To account for the sudden appearance of Gashford, as told in our last chapter, it is necessary to explain that two marauding Indians chanced to pay Pine Tree Diggings a visit one night, almost immediately after the unsuccessful attack made by Stalker and his men. The savages were more successful than the white robbers had been. They managed to carry off a considerable quantity of gold without being discovered, and Gashford, erroneously attributing their depredations to a second visit from Stalker, was so enraged that he resolved to pursue and utterly root out the robber-band. Volunteers were not wanting. Fifty stout young fellows offered their services, and, at the head of these, Gashford set out for the Sawback Mountains, which were known to be the retreat of the bandits. An Indian, who knew the region well, and had once been ill-treated by Stalker, became a willing guide.

He led the gold-diggers to the robbers’ retreat, and there, learning from a brother savage 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 hazardous determination, personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of the darkness; telling his lieutenant, 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 thicket which formed their encampment, “we’ve bin caught. Our only chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter. Are you ready?”

“Ready!” responded nearly every man. Those who might have been unwilling were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless. “Come on, then, an’ give them a screech when ye burst out!”

Like an avalanche of demons the robber band rushed down the slope and crashed into their foes, and a yell that might well have been born of the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the Indians were not daunted. Taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in the rush, when high above the din arose the bass 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 scattering far and wide through the wilderness. 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 foe 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 precipice or rocky ledge, 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 wretches 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, confidentially, 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 justified. When Stalker was carried into the Indian village and examined by Fred Westly, it was found that, besides other injuries, two of his ribs 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 margin 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 peculiar 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 spoke 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 mischief 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 uncommon like her.”

“Did you know his mother, then?”

“Ay, Betty, I knowed her well, an’ a fine, good-lookin’ woman she was, wi’ a kindly, 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 vowed 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 outlaw. 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 heed to the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the Saviour. 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?” gasped 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 stunned 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 deserted 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 miserable 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 deception 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 shanty—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 gallop.’

“‘What!’ says she, ‘an’ leave nothin’ to my boy?—my poor boy, for whom I have never ceased to pray! He may repent, 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 muddle 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 tickled at the notion o’ the likes o’ me bein’ axed to recommend a lawyer. It was so like your mother’s innocence 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, Tickle, and Badger 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 crabbed 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 villain!’ says he; ‘you’ve bin robbin’ my mother!’

“‘Come, come,’ says I, ‘civility, you know, between pals. 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 brat, 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 pawn 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&............