Now, then, listen, all of ye,” he said, panting vehemently, “an’ take in what I say, for the time’s short. The camp’ll be attacked in five minits—more or less. I chanced to overhear the blackguards. Their chief comes here to set Muster Brixton free. Then—och! here he comes! Do as I bid ye, ivery wan, an’ howld yer tongues.”
The latter words were said energetically, but in a low whisper, for footsteps were heard outside as if approaching stealthily. Presently a rubbing sound was heard, as of a hand feeling for the door. It touched the handle and then paused a moment, after which there came a soft tap.
“I’ll spake for ye,” whispered Flinders in Brixton’s ear.
Another pause, and then another tap at the door.
“Arrah! who goes there?” cried Paddy, stretching himself, as if just awakened out of a sound slumber and giving vent to a mighty yawn.
“A friend,” answered the robber-chief through the keyhole.
“A frind!” echoed Pat. “Sure an’ that’s a big lie, if iver there was one. Aren’t ye goin’ to hang me i’ the mornin’?”
“No indeed, I ain’t one o’ this camp. But surely you can’t be the man—the—the thief—named Brixton, for you’re an Irishman.”
“An’ why not?” demanded Flinders. “Sure the Brixtons are Irish to the backbone—an’ thieves too—root an’ branch from Adam an’ Eve downwards. But go away wid ye. I don’t belave that ye’re a frind. You’ve only just come to tormint me an’ spile my slape the night before my funeral. Fie for shame! Go away an’ lave me in pace.”
“You’re wrong, Brixton; I’ve come to punish the blackguards that would hang you, an’ set you free, as I’ll soon show you. Is the door strong?”
“Well, it’s not made o’ cast iron, but it’s pretty tough.”
“Stand clear, then, an’ I’ll burst it in wi’ my foot,” said Stalker.
“Och! is it smashin’ yer bones you’ll be after! Howld fast. Are ye a big man?”
“Yes, pretty big.”
“That’s a good job, for a little un would only bust hisself agin it for no use. You’ll have to go at it like a hoy-draulic ram.”
“Never fear. There’s not many doors in these diggin’s that can remain shut when I want ’em open,” said the robber, as he retired a few paces to enable him to deliver his blow with greater momentum.
“Howld on a minit, me frind,” said Paddy, who had quietly turned the key and laid hold of the handle; “let me git well out o’ the way, and give me warnin’ before you come.”
“All right. Now then, look out!” cried Stalker.
Those inside heard the rapid little run that a man takes before launching himself violently against an object. Flinders flung the door wide open in the nick of time. The robber’s foot dashed into empty space, and the robber himself plunged headlong, with a tremendous crash, on the floor. At the same instant Flinders brought his billet of wood down with all his might on the spot where he guessed the man’s head to be. The blow was well aimed, and rendered the robber chief incapable of further action for the time being.
“Faix, ye’ll not ‘hoot’ to yer frinds this night, anyhow,” said Flinders, as they dragged the fallen chief to the doorway, to make sure, by the faint light, that he was helpless. “Now, thin,” continued Paddy, “we’ll away an’ lead the boys to battle. You go an’ muster them, sor, an’ I’ll take ye to the inimy.”
“Have you seen their ambush, and how many there are!” asked Gashford.
“Niver a wan have I seen, and I’ve only a gineral notion o’ their whereabouts.”
“How then can you lead us?”
“Obey orders, an’ you’ll see, sor. I’m in command to-night. If ye don’t choose to foller, ye’ll have to do the best ye can widout me.”
“Lead on, then,” cried Gashford, half amused and half angered by the man’s behaviour.
Flinders led the way straight to Gashford’s hut where, as he anticipated, the man named Bill had silently collected most of the able-bodied men of the camp, all armed to the teeth. He at once desired Gashford to put them in fighting order and lead them. When they were ready he went off at a rapid pace towards the stable before mentioned.
“They should be hereabouts, Muster Gashford,” he said, in a low voice, “so git yer troops ready for action.”
“What do ye mean?” growled Gashford.
To this Flinders made no reply, but turning to Westly and Brixton, who stood close at his side, whispered them to meet him at the stable before the fight was quite over.
He then put his hand to his mouth and uttered three hoots like an owl.
“I believe you are humbugging us,” said Gashford.
“Whisht, sor—listen!”
The breaking of twigs was heard faintly in the distance, and, a few moments later, the tramp, apparently, of a body of men. Presently dark forms were dimly seen to be advancing.
“Now’s your time, gineral! Give it ’em hot,” whispered Flinders.
“Ready! Present! Fire!” said Gashford, in a deep, solemn tone, which the profound silence rendered distinctly audible.
The marauders halted, as if petrified. Next moment a sheet of flame burst from the ranks of the miners, and horrible yells rent the air, high above which, like the roar of a lion, rose Gashford’s voice in the single word:—
“Charge!”
But the panic-stricken robbers did not await the onset. They turned and fled, hotly pursued by the men of Pine Tree Diggings.
“That’ll do!” cried Flinders to Brixton; “they’ll not need us any more this night. Come wid me now.”
Fred Westly, who had rushed to the attack with the rest, soon pulled up. Remembering the appointment, he returned to the stable, where he found Tom gazing in silence at Flinders, who was busily employed saddling their three horses. He at once understood the situation.
“Of course you’ve made up your mind to go, Tom?” he said.
“N–no,” answered Tom. “I have not.”
“Faix, thin, you’ll have to make it up pritty quick now, for whin the boys come back the prisoners an wounded men’ll be sure to tell that their chief came for the express purpose of rescuin’ that ‘thief Brixton’—an’ it’s hangin’ that’ll be too good for you then. Roastin’ alive is more likely. It’s my opinion that if they catch us just now, Muster Fred an’ I will swing for it too! Come, sor, git up!”
Tom hesitated no longer. He vaulted into the saddle. His comrades also mounted, and in a few minutes more the three were riding away from Pine Tree Diggings as fast as the nature of the ground and the darkness of the hour would permit.
It was not quite midnight when they left the place where they had toiled so long, and had met with so many disasters, and the morning was not far advanced when they reached the spring of the Red Man’s Teacup. As this was a natural and convenient halting-place to parties leaving those diggings, they resolved to rest and refresh themselves and their steeds for a brief space, although they knew that the robber-chief had appointed that spot as a rendezvous after the attack on the camp.
“You see, it’s not likely they’ll be here for an hour or two,” said Tom Brixton, as he dismounted and hobbled his horse, “for it will take some time to collect their scattered forces, and they won’t have their old leader to spur them on, as Paddy’s rap on the head will keep him quiet till the men of the camp find him.”
“Troth, I’m not so sure o’ that, sor. The rap was a stiff wan, no doubt, but men like that are not aisy to kill. Besides, won’t the boys o’ the camp purshoo them, which’ll be spur enough, an’ if they finds us here, it’ll matter little whether we fall into the hands o’ diggers or robbers. So ye’ll make haste av ye take my advice.”
They made haste accordingly, and soon after left; and well was it that they did so, for, little more than an hour later, Stalker—his face covered with blood and his head bandaged—galloped up at the head of the mounted men of his party.
“We’ll camp here for an hour or two,” he said sharply, leaping from his horse, which he proceeded to unsaddle. “Hallo! somebody’s bin here before us. Their fire ain’t cold yet. Well, it don’t matter. Get the grub ready, boys, an’ boil the kettle. My head is all but split. If ever I have the luck to come across that Irish blackguard Brixton I’ll—”
He finished the sentence with a deep growl and a grind of his teeth.
About daybreak the marauders set out again, and it chanced that the direction they took was the same as that taken by Fred Westly and his comrades. These latter had made up their minds to try their fortune at a recently discovered goldfield, which was well reported of, though the yield had not been sufficient to cause a “rush” to the place. It was about three days’ journey on horseback from the Red Man’s Teacup, and was named Simpson’s Gully, after the man who discovered it.
The robbers’ route lay, as we have said, in the same direction, but only for part of the way, for Simpson’s Gully was not their ultimate destination. They happened to be better mounted than the fugitives, and travelled faster. Thus it came to pass that on the second evening, they arrived somewhat late at the camping-place where Fred and his friends were spending the night.
These latter had encamped earlier that evening. Supper was over, pipes were out and they were sound asleep when the robber band rode up.
Flinders was first to observe their approach. He awoke his comrades roughly.
“Och! the blackguards have got howld of us. Be aisy, Muster Brixton. No use fightin’. Howld yer tongues, now, an’ let me spake. Yer not half liars enough for the occasion, aither of ye.”
This compliment had barely been paid when they were surrounded and ordered to rise and give an account of themselves.
“What right have you to demand an account of us?” asked Tom Brixton, recklessly, in a supercilious tone that was meant to irritate.
“The right of might,” replied Stalker, stepping up to Tom, and grasping him by the throat.
Tom resisted, of course, but being seized at the same moment by two men from behind, was rendered helpless. His comrades were captured at the same moment, and the arms of all bound behind them.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the robber chief, “perhaps you will answer with more civility.”
“You are wrong, for I won’t answer at all,” said Tom Brixton, “which I take to be less civility.”
“Neither will I,” said Fred, who had come to the conclusion that total silence would be the easiest way of getting over the difficulties that filled his mind in regard to deception.
Patrick Flinders, however, had no such difficulties. To the amazement of his companions, he addressed a speech to Stalker in language so broken with stuttering and stammering that the marauders around could scarcely avoid laughing, though their chief seemed to be in no mood to tolerate mirth. Tom and Fred did not at first understand, though it soon dawned upon them that by this means he escaped being recognised by the man with whom he had so recently conversed through the keyhole of Tom Brixton’s prison door.
“S–s–s–sor,” said he, in a somewhat higher key than he was wont to speak, “my c–c–comrades are c–c–cross-g–grained critters b–both of ’em, th–th–though they’re g–good enough in their way, for all that. A–a–ax me what ye w–w–want to know.”
“Can’t you speak without so many k–k–kays an’ j–j–gees?” demanded Stalker, impatiently.
“N–n–no, s–sor, I c–can’t, an’ the m–more you t–try to make me the w–w–wus I g–gits.”
“Well, then, come to the point, an’ don’t say more than’s needful.”
“Y–y–yis, sor.”
“What’s this man’s name!” asked the chief, settling the bandages uneasily on his head with one hand, and pointing to Brixton with the other.
“M–Muster T–T–Tom, sor.”
“That’s his Christian name, I suppose?”
“W–w–well, I’m not sure about his bein’ a c–c–c–Christian.”
“Do you spell it T-o-m or T-h-o-m?”
“Th–that depinds on t–t–taste, sor.”
“Bah! you’re a fool!”
“Thank yer honour, and I’m also an I-I-Irish m–man as sure me name’s Flinders.”
“There’s one of your countrymen named Brixton,” said the chief, with a scowl, “who’s a scoundrel of the first water, and I have a crow to pluck with him some day when we meet. Meanwhile I feel half-disposed to give his countryman a sound thrashing as part payment of the debt in advance.”
“Ah! sure, sor, me counthryman’ll let ye off the dibt, no doubt,” returned Flinders.
“Hallo! you seem to have found your tongue all of a sudden!”
“F–faix, then, it’s b–bekaise of yer not houndin’ me on. I c–c–can’t stand bein’ hurried, ye s–see. B–besides, I was havin’ me little j–j–joke, an’ I scarcely sp–splutter at all whin I’m j–j–jokin’.”
“Where did you come from?” demanded the chief, sharply.
“From P–Pine Tree D–Diggin’s.”
“Oh, indeed? When did you leave the camp?”
“On M–Monday mornin’, sor.”
“Then of course you don’t know anything about the fight that took place there on Monday night!”
“D–don’t I, sor?”
“Why don’t you answer whether you do or not?” said Stalker, beginning to lose temper.
“Sh–shure yer towld me th–that I d–d–don’t know, an I’m too p–p–purlite to c–contradic’ yer honour.”
“Bah! you’re a fool.”
“Ye t–t–towld me that before, sor.”
The robber chief took no notice of the reply, but led his lieutenant aside and held a whispered conversation with him for a few minutes.
Now, among other blessings, Flinders possessed a pair of remarkably acute ears, so that, although he could not make out the purport of the whispered conversation, he heard, somewhat indistinctly, the words “Bevan” and “Betty.” Coupling these words with the character of the men around him, he jumped to a conclusion and decided on a course of action in one and the same instant.
Presently Stalker returned, and addressing himself to Tom and Fred, said—
“Now, sirs, I know not your circumstances nor your plans, but I’ll take the liberty of letting you know something of mine. Men give me and my boys bad names. We call ourselves Free-and-easy Boys. We work hard for our living. It is our plan to go round the country collecting taxes—revenue—or whatever you choose to call it, and punishing those who object to pay. Now, we want a few stout fellows to replace the brave men who have fallen at the post of duty. Will you join us?”
“Certainly not,” said Fred, with decision.
“Of course not,” said Tom, with contempt.
“Well, then, my fine fellows, you may follow your own inclinations, for there’s too many willing boys around to make us impress unwilling ones, but I shall take the liberty of relieving you of your possessions. I will tax you to the full amount.”
He turned and gave orders in a low voice to those near him. In a few minutes the horses, blankets, food, arms, etcetera, of the three friends were collected, and themselves unbound.
“Now,” said the robber chief, “I mean to spend the night here. You may bid us good-night. The world lies before you—go!”
“B–b–but, sor,” said Flinders, with a perplexed and pitiful air. “Ye niver axed me if I’d j–j–jine ye.”
“Because I don’t want you,” said Stalker.
“Ah! thin, it’s little ye know th–the j–j–jewel ye’re th–throwin’ away.”
“What can you do?” asked the robber, while a slight smile played on his disfigured face.
“What c–can I not do? ye should ax. W–w–why, I can c–c–c–cook, an’ f–f–fight, an’ d–dance, an’ t–t–tell stories, an’ s–s–sing an’—”
“There, that’ll do. I accept you,” said Stalker, turning away, while his men burst into a laugh, and felt that Flinders would be a decided acquisition to the party.
“Are we to go without provisions or weapons?” asked Fred Westly, before leaving.
“You may have both,” answered Stalker, “by joining us. If you go your own way—you go as you are. Please yourselves.”
“You may almost as well kill us as turn us adrift here in the wilderness, without food or the means of procuring it,” remonstrated Fred. “Is it not so, Tom?”
Tom did not condescend to reply. He had evidently screwed his spirit up—or down—to the Turkish condition of apathy and contempt.
“You’re young, both of you, and strong,” answered the robber. “The woods are full of game, berries, roots, and fish. If you know anything of woodcraft you can’t starve.”
“An’ sh–sh–sure Tomlin’s Diggin’s isn’t far—far off—straight f–f–fornint you,” said Flinders, going close up to his friends, and whispering, “Kape round by Bevan’s Gully. You’ll be—”
“Come, none of your whisperin’ together!” shouted Stalker. “You’re one of us now, Flinders, so say goodbye to your old chums an’ fall to the rear.”
“Yis, sor,” replied the biddable Flinders, grasping each of his comrades by the hand and wringing it as he said, “G–g–good-bye, f–f–foolish b–boys, (Bevan’s Gully—sharp!) f–farewell f–for i–i–iver!” and, covering his face with his hands, burst into crocodile’s tears while he fell to the rear. He separated two of his fingers, however, in passing a group of his new comrades, in order to bestow on them a wink which produced a burst of subdued laughter.
Surprised, annoyed, and puzzled, Tom Brixton thrust both hands into his trousers pockets, turned round on his heel, and, without uttering a word, sauntered slowly away.
Fred Westly, in a bewildered frame of mind, followed his example, and the two friends were soon lost to view—swallowed up, as it were, by the Oregon wilderness.
