Twice Bought Part 8

As no one approved of Paddy's proposal, it was finally resolved to dig the big man out and a pick and shovel were procured for the purpose.

Contrary to all expectations, Gashford was calm, almost subdued, when his friends at last set him free. Instead of storming and abusing every one, he said quietly but quickly, "Let us search the bush now. He can't be far off yet, and there's moonlight enough."

Leading the way, he sprang up the cellar stair, out at the hut-door, and across the bridge, followed closely by his party.

"Hooroo!" yelled Paddy Flinders, as if in the irrepressible ardour of the chase, but in reality to give Brixton intimation of the pursuit, if he should chance to be within earshot.

The well-meant signal did indeed take effect, but it came too late. It found Tom still seated in absorbed meditation. Rudely awakened to the consciousness of his danger and his stupidity, he leaped up and ran along the path that Betty had described to him. At the same moment it chanced that Crossby came upon the same path at its river-side extremity, and in a few moments each ran violently into the other's arms, and both rolled upon the ground.

The embrace that Crossby gave the youth would have been creditable even to a black bear, but Tom was a match for him in his then condition of savage despair. He rolled the rough digger over on his back, half strangled him, and b.u.mped his s.h.a.ggy head against the conveniently-situated root of a tree. But Crossby held on with the tenacity of sticking-plaster, shouting wildly all the time, and before either could subdue the other, Gashford and his men coming up stopped the combat.

It were vain attempting to describe the conflict of Brixton's feelings as they once more bound his arms securely behind him and led him back to Paul Bevan's hut. The thought of death while fighting with man or beast had never given him much concern, but to be done to death by the rope as a petty thief was dreadful to contemplate, while to appear before the girl he loved, humiliated and bound, was in itself a sort of preliminary death. Afterwards, when confined securely in the cellar and left to himself for the night, with a few pine branches as a bed, the thought of home and mother came to him with overwhelming power, and finally mingled with his dreams. But those dreams, however pleasant they might be at first and in some respects, invariably ended with the branch of a tree and a rope with a noose dangling at the end thereof, and he awoke again and again with a choking sensation, under the impression that the noose was already tightening on his throat.

The agony endured that night while alone in the dark cellar was terrible, for Tom knew the temper of the diggers too well to doubt his fate. Still hope, blessed hope, did not utterly desert him. More than once he struggled to his knees and cried to G.o.d for mercy in the Saviour's name.

By daybreak next morning he was awakened out of the first dreamless sleep that he had enjoyed, and bid get up. A slight breakfast of bread and water was handed to him, which he ate by the light of a homemade candle stuck in the neck of a quart bottle. Soon afterwards Crossby descended, and bade him ascend the wooden stair or ladder. He did so, and found the party of miners a.s.sembled under arms, and ready for the road.

"I'm sorry I can't help 'ee," said Paul Bevan, drawing the unhappy youth aside, and speaking in a low voice. "I would if I could, for I owe my life to you, but they won't listen to reason. I sent Betty out o' the way, lad, a-purpose. Thought it better she shouldn't see you, but--"

"Come, come, old man, time's up," interrupted Gashford, roughly; "we must be off. Now, march, my young slippery-heels. I needn't tell you not to try to bolt again. You'll find it difficult to do that."

As they moved off and began their march through the forest on foot, Tom Brixton felt that escape was indeed out of the question, for, while three men marched in front of him, four marched on either side, each with rifle on shoulder, and the rest of the band brought up the rear.

But even if his chances had not been so hopeless, he would not have made any further effort to save himself, for he had given himself thoroughly up to despair. In the midst of this a slight sense of relief, mingled with the bitterness of disappointment, when he found that Betty had been sent out of the way, and that he would see her no more, for he could not bear the thought of her seeing him thus led away.

"May I speak with the prisoner for a few minutes?" said Fred Westly to Gashford, as they plodded through the woods. "He has been my comrade for several years, and I promised his poor mother never to forsake him.

May I, Gashford?"

"No," was the sharp reply, and then, as if relenting, "Well, yes, you may; but be brief, and no underhand dealing, mind, for if you attempt to help him you shall be a dead man the next moment, as sure as I'm a living one. An' you needn't be too soft, Westly," he added, with a cynical smile. "Your chum has--Well, it's no business o' mine. You can go to him."

Poor Tom Brixton started as his old friend went up to him, and then hung his head.

"Dear Tom," said Fred, in a low voice, "don't give way to despair. With G.o.d all things are possible, and even if your life is to be forfeited, it is not too late to save the soul, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost. But I want to comfort you with the a.s.surance that I will spare no effort to save you. Many of the diggers are not very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and I think Gashford may be bought over. If so, I need not tell you that my little private store hidden away under the pine-tree--"

"There is no such store, Fred," interrupted Tom, with a haggard look of shame.

"What do you mean, Tom?"

"I mean that I gambled it all away unknown to you. Oh! Fred, you do not--you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given way to, especially when backed by drink. No, it's of no use your trying to comfort me. I do believe, now, that I deserve to die."

"Whatever you deserve, Tom, it is my business to save you, if I can-- both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my intentions or my hopes. By the way, does Gashford know about this?"

"Yes, he knows that I have taken your money."

"And that's the reason," said Gashford himself, coming up at the moment, "that I advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he's a bad lot altogether."

"Is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not reveal it, a much better `lot'?" demanded Fred, with some indignation.

"Perhaps not," replied Gashford, with a short laugh; "but as I never set up for a good lot, you see, there's no need to discuss the subject.

Now, fall to the rear, my young blade. Remember that I'm in command of this party, and you know, or ought to know, that I suffer no insolence in those under me."

Poor Fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out, and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had the power to aid his condemned friend.

It was near sunset when they reached Pine Tree Diggings. Tom Brixton was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine, but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in Gashford's pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door.

That night Fred Westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair.

True, he had not failed all along to lay his friend's case before G.o.d, and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone. The hidden h.o.a.rd, on which he had counted too much, had been taken and lost by the very man he wished to save, and the weakness of his own faith was revealed by the disappearance of the gold--for he had almost forgotten that the Almighty can provide means at any time and in all circ.u.mstances.

Fred would not allow himself for a moment to think that Tom had _stolen_ his gold. He only _took_ it for a time, with the full intention of refunding it when better times should come. On this point Fred's style of reasoning was in exact accord with that of his unhappy friend. Tom never for a moment regarded the misappropriation of the gold as a theft.

Oh no! it was merely an appropriated loan--a temporary accommodation.

It would be interesting, perhaps appalling, to know how many thousands of criminal careers have been begun in this way!

"Now, Mister Westly," said Flinders, entering the tent in haste, "what's to be done? It's quite clear that Mister Tom's not to be hanged, for there's two or three of us'll commit murder before that happens; but I've bin soundin' the boys, an' I'm afeared there's a lot o' the worst wans that'll be glad to see him scragged, an' there's a lot as won't risk their own necks to save him, an' what betune the wan an' the other, them that'll fight for him are a small minority--so, again I say, what's to be done?"

Patrick Flinders's usually jovial face had by that time become almost as long and lugubrious as that of Westly.

"I don't know," returned Fred, shaking his head.

"My one plan, on which I had been founding much hope, is upset. Listen.

It was this. I have been saving a good deal of my gold for a long time past and hiding it away secretly, so as to have something to fall back upon when poor Tom had gambled away all his means. This h.o.a.rd of mine amounted, I should think, to something like five hundred pounds. I meant to have offered it to Gashford for the key of the prison, and for his silence, while we enabled Tom once more to escape. But this money has, without my knowledge, been taken away and--"

"Stolen, you mean!" exclaimed Flinders, in surprise.

"No, not stolen--taken! I can't explain just now. It's enough to know that it is gone, and that my plan is thus overturned."

"D'ee think Gashford would let him out for that?" asked the Irishman, anxiously.

"I think so; but, after all, I'm almost glad that the money's gone, for I can't help feeling that this way of enticing Gashford to do a thing, as it were slily, is underhand. It is a kind of bribery."

"Faix, then, it's not c'ruption anyhow, for the baste is as c'rupt as he can be already. An', sure, wouldn't it just be bribin' a blackguard not to commit murther?"

"I don't know, Pat. It is a horrible position to be placed in. Poor, poor Tom!"

"Have ye had supper?" asked Flinders, quickly.

"No--I cannot eat."

"Cook it then, an' don't be selfish. Other people can ait, though ye can't. It'll kape yer mind employed--an I'll want somethin' to cheer me up whin I come back."

Pat Flinders left the tent abruptly, and poor Fred went about the preparation of supper in a half mechanical way, wondering what his comrade meant by his strange conduct.

Pat's meaning was soon made plain, that night, to a dozen or so of his friends, whom he visited personally and induced to accompany him to a sequestered dell in an out-of-the-way thicket where the moonbeams struggled through the branches and drew a lovely pale-blue pattern on the green-sward.

"My frinds," he said, in a low, mysterious voice, "I know that ivery mother's son of ye is ready to fight for poor Tom Brixton to-morrow, if the wust comes to the wust. Now, it has occurred to my chum Westly an'

me, that it would be better, safer, and surer to buy him up, than to fight for him, an' as I know some o' you fellers has dug up more goold than you knows well what to do wid, an' you've all got liberal hearts-- lastewise ye should have, if ye haven't--I propose, an' second the resolootion, that we make up some five hundred pounds betune us, an'

presint it to Bully Gashford as a mark of our estaim--if he'll on'y give us up the kay o' the prison, put Patrick Flinders, Esquire, sintry over it, an' then go to slape till breakfast-time tomorry mornin'."

This plan was at once agreed to, for five hundred pounds was not a large sum to be made up by men who--some of them at least--had nearly made "their pile"--by which they meant their fortune, while the liberality of heart with which they had been credited was not wanting. Having settled a few details, this singular meeting broke up, and Patrick Flinders-- acting as the secretary, treasurer, and executive committee--went off, with a bag of golden nuggets and unbounded self-confidence, to transact the business.