While Brixton was hurrying with a guilty conscience deeper and deeper into the dark woods which covered the spur of the mountains in the neighbourhood of Pine Tree Diggings, glancing back nervously from time to time as if he expected the pursuers to be close at his heels, an enemy was advancing to meet him in front, of whom he little dreamed.

A brown bear, either enjoying his morning walk or on the look-out for breakfast, suddenly met him face to face, and stood up on its hind legs as if to have a good look at him.

Tom was no coward; indeed he was gifted with more than an average amount of animal courage. He at once levelled his rifle at the creature’s breast and fired. The bear rushed at him, nevertheless, as if uninjured. Drawing his revolver, Tom discharged two shots before the monster reached him. All three shots had taken effect but bears are noted for tenacity of life, and are frequently able to fight a furious battle after being mortally wounded. The rifle ball had touched its heart, and the revolver bullets had gone deep into its chest, yet it showed little sign of having been hurt.

Knowing full well the fate that awaited him if he stood to wrestle with a bear, the youth turned to run, but the bear was too quick for him. It struck him on the back and felled him to the earth.

Strange to say, at that moment Tom Brixton’s ill-gotten gains stood him in good stead. There can be no question that the bear’s tremendous claws would have sunk deep into the youth’s back, and probably broken his spine, if they had not been arrested by the bag of gold which was slung at his back. Although knocked down and slightly stunned, Brixton was still unwounded, and, even in the act of falling, had presence of mind to draw his long knife and plunge it up to the haft in the creature’s side, at the same time twisting himself violently round so as to fall on his back and thus face the foe.

In this position, partly owing to the form of the ground, the bear found it difficult to grasp its opponent in its awful embrace, but it held him with its claws and seized his left shoulder with its teeth. This rendered the use of the revolver impossible, but fortunately Brixton’s right arm was still free, and he drove the keen knife a second time deep into the animal’s sides. Whether mortal or not, the wound did not immediately kill. Tom felt that his hour was come, and a deadly fear came over him as the thought of death, his recent life, and judgment, flashed through his brain. He drew out the knife, however, to make another desperate thrust. The bear’s great throat was close over his face. He thought of its jugular vein, and made a deadly thrust at the spot where he imagined that to run.

Instantly a flood of warm blood deluged his face and breast; at the same time he felt as if some dreadful weight were pressing him to death. Then consciousness forsook him.

While this desperate fight was going on, the miners of Pine Tree camp were scouring the woods in all directions in search of the fugitive. As we have said, great indignation was felt at that time against thieves, because some of them had become very daring, and cases of theft were multiplying. Severe penalties had been imposed on the culprits by the rest of the community without curing the evil. At last death was decided on as the penalty for any act of theft, however trifling it might be. That these men were in earnest was proved by the summary execution of the next two offenders who were caught. Immediately after that thieving came to an abrupt end, insomuch that if you had left a bag of gold on an exposed place, men would have gone out of their way to avoid it!

One can understand, therefore, the indignation that was roused in the camp when Tom Brixton revived the practice in such a cool and impudent manner. It was felt that, despite his being a favourite with many of the diggers, he must be made an example. Pursuit was, therefore, organised on an extensive scale and in a methodical manner. Among others, his friend Fred Westly took part in it.

It cost those diggers something thus to give up the exciting work of gold-finding for a chase that promised to occupy time and tax perseverance. Some of them even refused to join in it, but on the whole the desire for vengeance seemed general.

Bully Gashford, as he did not object to be called, was, in virtue of his size, energy, and desperate character, tacitly appointed leader. Indeed he would have assumed that position if it had not been accorded to him, for he was made of that stuff which produces either heroes of the highest type or scoundrels of the deepest dye. He arranged that the pursuers should proceed in a body to the mouth of the valley, and there, dividing into several parties, scatter themselves abroad until they should find the thief’s trail and then follow it up. As the miners were not much accustomed to following trails, they engaged the services of several Indians who chanced to be at the camp at that time.

“What direction d’ye think it’s likely your precious chum has taken?” asked Gashford, turning abruptly to Fred Westly when the different parties were about to start.

“It is impossible for me to tell.”

“I know that,” retorted Gashford, with a scowl and something of a sneer, “but it ain’t impossible for you to guess. However, it will do as well if you tell me which party you intend to join.”

“I shall join that which goes to the south-west,” replied Westly.

“Well, then, I will join that which goes to the south-east,” returned the bully, shouldering his rifle. “Go ahead, you red reptile,” he added, giving a sign to the Indian at the head of the party he had selected to lead.

The Indian at once went off at a swinging walk, amounting almost to a trot. The others followed suit and the forest soon swallowed them all in its dark embrace.

In making this selection Gashford had fallen into a mistake not uncommon among scoundrels—that of judging other men by themselves. He knew that Westly was fond of his guilty friend, and concluded that he would tell any falsehood or put the pursuers on any false scent that might favour his escape. He also guessed—and he was fond of guessing—that Fred would answer his question by indicating the direction which he thought it most probable his friend had not taken. In these guesses he was only to a small extent right. Westly did indeed earnestly hope that his friend would escape; for he deemed the intended punishment of death most unjustly severe, and, knowing intimately the character and tendencies of Tom Brixton’s mind and tastes, he had a pretty shrewd guess as to the direction he had taken, but, so far from desiring to throw the pursuers off the scent his main anxiety was to join the party which he thought most likely to find the fugitive—if they should find him at all—in order that he might be present to defend him from sudden or unnecessary violence.

Of course Paddy Flinders went with the same party, and we need scarcely add that the little Irishman sympathised with Fred.

“D’ee think it’s likely we’ll cotch ’im?” he asked, in a whisper, on the evening of that day, as they went rapidly through the woods together, a little in rear of their party.

“It is difficult to say,” answered Westly. “I earnestly hope not; indeed I think not, for Tom has had a good start; but the search is well organised, and there are bloodthirsty, indignant, and persevering men among the various parties, who won’t be easily baffled. Still Tom is a splendid runner. We may depend on having a long chase before we come up with him.”

“Ah, then, it’s glad I am that ye think so, sor,” returned Paddy, “for I’ve been afear’d Mister Tom hadn’t got quite so much go in him, since he tuk to gambling and drinkin’.”

“Look here, Paddy,” exclaimed his companion, stopping abruptly, and pointing to the ground, “are not these the footprints of one of your friends?”

“Sure it’s a bar,” said the little man, going down on his knees to examine the footprints in question with deep interest.

Flinders was a remarkably plucky little man, and one of his great ambitions was to meet with a bear, when alone, and slay it single-handed. His ambition had not up to that time, been gratified, fortunately for himself, for he was a bad shot and exceedingly reckless, two qualities which would probably have insured his own destruction if he had had his wish.

“Let’s go after it, Mister Westly,” he said, springing to his feet with an excited look.

“Nonsense, it is probably miles off by this time; besides, we should lose our party.”

“Niver a taste, sor; we could soon overhaul them agin. An’ won’t they have to camp at sundown anyhow? Moreover, if we don’t come up wi’ the bar in a mile or so we can give it up.”

“No, no, Paddy, we must not fall behind. At least, I must not; but you may go after it alone if you choose.”

“Well, I will, sor. Sure it’s not ivery day I git the chance; an’ there’s no fear o’ ye overhaulin’ Mister Tom this night. We’ll have to slape over it, I’ll be bound. Just tell the boys I’ll be after them in no time.”

So saying Paddy shouldered his rifle, felt knife and axe to make sure of their being safe in his belt, and strode away in the track of the bear.

He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he came to the spot where the mortal combat had taken place, and found Tom Brixton and the bear dead—as he imagined—on the blood-stained turf.

He uttered a mighty cry, partly to relieve his feelings and partly to recall his friend. The imprudence of this flashed upon him when too late, for others, besides Fred, might have heard him.

But Tom Brixton was not dead. Soon after the dying bear had fallen on him, he recovered consciousness, and shaking himself clear of the carcass with difficulty had arisen; but, giddiness returning, he lay down, and while in this position, overcome with fatigue, had fallen asleep. Paddy’s shout aroused him. With a sense of deadly peril hanging over him he leaped up and sprang on the Irishman.

“Hallo, Paddy!” he cried, checking himself, and endeavouring to wipe from his face some of the clotted blood with which he had been deluged. “You here? Are you alone?”

“It’s wishin’ that I was,” replied the little man, looking round anxiously. “Mister Fred ’ll be here d’rectly, sor—an’—an’ I hope that’ll be all. But it’s alive ye are, is it? An’ didn’t I take ye for dead. Oh! Mister Brixton, there’s more blood on an’ about ye, I do belave, than yer whole body could howld.”

Before an answer could be returned, Fred Westly, having heard Paddy’s shout, came running up.

“Oh! Tom, Tom,” he cried, eagerly, “are you hurt? Can you walk? Can you run? The whole camp is out after you.”

“Indeed?” replied the fugitive, with a frown. “It would seem that even my friends have joined in the chase.”

“We have,” said the other, hurriedly, “but not to capture—to save, if possible. Come, Tom, can you make an effort? Are you hurt much? You are so horribly covered with blood—”

He stopped short, for at that moment a shout was heard in the distance. It was replied to in another direction nearer at hand.

There happened to be a man in the party which Westly had joined, named Crossby. He had suffered much from thieves, and had a particular spite against Brixton because he had lost to him at play. He had heard Paddy Flinders’s unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the fugitive’s track, had followed it up.

“Too late,” groaned Fred on hearing Crossby’s voice.

“Not too late for this,” growled Brixton, bitterly, as he quickly loaded his rifle.

“For God’s sake don’t do that, Tom,” cried his friend earnestly, as he laid his hand on his arm; but Tom shook him off and completed the operation just as Crossby burst from the bushes and ran towards them. Seeing the fugitive standing ready with rifle in hand, he stopped at once, took rapid aim, and fired. The ball whistled close past the head of Tom, who then raised his own rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired, but Westly threw up the muzzle and the bullet went high among the tree-tops.

With an exclamation of fury Brixton drew his knife, while Crossby rushed at him with his rifle clubbed.

The digger was a strong and fierce man, and there would doubtless have been a terrible and fatal encounter if Fred had not again interfered. He seized his friend from behind, and, whirling him sharply round, received on his own shoulder the blow which was meant for Tom’s head. Fred fell, dragging his friend down with him.

Flinders, who witnessed the unaccountable action of his companion with much surprise, now sprang to the rescue, but at the moment several of the other pursuers rushed upon the scene, and the luckless fugitive was instantly overpowered and secured.

“Now, my young buck,” said Crossby, “stand up! Hold him, four of you, till I fix his hands wi’ this rope. There, it’s the rope that you’ll swing by, so you’ll find it hard to break.”

While Tom was being bound he cast a look of fierce anger on Westly, who still lay prostrate and insensible on the ground, despite Paddy’s efforts to rouse him.

“I hope he is killed,” muttered Tom between his teeth.

“Och! no fear of him, he’s not so aisy kilt,” said Flinders, looking up. “Bad luck to ye for wishin’ it.”

As if to corroborate Paddy’s opinion, Westly showed signs of returning consciousness, and soon after sat up.

“Did ye kill that bar all by yerself?” asked one of the men who held the fugitive.

But Tom would not condescend to reply, and in a few minutes Crossby gave the word to march back towards Pine Tree Diggings.

They set off—two men marching on either side of the prisoner with loaded rifles and revolvers, the rest in front and in rear. A party was left behind to skin the bear and bring away the tit-bits of the carcass for supper. Being too late to return to Pine Tree Camp that night, they arranged to bivouac for the night in a hollow where there was a little pond fed by a clear spring which was known as the Red Man’s Teacup.

Here they kindled a large fire, the bright sparks from which, rising above the tree-tops, soon attracted the attention of the other parties, so that, ere long, the whole band of pursuers was gathered to the spot.

Gashford was the last to come up. On hearing that the thief had been captured by his former chum Westly, assisted by Flinders and Crossby, he expressed considerable surprise, and cast a long and searching gaze on Fred, who, however, being busy with the fire at the time, was unconscious of it. Whatever the bully thought, he kept his opinions to himself.

“Have you tied him up well!” he said, turning to Crossby.

“A wild horse couldn’t break his fastenings,” answered the digger.

“Perhaps not,” returned Gashford, with a sneer, “but you are always too sure by half o’ yer work. Come, stand up,” he added, going to where Tom lay, and stirring his prostrate form with his toe.

Brixton having now had time to consider his case coolly, had made up his mind to submit with a good grace to his fate, and, if it were so decreed, to die “like a man.” “I deserve punishment,” he reasoned with himself, “though death is too severe for the offence. However, a guilty man can’t expect to be the chooser of his reward. I suppose it is fate, as the Turks say, so I’ll submit—like them.”

He stood up at once, therefore, on being ordered to do so, and quietly underwent inspection.

“Ha! I thought so!” exclaimed Gashford, contemptuously. “Any man could free himself from that in half an hour. But what better could be expected from a land-lubber?”

Crossby made some sharp allusions to a “sea-lubber,” but he wisely restrained his voice so that only those nearest overheard him.

Meanwhile Gashford undid the rope that bound Tom Brixton’s arms behind him, and, holding him in his iron grip, ordered a smaller cord to be fetched.

Paddy Flinders, who had a schoolboy tendency to stuff his various pockets full of all sorts of miscellaneous articles, at once stepped forward and handed the leader a piece of strong cod-line.

“There ye are, sor,” said he.

“Just the thing, Paddy. Here, catch hold of this end of it an’ haul.”

“Yis, gineral,” said the Irishman, in a tone and with a degree of alacrity that caused a laugh from most of those who were looking on. Even the “gineral” observed it, and remarked with a sardonic smile—

“You seem to be pleased to see your old chum in this fix, I think.”

“Well now, gineral,” returned Flinders, in an argumentative tone of voice, “I can’t exactly say that, sor, for I’m troubled with what ye may call amiable weaknesses. Anyhow, I might see ’im in a worse fix.”

“Well, you’re like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough,” returned the leader. “Haul now on this knot. It’ll puzzle him to undo that. Lend me your knife.”

Flinders drew his glittering bowie-knife from its sheath and handed it to his leader, who cut off the superfluous cordage with it, after having bound the prisoner’s wrists behind his back in a sailor-like manner.

In returning the knife to its owner, Gashford, who was fond of a practical joke, tossed it high in the air towards him with a “Here, catch.”

The keen glittering thing came twirling down, but to the surprise of all, the Irishman caught it by the handle as deftly as though he had been a trained juggler.

“Thank your gineralship,” exclaimed Paddy, amid a shout of laughter and applause, bowing low in mock reverence. As he rose he made a wild flourish with the knife, uttered an Indian war-whoop, and cut a caper.

In that flourish he managed to strike the cord that bound the prisoner, and severed one turn of it. The barefaced audacity of the act (like that of a juggler) caused it to pass unobserved. Even Tom, although he felt the touch of the knife, was not aware of what had happened, for, of course, a number of uncut turns of the cord still held his wrists painfully tight.

“Now, lie down on your back,” said Gashford, sternly, when the laugh that Paddy had raised subsided.

Either the tone of this command, or the pain caused by his bonds, roused Tom’s anger, for he refused to obey.

“Lie down, ye spalpeen, whin the gineral bids ye,” cried Flinders, suddenly seizing his old friend by the collar and flinging him flat on his back, in which act he managed to trip and fall on the top of him.

The opportunity was not a good one, nevertheless the energetic fellow managed to whisper, “The rope’s cut! Lie still!” in the very act of falling.

“Well done, Paddy,” exclaimed several of the laughing men, as Flinders rose with a pretended look of discomfiture, and went towards the fire, exclaiming—

“Niver mind, boys, I’ll have me supper now. Hi! who’s bin an’ stole it whin I was out on dooty? Oh! here it is all right. Now then, go to work, an’ whin the pipes is lighted I’ll maybe sing ye a song, or tell ye a story about ould Ireland.”