Twice Bought

“But he thought he was right” said Betty; and then she blushed with vexation at having been led by impulse even to appear to justify her lover. But Paul took no notice.

“It matters not,” said he, “for it happens that you have found us almost on the wing, Westly. I knew full well that this fellow Buxley—”

“They call him Stalker, if you mean the robber chief” interrupted Fred.

“Pooh! Did you ever hear of a robber chief without half a dozen aliases?” rejoined Paul. “This Buxley, havin’ found out my quarters, will never rest till he kills me; so as I’ve no fancy to leave my little Betty in an unprotected state yet a while, we have packed up our goods and chattels—they ain’t much to speak of—and intend to leave the old place this very night. Your friend Stalker won’t attack till night—I know the villain well—but your news inclines me to set off a little sooner than I intended. So, what you have got to do is to lie down an’ rest while Betty and I get the horse an’ cart ready. We’ve got a spare horse, which you’re welcome to. We sent little Tolly Trevor off to Briant’s Gulch to buy a pony for my little lass. He should have been back by this time if he succeeded in gettin’ it.”

“But where do you mean to go to?” asked Fred.

“To Simpson’s Gully.”

“Why, that’s where Tom and I were bound for when we fell in with Stalker and his band! We shall probably meet Tom returning. But the road is horrible—indeed there is no road at all, and I don’t think a cart could—”

“Oh! I know that” interrupted Paul, “and have no intention of smashing up my cart in the woods. We shall go round by the plains, lad. It is somewhat longer, no doubt, but once away, we shall be able to laugh at men on foot if they are so foolish as to follow us. Come now, Betty, stir your stumps and finish your packing. I’ll go get the—”

A peculiar yell rent the air outside at that moment, cutting short the sentence, and almost petrifying the speaker, who sprang up and began frantically to bar the door and windows of the hut, at the same time growling, “They’ve come sooner than I expected. Who’d have thought it! Bar the small window at the back, Betty, an’ then fetch all the weapons. I was so taken up wi’ you, Fred, that I forgot to haul back the plank; that’s how they’ve got over. Help wi’ this table—so—they’ll have some trouble to batter in the door wi’ that agin it, an’ I’ve a flankin’ battery at the east corner to prevent them settin’ the place on fire.”

While the man spoke he acted with violent haste. Fred sprang up and assisted him, for the shock—coupled, no doubt, with the hot coffee and bread and cheese—had restored his energies, at least for the time, almost as effectually as if he had had a rest.

They were only just in time, for at that moment a man ran with a wild shout against the door. Finding it fast, he kept thundering against it with his heavy boots, and shouting Paul Bevan’s name in unusually fierce tones.

“Are ye there?” he demanded at last and stopped to listen.

“If you’ll make less noise mayhap ye’ll find out” growled Paul.

“Och! Paul, dear, open av ye love me,” entreated the visitor, in a voice there was no mistaking.

“I do believe it’s my mate Flinders!” said Fred.

Paul said nothing, but proved himself to be of the same opinion by hastily unbarring and opening the door, when in burst the irrepressible Flinders, wet from head to foot, splashed all over with mud and blood, and panting like a race-horse.

“Is that—tay ye’ve got there—my dear?” he asked in gasps.

“No, it is coffee. Let me give you some.”

“Thank ’ee kindly—fill it up—my dear. Here’s wishin’—ye all luck!”

Paddy drained the cup to the dregs, wiped his mouth on the cuff of his coat, and thus delivered himself—

“Now, don’t all spake at wance. Howld yer tongues an’ listen. Av coorse, Muster Fred’s towld ye when an’ where an’ how I jined the blackguards. Ye’ll be able now to guess why I did it. Soon after I jined ’em I began to boast o’ my shootin’ in a way that would ha’ shocked me nat’ral modesty av I hadn’t done it for a raisin o’ me own. Well, they boasted back, so I defied ’em to a trial, an’ soon showed ’em what I could do. There wasn’t wan could come near me wi’ the rifle. So they made me hunter-in-chief to the band then an’ there. I wint out at wance an’ brought in a good supply o’ game. Then, as my time was short, you see, I gave ’em the slip nixt day an’ comed on here, neck an’ crop, through fire an’ water, like a turkey-buzzard wi’ the cholera. An’ so here I am, an’ they’ll soon find out I’ve given ’em the slip, an’ they’ll come after me, swearin’, perhaps; an’ if I was you, Paul Bevan, I wouldn’t stop to say how d’ye do to them.”

“No more I will, Paddy—an’, by good luck, we’re about ready to start only I’ve got a fear for that poor boy Tolly. If he comes back arter we’re gone an’ falls into their hands it’ll be a bad look-out for him.”

“No fear o’ Tolly,” said Flinders; “he’s a ’cute boy as can look after himself. By the way, where’s Muster Tom?”

The reason of Brixton’s absence was explained to him by Betty, who bustled about the house packing up the few things that could be carried away, while her father and Fred busied themselves with the cart and horses outside. Meanwhile the Irishman continued to refresh himself with the bread and cheese.

“Ye see it’s o’ no manner o’ use me tryin’ to help ye, my dear,” he said, apologetically, “for I niver was much of a hand at packin’, my exparience up to this time havin’ run pretty much in the way o’ havin’ little or nothin’ to pack. Moreover, I’m knocked up as well as hungry, an’ ye seem such a good hand that it would be a pity to interfere wid ye. Is there any chance o’ little Tolly turnin’ up wi’ the pony before we start?”

“Every chance,” replied the girl, smiling, in spite of herself, at the man’s free-and-easy manner rather than his words. “He ought to have been here by this time. We expect him every moment.”

But these expectations were disappointed, for, when they had packed the stout little cart, harnessed and saddled the horses, and were quite ready to start, the boy had not appeared.

“We durstn’t delay,” said Paul, with a look of intense annoyance, “an’ I can’t think of how we are to let him know which way we’ve gone, for I didn’t think of telling him why we wanted another pony.”

“He can read, father. We might leave a note for him on the table, and if he arrives before the robbers that would guide him.”

“True, Betty; but if the robbers should arrive before him, that would also guide them.”

“But we’re so sure of his returning almost immediately,” urged Betty.

“Not so sure o’ that, lass. No, we durstn’t risk it, an’ I can’t think of anything else. Poor Tolly! he’ll stand a bad chance, for he’s sure to come gallopin’ up, an’ singin’ at the top of his voice in his usual reckless way.”

“Cudn’t we stick up a bit o’ paper in the way he’s bound to pass, wid a big wooden finger to point it out and the word ‘notice’ on it writ big?”

“Oh! I know what I’ll do,” cried Betty. “Tolly will be sure to search all over the place for us, and there’s one place, a sort of half cave in the cliff, where he and I used to read together. He’ll be quite certain to look there.”

“Right, lass, an’ we may risk that, for the reptiles won’t think o’ sarchin’ the cliff. Go, Betty; write, ‘We’re off to Simpson’s Gully, by the plains. Follow hard.’ That’ll bring him on if they don’t catch him—poor Tolly!”

In a few minutes the note was written and stuck on the wall of the cave referred to; then the party set off at a brisk trot, Paul, Betty, and Flinders in the cart, while Fred rode what its owner styled the spare horse.

They had been gone about two hours, when Stalker, alias Buxley, and his men arrived in an unenviable state of rage, for they had discovered Flinders’s flight, had guessed its object, and now, after hastening to Bevan’s Gully at top speed, had reached it to find the birds flown.

This they knew at once from the fact that the plank-bridge, quadrupled in width to let the horse and cart pass, had been left undrawn as if to give them a mocking invitation to cross. Stalker at once accepted the invitation. The astute Bevan had, however, anticipated and prepared for this event by the clever use of a saw just before leaving. When the robber-chief gained the middle of the bridge it snapped in two and let him down with a horrible rending of wood into the streamlet, whence he emerged like a half-drowned rat, amid the ill-suppressed laughter of his men. The damage he received was slight. It was only what Flinders would have called, “a pleasant little way of showing attintion to his inimy before bidding him farewell.”

Of course every nook and corner of the stronghold was examined with the utmost care—also with considerable caution, for they knew not how many more traps and snares might have been laid for them. They did not, however, find those for whom they sought, and, what was worse in the estimation of some of the band, they found nothing worth carrying away. Only one thing did they discover that was serviceable, namely, a large cask of gunpowder in the underground magazine formerly mentioned. Bevan had thought of blowing this up before leaving, for his cart was already too full to take it in, but the hope that it might not be discovered, and that he might afterwards return to fetch it away, induced him to spare it.

Of course all the flasks and horns of the band were replenished from this store, but there was still left a full third of the cask which they could not carry away. With this the leader determined to blow up the hut, for he had given up all idea of pursuing the fugitives, he and his men being too much exhausted for that.

Accordingly the cask was placed in the middle of the hut and all the unportable remains of Paul Bevan’s furniture were piled above it. Then a slow match was made by rubbing gunpowder on some long strips of calico. This was applied and lighted, and the robbers retired to a spot close to a spring about half a mile distant, where they could watch the result in safety while they cooked some food.

But these miscreants were bad judges of slow matches! Their match turned out to be very slow. So slow that they began to fear it had gone out—so slow that the daylight had time to disappear and the moon to commence her softly solemn journey across the dark sky—so slow that Stalker began seriously to think of sending a man to stir up the spark, though he thought there might be difficulty in finding a volunteer for the dangerous job—so slow that a certain reckless little boy came galloping towards the fortress on a tall horse with a led pony plunging by his side—all before the spark of the match reached its destination and did its work.

Then, at last, there came a flush that made the soft moon look suddenly paler, and lighted up the world as if the sun had shot a ray right through it from the antipodes. This was followed by a crash and a roar that caused the solid globe itself to vibrate and sent Paul Bevan’s fortress into the sky a mass of blackened ruins. One result was that a fiendish cheer arose from the robbers’ camp, filling the night air with discord. Another result was that the happy-go-lucky little boy and his horses came to an almost miraculous halt and remained so for some time, gazing straight before them in a state of abject amazement!

Chapter Ten

How long Tolly Trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being alone. On returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he approached the bank of the rivulet. Reflecting that a thoroughbred hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull up, but his horse refused. It had run away with him.

Although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for, even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile.

“Stop! won’t you? Wo-o-o!” cried Tolly, straining at the reins till the veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst.

But the horse would neither “stop” nor “wo-o-o!” It was otherwise, however, with the pony. That amiable creature had been trained well, and had learned obedience. Blessed quality! Would that the human race—especially its juvenile section—understood better the value of that inestimable virtue! The pony began to pull back at the sound of “wo!” Its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to recognise the order. The result was that poor Tolly’s right arm, over which was thrown the pony’s rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting opinions.

A bright idea struck his mind at this moment. Bright ideas always do strike the mind of genius at critical moments! He grasped both the reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them round his wrist. Then he turned about—not an instant too soon—looked the pony straight in the face, and said “Wo!” in a voice of command that was irresistible. The pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs, and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground. The strain on Tolly’s arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small. It stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of destruction with an almost broken jaw.

The boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree. Even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey self-will.