Twice Bought

“‘Miffy’s lost!’ obsarved one o’ my comrades as we got in among the bushes here an’ prepared to fight it out.

“‘No great loss,’ remarked another.

“‘No fear o’ Miffy,’ said Bounce, feelin’ his nose tenderly, ‘he’s a bad shillin’, and bad shillin’s always turn up, they say.’

“Bounce had barely finished when we heard another most awesome burst o’ yellin’ in the woods, followed by a deep roar.

“‘That’s Miffy,’ says I, feelin’ quite excited, for I’d got to have a sneakin’ sort o’ pity for the miserable critter. ‘It’s a twin roar to the one he gave that day when he mistook Hairy Sam for a grizzly b’ar, an’ went up a spruce-fir like a squirrel.’ Sure enough, in another moment Miffy burst out o’ the woods an’ came tearin’ across the open space straight for the gap, followed by a dozen or more savages.

“‘Run, Bounce—the plank!’ says I, jumpin’ up. ‘We’ll drive the reptiles back!’

“While I was speakin’ we were all runnin’ full split to meet the poor critter, Bounce far in advance. Whether it was over-haste, or the pain of his nose, I never could make out, but somehow, in tryin’ to shove the plank over, Bounce let it slip. Down it went an’ split to splinters on the rock’s a hundred feet below! Miffy was close up at the time. His cheeks was yaller an’ his eyes starin’ as he came on, but his face turned green and his eyes took to glarin’ when he saw what had happened. I saw a kind o’ hesitation in his look as he came to the unbridged gulf. The savages, thinkin’ no doubt it was all up with him, gave a fiendish yell o’ delight. That yell saved the poor ne’er-do-well. It was as good as a Spanish spur to a wild horse. Over he came with legs an’ arms out like a flyin’ squirrel, and down he fell flat on his stummick at our feet wi’ the nearest thing to a fair bu’st that I ever saw, or raither heard, for I was busy sightin’ a Redskin at the time an’ didn’t actually see it. When the savages saw what he’d done they turned tail an’ scattered back into the woods, so we only gave them a loose volley, for we didn’t want to kill the critters. I just took the bark off the thigh of one to prevent his forgettin’ me. We held the place here for three days, an’ then findin’ they could make nothin’ of us, or havin’ other work on hand, they went away an’ left us in peace.”

“An’ what became o’ poor Miffy?” asked little Trevor, earnestly.

“We took him down with us to a new settlement that had been started in the prairie-land west o’ the Blue Mountains, an’ there he got a sitooation in a store, but I s’pose he didn’t stick to it long. Anyhow that was the last I ever saw of him. Now, boys, it’s time to turn in.”

That night when the moon had gone down and the stars shed a feeble light on the camp of those who slumbered on the Outlook rock, two figures, like darker shades among the surrounding shadows, glided from the woods, and, approaching the edge of the gap, gazed down into the black abyss.

“I told you, redskin, that the plank would be sure to be drawn over,” said one of the figures, in a low but gruff whisper.

“When the tomahawk is red men do not usually sleep unguarded,” replied the other, in the Indian tongue.

“Speak English, Maqua, I don’t know enough o’ your gibberish to make out what you mean. Do you think, now, that the villain Paul Bevan is in the camp?”

“Maqua is not a god, that he should be able to tell what he does not know.”

“No, but he could guess,” retorted Stalker—for it was the robber-chief. “My scouts said they thought it was his figure they saw. However, it matters not. If you are to earn the reward I have offered, you must creep into the camp, put your knife in Bevan’s heart, and bring me his scalp. I would do it myself, redskin, and be indebted to nobody, but I can’t creep as you and your kindred can.”

“I’d be sure to make row enough to start them in time for self-defence. As to the scalp, I don’t want it—only want to make certain that you’ve done the deed. You may keep it to ornament your dress or to boast about to your squaw. If you should take a fancy to do a little murder on your own account do so. It matters nothin’ to me. I’ll be ready to back you up if they give chase.”

While the robber-chief was speaking he searched about for a suitable piece of wood to span the chasm. He soon found what he wanted, for there was much felled timber lying about the work of previous visitors to the Outlook.

In a few minutes Maqua had crossed, and glided in a stealthy, stooping position towards the camp, seeming more like a moving shadow than a real man. When pretty close he went down on hands and knees and crept forward, with his scalping-knife between his teeth.

It would have been an interesting study to watch the savage, had his object been a good one—the patience; the slow, gliding movements; the careful avoidance of growing branches, and the gentle removal of dead ones from his path, for well did Maqua know that a snapping twig would betray him if the camp contained any of the Indian warriors of the Far West.

At last he drew so near that by stretching his neck he could see over the intervening shrubs and observe the sleepers. Just then Drake chanced to waken. Perhaps it was a presentiment of danger that roused him, for the Indian had, up to that moment, made not the slightest sound. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the trapper looked cautiously round; then he lay down and turned over on his other side to continue his slumbers.

Like the tree-stems around him, Maqua remained absolutely motionless until he thought the trapper was again sleeping. Then he retired, as he had come, to his anxiously-awaiting comrade.

“Bevan not there,” he said briefly, when they had retired to a safe distance; “only Mahoghany Drake an’ two boy.”

“Well, why didn’t ye scalp them!” asked Stalker, savagely, for he was greatly disappointed to find that his enemy was not in the camp. “You said that all white men were your enemies.”

“No, not all,” replied the savage. “Drake have the blood of white mans, but the heart of red mans. He have be good to Injins.”

“Well, well; it makes no odds to me,” returned Stalker, “Come along, an’ walk before me, for I won’t trust ye behind. As for slippery Paul, I’ll find him yet; you shall see. When a man fails in one attempt, all he’s got to do is to make another. Now then, redskin, move on!”

Chapter Eighteen

As widely different as night is from day, summer from winter, heat from cold, are some members of the human family; yet God made them all, and has a purpose of love and mercy towards each! Common sense says this; the general opinion of mankind holds this; highest of all, the Word clearly states this: “God willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live;” and, “He maketh His sun to shine upon the just and on the unjust.” Nevertheless, it seemed difficult to believe that the same God formed and spared and guarded and fed the fierce, lawless man Stalker, and the loving, gentle delicate Rose of Oregon.

About the same hour that the former was endeavouring to compass the destruction of Paul Bevan, Betty was on her knees in her little tented room, recalling the deeds, the omissions, and the shortcomings of the past day, interceding alike for friends and foes—if we may venture to assume that a rose without a thorn could have foes! Even the robber-chief was remembered among the rest, and you may be very sure that Tom Brixton was not forgotten.

Having slept the sleep of innocence and purity, Betty rose refreshed on the following day, and, before the Indian village was astir, went out to ramble along a favourite walk in a thicket on the mountain-side. It so fell out that Tom had selected the same thicket for his morning ramble. But poor Tom did not look like one who hoped to meet with his lady-love that morning. He had, under good nursing, recovered some of his former strength and vigour of body with wonderful rapidity, but his face was still haggard and careworn in an unusual degree for one so young. When the two met Tom did not pretend to be surprised. On the contrary, he said:—

“I expected to meet you here, Betty, because I have perceived that you are fond of the place, and, believe me, I would not have presumed to intrude, were it not that I wish to ask one or two questions, the answers to which may affect my future movements.”

He paused, and Betty’s heart fluttered, for she could not help remembering former meetings when Tom had tried to win her affections, and when she had felt it her duty to discourage him. She made no reply to this rather serious beginning to the interview, but dropped her eyes on the turf, for she saw that the youth was gazing at her with a very mingled and peculiar expression.

“Tell me,” he resumed, after a few moments’ thought, “do you feel quite safe with these Indians?”

“Quite,” replied the girl with a slight elevation of the eyebrows; “they are unusually gentle and good-natured people. Besides, their chief would lay down his life for my father—he is so grateful. Oh yes, I feel perfectly safe here.”

“But what does your father think. He is always so fearless—I might say reckless—that I don’t feel certain as to his real opinion. Have you heard him speaking about the chance of that rascal Stalker following him up?”

“Yes; he has spoken freely about that. He fully expects that Stalker will search for us, but considers that he will not dare to attack us while we live with so strong a band of Indians, and, as Stalker’s followers won’t hang about here very long for the mere purpose of pleasing their chief, especially when nothing is to be gained by it, father thinks that his enemy will be forced to go away. Besides, he has made up his mind to remain here for a long time—many months, it may be.”

“That will do,” returned Tom, with a sigh of relief; “then there will be no need for me to—”

“To what?” asked Betty, seeing that the youth paused.

“Forgive me if I do not say what I meant to. I have reasons for—” (he paused again)—“Then you are pleased with the way the people treat you?”

“Of course I am. They could not be kinder if I were one of themselves. And some of the women are so intelligent, too! You know I have picked up a good deal of the Indian language, and understand them pretty well, though I can’t speak much, and you’ve no idea what deep thinkers some of them are! There is Unaco’s mother, who looks so old and dried up and stupid—she is one of the dearest old things I ever knew. Why,” continued the girl, with increasing animation, as she warmed with her subject, “that old creature led me, the other night, into quite an earnest conversation about religion, and asked me ever so many questions about the ways of God with man—speculative, difficult questions too, that almost puzzled me to answer. You may be sure I took the opportunity to explain to her God’s great love to man in and through Jesus, and—”

She stopped abruptly, for Tom Brixton was at that moment regarding her with a steady and earnest gaze.

“Yes,” he said, slowly, almost dreamily, “I can well believe you took your opportunity to commend Jesus to her. You did so once to me, and—”

Tom checked himself, as if with a great effort. The girl longed to hear more, but he did not finish the sentence. “Well,” he said, with a forced air of gaiety, “I have sought you here to tell you that I am going off on—on—a long hunting expedition. Going at once—but I would not leave without bidding you good-bye.”

“Going away, Mr Brixton!” exclaimed Betty, in genuine surprise.

“Yes. As you see, I am ready for the field, with rifle and wallet, firebag and blanket.”

“But you are not yet strong enough,” said Betty.

“Oh! yes, I am—stronger than I look. Besides, that will mend every day. I don’t intend to say goodbye to Westly or any one, because I hate to have people try to dissuade me from a thing when my mind is made up. I only came to say good-bye to you, because I wish you to tell Fred and your father that I am grateful for all their kindness to me, and that it will be useless to follow me. Perhaps we may meet again, Betty,” he added, still in the forced tone of lightness, while he gently took the girl’s hand in his and shook it; “but the dangers of the wilderness are numerous, and, as you have once or twice told me, we ‘know not what a day or an hour may bring forth.’” (His tone had deepened suddenly to that of intense earnestness)—“God bless you, Betty; farewell.”

He dropped her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly away, never once casting a look behind.

Poor Tom! It was a severe wrench, but he had fought the battle manfully and gained the victory. In his new-born sense of personal unworthiness and strict Justice, he had come to the conclusion that he had forfeited the right to offer heart or hand to the Rose of Oregon. Whether he was right or wrong in his opinion we do not pretend to judge, but this does not alter the fact that a hard battle with self had been fought by him, and a great victory won.

But Tom neither felt nor looked very much like a conqueror. His heart seemed to be made of lead, and the strength of which he had so recently boasted seemed to have deserted him altogether after he had walked a few miles, insomuch that he was obliged to sit down on a bank to rest. Fear lest Fred or Paul should follow up his trail, however, infused new strength into his limbs, and he rose and pushed steadily on, for he was deeply impressed with the duty that lay upon him—namely, to get quickly, and as far as possible, away from the girl whom he could no longer hope to wed.

Thus, advancing at times with great animation, sitting down occasionally for short rests, and then resuming the march with renewed vigour, he travelled over the mountains without any definite end in view, beyond that to which we have already referred.