Twice Bought

“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?”