He led the gold-diggers to the robbers’ retreat, and there, learning from a brother savage2 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 hazardous10 determination, personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of the darkness; telling his lieutenant11, 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 thicket12 which formed their encampment, “we’ve bin13 caught. Our only chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter14. Are you ready?”
“Ready!” responded nearly every man. Those who might have been unwilling15 were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless. “Come on, then, an’ give them a screech16 when ye burst out!”
Like an avalanche17 of demons18 the robber band rushed down the slope and crashed into their foes19, and a yell that might well have been born of the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the Indians were not daunted21. Taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in the rush, when high above the din1 arose the bass22 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 scattering23 far and wide through the wilderness24. 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 foe20 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 precipice25 or rocky ledge26, 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 wretches27 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, confidentially28, 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 justified29. When Stalker was carried into the Indian village and examined by Fred Westly, it was found that, besides other injuries, two of his ribs30 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 margin31 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 peculiar32 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 spoke33 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 mischief34 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 uncommon35 like her.”
“Did you know his mother, then?”
“Ay, Betty, I knowed her well, an’ a fine, good-lookin’ woman she was, wi’ a kindly36, 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 vowed37 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 outlaw38. 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 heed39 to the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the Saviour40. 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?” gasped41 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 stunned42 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 deserted43 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 miserable44 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 deception46 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 shanty47—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 gallop48.’
“‘What!’ says she, ‘an’ leave nothin’ to my boy?—my poor boy, for whom I have never ceased to pray! He may repent49, 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 muddle50 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 tickled52 at the notion o’ the likes o’ me bein’ axed to recommend a lawyer. It was so like your mother’s innocence53 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, Tickle51, and Badger54 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 crabbed55 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 villain56!’ says he; ‘you’ve bin robbin’ my mother!’
“‘Come, come,’ says I, ‘civility, you know, between pals57. 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 brat58, 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 pawn59 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 bout9 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 bracelets60.’
“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, contented61 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.”
Chapter Twenty One.
“Well, you must know,” said Paul Bevan, continuing his discourse62 to the Rose of Oregon, “when I got to Brighton I went to the school, told ’em that your mother was just dead, and brought you straight away. I wasn’t an hour too soon, for, as I expected, your brother had given information, an’ the p’lice were on my heels in a jiffy, but I was too sharp for ’em. I went into hidin’ in London; an’ you’ve no notion, Betty, what a rare place London is to hide in! A needle what takes to wanderin’ in a haystack ain’t safer than a feller is in London, if he only knows how to go about the business.
“I lay there nigh three months, durin’ which time my own poor child Betty continued hoverin’ ’tween life an death. At last, one night when I was at the hospital sittin’ beside her, she suddenly raised her sweet face, an fixin’ her big eyes on me, said—
“‘Father, I’m goin’ home. Shall I tell mother that you’re comin’?’
“‘What d’ye mean, my darlin’?’ says I, while an awful thump63 came to my heart, for I saw a great change come over her.
“‘I’ll be there soon, father,’ she said, as her dear voice began to fail; ‘have you no message for mother?’
“I was so crushed that I couldn’t speak, so she went on—
“‘You’ll come—won’t you, father? an’ we’ll be so glad to welcome you to heaven. An’ so will Jesus. Remember, He is the only door, father, no name but that of Jesus—’ She stopped all of a sudden, and I saw that she had gone home.
“After that” continued Paul, hurrying on as if the memory of the event was too much for him, “havin’ nothin’ to keep me in England, I came off here to the gold-fields with you, an’ brought the will with me, intendin’, when you came of age, to tell you all about it, an’ see justice done both to you an’ to your brother, but—”
“Fath— Paul,” said Betty, checking herself, “that brown parcel you gave me long ago with such earnest directions to keep it safe, and only to open it if you were killed, is—”
“That’s the will, my dear.”
“And Edwin—does he think that I am your real daughter Betty?”
“No doubt he does, for he never heard of her bein’ dead, and he never saw you since you was quite a little thing, an’ there’s a great change on you since then—a wonderful change.”
“Yes, fath— Oh! it is so hard to lose my father,” said Betty, almost breaking down, and letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap.
“But why lose him, Betty? I did it all for the best,” said Paul, gently taking hold of one of the poor girl’s hands.
She made a slight motion to withdraw it, but checked herself and let it rest in the man’s rough but kindly grasp, while tears silently coursed down her rounded cheeks. Presently she looked up and said—
“How did Edwin find out where you had gone to?”
“That’s more than I can tell, Betty, unless it was through Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger. I wrote to them after gettin’ here, tellin’ them to look well after the property, and it would be claimed in good time, an’ I raither fear that the postmark on the letter must have let the cat out o’ the bag. Anyhow, not long after that Edwin found me out an’ you know how he has persecuted64 me, though you little thought he was your own brother when you were beggin’ of me not to kill him—no more did you guess that I was as little anxious to kill him as you were, though I did pretend I’d have to do it now an’ then in self-defence. Sometimes, indeed, he riled me up to sitch an extent that there wasn’t much pretence65 about it; but thank God! my hand has been held back.”
“Yes, thank God for that; and now I must go to him,” said Betty, rising hastily and hurrying back to the Indian village.
In a darkened tent, on a soft couch of deerskins, the dying form of Buxley, alias66 Stalker, lay extended. In the fierceness of his self-will he had neglected his wounds until too late to save his life. A look of stern resolution sat on his countenance—probably he had resolved to “die game,” as hardened criminals express it. His determination, on whatever ground based, was evidently not shaken by the arguments of a man who sat by his couch. It was Tom Brixton.
“What’s the use o’ preachin’ to me, young fellow?” said the robber-chief, testily67. “I dare say you are pretty nigh as great a scoundrel as I am.”
“Perhaps a greater,” returned Tom. “I have no wish to enter into comparisons, but I’m quite prepared to admit that I am as bad.”
“Well, then, you’ve as much need as I have to seek salvation68 for yourself.”
“Indeed I have, and it is because I have sought it and obtained it,” said Tom, earnestly, “that I am anxious to point out the way to you. I’ve come through much the same experiences, no doubt, as you have. I have been a scouter69 of my mother’s teachings, a thief, and, in heart if not in act, a murderer. No one could be more urgently in need of salvation from sin than I, and I used to think that I was so bad that my case was hopeless, until God opened my eyes to see that Jesus came to save His people from their sins. That is what you need, is it not?”
“Ay, but it is too late,” said Stalker, bitterly.
“The crucified thief did not find it too late,” returned Tom, “and it was the eleventh hour with him.”
Stalker made no reply, but the stern, hard expression of his face did not change one iota70 until he heard a female voice outside asking if he were asleep. Then the features relaxed; the frown passed like a summer cloud before the sun, and, with half-open lips and a look of glad, almost childish expectancy71, he gazed at the curtain-door of the tent.
“Mother’s voice!” he murmured, apparently72 in utter forgetfulness of Tom Brixton’s presence.
Next moment the curtain was raised, and Betty, entering quickly, advanced to the side of the couch. Tom rose, as if about to leave.
“Don’t go, Mr Brixton,” said the girl, “I wish you to hear us.”
“My brother!” she continued, turning to the invalid73, and grasping his hand, for the first time, as she sat down beside him.
“If you were not so young I’d swear you were my mother,” exclaimed Stalker, with a slight look of surprise at the changed manner of his nurse. “Ha! I wish that I were indeed your brother.”
“But you are my brother, Edwin Buxley,” cried the girl with intense earnestness, “my dear and only brother, whom God will save through Jesus Christ?”
“What do you mean, Betty?” asked Stalker, with an anxious and puzzled look.
“I mean that I am not Betty Bevan. Paul Bevan has told me so—told me that I am Betty Buxley, and your sister!”
The dying man’s chest heaved with labouring breath, for his wasted strength was scarcely sufficient to bear this shock of surprise.
“I would not believe it,” he said, with some difficulty, “even though Paul Bevan were to swear to it, were it not for the wonderful likeness74 both in look and tone.” He pressed her hand fervently75, and added, “Yes, dear Betty. I do believe that you are my very sister.”
Tom Brixton, from an instinctive76 feeling of delicacy77, left the tent, while the Rose of Oregon related to her brother the story of her life with Paul Bevan, and then followed it up with the story of God’s love to man in Jesus Christ.
Tom hurried to Bevan’s tent to have the unexpected and surprising news confirmed, and Paul told him a good deal, but was very careful to make no allusion78 to Betty’s “fortin.”
“Now, Mister Brixton,” said Paul, somewhat sternly, when he had finished, “there must be no more shilly-shallyin’ wi’ Betty’s feelin’s. You’re fond o’ her, an’ she’s fond o’ you. In them circumstances a man is bound to wed—all the more that the poor thing has lost her nat’ral protector, so to speak, for I’m afraid she’ll no longer look upon me as a father.”
There was a touch of pathos79 in Paul’s tone as he concluded, which checked the rising indignation in Brixton’s breast.
“But you forget, Paul, that Gashford and his men are here, and will probably endeavour to lay hold of me. I can scarce look on myself as other than an outlaw.”
“Pooh! lay hold of you!” exclaimed Paul, with contempt; “d’ye think Gashford or any one else will dare to touch you with Mahoghany Drake an’ Mister Fred an’ Flinders an’ me, and Unaco with all his Injins at your back? Besides, let me tell you that Gashford seems a changed man. I’ve had a talk wi’ him about you, an’ he said he was done persecutin’ of you—that you had made restitootion when you left all the goold on the river’s bank for him to pick up, and that as nobody else in partikler wanted to hang you, you’d nothin’ to fear.”
“Well, that does change the aspect of affairs,” said Tom, “and it may be that you are right in your advice about Betty. I have twice tried to get away from her and have failed. Perhaps it may be right now to do as you suggest, though after all the time seems not very suitable; but, as you truly observe, she has lost her natural protector, for of course you cannot be a father to her any longer. Yes, I’ll go and see Fred about it.”
Tom had considerable qualms80 of conscience as to the propriety81 of the step he meditated82, and tried to argue with himself as he went in search of his friend.
“You see,” he soliloquised aloud, “her brother is dying; and then, though I am not a whit4 more worthy83 of her than I was, the case is nevertheless altered, for she has no father now. Then by marrying her I shall have a right to protect her—and she stands greatly in need of a protector in this wild country at this time, poor thing! and some one to work for her, seeing that she has no means whatever!”
“Troth, an’ that’s just what she does need, sor!” said Paddy Flinders, stepping out of the bush at the moment. “Excuse me, sor, but I cudn’t help hearin’ ye, for ye was spakin’ out loud. But I agree with ye intirely; an’, if I may make so bowld, I’m glad to find ye in that state o’ mind. Did ye hear the news, sor? They’ve found goold at the hid o’ the valley here.”
“Indeed,” said Tom, with a lack of interest that quite disgusted his volatile84 friend.
“Yes, indade,” said he. “Why, sor, they’ve found it in big nuggets in some places, an’ Muster85 Gashford is off wid a party not half an hour past. I’m goin’ mesilf, only I thought I’d see first if ye wouldn’t jine me; but ye don’t seem to care for goold no more nor if it was copper86; an that’s quare, too, whin it was the very objec’ that brought ye here.”
“Ah, Flinders, I have gained more than my object in coming. I have found gold—most fine gold, too, that I won’t have to leave behind me when it pleases God to call me home. But never fear, I’ll join you. I owe you and other friends a debt, and I must dig to pay that. Then, if I succeed in the little scheme which you overheard me planning, I shall need some gold to keep the pot boiling!”
“Good luck to ye, sor! so ye will. But plaze don’t mintion the little debt you say you owe me an’ the other boys. Ye don’t owe us nothin’ o’ the sort. But who comes here? Muster Fred it is—the very man I want to see.”
“Yes, and I want to see him too, Paddy, so let me speak first, for a brief space, in private, and you can have him as long as you like afterwards.”
Fred Westly’s opinion on the point which his friend put before him entirely87 coincided with that of Paul Bevan.
“I’m not surprised to learn that Paul is not her father,” he said. “It was always a puzzle to me how she came to be so lady-like and refined in her feelings, with such a rough, though kindly, father. But I can easily understand it now that I hear who and what her mother was.”
But the principal person concerned in Tom Brixton’s little scheme held an adverse88 opinion to his friends Paul and Fred and Flinders. Betty would by no means listen to Tom’s proposals until, one day, her brother said that he would like to see her married to Tom Brixton before he died. Then the obdurate89 Rose of Oregon gave in!
“But how is it to be managed without a clergyman?” asked Fred Westly one evening over the camp fire when supper was being prepared.
“Ay, how indeed?” said Tom, with a perplexed91 look.
“Oh, bother the clergy90!” cried the irreverent Flinders.
“That’s just what I’d do if there was one here,” responded Tom; “I’d bother him till he married us.”
“I say, what did Adam and Eve an’ those sort o’ people do?” asked Tolly Trevor, with the sudden animation92 resulting from the budding of a new idea; “there was no clergy in their day, I suppose?”
“True for ye, boy,” remarked Flinders, as he lifted a large pot of soup off the fire.
“I know and care not, Tolly, what those sort o’ people did,” said Tom; “and as Betty and I are not Adam and Eve, and the nineteenth century is not the first, we need not inquire.”
“I’ll tell ’ee what,” said Mahoghany Drake, “it’s just comed into my mind that there’s a missionary93 goes up once a year to an outlyin’ post o’ the fur-traders, an’ this is about the very time. What say ye to make an excursion there to get spliced94, it’s only about two hundred miles off? We could soon ride there an’ back, for the country’s all pretty flattish after passin’ the Sawback range.”
“The very thing!” cried Tom; “only—perhaps Betty might object to go, her brother being so ill.”
“Not she,” said Fred; “since the poor man found in her a sister as well as a nurse he seems to have got a new lease of life. I don’t, indeed, think it possible that he can recover, but he may yet live a good while; and the mere95 fact that she has gone to get married will do him good.”
So it was finally arranged that they should all go, and, before three days had passed, they went, with a strong band of their Indian allies. They found the missionary as had been expected. The knot was tied, and Tom Brixton brought back the Rose of Oregon as a blooming bride to the Sawback range.
From that date onward96 Tom toiled97 at the goldfields as if he had been a galley-slave, and scraped together every speck98 and nugget of gold he could find, and hoarded99 it up as if he had been a very miser45, and, strange to say, Betty did not discourage him.
One day he entered his tent with a large canvas bag in his hand quite full.
“It’s all here at last,” he said, holding it up. “I’ve had it weighed, and I’m going to square up.”
“Go, dear Tom, and God speed you,” said the Rose, giving him a kiss that could not have been purchased by all the gold in Oregon.
Tom went off, and soon returned with the empty bag.
“It was hard work, Betty, to get them to take it, but they agreed when I threatened to heave it all into the lake if they didn’t! Then—I ventured,” said Tom, looking down with something like a blush—“it does seem presumptuous100 in me, but I couldn’t help it—I preached to them! I told them of my having been twice bought; of the gold that never perishes; and of the debt I owe, which I could never repay, like theirs, with interest, because it is incalculable. And now, dear Betty, we begin the world afresh from to-day.”
“Yes, and with clear consciences,” returned Betty. “I like to re-commence life thus.”
“But with empty pockets,” added Tom, with a peculiar twist of his mouth.
“No, not quite empty,” rejoined the young wife, drawing a very business-looking envelope from her pocket and handing it to her husband. “Read that, Tom.”
Need we say that Tom read it with mingled101 amusement and amazement102; that he laughed at it, and did not believe it; that he became grave, and inquired into it; and that finally, when Paul Bevan detailed103 the whole affair, he was forced to believe it?
“An estate in the West Indies,” he murmured to himself in a condition of semi-bewilderment, “yielding over fifteen hundred a year!”
“A tidy little fortin,” remarked Paddy Flinders, who overheard him. “I hope, sor, ye won’t forgit yer owld frinds in Oregon when ye go over to take possession.”
“I won’t my boy—you may depend on that.”
And he did not!
But Edwin Buxley did not live to enjoy his share of the fortune. Soon after the wedding he began to sink rapidly, and finally died while gazing earnestly in his sister’s face, with the word “mother” trembling faintly on his lips. He was laid under a lordly tree not far from the Indian village in the Sawback range.
It was six months afterwards that Betty became of age and was entitled to go home and claim her own. She and Tom went first to a small village in Kent, where dwelt an old lady who for some time past had had her heart full to the very brim with gratitude104 because of a long-lost prodigal105 son having been brought back to her—saved by the blood of the Lamb. When at last she set her longing106 eyes on Tom, and heard his well-remembered voice say, “Mother!” the full heart overflowed107 and rushed down the wrinkled cheeks in floods of inexpressible joy. And the floods were increased, and the joy intensified108, when she turned at last to gaze on a little modest, tearful, sympathetic flower, whom Tom introduced to her as the Rose of Oregon!
Thereafter Tom and the Rose paid a visit to London City and called upon Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger.
Truefoot was the only partner in the office at the time, but he ably represented the firm, for he tickled them with information and badgered them with questions to such an extent that they left the place of business in a state of mental confusion, but on the whole, very well satisfied.
The result of all these things was that Tom Brixton settled down near the village where his mother dwelt, and Fred Westly, after staying long enough among the Sawback Mountains to dig out of them a sufficiency, returned home and bought a small farm beside his old chum.
And did Tom forget his old friends in Oregon? No! He became noted109 for the length and strength of his correspondence. He wrote to Flinders begging him to come home and help him with his property, and Flinders accepted. He wrote to Mahoghany Drake and sent him a splendid rifle, besides good advice and many other things, at different times, too numerous to mention. He wrote to little Tolly Trevor endeavouring to persuade him to come to England and be “made a man of”, but Tolly politely declined, preferring to follow the fortunes of Mahoghany and be made a man of in the backwoods sense of the expression, in company with his fast friend the Leaping Buck110. Tolly sent his special love to the Rose of Oregon, and said that she would be glad to hear that the old place in the Sawback range had become a little colony, and that a missionary had settled in it, and Gashford had held by his promise to her—not only giving up drink and gambling111 entirely, but had set up a temperance coffee-house and a store, both of which were in the full blast of prosperity.
Tolly also said, in quite a poetical112 burst, that the fragrance113 of the Rose not only remained in the Colony, but was still felt as a blessed memory and a potent114 influence for good throughout all the land.
Finally, Tom Brixton settled down to a life of usefulness beside his mother—who lived to a fabulous115 old age—and was never tired of telling, especially to his young friends, of his wonderful adventures in the Far West and how he had been twice bought—once with gold and once with blood.
The End.
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1
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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23
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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44
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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47
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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48
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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50
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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51
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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52
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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53
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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54
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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55
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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63
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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64
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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68
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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scouter
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| 侦察者，负责童子军活动者 | |
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iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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spliced
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| adj.（针织品）加固的n.叠接v.绞接( splice的过去式和过去分词 )；捻接（两段绳子）；胶接；粘接（胶片、磁带等） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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