New York, where he could direct any communication. It was at the office
of Mellish & Co., already referred to.

“They will have orders to forward letters home,” said Darke. “If you
get into trouble, or if you make any important discoveries write to me.
Bear in mind that I am deeply interested in your success.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darke.”

“Now, good-by, Tom, and God bless you.”

Leaving Tom till the next chapter, we devote a few additional lines to
Darius Darke and John Simpson.

The shoe manufacturer was thoroughly persuaded that his dreaded enemy
was safely and finally disposed of. He entertained not a doubt that he
had perished in the flames that consumed the old barn. True, he had
not been able to discover any bones among the ruins, and this puzzled
him considerably.

“I suppose,” he concluded, “that the fire must have been so intense
that the bones as well as the flesh were entirely consumed. It must
have been so. The man had no chance to escape, or, if he had, I should
have heard from him before now. I have seen the last of him.”

This thought gave John Simpson no little satisfaction. It might have
been supposed that he would feel some compunction in reflecting upon
the awful fate to which he had consigned a fellow-creature; but a
cowardly man becomes easily cruel, and the feeling of relief outweighed
the horror of the crime.

It was during the last week of Darius Darke’s stay in New York
that John Simpson came up to transact a little business. It was on
Wednesday, and, having time to spare, he dropped into a matinee
performance at one of the theaters.

In the interval between the second and third acts he chanced to look
around him, and his heart gave a painful bound as his eyes rested on a
man of about his own age seated not far from him.

“Do the dead live?” he asked himself, in dismay. “That looks like the
man who I thought was burned in my barn.”

John Simpson had a good memory for faces, and though Mr. Darke was
handsomely dressed, and looked like a man of ample means, very
different from the dilapidated tramp who had called upon him three
weeks before, an uneasy suspicion haunted him that this was the man.

“I must satisfy myself,” he said. “I must find out if that is the man
who called upon me in Wilton.”

He left his seat, and advanced to where Darius Darke was sitting.

“I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but I think you called upon me not long
since.”

Luckily Darius Darke had noticed his approach (till then he had not
seen him) and was on his guard.

“Sare,” he said, in broken English, shrugging his shoulders, “I know
you not. I am one Frenchman, who make one leetle visit to New York on
business.”

The voice which he assumed was entirely different from his own, and
John Simpson was completely deceived.

“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I was mistaken.”

“Oh, don’t mention it, sare,” said the assumed Frenchman, politely.

“I have had a good scare,” said John Simpson, wiping the perspiration
off his face. “Of course it couldn’t be the man I thought, but there is
certainly a strange resemblance.”

CHAPTER XIX.

TOM STARTS ON HIS JOURNEY.

Tom called at the office of Samuel Perkins, in Pearl Street, as
requested by that gentleman.

“Well, my young friend, are you ready to go to California?” asked the
merchant.

“Yes, sir.”

“You would rather go than enter my employment?”

“Just at present, sir, I have a particular reason for wishing to go to
California. Whenever I return I will call on you, and if you should
then have a vacancy I should like to fill it.”

“Good! Have you a watch?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought not.”

Mr. Perkins opened the drawer of his desk, and took out a neat gold
watch, of Waltham manufacture, and handed it to Tom.

“You will find that useful, I fancy,” he said.

“Is this for me?” asked Tom, amazed.

“It was purchased expressly for you,” said the merchant.

Now there was no possession that Tom so much coveted as that of a
watch, and he thanked Mr. Perkins heartily.

“No thanks are required, my young friend,” said the merchant. “I am
still much in your debt for the return of my papers.”

“If I hadn’t returned them after you had given me the overcoat I should
have been a rascal,” said Tom, warmly.

“Still it was a temptation. At any rate, you are heartily welcome to
the watch. I have prepared a letter to a friend of mine--a business
man--in San Francisco, which I will get you to deliver whenever you
reach there.”

“Is it important?” asked Tom. “It may be months before I get there.”

“It can wait till you reach the city. And now, my young friend, as I
am writing letters to go to Europe by to-morrow’s steamer, I must ask
you to excuse me. Give me your hand. I wish you all sorts of good luck.
Good-by! Don’t forget to report to me whenever you come back to New
York.”

The very first thing Tom did when he reached the street was to look
at his new watch. He regarded it with pride and satisfaction, and I
will not venture to say how many times he took it out during the first
twenty-four hours. Attached to it was a plain gold chain. Opening it
Tom saw that his name was engraved inside. This made it all the more
desirable.

“I wish mother and Tillie could see my new watch,” he thought. “I’ve a
great mind to go up to Wilton this afternoon and show it to them.”

But on second thoughts he decided not to do this. It would only render
necessary a second leave-taking, and this would be painful. He decided
that it was better to get started as soon as possible on his trip to
the Pacific coast.

There were two ways to go to California--across the continent, or by
steamer _via_ Panama. Tom was somewhat in doubt upon which to decide.
The shortest route would be by steamship, for at that period the Union
Pacific Railroad had not been built, or even commenced. If Tom had been
in haste he would have decided in favor of the steamer, but he was in
no especial hurry; besides, he thought there would be a possibility
of finding some employment or agency which would pay a part of his
expenses, if he went by land. He was also influenced in part by a
desire to see the broad plains and prairies of the far West, and he
had no objection to a few adventures on the way. It was not quite so
easy or safe to go to California in those days. On the way were hostile
Indians, desperate adventurers, highwaymen, and a chance of being
snowed up in the winter season.

After some inquiry, therefore, Tom decided to buy a ticket to St.
Louis, and when he arrived there take a short time to study the route
and arrange his subsequent plans. Possibly he might secure some
business commission or agency there, which would enable him to pay a
part or the whole of his traveling expenses.

CHAPTER XX.

A HOTEL ACQUAINTANCE.

On arriving at St. Louis Tom sought out a modest inn known as the St.
Louis Hotel. The price per day was but a dollar, and this served as a
recommendation in his eyes. The war had not yet enhanced the price of
all articles, and even the best hotels charged but two dollars and a
half, where now the tariff is four and five dollars.

Tom had two objects in view. He wanted to see St. Louis, and he thought
it possible that he might find some employment--of what sort he had no
very definite idea.

He devoted a day or two to visiting different parts of the city,
regarding everything with the fresh interest of a boy who was making
his first journey. He, too, though he did not know it, excited the
attention and curiosity of some of the guests of the hotel.

One evening, as he sat in the public room, reading a New York paper
which he had picked up from the table, he was accosted by a young man
of thirty or thereabouts, tall, and rather loosely put together, who
was smoking a cigar. He tendered another to Tom, with the remark:

“Will you try a cigar, young man?”

“No, thank you, sir, I don’t smoke,” answered Tom, politely.

“You’ll learn by and by. Been long in the city?”

“Not long.”

“Going further West?”

“I expect to go to California.”

“Indeed! Anybody with you?”

“No, I am traveling alone.”

The young man, for some reason, seemed to hear this with satisfaction.

“Got any friends out there--in California, I mean?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Going out to make your fortune, I reckon?”

“I will if I get the chance,” said Tom, smiling.

Of course he was not disposed to communicate his real errand to a
stranger.

“Shall you start soon?”

“I don’t know exactly. I am trying to find something that will help to
pay my expenses,” said our hero.

He had no objection to admitting this, for his new acquaintance might
possibly put him in the way of procuring such employment as he desired.

“Do you think that would be possible?” he asked.

“I am not sure about that. Would you expect all your expenses to be
paid, or have you money enough to pay a part of them?”

The stranger seemed interested to hear Tom’s answer.

“Oh, I have some money of my own,” answered Tom, quickly. “I have
enough to carry me through, but I want to save some of it.”

“So, so,” returned the young man, seeming gratified. “I am glad to hear
that.”

“Why?” asked Tom.

“Because a friend of mine and myself propose to start for California in
two or three days, and we would like to engage a boy to go with us, and
do any little services that we might require. Now, I don’t want to make
any promises, but I will speak to my friend, and see if he is willing
to join me in engaging you.”

“Thank you,” said Tom, joyfully, for he had not expected so soon to
make an engagement.

“Oh, there will be no occasion to thank me; it will be a mutual
arrangement,” said the other, waving his hand. “What is your name?”

“Tom Thatcher.”

“I suppose you can bring recommendations of honesty, and so on?”

“I don’t know as I can give you any recommendations, for I know no one
in St. Louis,” said Tom, “but I hope you will not doubt my honesty.”

“I don’t speak for myself,” said the stranger. “I am easily satisfied.
My friend is more particular, but I think he will accept my guarantee.
If now you had any certificate from your minister at home. By the way,
where do you come from?”

“From Wilton, in the State of New York.”

“By the way, what will be your views in regard to pay?”

“I haven’t thought of that,” answered Tom, truly.

“I suppose not. I will tell you my own idea, but, of course, shall have
to consult my friend.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“We would require you to pay your own traveling expenses, but we would
allow you fifteen or twenty dollars a week salary. How does that strike
you?”

“I didn’t expect so much,” answered Tom, honestly, much elated, indeed,
by what he regarded a munificent offer.

“I am willing to agree to twenty, but I can’t speak for my friend.”

“I will agree to fifteen,” said Tom.

“Then, my young friend, we will confer together again. I may be able to
see my friend this evening and arrange matters. Suppose you meet me in
this place to-morrow, say at ten o’clock in the forenoon.”

“All right, sir.”

The young man arose, and left the hotel.

Tom was quite elated at the thought that he was likely to make so
profitable an engagement.

“Fifteen to twenty dollars a week!” he said to himself. “That will be
lucky and no mistake! It’s rather an improvement on three dollars a
week. I hope I sha’n’t lose the place from having no recommendations. If
they will only wait I am sure Mr. Julian would send me one.”

It never occurred to Tom that the stranger who proposed to employ him
might stand in greater need of a recommendation, and might find it
considerably more difficult to obtain one.

CHAPTER XXI.

TOM’S NEW EMPLOYER.

As yet Tom did not know the name of the man from whom he hoped for an
engagement. He afterward learned that he went by the name of Percy
Burnett.

Of course Tom kept his appointment punctually the next morning. He was
too anxious about the engagement to risk losing it by any negligence.

About a quarter after ten Mr. Burnett lounged into the hotel office.

“You are on hand, I see,” he said, taking an armchair near the settee
on which Tom was sitting.

“Yes, sir.”

“I have seen my friend about the little matter I spoke of yesterday,”
said Mr. Burnett, “but I find he won’t be ready to start for California
for four weeks.”

Tom’s countenance fell. He had been buoyed up by the thought of the
engagement, and now all seemed to be over.

Percy Burnett watched our hero’s expressive face, and read his
disappointment.

He proceeded:

“I thought at first that we should have to give up our plan,” he said,
“but on second thoughts I may still be able to carry it out.”

Tom’s face brightened.

“I am not willing to wait here four weeks for my friend,” continued Mr.
Burnett. “It would only be a waste of valuable time. I should be glad
to have you go with me as a--a sort of private secretary, but I can’t
afford to pay you as much as I mentioned yesterday. I think I said
twenty dollars, did I not?”

“Fifteen to twenty dollars,” corrected Tom.

“Just so. That would be too much for me to pay alone.”

“I would go for less,” said Tom, eagerly.

“I suppose you would hardly agree to say twelve?”

Twelve! It was just four times as much as Tom had ever hitherto
received, and he quickly answered:

“I will be willing to go for that.”

“Give me your hand, Tom,” said Mr. Burnett, appearing to be much
pleased. “You are a gentleman, and I engage you on the spot. How soon
can you go?”

“I can go immediately,” answered Tom, promptly.

“That is well. You won’t complain then if I ask you to be ready
to-morrow?”

“I will be on hand, sir.”

“Very well, meet me here to-morrow at the same hour.”

Mr. Burnett rose, and shaking hands with Tom, left the room.

Tom reflected with great satisfaction on the engagement he had made. To
be sure he had his own traveling expenses to pay, but these would be
largely diminished by the weekly salary he was to receive. How long it
would take to go across the plains he had no idea, but whether long or
short, it appeared as if he had made an excellent arrangement.

The next day the two started together from St. Louis. Mr. Burnett had a
small satchel with him, which he handed to Tom to carry.

“This will be the first of your duties,” he said, with a smile.

Tom took the satchel cheerfully.

“I must ask you to be very careful of it,” said Mr. Burnett. “It
contains articles of considerable value.”

“I will be very careful, sir.”

“It is chiefly jewelry and watches,” explained his employer. “I am
carrying them to San Francisco, as I expect to realize large profits
on them. I should think there might be five thousand dollar’s worth in
that satchel. You wouldn’t suppose it, would you?”

“No, I should not,” said Tom, sincerely.

“You understand now why I asked if you could bring any recommendations
of honesty,” said Mr. Percy Burnett.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am trusting you with a very valuable package. Now what is to prevent
your giving me the slip, and carrying it off?”

“I hope you don’t think there is any danger, Mr. Burnett!”

“None at all. I have perfect confidence in your honesty. If I had not,
I certainly would not have dreamed of engaging you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“My friend would probably have been more particular. He has a more
suspicious temperament. For my part, I pride myself on my skill in
reading faces, even when seen for the first time. Now, when I saw you,
I said to myself: ‘That is an honest, reliable boy. I never saw him
before, but I can tell by his appearance that he has been well brought
up and is honest as the day is long.’”

Tom was gratified by this compliment, and said:

“Thank you, sir; I am sure you won’t regret your confidence in me.”

This conversation took place in the cars. They were on their way to
St. Joseph--popularly called St. Joe--a place from which most parties
started on their overland trips to California.

Tom paid his own fare, as had been arranged between them, and though
the disbursement was considerable, consoled himself with the thought
that, at the end of a week, he would be in receipt of twelve dollars
from his employer.

Indeed, Mr. Burnett had very considerately offered to pay the first
week’s salary in advance, but this Tom had declined.

“I would rather not receive the money until it is earned,” he said.

“By the way, Tom, that is a very pretty watch and chain of yours,” said
Mr. Burnett.

“Yes, sir, so I think.”

“How much did you pay for it, if I may venture to ask?”

“I did not buy it, sir. It was made a present to me just before I left
New York.”

“A very nice present, upon my word. I advise you to be very careful of
it. It might excite the cupidity of some dishonest person who might be
tempted to steal it.”

“Yes, sir; I will be very careful of it. Thank you for the hint.”

“I once had a watch and chain stolen myself,” continued Mr. Burnett.
“It was in the cars, too. A well-dressed person sat down beside me, and
engaged me in conversation. I suspected nothing, but shortly after he
had left me at a way-station I discovered that my watch and chain were
gone.”

“Did you never recover them?” asked Tom, with interest.

“Never. I suppose the fellow pawned or sold them.”

They were nearing St. Joe when a rakish-looking fellow entered the
cars, and seemed to recognize Burnett.

“How are you, old fellow?” he said.

Percy Burnett glanced instinctively at Tom, and answered, stiffly:

“Very well, thank you. This is my friend, Mr. Thatcher.”

“How are you, Thatcher?” asked the new-comer, laughing. “I say, Jim,
what’s your game?”

“I really don’t understand you,” said Burnett. “Come into the next car
with me a moment.”

The other laughed, and followed Burnett.

“I don’t much fancy that fellow,” thought Tom. “Why did he call Mr.
Burnett Jim? His name is Percy.”

He was still wondering that his employer should have such a friend,
when Burnett came back.

CHAPTER XXII.

A ROUGH DIAMOND.

“Rather a rough fellow that,” said Percy Burnett, as he resumed his
seat beside Tom.

“Yes, sir.”

“A rough diamond, I call him,” said Burnett.

Perhaps he saw by Tom’s face that his friend had not struck his young
secretary as a diamond, rough or otherwise, for he proceeded:

“He has sterling qualities, Jack has, and an excellent heart. He is
not refined, I grant. Indeed, he is rather coarse--never moved in good
society, but he’ll stand by a friend through thick and thin. Why, he
once watched beside my sick bed, when I had a fever, day and night, and
wouldn’t leave me till I was out of danger.”

“That was very kind,” Tom was forced to admit.

“Yes, I shall never forget it. We became very intimate. You may have
noticed that he called me Jim?”

“Yes, I did.”

“The fact is, he took a dislike to the name of Percy. I believe he had
been injured by some party of that name. So he asked if he might call
me Jim, and I consented. Names don’t matter much if the heart’s in the
right place.”

“No, I suppose not,” answered Tom, who was satisfied with the
explanation.

“I haven’t seen Jack for a good while,” said Mr. Burnett, “and he was
curious to know what I was doing. He expressed himself rather oddly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The fact is, Tom--and I suppose you may have guessed--I am a dealer
in watches and jewelry. I was in business in Cincinnati till recently,
but decided to remove to San Francisco, upon learning that there is an
excellent opening there for a man in my business. A small part of my
stock I have in the satchel which you are carrying. Did you ever think
of learning the jewelry business?”

“No, I never thought of it,” Tom replied.

“When we get to San Francisco I may be able to offer you inducements.”

“I shall want to travel about the State a little first,” said Tom.
“Thank you for the offer, though.”

“Oh, well, I shall be in a hurry. Will you go to the mines?”

“I think so.”

“Perhaps I may go, too. I have never been in any mining district, and I
have a curiosity to see what it looks like. Will you have a cigar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, I forgot you don’t smoke. I suppose I must go into the
smoking-car--be back soon.”

The reader may have a curiosity to know what passed between Percy
Burnett and his friend, the rough diamond, when they left the car
together.

“Who’s that boy you’ve got with you, Jim?” asked Jack.

“A young man who is under my guardianship,” said Mr. Burnett,
hesitating.

Jack laughed.

“A pretty sort of guardian you’ll make,” he said, winking at his friend.

“Don’t speak so loud, Jack. You’ll attract attention.”

“And that’s just what you don’t want, I reckon.”

“Well, yes, if you will have it so.”

“Come, now, tell me what’s your game anyhow? Is the boy rich?”

“No.”

“Then what good can he do you?”

“He has a little money,” said Percy Burnett, cautiously.

“It won’t be his long, then.”

“You wrong me--indeed, you do. I am taking him out as far as Salt Lake
City, and my expenses are to be paid by his friends.”

This was the best story that Mr. Burnett could devise upon the spur of
the moment.

“All I can say is that his friends can’t know much about you. You
didn’t mention to them the term you had served in----”

“Hush!” said Burnett, looking about him in alarm. “Don’t you know any
better than to blurt out such things where people may hear?”

“Well, I’ll keep mum for your sake.”

“Do so, and I’ll make it worth your while, Jack.”

“When?”

“When I return to St. Joe.”

“When will that be?”

“Before long.”

“No, it won’t, if you go all the way to Salt Lake City.”

“Perhaps I may not go all the way there,” said Percy, in a low voice.

“Oh, I see!” responded Jack, winking. “I begin to see your game.”

“You were always a shrewd, long-headed fellow, Jack.”

“So I am,” said Jack, evidently gratified by the praise.

“Of course, when I am in funds----”

“As you expect to be before long.”

“Well, as I expect to be before long, if you don’t interfere with my
plans. I shall remember my friends.”

“Enough said! Now, honor bright! how soon do you expect to get back to
St. Joe?”

“Perhaps in two or three days.”

“You won’t bring the boy back with you?”

“Not if he wants to go on.”

“I say, Jim, I’m hard up. Let me have five dollars now.”

“I assure you, Jack, I am not in a situation to part with any money
just now.”

“I must have it,” said Jack, significantly.

“Oh, well, if you must,” and Mr. Percy Burnett drew it from his vest
pocket, and reluctantly put it into the hand of the “rough diamond.”

“It’s rough luck meeting that fellow!” he muttered as he returned to
his young secretary, “I was hoping I should not meet a soul that knew
me till this job was fairly off my hands. Jack is always hard up,
but it wasn’t safe to refuse him. I must not allow him to have any
conversation with the boy. I will take care to steer clear of him when
I come back this way.”

It was clear that Mr. Percy Burnett was not so much attached to the
“rough diamond” as he led Tom to suppose.

CHAPTER XXIII.

PETER BRUSH, THE HUNTER.

Arrived at St. Joe, the town was found to be crowded, owing to some
local celebration. At the first two hotels our two travelers were
unable to gain admittance. At the third they were obliged to share a
room with a third guest, already in possession.

Tom did not particularly care, as long as there was a comfortable bed
to sleep in, but Mr. Burnett seemed very much annoyed.

“Can’t you do any better for us?” he asked the clerk.

The clerk shook his head.

“I don’t know about taking the room; I don’t like to be with a
stranger.”

“Just as you like, major,” said the clerk, indifferently. “We sha’n’t
have any trouble in letting the room.”

It is a Western fashion to bestow titles on strangers, and this
accounts for Burnett being dubbed major.

Percy Burnett hesitated, but just then another party applied for a
room, and he hastily agreed to take it.

The room was a fair one. It contained two beds, one large and one small
one. Naturally Tom and his new acquaintance selected the large one. The
other was to be occupied by the stranger, who proved to be a stout
man of middle age, who looked as if he had led an out-of-door life. A
little conversation revealed the fact that he, too, was on his way to
California.

“That’s lucky,” he said, in a free, cordial way, “why can’t we hitch
horses?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Burnett, coldly.

“I mean, why can’t we go together? We shall find it more social.”

“I will think of it,” said Burnett, curtly.

Tom was pleased with the appearance and manner of their fellow
room-mate, who gave his name as Peter Brush. He was not a man of
education, but he seemed good-natured and gifted with a fund of common
sense. He was a practical hunter, was familiar with the great middle
region over which they must pass on their way to California, and told
Tom a good many stories of his adventures upon the plains.

“Have you ever been to California?” asked Tom.

“There you’ve got me,” answered Mr. Brush. “I’ve been as far as Utah,
but I haven’t been any farther. I ’spose I should have gone, but my
wife was kind of sickly, and I didn’t want to be gone so long. Now
she’s dead, and I’ve got nothing to tie me down.”

“Haven’t you any children?” asked our hero.

“Yes, I’ve got a youngster about thirteen. I’ve left him at school in
St. Louis. He’s stayin’ with an uncle--his mother’s brother. I want
him to have more learnin’ than his father. As for me, I never attended
school but two years, and the most I can do is to read and write, and
I’m no great shakes at either. But that’s no reason why little Ben
shouldn’t be a scholar. Have you been to school much?”

“Considerably,” answered Tom.

“And I suppose you’re a good hand at writin’ an’ cipherin’, and so on?”

“Pretty good,” answered Tom, modestly.

“And you’re goin’ out to Californy to make your fortune?”

“I hope to do something that way.”

“And that gentleman with you--is he an old friend?”

“I am working for him; I am his private secretary.”

Peter Brush looked amazed.

“What does he want of a private secretary when he is crossing the
plains?” he asked.

“I don’t know exactly.”

“What do you do, if you don’t mind tellin?” asked Mr. Brush.

“I carry a satchel,” said Tom.

He was about to add that the satchel contained a stock of jewelry, when
he reflected that this would be imprudent, and that his employer would
not like him to be so communicative.

“Does he pay you much for that?” asked the hunter, after a pause.

“Twelve dollars a week.”

“And your traveling expenses?”

“No; I pay those myself.”

Peter Brush whistled softly and looked thoughtful. He evidently thought
the arrangement a queer one.

“Then you have money enough for your expenses?” he said.

Tom answered in the affirmative. He knew that he was perhaps unwise
in so far trusting a stranger, but he could not, for the life of him,
distrust the honest-looking hunter.

This conversation took place while Mr. Burnett was down-stairs, smoking
a cigar and looking about the town.

On his return he seemed to view with displeasure the intimacy between
Mr. Brush and his young secretary, and took the occasion of Mr. Brush
leaving the room, to say:

“Don’t get too intimate with that man. I don’t like his looks.”

“He seems like a good, honest fellow,” Tom could not help saying.

“Don’t trust to appearances. I’ve seen more of the world than you, and
to me he looks like a rascal.”

“I don’t believe there’s anything out of the way with him,” thought
Tom, but he remained silent.

CHAPTER XXIV.

MR. BURNETT BEATS A RETREAT.

The night passed, and the travelers breakfasted together in the plain
dining-room of the inn. Tom and his employer sat together, and Peter
Brush occupied a seat directly opposite Tom. He was disposed to be
social, and Tom was entirely ready to respond, but Percy Burnett was
reticent. He answered the hunter in monosyllables, whenever he could,
and very evidently did not care to converse with him. Brush, however,
was not a sensitive man, and mentally pronouncing Burnett “grouty,” he
kept up a conversation with Tom.

Our hero knew very well that his companion was displeased, but he felt
that in such a matter as this Burnett had no business to dictate. He
himself liked Brush, and saw no reason why he should not meet his
friendly advances.

Just before they rose from the table, Brush said to Tom:

“When do you calculate to leave St. Joe?”

“That is as Mr. Burnett decides,” answered Tom, turning to his employer.

“How soon do you calc’late to start, colonel?” asked Peter Brush.

“In two or three days,” said Burnett, briefly.

Tom was rather surprised. He had not anticipated that Mr. Burnett meant
to remain so long at St. Joe.

“I guess I’ll wait for you,” said Brush. “I did expect to go sooner,
but I ain’t in such a mighty hurry. I’d rather wait a little longer for
the sake of having good company.”

Tom smiled, and nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. He felt
glad that the hunter was to be with them, and Brush so understood it.
If he had looked at Percy Burnett, he would have seen by the expression
on that gentleman’s face that _he_ had an entirely different feeling on
the subject.

No sooner had Peter Brush left the room than Percy Burnett turned
toward our hero, and said, abruptly:

“You seem determined to annoy me.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, astonished.

“I told you I didn’t like that fellow.”

“I know it.”

“Yet you encourage him to intrude his unwelcome company upon us. You
were talking with him all breakfast-time.”

“Well,” answered Tom, with spirit, “why shouldn’t I? He was very
pleasant and social, and it was only polite to answer him when he spoke
to me.”

“You could show by your manner that you don’t relish his society,”
growled Burnett.

“But I do like his society,” said Tom, with spirit. “You can’t expect
me to feel just as you do toward everybody. If you don’t like him,
you have a right to feel as you do. You have no right to order me to
dislike him, too.”

Percy Burnett was rather surprised and disconcerted by Tom’s unexpected
independence. He had taken him for a boy who would yield readily to his
guidance, and he was not disposed even now to give up the attempt to
control him.

“He is an uneducated, low fellow!” he growled. “I can’t understand what
pleasure you can find in such company. I don’t believe he can read or
write.”

“Yes, he can,” said Tom, “but that is about the extent of his
education.”

“Who told you that?”

“He told me so himself. As to being low, he doesn’t look so low as the
man who spoke to you in the cars.”

Percy Burnett’s face darkened, and he was about to speak violently, but
a glance at Tom’s face, which, boyish as it was, indicated no ordinary
strength and firmness, led him to change his purpose.

“Jack is rough, I admit,” he said, “but he’s worth half a dozen of this
fellow.”

Tom did not agree to this, but he did not think it necessary to say so.
He did not care to quarrel with Mr. Burnett, and thus lose the twelve
dollars a week upon which he relied. He kept silent therefore.

For some reason or other Percy Burnett was unusually vexed and troubled
at the thought of being accompanied by Brush, the hunter.

“It would spoil everything if that meddlesome fellow joins us,” he
said to himself. “I could beat that stubborn boy for so obstinately
encouraging him to keep company with us. I must give him the slip
somehow.”

In the hotel yard was a stage with four horses attached. The driver was
already on the box.

An idea came to Mr. Burnett.

“My friend,” he said, “when are you going to start?”

“In ten minutes, general.”

“Where are you bound?”

Percy Burnett learned that the destination was a point forty
miles distant in Kansas. It was the first portion of the great
transcontinental line, the terminus of which was San Francisco.

Mr. Burnett made up his mind at once.

He hurried into the hotel and summoned Tom.

“Be quick, boy,” he said, “the stage is about ready to start.”

“Are we going right off?” asked Tom, in surprise.

“Yes; make haste.”

“You told Mr. Brush you should not be ready for two or three days.”

“I only wanted to put the fool off the scent. We are going by that
stage; come on.”

“All right, sir.”

Tom, of course, made no opposition to Mr. Burnett’s plans. It was not
his place to do so. As long as he was in his employ, and accepted wages
from him, he must conform to his arrangements.

In ten minutes the driver seized the reins, the stage bowled away, and
Tom’s face was set westward.

He felt sorry to have lost the opportunity of saying good-by to
the good-natured hunter, but his mind was soon full of pleasurable
excitement as the stage rumbled on its way toward the Pacific.

CHAPTER XXV.

A SOLITARY WALK.

It was a long and tedious ride. The roads were not of the best--indeed
they were not far from the worst--and more than once the stage had a
narrow escape from tipping over.

Tom did not complain, however. He liked the excitement of the ride, and
did not mind the violent jolting, though it made his limbs ache and his
bones sore.

Percy Burnett grumbled enough for Tom and himself, too.

“I wouldn’t have taken this infernal stage,” he said, at a
halting-place, “if I had known it would shake me to pieces.”

“It is better than walking,” said one of the passengers,
philosophically.

“I don’t know about that,” answered Burnett. “I would about as soon
walk.”

Tom heard this, but did not think Mr. Burnett in earnest. For his own
part, though an inexperienced traveler, he showed that he was already a
good one, for he met, with cheerful good humor, the discomforts of the
trip.

About five miles before the stage reached its destination Percy Burnett
called out to the driver:

“How much further have we got to go, driver?”

“Five or six miles, sir.”

“I can’t stand it.”

“You won’t have to stand,” said a good-natured fellow-passenger. “You
can sit.”

Percy Burnett turned upon him irritably.

“You may consider that very witty, sir,” he said, “but I don’t.”

“No offense intended,” said the other, pleasantly.

“I’ve a great mind to walk,” said Burnett. “Driver, is it easy to find
the road?”

“Yes, sir; straight ahead.”

“And it’s only about five miles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will walk; but I shall want company. Tom, are you tired?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you willing to walk the rest of the way with me?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, cheerfully.

He answered truly, for his limbs were cramped by sitting for many hours
in one position, and he felt that it would be agreeable to limber them
a little with exercise.

“I don’t know but I’ll join you,” said a passenger.

Percy Burnett looked excessively annoyed.

“If you don’t object to my company,” continued the other.

“Please yourself, sir,” said Burnett in a repellent tone, which showed
very clearly his aversion to the proposal.

“On the whole, I guess, I will stick by the stage,” said the other,
seeing that his company would be unwelcome.

Mr. Burnett looked very much relieved.

“You can leave your baggage on the coach,” said the driver, noticing
that Burnett had his bag in his hand.

“I’d rather keep it. Tom, bring yours with you.”

Of course Tom obeyed, though he did not see any advantage in burdening
himself with what might just as well have gone in the coach.

“That’s an agreeable man,” said the passenger, whose overtures had been
declined, after the coach drove off.

“As sweet as a crab-apple,” said the driver. “I’m glad to be rid of
him.”

“The boy’s a different sort.”

“Yes, the boy’s a good fellow. Pity he’s tied to such a man.”

So the coach drove away, leaving Tom and his employer plodding along in
a heavy, muddy road. It was hard work walking, but Tom did not care for
that. He would like, however, to have had a more agreeable companion.

A little ahead of them was a fallen bough of a tree, separated from the
parent trunk probably by some violent storm. It occurred to Tom that
it would be a good idea to cut from it a stick, which might serve as a
staff, and so lighten the labor of walking. He went up to the bough,
therefore, and drew out a stout jack-knife, which he had in his pocket.

“What are you going to do?” asked Mr. Burnett, quickly.

“Going to cut me a cane,” replied Tom, innocently.

“I can’t stop for any such nonsense,” said Burnett, crossly.

“Go right on, Mr. Burnett, and I’ll catch you,” said Tom,
good-humoredly.

“I positively forbid your cutting a cane, do you hear me?” said
Burnett, angrily.

“I hear you, but I don’t understand you,” said Tom, considerably
surprised.

“I believe I speak plain English. Leave that, and come along.”

Tom began to think his employer very unreasonable, but as he accepted
wages from him he did not think it wise to quarrel. So he resumed his
march, but did not attempt to speak to his companion.

Presently the road entered a wood. It was already dusk, and the trees,
though leafless, still contributed to deepen the darkness which
surrounded them.

CHAPTER XXVI.

PERCY BURNETT UNMASKS.

As Tom plodded along beside his employer, who did not deign to utter a
word, he could not help doubting whether he had done wisely in selling
his independence for twelve dollars a week. Had he understood Burnett’s
real character and disposition, he would not have engaged with him.
As matters stood he thought it best to remain for the present in his
service.

“Mr. Burnett may be annoyed about something, and that may be the reason
of his being so cross,” Tom reflected. “To-morrow he may be different.”

Tom was destined soon to be undeceived, and in a manner far from
pleasant.

The wood through which they were passing was about a mile in width.
When they had reached the middle point, Burnett halted.

“Stop here!” said he.

Tom looked at him in surprise. He could not conceive of any reason
for stopping, unless, indeed, Mr. Burnett was tired, which was hardly
probable, as they had scarcely walked a mile.

“Stop here?” he said, interrogatively.

“That is what I said.”

“Very well, sir. Shall we sit down?”

There was a fallen tree lying beside the road, or rather lane, through
which they were walking, and Tom made a motion to sit down.

“Never mind about sitting down,” said Burnett, with an incomprehensible
smile. “I want to transact a little business with you.”

Tom was getting more and more at a loss to comprehend his companion’s
meaning, but he only said:

“Very well.”

“How much money have you?” demanded Burnett.

“What do you mean?” asked Tom, with quick suspicion.

“You seem very stupid. Whatever money you have with you you may give to
me. Do you hear?”

“I prefer to keep it myself,” said Tom, firmly.

“And I consider it safer in my hands. Hand it over.”

“I do not choose to, Mr. Burnett,” said Tom, resolutely.

“Do you dare refuse?” demanded Burnett, angrily. “Am I not your master?”

“No, sir; I have no master.”

“I pay you wages. I am your employer. That is the same thing.”

“It seems to me you want me to pay you wages,” said Tom, shrewdly.

“Don’t bandy words with me, boy; I won’t allow it. Give me your money,
and that quickly!”

Burnett’s purpose was now plain to Tom. The man wanted to rob him. For
that purpose he had inveigled him into this lonely place, where there
was little chance of his obtaining assistance. He must depend upon
himself, but the chances of success were not flattering.

He was a strong boy, but Mr. Burnett was several inches taller, and had
a man’s strength, against which he had not much chance in a struggle.
If only somebody would come along. Perhaps, if he could only prolong
the conversation, some one might appear. It seemed to be the only thing
he could do.

“Do you mean to rob me, Mr. Burnett?” he asked, retreating slightly.

“Well, there is no use in mincing words. That is precisely my
intention.”

“And was that the reason why you engaged me to go with you!”

“You’ve hit it, boy. Do you think I am such a fool as to pay you twelve
dollars a week just to carry that little satchel?”

Tom began to suspect he was a fool.

It didn’t seem reasonable that any man should be willing to pay such a
salary for so small a service.

“You told me the contents were valuable,” he said.

“You thought it was full of watches and jewelry,” laughed Burnett.

“Yes. Didn’t you tell me so?”

“To be sure I told you so. But you must not believe all you hear,
youngster.”

“I am not to believe you, then?”

“Not when I have a purpose to serve; but we have talked long enough.
Give me your money.”

Tom was pale with excitement, but his lips closed resolutely. He
realized the unfortunate plight in which he would be placed if he
should part with the money he had reserved for the expenses of his
journey. He would be compelled to give up his project, and go home, if
he were able to get home without money.

“I won’t allow you to rob me,” he said, firmly.

“Then,” said Burnett, with an oath, “you must take the consequences.”

He rushed upon Tom, and a contest ensued, in which Tom exerted himself
to the best of his ability, but, as might be supposed, he was not a
match for a strong man. Burnett threw him down, and by force possessed
himself of our hero’s money.

“Now,” he said, “I will trouble you for that watch.”

That was one pang the more. Tom was proud of his watch. Moreover,
he valued it not a little because it was a gift from a man who had
been pleased with his conduct. He regarded it, therefore, much as a
schoolboy regards a school-prize.

“Mr. Burnett,” he said, “you have my money, and I don’t know what I am
going to do without it, more than a thousand miles from home. Leave me
my watch at least.”

“Sorry I can’t oblige you,” said Burnett, with an evil smile. “I want
the watch myself.”

“You must take it yourself, then, for I won’t give it to you.”

“That is what I propose to do,” said Burnett, coolly, and he removed
the watch in spite of Tom’s resistance.

“Is that all?” asked Tom, desperately, “or would you like my coat also?”

“No, I will leave that. It wouldn’t fit me.”

“I suppose I ought to be thankful for that,” said Tom, bitterly.

“No occasion to thank me. This is business.”

“A very mean business,” retorted Tom.

“Don’t use your tongue too much, my young friend, or I might get mad,
and give you something to remember.”

“You have given me something to remember.”

Burnett smiled.

“One more little operation, and I will bid you good-night.”

He drew from his pocket a strong cord and proceeded to tie Tom’s hands.

“What are you doing?” asked Tom, struggling.

“I don’t mean that you shall follow me. To-morrow morning some one will
come along and release you.”

Percy Burnett had nearly accomplished his task, despite Tom’s
resistance, when both he and Tom were startled by the voice of one
apparently close at hand:

“What are you about, you scoundrel?”

Percy Burnett turned his head suddenly, and his face paled, as he saw
in the twilight a man ten paces distant, holding in his hand a revolver.

He jumped to his feet.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

It is not to be supposed that Tom was indifferent to the sudden
appearance of one who seemed sent by heaven to his help.

He looked eagerly in the direction of the new comer. The honest face
and sturdy figure were not unknown to him.

“It is Mr. Brush!” he exclaimed joyfully.

“Yes,” said that individual, approaching, “it is Peter Brush. What has
this rascal been up to?”

“Take care how you call me names, you clodhopper!” exclaimed Burnett,
furiously, by no means pleased to see the man he had striven so hard to
avoid.

“I may be a clodhopper, but I am not a scoundrel and a thief!” returned
Brush.

Burnett felt that he was in a tight place. Would it be possible to
deceive Mr. Brush? At any rate, he decided to try it.

“Sir,” he said forcibly, controlling his temper, “you are mistaken. I
don’t blame you, for you are misled by what you have just seen.”

“If I am mistaken, perhaps you will explain why you have bound that
boy, and taken his money and watch?”

“The boy is a thief, and has cheated me.”

[Illustration: PETER BRUSH RELEASES TOM FROM THE HANDS OF THE ROBBER.
[Page 149.]]

“WHAT!” exclaimed Tom, his eyes flashing.

“Wait a minute,” said Brush.

He stepped up to our hero, and drawing a knife, severed the cords that
bound him, while Percy Burnett looked on in annoyance.

“Now, Tom,” said Brush, “what have you got to say to this charge?”

“I say it’s a lie!” asserted Tom boldly.

“Take care, you young rascal!” exclaimed Burnett, making a step toward
our hero, now on his feet.

“Easy, now,” said Peter Brush. “The boy’s under _my_ protection. Let
him alone!”

“The boy’s in _my_ employment,” said Burnett, “and I’ll thank you not
to interfere.”

“I shall interfere all the same, if I think it necessary,” said Brush,
composedly.

“I am not in your employment,” said Tom, facing Burnett. “I’ve had
enough of your service.”

“You say the boy is a thief,” continued Brush. “Can you prove it?”

“Yes, he managed to pick my pocket of a considerable sum of money,
which he has now in his possession.”

“Don’t believe him, Mr. Brush,” said Tom.

“Easy now, Tom. How large a sum of money?” asked Brush.

That was just what Burnett could not tell, not knowing how much Tom had
in his possession.

“I can’t say exactly. It’s over a hundred dollars,” he said, after a
pause.

“How about the watch? Did you have two?” for Burnett had one of his own
besides the one he had taken from Tom.

“No; the watch belongs to the boy.”

“Yet you took it?”

“Precisely. I took it in part compensation for the money of which he
had robbed me.”

“But you have the money, too.”

“Who are you, anyway, and what business have you to interfere between
me and my servant?” burst forth Burnett, angrily, finding himself
cornered.

“Your servant!” said Tom, proudly. “I am not your servant, nor
anybody’s servant.”

“That’s a fact, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “This fellow ought to be your
servant.”

“If you are going to insult me, I’ll leave you,” said Burnett, suiting
the action to the word.

“Come back, you thief!” cried Brush, covering him with his rifle.

“Do you mean to murder me?” asked Percy Burnett, alarmed.

“No, but there’s a little formality you must go through before you bid
us good-by.”

“What is that?”

“Hand over the boy’s watch and money.”

“There’s the watch,” said Burnett, giving it back with an ill grace.
“The money is mine and I will keep it.”

“I don’t think you will,” said Brush, composedly.

“I will have you arrested for highway robbery,” exclaimed Burnett,
angrily.

“I don’t think you will find any one to believe you, Jim Dobson.”

Burnett started, and a look of dismay overspread his face.

“My name is Percy Burnett,” he said, haughtily, recovering himself.

“Is it? It used to be Jim Dobson, well known to the police of Chicago,
Cincinnati and St. Louis. You were recognized at St. Joe. Now will you
hand over the money?”

With a muttered curse Burnett, _alias_ Dobson, threw Tom’s pocket-book
on the ground.

“Now I suppose I may go,” he said, sullenly.

“When the boy has examined his wallet to see if the money’s all there.”

“I know it is,” said Tom, “he hasn’t had time to open it.”

“Then you can go, Mr. Dobson. Good-by! Take my advice and lead a better
life in the future.”

“Curse your advice!” said Burnett, as he strode rapidly away, leaving
Tom and his new friend together in the gathering darkness.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

HOW PETER BRUSH CAME TO THE RESCUE.

“We sha’n’t miss him much, Tom,” said Brush, as Percy Burnett--as he
called himself--disappeared from view.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief.

“I never want to see him again,” he said.

“Nor I, unless I see him in the prisoner’s dock. He’s a regular rascal
and no mistake. It’s lucky I came up just as I did, Tom.”

“If you hadn’t I would have had to lie here all night, bound hand and
foot.”

“I am not sure but we ought to have served him as he wanted to serve
you,” said Mr. Brush. “It isn’t too late yet--we can overtake him.”

“Let him go, Mr. Brush. I don’t care to be revenged upon him. He tried
to rob me, but he has been defeated, thanks to you. And that reminds
me--how did you happen to get here just in the nick of time? We left
you this morning in St. Joe.”

“Just so, my lad. It is lucky, as you say, or as you mean, anyway.
Well, when I saw you last night, and found you so pleasant and social
like, I took a great fancy to you. Thinks I to myself--‘That boy’s the
right sort!’”

“Thank you for your favorable opinion, Mr. Brush.”

“You needn’t thank me, for I couldn’t help feeling the way I did. As
I was goin’ the same journey, I thought I’d like to hitch to you and
Dobson, though I didn’t much like him; but he seemed offish, and I saw
he didn’t want me. I didn’t know why then, but I know now.”

“I was very much disappointed when Mr. Burnett hurried me away from St.
Joe without seeing you.”

“So was I. I’d only gone out for half an hour to do a little shopping,
thinkin’ I’d find you when I came back. Well, when I got back to the
hotel, I looked round for you, and couldn’t find you. I thought maybe
you’d gone out to take a walk. To make sure, I asked the stable-boy if
he’d seen anything of a man and boy. He told me that you’d started off
in the stage only twenty minutes ago. That took me quite aback, and I
didn’t know what to do. I knew well enough what that rascal did it for.
He wanted to get me off the track. Now, Tom, I’m a determined sort of
man--kinder stubborn, I expect--and when I found how much he wanted to
separate us, I was bound to defeat his plans, if it cost me a hundred
dollars, partic’larly after a little discovery I made.”

“What was that, Mr. Brush?” asked Tom.

“I’ll tell you. A gentleman who was standin’ by, and heard what I asked
the stable-boy, said:

“‘Do you know them parties you are askin’ about?’

“‘No, I only met ’em last evenin’.’

“‘Well, the man’s a first-class rascal and swindler.’

“‘You don’t say!’ I answered. ‘Who is he, and what do you know about
him?’

“‘It’s Jim Dobson, the famous confidence man and forger. He’s served
more than one term in the State prison. He isn’t a very good companion
for that boy that’s traveling with him.’

“I was struck all of a heap when I heard that, Tom. I knew what you
told me, that this man had hired you for a secretary, or somethin’
of that kind. Of course I knew that was all a sham. What should a
jail-bird like him want of a secretary. It didn’t take me long to make
up my mind what his game was. I knew you had some money, for you had
told me so last night, and I concluded that that was what Dobson was
after. I saw that you would be robbed unless some friend interfered. I
determined to be that friend.”

Tom took the hard, toil-hardened hand of his new friend, and gratefully
pressed it.

“You were a friend when I most needed a friend,” he said.

“Oh, don’t mention it,” said Brush, hurriedly, for it always made him
feel awkward to be thanked. “I’m paid for all I’ve done by knowin’ that
I’ve come up with that pesky rascal.”

“But I don’t see how you managed to overtake us,” said Tom. “That is
what puzzles me.”

“Easy now, Tom, I’m comin’ to that. I asked the stable-boy if there was
another stage goin’ this way. He told me ‘not till to-morrow.’ I knew
that would never do. In twenty-four hours you’d get that start of me
that I couldn’t come up with you at all. There was only one thing to
do.”

“You don’t mean to say you walked?” said Tom.

“No; if I had tried that I should be fifteen miles back. It isn’t
favorable walking in this mud.”

Tom was more than ever puzzled. Mr. Brush was on foot, and there was no
apparent way in which he could have come otherwise, unless he had flown
and suddenly dropped down where he stood.

But our hero didn’t have to wait long to have his question answered.
Even as he wondered there fell upon his ear a clear, distinct, neigh.

Peter Brush laughed.

“That lets the cat out of the bag,” he said.

“Have you a horse, then?”

“Yes; he is only a few rods off.”

“I thought you were on foot.”

“I got off his back just before I came up with you. I wanted to take
you, or, leastwise, Jim Dobson, by surprise, and I reckon I did.”

“It was not a very pleasant surprise to him, Mr. Brush.”

“I didn’t mean it should be when I saw that scoundrel bendin’ over you,
and tryin’ to tie your hands and feet. I tell you I felt riled.”

“So did I,” said Tom, laughing.

“He thought you were completely in his power, but rascals sometimes do
get mistaken, thank the Lord!”

“Then you bought a horse?”

“Yes, I found that was the only way I could overtake you. I followed
the stage, a good way behind, but it wasn’t long before I began to gain
upon it. I didn’t expect you would get out of the stage, and when I saw
you and Dobson alone in this wood, I was surprised.”

“Mr. Burnett”--this name came more natural to Tom--“complained that his
limbs ached from riding, and he asked me to get out and walk with him.
I suspected nothing. I thought him a rich man, and didn’t think he’d
try to rob me of the little money I had with me.”

“Of course you didn’t. Has he paid you any wages?”

“No; the week wasn’t up. He offered to pay me a week in advance.”

“So he might, as he meant to take it from you again.”

“I didn’t think of that,” said Tom, laughing.

“It didn’t take me more’n fifteen minutes to find a horse and buy it,”
said Mr. Brush, proceeding with his story. “I didn’t have time to
examine it, and find whether it was sound, but I guess I got a good
bargain. Anyhow it’s worth sixty dollars, and that’s what I paid for
it. And now, Tom, that I’ve told my story, what do you say to hitchin’
horses?”

“I haven’t any horse to hitch, Mr. Brush.”

Peter Brush laughed loudly.

“I mean,” he explained, “that we might as well go along together, now
that you’ve got rid of that swindler.”

“With all my heart, Mr. Brush. I shall be glad of your company.”

“I ain’t goin’ to engage you as my secretary, for I wouldn’t know what
to do with one if I had him. I can’t pay you twelve dollars a week, but
if your money gives out I won’t see you suffer.”

“There’s one thing in the way, Mr. Brush,” said Tom, “I can’t keep up
with your horse.”

“I’ll buy you one, Tom, at the next haltin’ place.”

“No need of that, Mr. Brush; I’ll buy one myself.”

“Have you got money enough?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll pick one out for you. I’ll see you don’t get cheated. Now,
my lad, it’s gettin’ dark, and we’d better push on. You get on the
horse, and I’ll trudge alongside.”

Tom consented to ride a part of the time. But it was ten o’clock, so
bad were the roads, before they reached the frontier village, and
secured an humble lodging for the night.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE PACIFIC TRAIL.

Tom and his new acquaintance spent a day at the little settlement where
they passed the night. Tom was fortunate enough to buy a horse for
forty-two dollars, and he also provided himself with a rifle and a few
things which Mr. Brush told him were necessary for the long trip they
had in view.

Whenever he thought of the change he had made in companions he
congratulated himself. He had found no pleasure in Burnett’s society,
even before he had found out his treachery. The salary he was to
receive was his only inducement. Now he had relinquished all salary,
and must defray his entire expenses without help, but he felt assured
that, should he become penniless, his honest friend Brush would not
desert him. So, with a bold heart he set out upon his long journey.

I do not propose to give a daily record of the journeyings of the
two companions, as they followed the Pacific Trail. The journey was
monotonous enough. So many miles daily, the number varying according
to the state of the road, if such a name can be given to the path they
were following, camping for the night and resuming travel the next day.

It was so monotonous that they almost forgot the days of the week.

Let us look in upon the pair four weeks later. During that time they
had made about five hundred miles.

“Tom,” said Peter Brush, as they rode side by side over a broad,
rolling prairie, “this is lonely, isn’t it? For all we can see we
are the only people living in the world. There isn’t a house, nor a
clearing, nor the smoke of a chimney, anywhere in sight.”

“That is so, Mr. Brush.”

“Seems to me, Tom, you are lookin’ rather sober. Is there anything a
weighin’ on your mind?”

“Yes, Mr. Brush, I was thinking of my mother and sister.”

“Then if you are thinkin’ of them, you ought to look cheerful. If I
had a mother and sister to think of I’d give a thousand dollars down,
though I am a poor man.”

“You don’t quite understand me, Mr. Brush. How do I know that they are
well? They may be sick, or dead,” and our hero’s lip quivered.

“Don’t go to borrering trouble, Tom. It ain’t no use. I’ll bet you a
dollar they’re well, and as lively as crickets.”

“If I only knew that! But there isn’t any chance of my writing to them,
or hearing from them, in this great wilderness.”

“That’s so, Tom. There don’t seem to be any post-offices near by,
that’s a fact.”

“I am afraid mother will worry about me, when she has to go so long
without getting a letter. She’ll think I’m either sick or dead.”

“I don’t b’lieve she will. She will trust to Providence, that is, if
she’s a religious woman, and goes to church, as most mothers do.”

“My mother is the best woman in the world!” said Tom, warmly.

“I don’t doubt it--not a mite. She’s got a pretty good son, and when
you see a good son you’ll generally find he has a good mother.”

“I am glad you have so good an opinion of me, Mr. Brush, but I’m afraid
I don’t deserve it.”

“Suppose we argy that point.”

“Never mind,” said Tom, smiling, “I’m perfectly willing you should
think so. How soon do you think I can write a letter home?”

“There’s a place about a hundred miles further on. We’ll get there
within a week. When you get there, you can write a long letter.”

“I will; I will try to make up for lost time. I shall have a great deal
to write.”

“So you will, Tom.”

“Sha’n’t you write, too, Mr. Brush?”

“I haven’t got anybody to write to,” answered Peter Brush.

“There’s your boy.”

“I never writ a letter to him in my life. Fact is, Tom, I ain’t much
on writin’; I can handle a rifle a good deal better than a pen. My boy
doesn’t expect a letter from me.”

“It seems to me if my father were away traveling, I should want to hear
from him.”

“I reckon you would, but there’s a difference in families. Ours isn’t a
writin’ family.”

“When did you see your boy last?”

“Only a few weeks ago.”

“And when do you expect to see him again?”

“In a year, likely, if things come round right. He’s all right, and got
good care taken of him, so there’s no use worryin’. Your mother’s well
fixed, too, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I suppose she’s very comfortable. She is keeping house for a rich
farmer, and wants for nothing.”

“Then, don’t you go to borrering trouble.”

Just then the two friends heard a steady tramp behind, as if another
horseman were on their track.

Peter Brush looked round, and his curiosity seemed to be excited.

“Tom,” said he, “look round. There’s a queer-lookin’ critter on our
track.”

CHAPTER XXX.

THE MAN WITHOUT A SCALP.

This was what Tom saw on looking behind him:

A very tall man, bestriding a raw-boned horse, who looked as if, like
Dr. Tanner, he had just emerged from a forty days’ fast.

The man was very nearly as thin as the horse, with a long face, set
off, but scarcely adorned, by a rough, red beard. He was attired in a
suit of rusty black, and looked not unlike a wandering missionary.

“He’s tryin’ to catch up with us, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “Suppose we
halt and give him a better show.”

Tom had no objections. In their lonely journey it was rather agreeable
to meet a new acquaintance, however unprepossessing he might appear.

“Good morning, fellow pilgrims,” said the new-comer, as he came up
abreast of our two friends.

“Good mornin’ yourself,” said Brush. “What’s the news?”

“Just what I would like to know,” said the other. “I haven’t heard a
word from civilization for weeks. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”

“My name is Peter Brush, at your service. This boy is my friend, Tom
Thatcher. We are on our way to Californy, and we may get there if we
don’t run a-foul of any murderous Indians. I ain’t quite ready to part
with my scalp yet, so I hope they’ll keep away.”

“It’s very painful, being scalped,” said the new arrival, meditatively.

“I reckon so.”

“I know it. For I had that little operation performed on me.”

Peter Brush drew in his horse, and stared at the stranger in profound
surprise.

“What was that you were sayin’?” he ejaculated.

“I’ve been scalped myself, and I know how it seems.”

“Stranger----”

“Lycurgus B. Spooner, M.D. That is my name and title.”

“Then Mr. Spooner--or, Dr. Spooner--won’t you oblige me by removin’
your hat?”

Dr. Spooner did so, and displayed a thick mass of red hair.

“I don’t see any signs of scalpin’,” said Mr. Brush, puzzled.

The doctor removed his wig, and displayed the marks of the unpleasant
surgical operation to which he had been subjected by the Indians.

“How was it you didn’t die?” asked Tom.

“The confounded redskins thought I was dead, and left me lying on the
prairie. But I wasn’t so far gone as they supposed. After awhile I came
to, and a party of travelers coming up, took care of me. I recovered
after a time, and tried to make up for my loss by a wig.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Four years.”

“And how do you get along without a scalp?” asked Peter Brush,
curiously.

“Don’t miss it,” answered Spooner, laconically. “I used to have
headaches, but now I never have ’em.”

“And you think it’s on account of the scalpin’?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I sometimes have headaches myself, but I don’t care about curin’ ’em
that way.”

Tom laughed.

“I agree with you, Mr. Brush.”

“If you have a fancy for being scalped,” said Dr. Spooner, “it is very
possible that an opportunity may be afforded you before long.”

Tom was naturally startled, and none the less because the doctor’s
declaration was made in the coolest and most indifferent manner.

“What do you mean?” asked Peter Brush, hurriedly.

“Look at that, and you won’t need to ask.”

With his whip-handle he pointed to the left. There, at only a few rods
distance, was a sight which made Tom’s blood run cold in his veins.

Stiff and stark lay the bodies of two emigrants, with their scalps
removed, evidently the victims of a ruthless band of savages.

CHAPTER XXXI.

TWO NEW COMRADES.

It was the first time Tom had ever looked upon a man who had met a
violent death, and the sight impressed him deeply.

The two men were fairly well dressed, apparently between thirty and
forty years of age, not unlike the average emigrant of those days, who
left a comfortable home in the East to seek his fortune in the far West.

“How long since this happened, doctor?” asked Peter Brush, soberly.

He naturally deferred in this matter to the superior judgment of a
physician.

Dr. Lycurgus Spooner dismounted from his horse and examined the
unfortunate victims of Indian barbarity with a professional eye.

“Not many hours,” he answered, briefly.

“Then the plaguy redskins are not far away?”

“Probably not,” answered the doctor. “In fact, only a few miles back I
fell in with a party who had a narrow escape from the red rascals.”

“I wonder we did not meet them.”

“They took a more northerly course than you are doing.”

“But you met them?”

“I struck to the south after meeting them, partly because I thought
in that way I should get further away from the Indians. It seems,
however, from this sad sight, that the red devils have been in this
neighborhood.”

“What shall we do?” queried Brush, doubtfully. “I don’t care to meet
them, nor Tom here I reckon.”

“We may as well push on, but it will be best to keep a good lookout on
all sides.”

“Trust me for that. I’ve got a good pair of eyes, and I won’t run afoul
of them if I can help it.”

“Have you any objection to my company?” asked Dr. Spooner.

“Not a mite. I shall be glad to have you hitch horses with our’n. Can
you fight?”

“I have done it before now.”

“Then, if we are attacked, you will stand by us?”

“You may rely upon me.”

“Then you are welcome. By the way, doctor, I ain’t curious, that is,
not uncommon curious, but I do wonder why you, a doctor, are roamin’
round in these diggin’s?”

“You think I would be better off attending my patients at home, I
suppose?”

“Just so.”

“But suppose the choice lies between a grave in the East, and a
wandering life of privation in the West, what do you say, then?”

“Who wanted to kill you at the East?” asked Peter Brush, bluntly.

“Consumption, my friend. I inherit a tendency to that fatal disease. My
mother died of it. Her mother died of it, and several other relations
have in turn fallen victims to the scourge of the Atlantic Coast.
Well, when I found the seeds ripening in my own system, and nature’s
warning becoming only too plain, I took the hint. I knew there was
only one course to take. I must abandon the East, and my flourishing
practice, must give up furnace-heated houses, and live out of doors far
away from the fatal east winds. It was a great sacrifice, for I was a
successful physician, and I liked the life of towns, and the culture
and advantages of Eastern civilization, but life was precious, and I
did not hesitate.”

“How long ago was that, doctor?” asked Mr. Brush.

“Six years ago. I went across the plains to California. There I made
some money and returned, but I could not stay long, for my old symptoms
began to come back. I resumed my wanderings, and have spent more or
less of the time since on the plains.”

“And how’s your health?”

“There’s a good deal of life in me yet, though I don’t look rugged.”

Indeed the doctor, with his slim, hollow cheeks, looked far from
robust, but he was embrowned by exposure to the elements, and was tough
and wiry, and as Mr. Brush found out, he had a good deal of endurance.

“You don’t look like a picter of health,” said Mr. Brush.

“No; but that’s partly because I am constitutionally thin. Our family
doesn’t gain flesh easily. I am well, and my appetite is always good,
sometimes inconveniently good, for I am often so situated that I can’t
gratify it.”

“I’ve got a healthy appetite myself,” remarked Peter Brush.

“I’m not backward that way either,” said Tom.

“Does your horse come of a consumptive family, too, doctor?” asked
Brush, slyly, as his eye took in the bony skeleton on which Dr.
Lycurgus B. Spooner was riding.

“In one sense, yes. He can consume as large an amount of hay and oats
as any of his race. But, my friends, before we leave this place let us
pay the last rites to the memory of these poor fellows who have been
cut off in the midst of health and life by the savages.”

“I say amen to that with all my heart, and Tom will help, I know.”

“Yes,” said Tom, soberly, while the thought could not help rising that
before long some stranger might be called upon to do the same service
for him.

A hole was dug close to where the bodies lay, and the two victims were
deposited therein with reverent care. No clew could be found to their
identity. There were no letters in their pockets, and they were buried
by those who knew not their names.

“I’d like to kill a few of the wretches that did this foul deed!” said
Mr. Brush. “If I were going to be killed, I’d rather meet my fate at
the hands of a white man than to be cut down by an ignorant savage.”

“I can’t say it would make much difference to me,” said Dr. Spooner,
philosophically. “Death is death, whether a white man kills you, or a
red man.”

“I would rather be killed by my equal than by a savage, who is only a
two-legged brute,” persisted Peter Brush.

“I hope the choice won’t be forced upon any of us,” said the doctor.
“At any rate, I prefer not to speculate upon such a fate as probable,
though it may be possible.”

“You’ve got the advantage of us, Doctor. You have no scalp to lose.”

“No, but I set some value by my head, though it may be scalpless.”

“They didn’t take your horse’s scalp, Dr. Spooner?”

“No. It is some advantage to be a horse. This poor beast, miserable as
he looks, has twice saved me from capture by the redskins. Haven’t you,
Bony?”

“A very appropriate name!” laughed Brush.

“It is short for Bonaparte. Still it is appropriate, as you say. He can
get over the ground pretty fast, if there is need of it. And now, my
men, what is your destination? Are you going to California?”

“Yes,” answered Peter Brush, “such is our intention.”

“In search of fortune, I presume?”

“Yes, but not wholly,” and Peter Brush told the doctor of the leading
object of our young hero, Tom.

“I have a mind to go with you,” said Lycurgus. “I am wandering rather
aimlessly just now. I might be able to help your young friend.”

“Then keep along with us, the more the merrier,” said Brush, cordially.
“What do you say, Tom?”

“I hope the doctor will come with us.”

“Then I will. Here is my hand on it.”

Neither Tom nor Brush foresaw how fortunate for them was Dr. Spooner’s
determination.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A STARTLING SIGHT.

Twenty-four hours later the party left the prairie, and came to a
region more uneven and wooded.

“It seems pleasant,” said Tom, “to get away from the prairie.”

“It may be pleasanter,” said the doctor, “but it is not so safe.”

“Why not?” asked Tom.

“Your friend Brush will tell you as I do, that we are more liable to
encounter Indians. They naturally seek the woods and hills.”

“Yet the two travelers whom we buried were on the prairie.”

“That is true; of course, the savages roam over the prairies at times,
but even there they may be seen long beforehand. Here one may come upon
them suddenly.”

“What the doctor says is gospel truth,” said Peter Brush, gravely.
“I feel more anxious in my mind than I did yesterday. But it isn’t
best to worry overmuch. I’ve been over the plains--at least as far as
Utah--half a dozen times, and I’ve never been in the clutches of the
redskins yet.”

“I hope I shall be as lucky, Mr. Brush,” said Tom.

“I hope so, too. To my mind they are a set of poisonous reptiles that
ought to be exterminated. I don’t know what they were made for, anyway.”

“Your views are extreme, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner. “I have
no great liking for the redmen myself, but it is certain that the fault
is not wholly on their side. They have been badly treated by our race.”

“No more than they deserved,” said Mr. Brush, stubbornly, for he was
strongly prejudiced. “I’d like to argy the point.”

“No occasion for that. We will each hold to our own opinions, and I
hope we may have no cause to think more ill of them.”

Tom and his friend Brush found Mr. Spooner an entertaining companion.
He was an educated man, had read a great deal, and seen a good deal of
the world, having pursued his professional studies in part at Paris and
Vienna. It must be confessed that he looked like a tramp, but one who
judged him by his outward appearance would make a great mistake.

It was toward the close of the afternoon. They had just forded a narrow
stream, and safely landed on the other side, were about to resume their
journey, when, in a little inlet half-hidden by the trees, they saw an
object which startled them.

It was an Indian canoe.

“Do you see that, Tom?” said Brush, quickly.

“Yes; it is a canoe, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and it means that the Indians are not far away. Am I right, Dr.
Spooner?”

“Probably you are, friend Brush.”

“What shall we do?” asked Tom.

“I suppose it will be best to push on. We shall never accomplish our
journey unless we do, but we must keep our eyes open, and be prepared
to come upon the Indians at any moment. What do you say, doctor?”

“You are right.”

No doubt Tom had reason to feel anxious. When he started away from home
he knew that he must encounter difficulties and endure privations, but
he had not thought of danger. He was only a boy of sixteen, and at that
age one seldom weighs carefully the consequences of any given step.
How then did he feel? Serious, to be sure, but the thought of danger
gave him a feeling of excitement and exhilaration that was partly
pleasurable. He felt older, more like a man, now that he found himself
in a situation which men would consider serious.

The little party moved on with great caution, scarcely speaking above a
whisper.

Though they were in the woods, there was a good trail, and they had
no difficulty in making their way onward on horseback. There was very
little underbrush. Straight and high-branched, the trees rose in lofty
majesty. They were stripped of their foliage, for it was a winter
month, but they looked like dark sentinels, posted by nature, to warn
off intruders from her vast and lonely domain.

Suddenly Peter Brush, who was gifted with keen sight, clutched Tom by
the arm.

“What’s the matter?” asked our hero.

“Hush! Look there!”

Tom followed the direction of the extended finger, and his heart beat
quicker as he caught sight of a company of savages sitting in a circle
beneath the overspreading branch of an immense tree a dozen rods away.
A fire had been kindled in the center of the group, and the savages
were evidently enjoying it. Their day’s tramp was over, and in their
silent way they were enjoying their evening rest.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

TAKEN CAPTIVE.

The Indians numbered not far from twenty. The dusky warriors sat in
silence, wearing their usual look of gravity. Among all races there
is probably not one less social than the American Indian. A garrulous
Indian would be a curiosity.

The three travelers gazed as if fascinated upon the group of savages.
In spite of the dire peril in which they stood, their curiosity was
excited by one member of the dusky company.

It was a boy, about as old as Tom, apparently, who was incased in a
blanket, and lay close to the fire. I say incased to indicate how
closely the blanket was folded around his boyish form.

Beside him sat a tall, stalwart warrior, who gazed on the boy with a
look of evident anxiety.

The boy’s thin features, and a certain contraction of his brow,
indicated that he was sick and in pain. Lycurgus Spooner and Peter
Brush judged that he was the chief’s son, or, at least, the son of a
man of distinction.

While taking their observations, our three pilgrims had halted their
horses. Thus far they had not attracted the attention of the Indian
braves.

What was to be done?

They did not dare to consult audibly, lest the sound of their voices
should reach the quick ears of the Indians.

Peter Brush, with an inquiring glance, extended his hand in the
direction of the river which they had just forded. Lycurgus Spooner,
understanding the unspoken question, bowed his head affirmatively.

The three turned their horses, and were about to retrace their steps,
when Tom’s horse gave a slight whinny.

Instantly the Indians raised their heads, and our travelers were
discovered. Without a word the redmen sprang to their feet, and, with
a wild whoop, that was well calculated to send terror to the hearts of
the fugitives, started in pursuit.

When the three reached the river-bank the Indians were close behind.

“Stop!” shouted the foremost Indian, the tall warrior who had been
seated beside the boy.

It was one of the four English words which he knew.

The command might not have been obeyed, but that it was reinforced by
a gun drawn to the shoulder and leveled at Lycurgus Spooner, whom he
took to be the leader of the party, in virtue of his age and dignified
bearing.

“The game’s up,” said Brush. “We may as well give ourselves up, and not
wait till we are shot.”

“There is no hope of escape,” said Lycurgus, reigning in his horse by
the river-bank.

“We might get across,” said Tom.

“And be shot in doing it? No; it’s a bad business, but it can’t be
helped.”

All this conversation passed in an instant, for there was no time to
waste, or, rather, there was risk in prolonging the discussion.

All halted their horses, and almost simultaneously they were surrounded
by the Indians.

The chief made a signal for them to dismount. Lycurgus Spooner was the
first to obey. It was not his first experience of Indian captivity, and
he knew that prompt obedience would be wise.

His example was followed by Peter Brush and Tom, who with much
apprehension and anxious hearts leaped to the ground, to find
themselves hemmed in by savage forms, and faces grave but void of
expression, but even in their self-repression inspiring fear.

At a signal three warriors led off the horses. Tom fancied that the
Indian who led Dr. Spooner’s horse regarded the thin, bony beast with
contempt, but he might have been mistaken.

Dr. Spooner, Peter Brush and Tom were ranged in line, and conducted
toward the camp-fire, preceded and followed by an Indian guard.

It must not be supposed that they were allowed to retain their
fire-arms. Their rifles were taken from them, and the acquisition of
these arms appeared to yield their captors considerable satisfaction.
They had learned to value these articles, which were to them of
practical value.

Who shall say what thoughts surged up in the heart of our young hero,
as he found himself in the power of a people of whom he had read so
much? He remembered a thin, paper-covered novel, which he had read
only the previous summer in the security of home, in which had been
described the captivity of a boy of his own age. Little did he dream
at that time that he himself would ever be the hero of a similar
adventure. It was romantic, certainly, but Tom would readily have
surrendered all the romance of the situation for a quiet seat in his
humble home far away.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

TWO POWWOWS.

At a signal from the chief all three prisoners were bound and placed on
the ground close by.

Then the Indians, resuming their sitting positions, had a powwow, or,
as we should say, deliberated. Though the three captives could not
understand their speech, they readily inferred that they were the
subjects of discussion, and that their fate was being decided. This,
indeed, might be inferred from the occasional glances cast toward them
by the different speakers.

There was one circumstance, however, that puzzled them, and naturally.
Reference was also made to the sick boy. This they also inferred from
the looks which he attracted.

“They are talking about us, doctor,” said Peter Brush, in a low voice.

“Yes, but they are also talking of the boy.”

“You don’t understand them, do you?”

“Only an occasional word. I know the Indian word for boy, and they have
used that several times.”

“They may mean Tom.”

“That is what I thought at first, but I observed that whenever they use
the word, they either point or glance at the sick boy in the center.”

“That’s curious. I can’t see what he has to do with us.”

“Nor I.”

“What do you suppose they will do with us?”

“Don’t let us think of unpleasant subjects, friend Brush. There’s one
comfort--my scalp is pretty safe.”

“But mine isn’t,” said Brush, sadly running his hand through his
bristling hair. It was not ornamental, but Peter Brush was attached to
it, and the thought that he might lose it strengthened the value he set
upon it.

“Tom, what are you thinking about, my lad?” asked Brush.

“I am thinking that we are in a tight place,” answered Tom, soberly.

“Keep a stiff upper lip, lad. We ain’t past hope.”

“God may help us,” said Tom, reverently.

Peter Brush scratched his head reflectively.

“I am sorry to say, lad, that I never gave much thought to Him. My
mother used to tell me about God when I was a little chap, but I’ve
spent most of my life away from churches, and I don’t know much about
anything but this earth.”

“Surely you believe there is a God, Mr. Brush?”

“Yes, Tom, but I don’t feel as if I had much to do with Him. If you
think He will help us, just ask Him.”

“I have been asking him in my own thoughts,” said Tom, “and I have a
feeling that somehow help will come to us.”

“We stand in precious need of help from some quarter. I wish I could
make out the Indian palaver.”

“We shall know in due time, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner;
“perhaps sooner than we care to.”

“Do you think they will do anything to us to-night, Dr. Spooner?” asked
Tom.

“No; such is not their custom. They have had their council. They will
do nothing till the night is over. We shall be allowed a good night’s
sleep.”

“I don’t expect to sleep a wink all night,” said Peter Brush, in a
lugubrious tone. “I shall be thinking all the while how it feels to be
scalped.”

“That won’t tend to make your dreams pleasant, friend Brush. My advice
is, that whatever is to come, you try to sleep well. It will strengthen
you, either to devise means of escape, or, if need be, to meet your
fate.”

“It’s all very well to give that advice, doctor, but not being a
cold-blooded animal, I sha’n’t find it easy to follow. Suppose you were
going to be hung to-morrow morning--how do you think you could sleep?”

“No such fate as that is in store for us, at any rate. People are hung
only in civilized communities. Did you ever hear of a man shipwrecked
on a territory entirely unknown to him, who in the course of his first
walk came to a man hanging upon a gallows? ‘Thank heaven!’ he said, ‘I
am in a civilized country!’”

Tom and Mr. Brush laughed in spite of the peril that menaced them, and
this unexpected sound drew the wondering attention of the Indians.
Indeed, it increased their respect for their captives. It was clear
that they were not cowards or they would not laugh under such
circumstances.

But the merriment of our three friends was short-lived. They became
silent and thoughtful, and as they gazed at the flickering flames,
and the shadows grew darker, all were impressed by the gravity of the
situation, and the uncertain tenure by which they held their lives.

CHAPTER XXXV.

HOW TOM PASSED THE NIGHT.

The Indians had held their powwow, and so had their white captives, and
both were silent. One by one dropped into a slumber. Tom was the first
of the three to fall asleep. He was fatigued, and he had a greater
trust in Providence. His fears were allayed by a confidence that
somehow, and from some quarter, help would come.

In the middle of the night, or, rather, about half-past one o’clock, he
suddenly awoke. As well as his constrained position would let him he
looked about him; first, at his two companions. They were both asleep,
but on the face of Brush there was a troubled expression, indicating,
perhaps, unpleasant dreams. Lycurgus Spooner looked as tranquil as if
he were sleeping in his own bed. He was following his own advice, and
securing for himself a sound, refreshing slumber.

Next Tom looked at the Indians. They, too, were asleep, their dusky
faces no more expressionless than in their waking moments. They slept
soundly, like animals as they were, untroubled by cares or anxieties.
It is only in a state of civilization that the nerves become active
and irritable. Refinement and civilization bring with them higher
enjoyments, and more intense sufferings.

“All around me are asleep,” thought Tom; “if only my hands and feet
were not tied, I might escape.”

Hope kindled in his heart. He began to work upon the cords that
confined his wrists, and succeeded in loosening them a little. He
had a knife in his pocket. If only he could have got hold of that!
But it would be necessary to unfasten his wrists first, and that was
impossible.

Next he tried with his hands, fastened as they were, to release his
feet, but he was forced to work at a disadvantage, and the knots were
too secure.

“I must give it up as a bad job,” thought Tom. “Even if I got free, of
which there isn’t much chance, I should not like to leave Mr. Brush and
the doctor in captivity. It would seem mean.”

Tom’s chivalry was, perhaps, overstrained. I do not myself consider
that he was under any obligation to remain and risk a terrible fate
because he could not also rescue his two companions. Yet I like Tom
better for his unselfishness.

The boy captive had just desisted from his futile attempt to extricate
himself from his fetters, when, chancing to direct his gaze toward the
Indian boy, he saw the bright eyes of the young chief fastened upon him.

Tom’s nature was intensely sympathetic, and forgetting that the young
Indian was his natural foe, he smiled pleasantly.

The Indian boy seemed surprised, but even his unresponsive nature was
affected by Tom’s bright look. His naturally grave face lighted up,
and a faint smile showed Tom that his friendly overture was not thrown
away.

It cheered him, and he thought, “I believe that boy would be my friend
if they would let him. I wish my fate depended upon him.”

The Indian boy’s smile faded, and an expression of pain succeeded,
while he pressed his hand upon his chest.

“I am sorry for the poor fellow,” thought Tom. “I wonder what’s the
matter with him.”

Probably his face expressed his sympathy, and the Indian boy read it
as he once more looked toward the young captive, so near his own age.
The pain seemed to pass and he became more tranquil, but still his dark
eyes were open, and it did not seem likely that he would soon fall
asleep.

“I must give up all thoughts of escaping,” thought Tom, “while the boy
is awake.”

He fell asleep again after awhile, and did not awake till he was shaken
roughly by one of the Indians.

Morning had come, though on that wintry day the tardy sun had not yet
risen.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TOM’S DEADLY PERIL.

The three captives, on awakening, regarded their captors with looks of
anxiety. They tried to read their fate in those dusky faces, but in
vain.

There was a little conversation between the chief and an elderly
Indian, who proved to be an interpreter, having a fair knowledge of
the English language for an Indian, and then the latter approached our
three friends.

He singled out Dr. Spooner as the supposed head of the party, and to
him addressed himself.

“White man,” he said, “the chief bids me tell you your fate.”

It need hardly be said that he had attentive listeners.

“You and you,” pointing out Brush, “may go, but your horses and guns
remain with us.”

“I am very much obliged to you, colonel,” said Peter Brush, greatly
relieved. “You’re welcome to the horse and rifle, and my friend, the
doctor, will no doubt say the same. How soon can we go?”

“At once. You shall be unbound, and free to keep on your way to the
great waters.”

“And the boy may go, too?” said the doctor, who was more cool and
self-possessed than Mr. Brush, and had at once noted the omission to
include Tom in the proposed release.

“Of course! Didn’t he say Tom, too?” said Peter Brush, hastily.

“The boy must stay!” said the Indian interpreter, gravely.

“But why must he stay? He is under my care. I can’t go without him?”
said Brush, eagerly.

“White boy must stay!” repeated the Indian.

“What do you propose to do with him?” asked Dr. Spooner, uneasily.

The Indian continued:

“For more than a moon the young chief has been sick and weak. A bad
spirit has entered into him and torments him.”

“But what has all this to do with Tom?” asked Brush, impatiently.

“Let him tell his story in his own way, friend Brush,” said the doctor.
“We shall know soon enough.”

The interpreter continued:

“The Great Spirit is vexed. He has sent one of the bad spirits to
trouble Miantonimo. He must be appealed.”

“But what has that to do with Tom?” asked Peter Brush, again.

“Hush!” said Lycurgus Spooner.

“He has revealed it to his children that Miantonimo will not get well
till a white boy has been sacrificed in his stead.”

A look of anxiety and horror swept over the face of Dr. Spooner. Peter
Brush did not seem to catch the meaning of the last words.

“Surely,” said Lycurgus, “you would not kill an innocent boy?”

“The Great Spirit has said it,” said the Indian, gravely.

“Kill Tom!” ejaculated Peter Brush, horror-stricken. “He don’t mean
that, does he, doctor?”

“The boy must die!” said the interpreter.

“Then you may kill me, too, you bloody butcher!” exclaimed Peter Brush,
tugging fiercely at his fettered hands.

“Calm yourself, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner. “Let me speak
with the Indians. Perhaps I can convince them of their folly.”

“I’d like to argy the point myself,” said Peter.

Of course, Tom had heard all this, and the thought of the fate which
seemed inevitable blanched his cheek and sent a cold chill to his heart.

What! at the age of sixteen must he die a violent death, because a
young Indian boy was sick, a victim to the cruel superstition of a band
of savages?

“God help me!” he murmured, with pale lips. “For the sake of my dear
mother and sister, save me from this fearful fate!”

“This is terrible!” ejaculated Peter Brush, while in his excitement the
big drops of perspiration gathered on his brow. “Kill me, Mr. Indian,
and let the boy live. He is young, and his life is worth more than
mine.”

“No good!” said the Indian. “A boy is sick. A boy must die.”

“Mr. Brush,” said Tom gratefully, “I will never forget this unselfish
offer. You have offered your life for mine. You are a true friend.”

“But the brutes won’t accept my offer,” said Peter Brush, bitterly.
“They are bound to shed your innocent blood, my poor boy. If I only had
my revolver here, and loaded, I would kill some of them, or my name
isn’t Peter Brush.”

“Be careful what you say, or they will kill you, too,” said Tom, in a
warning voice.

The interpreter stood aside. At a signal from the chief, two men
advanced toward Tom. They took him up in their arms, and carried him to
a young tree, of slender trunk, and deftly bound him with his back to
the tree, facing toward the group.

“Are they going to kill Tom before our very eyes?” said Peter Brush, in
a tone of horror.

“It is indeed terrible!” said Lycurgus Spooner, in a state of agitation
almost as great.

“Oh, Tom, Tom, I wish I’d left you with that swindling Jim Dobson. He
would only have robbed you, while I have led you to your death.”

“You couldn’t help it, Mr. Brush,” said Tom, his lips quivering. “It is
hard, but I’ll try to meet it.”

“You thought God was going to help you!” exclaimed Brush, bitterly.

“It is not too late yet. He may save me yet. But Mr. Brush, I have a
favor to ask of you.”

“What is it? I will do anything in my power, Tom.”

“And I too, my poor lad,” said Dr. Spooner.

“Write to my mother, and let her know that I am dead, but don’t let her
know how I died. Let her think that I caught cold and died of a fever.
She won’t feel so bad. There’s some money that I have in the ---- bank,
in New York. Let her know about that. They will give it to her, if she
calls for it.”

“Yes, Tom, I will do it,” said Peter Brush, stifling a sob--“that is,
if I live. I don’t think I can stand it to see those red devils kill
you.”

While this conversation was going on the Indians remained quiet.
Probably they understood that Tom was giving to his two friends the
last messages he was ever to deliver, and a sense of propriety,
possibly a feeling of sympathy, would not permit them to interfere.

For it must be remembered that they were about to kill Tom from no
feeling of hostility, but merely because in their superstition they
thought God required a sacrifice, and would in return restore the young
chief to health.

Poor Tom! his fate seemed sealed. The Indian chief, who on account
of his relationship was considered the fitting instrument for
accomplishing the sacrifice, took his stand at the distance of a
hundred feet from the tree to which Tom was bound, and raised his rifle.

Tom closed his eyes, and with an unspoken prayer, commended his soul to
God, when a most surprising incident startled all who were looking on.

The Indian boy rose suddenly to his feet, flung off the blanket in
which he was wrapped, and rushing to the tree, flung his arms around
Tom, with a loud cry.

His father dropped the rifle with which he was about to act the part of
executioner, and gazed as if spell-bound upon the two boys.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE INDIANS ADOPT TOM.

Not less powerful was the effect produced upon the Indian warriors by
this unexpected action of the sick boy.

They gazed upon him almost in stupefaction. Then they began to murmur
expressions of wonder, not unmingled with awe. To their superstitious
minds it seemed like a direct interposition of God in Tom’s favor. And
who shall say that it was not so? Who shall say that the kindly and
compassionate impulse which led Miantonimo to Tom’s rescue was not
God’s work?

New hope sprang up in Tom’s heart as he felt the arms of the Indian boy
closely encircling him. He knew that Miantonimo was the chief’s son,
and likely to prove a powerful intercessor. He would have returned the
embrace if he could, but his arms were pinioned, or failing that, have
thanked him warmly, but he knew the Indian boy could not understand him.

“Miantonimo!” he said, softly, and his eyes were full of gratitude,
which the boy chief could understand.

Miantonimo, still encircling Tom with his arms, turned his head, and in
the Indian language, said:

“Save him, my father, let him be my brother.”

“The Great Spirit has spoken through my son,” said Wanuka, the chief,
gravely.

“Then shall he live?”

“He shall live. No harm shall come to him,” said the chief. “Unbind
him. He shall stay with us, and be brother of Miantonimo.”

This decision seemed to please the Indian braves, who murmured in
approval.

Two of them, at a signal from Wanuka advanced, and loosened the ropes
that confined the boy prisoner.

Peter Brush and Lycurgus B. Spooner looked on with joy, not unmingled
with amazement.

“It is wonderful!” ejaculated Brush.

“Wonderful, indeed, friend Brush. It seems to me like a direct
interposition of the Almighty.”

“That Indian boy is a trump. I’d like to shake hands with him.”

“So would I, but it might be misunderstood. It will be best to keep
quiet and let things take their course.”

No sooner was Tom unbound, than with boyish warmth of heart he threw
his arms around the neck of Miantonimo and gave him a brotherly embrace.

Wanuka and the Indian warriors looked on with approval, for was not Tom
to remain with them and become the brother of their future chief. Their
satisfaction was increased by the improved looks of Miantonimo. He no
longer looked sick, but his manner was sprightly and his eyes sparkled.
It was difficult to believe that he was the same boy who for days
reclined, weak and spiritless, by the log-fire, wrapped in blankets.

“The Great Spirit has cured him!” went from mouth to mouth.

“Give me my bow,” said the Indian boy.

It was brought to him in wonder, and in place of resuming his position
on the ground, he signed to Tom to come with him to a vacant spot near
by, and putting up a mark, made him shoot at it.

Tom was no archer, and his shot was wide of the mark.

Miantonimo, laughing, took the bow, and carefully adjusting it, struck
the object at which he aimed.

“Well,” said Peter Brush, “that beats all I ever heard of. I don’t
believe I’m awake. Pinch me, to make sure.”

“No need of that, friend Brush. Tom has had a signal deliverance. Just
now he was in danger of being sacrificed; now he is a prime favorite.”

Just then the interpreter, after a brief conference with the chief,
advanced toward our two friends.

“Wanuka bids me say that you are free. You can go where you will.”

“And may Tom go, too?”

“Who is Tom?”

“The boy.”

“No, he will stay with us. He will be the brother of Miantonimo.”

Peter Brush and Dr. Spooner looked at each other in perplexity. Tom’s
life was saved, but the Indians were resolved to keep him a captive,
and that, they knew, would make him miserable.

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish, doctor,” said Peter. “Must we leave
Tom here?”

“I am afraid we must,” said the doctor, slowly.

“I have a great mind to say that he is my son, and I can’t do without
him.”

“Better not. If the Indians should find out that it is a deception, the
consequences might be serious. Besides, they wouldn’t let him go even
then.”

“Do you think not?” asked Brush, doubtfully.

“I feel sure of it. Tom owes his life to the sudden fancy which
Miantonimo has taken for him. When the boy is just recovering, you may
be sure his father will not allow any fancy of his to be thwarted. Tom
must stay.”

“And spend his life with the Indians?”

“No. Tom is a smart boy. Sooner or later he will escape. He is lucky
to save his life, even by a long term of captivity. We will bid him
farewell, and urge him to keep up a good heart, and persuade them to
let him go as soon as possible.”

Brush and Dr. Spooner signified their desire to speak to Tom, and our
hero was allowed to approach them.

“Tom,” said Brush, “we hate to leave you here, but the doctor thinks it
wouldn’t do to oppose the plans of the Indians. As soon as Miantonimo
is well, use your influence with him to procure a release from
captivity. I can’t tell whether we shall meet again, but I hope so.”

“Good-by,” said Tom, sadly. “I ought to feel thankful that my life has
been saved, but it seems hard to stay here.”

“Be patient, and your deliverance will come. There are plenty of things
that may turn up. Keep a stiff upper lip, and keep friends with the
redmen, at any rate, and especially with Miantonimo. He’s a regular
trump, that boy is. He’s the first Indian I ever liked.”

“Yes, he’s a good fellow. I wish I understood his language, and could
talk with him.”

“Try to learn; it will help you.”

A few words more, and the two white men left the Indian camp, and
pursued their way westward.

Poor Tom followed them with longing eyes, and his heart was heavy
within him.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THREE MONTHS IN CAPTIVITY.

Eager as he was to leave his new associates, Tom was wise enough to
understand that it must not be thought of at present. He must bide his
time.

Meanwhile he must make himself as agreeable as possible to the young
Indian whose friendly feeling had saved his life. Had Miantonimo
still remained sick, he would have watched by his sick couch, but of
this there was no need. A wonderful change had come over the boy. His
sickness, whatever it was, seemed to have left him all at once. His
strength rapidly returned, and he was able to resume his usual sports.

In these he always wanted Tom to participate, and the white boy was
entirely willing. While he remained in captivity he must pass the time
in some way, and none seemed more agreeable than to share the life and
employments of Miantonimo.

There were some things which the Indian boy could teach him. In the
course of a few weeks Tom became expert with the bow; he even rivaled
his adopted brother, who was remarkably skillful. He learned to ride a
horse bareback, to shoot, to hunt. He also picked up some of the Indian
dialect, so that he and Miantonimo could converse after a fashion.

All this was regarded by Wanuka and his followers with quiet approval.
Tom seemed to become more and more like their people, and they looked
forward to his becoming a great warrior, for his courage and skill were
understood and appreciated by them.

Oftentimes Wanuka, as he sat in silence and watched the two boys at
their sports, congratulated himself that his son had found a friend so
congenial, and one in whose society he seemed to take so much delight.

But how was it with Tom? Was he contented?

At first when under the tutelage of his young Indian friend he was
learning to ride and to shoot, he found these exercises so interesting
that he, for the time being, forgot to regret civilization and all
its advantages and opportunities. But when he had learned all that
Miantonimo could teach, when he could rival his teacher, and there was
nothing to do but repeat from day to day the same routine, life became
monotonous.

For three months he had not read a word of print. Not even a scrap of
newspaper had fallen beneath his eye. Tom was troubled with a sense of
dreariness and mental vacancy. If he could have bought the dullest and
most trivial book he would have regarded it as a literary treasure.

“Must it be always so?” he asked himself, one evening. “Must I live cut
off from all that I have been accustomed to enjoy, eating, sleeping,
and hunting, and with nothing else to look forward to? If this is the
case, I shall not value life much.”

Besides, there were his mother and sister, from whom he seemed forever
separated. Such ties cannot be rent, when the heart is as affectionate
as Tom’s, without great sorrow and pain.

The next day the two boys were riding together.

No one was with them, as no watch was needed when Tom had Miantonimo
with him.

The Indian boy looked wistfully at Tom, whose gravity he had noticed,
and asked:

“Why is my brother sad? Why does he not smile as he did yesterday? Is
he in pain or sorrow?”

“Miantonimo,” said Tom, “far away, near the shores of the ocean, my
mother and sister dwell. They know not where I am. They mourn for me.
Perhaps they think I am dead. Do you wonder that I am sad?”

Miantonimo looked grave.

“Can you not be happy with me?” he asked. “You are like a brother to
me.”

“Dear Miantonimo, I like you. You saved my life. But you cannot take
the place of my mother and sister.”

“Why, then, did you leave them?”

“They are poor. I left home to seek gold, far away by the great western
sea. I wished to bring it home that they might not want.”

Miantonimo looked up, and his face was sad.

“Do you wish to leave me?” he asked.

“I wish you could go with me.”

“I must stay with my people,” said the Indian boy. “But you--if you
wish to go, you can go.”

“Your father will be angry,” said Tom, but his face was lighted up with
new hope.

“I will tell my father that I was willing you should go. Look yonder!
Do you see a line of men and horses winding through the valley?”

“Yes.”

“They are your people. Go and join them, and forget Miantonimo,” said
the Indian boy in sad, reproachful accents.

“I will never forget Miantonimo, but I shall be glad to join the party.”

He brought his horse alongside his companion’s, grasped his hand long
and cordially, and then turning, galloped away.

The Indian boy watched him, sitting motionless upon his horse, with a
sad and wistful look, and then rode slowly back to rejoin his tribe.

“Poor Miantonimo! he is a true friend!” thought Tom. “He will grieve
for me, but I cannot stay with him.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE CABIN AT ROCKY GULCH.

The curtain falls, shutting out our view of Tom, as, day by day, he
wends his slow way from the great barren plains west of the Mississippi
valley toward the modern Golconda.

He had been fortunate in joining a company of emigrants, who treated
him kindly, accepting his company as welcome, for he was the only boy
in the party, and to more than one he brought to mind boys of their own
left behind in homes far east.

He feared that Wanuka, angry at his desertion, would pursue him,
and perchance attack the party to which he had joined himself. But
Miantonimo prevented that. Indian boy as he was, he was a true and
unselfish friend, and repressed the sadness and loneliness which he
felt for the sake of the white boy whom he had learned to love as David
loved Jonathan.

The curtain rises disclosing a different scene.

We see a valley hemmed in on nearly every side by high mountains.
Tall pines, straight as a flag-staff, rise here and there. Bowlders,
projected above the earth’s surface by some former upheaval, dating
back thousands of centuries it may be, dot the slope of the hills and
the shelving valley, and this is probably the reason why the place
received years since, and still bears, the name of Rocky Gulch.

It is not uninhabited now, for there is a small village. Most of the
houses are occupied by miners, for the treasures of the place are not
exhausted.

In one of these cabins, rude enough in its construction, live two men
whom we have met before.

That tall figure, in a rather close-fitting suit, with an old sombrero
crowning a head and covering a face which evidently belonged to a
man of thought and culture, must surely be Dr. Lycurgus B. Spooner,
physician and wanderer by profession. And that other figure, shorter,
stouter, broader-shouldered, surmounted by a bronzed, honest face, can
belong to none other than Peter Brush.

Together they sit in the twilight, which comes earlier in the shadow of
the hills, at the door of their humble residence, smoking clay pipes at
the close of their day’s labor.

For a time they are silent. Then Mr. Brush lays aside his pipe, and
turning to his companion, says, slowly:

“Doctor, I don’t know why it is, but to-day I’ve been thinkin’ more
than usual of poor Tom.”

“So have I, friend Brush. I don’t know why it is, but when I was at my
work, his image kept rising before me.”

“How long have we been here, doctor?”

“Three months to-day, friend Brush.”

“And we haven’t heard anything of Tom in all that time.”

“It was hardly to be expected. There isn’t any post-office where he is,
and if there was, he would not know where to direct to us.”

“I hope the poor boy has come to no harm.”

“That wasn’t likely unless he made an attempt to escape. The Indian
boy--what was his name?”

“Miantonimo.”

“Yes. Well, he had such a fancy for Tom that he would be sure to
have him treated well. It was very strange,” continued the doctor,
meditatively, “almost like a romance.”

“It beats any romance I ever read,” said Peter Brush. “Doctor, I
mistrust that Tom would try to escape sooner or later, and would most
likely be caught and----”

Peter Brush gasped a little, and did not try to finish the sentence.

“He wouldn’t try to escape if he didn’t have a fair show, friend Brush.
Tom is a smart boy; I didn’t know him long, but I found that out.”

“Yes, he’s a mighty smart boy. Now, supposin’ he did escape, what then?”

“What then? He would come here. When you told me his story, I made up
my mind to that, directly. Tom set out on a mission, to clear up the
mystery of his father’s disappearance. It was here that his father was
robbed, and perhaps murdered. You may rely upon it, friend Brush, that
he would come here just as fast as his legs could bring him.”

“I know you said that. That was why we came here.”

“To be on the ground when he came--precisely. Well, friend Brush, we
haven’t made any mistake in that. We’ve made it pay.”

“That is true. We stumbled upon a rich vein, which wasn’t to be
expected after the place had been ransacked for years. I reckon that
between us we have taken out six thousand dollars.”

“About that.”

“If Tom comes here, I will divide with him. He sha’n’t suffer any loss
for stayin’ behind.”

“I have a different proposition to make, friend Brush. You say we have
six thousand dollars?”

“As near as I can calc’late,” answered Peter.

“Then suppose we divide that into three portions--one for you, one for
me, and the other for Tom.”

“Agreed, pard. But it’s hardly fair that you should give up part of
your findings.”

“Why not?” asked the doctor sharply. “Do you mean to insinuate that Tom
isn’t my friend, as well as yours?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then, friend Brush, it appears to me that you are talking nonsense. I
claim the right to help Tom if he joins us.”

“I’m afraid it’s no use talkin’, doctor,” said Peter Brush, in a
dispirited tone. “Poor Tom may be scalped and murdered for all we know.”

“I don’t believe it, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus B. Spooner,
energetically, “and I wish you wouldn’t call up such disagreeable
ideas. It’s no joke being scalped, I tell you.”

“I s’pose it isn’t.”

“I _know_ it isn’t, and I claim to be good authority on that point,
for I’m one of the four men who were submitted to that little surgical
operation and still live. I don’t care to think of any of my friends
being operated upon in like manner.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but, doctor, how long is
this thing goin’ on?”

“Is what thing going on? Be a little more explicit, friend Brush.”

“I mean, how long are we goin’ to wait here for Tom?”

“Do you mean that you are tired of waiting for him?”

“No, I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that if you will stay here I
will go back and try to find him.”

“Among the Indians?”

“Yes.”

“But why am I to stay here?”

“So that if the boy comes there will be somebody left to receive him.”

“How long have you been thinking of this, friend Brush?”

“For a week or more. I will leave all the gold-dust with you except,
maybe, a few hundred dollars’ worth to pay expenses. If I don’t come
back, you can keep it for yourself and Tom.”

“Wouldn’t it be better, friend Brush, for me to go and leave you here?”

“No; I don’t believe I could stand it. I want to be lookin’ for Tom
myself.”

“Let it be so, then. When do you wish to go?”

“To-morrow.”

“Very well. I shall feel lonely without you, but you are probably
better adapted to the business.”

While they were talking some one had come near. It was a boy--the
picture of a penniless tramp, with the clothes almost literally falling
off from him--a veritable ragamuffin, yet clean, bright-eyed, and with
cheeks of a healthy brown. His face was fairly glowing with the joy of
an unexpected discovery, as he rushed to the pair with the speed of a
young whirlwind, and with hands outstretched, he exclaimed:

“Mr. Brush--doctor--don’t you know me?”

“WHY, IT’S TOM!” exclaimed honest Peter Brush, almost beside himself
with joy. And he seized our hero, and gave him a bear-like hug. “Are
you really alive?”

“I sha’n’t be long if you squeeze me like that!”

“Tom,” said Dr. Spooner, “I am just as glad to see you as our friend
Brush, but I won’t show it in the same way.”

“Not to-night, at any rate.”

“Is your scalp all right, Tom?” asked Brush, anxiously.

Tom laughed, and pulling off a ragged and dirty hat, displayed an ample
crop of chestnut hair.

“And now, Tom, tell us all about it,” said the doctor. “How did you get
away, and what adventures have you had?”

“One question first, doctor. Have you got anything to eat? I haven’t
tasted food for twelve hours.”

“To be sure we have,” answered Brush, “and plenty of it. Sit here with
the doctor, and in ten minutes you shall have supper.”

“Brush is chief cook this week, Tom,” explained Dr. Spooner. “It is
well for you that he is, for my genius doesn’t lie in that direction.”

CHAPTER XL.

TOM FINDS HIMSELF RICH.

In ten minutes Tom found himself sitting at the hospitable board of his
two friends. It was literally a board. A broad plank, or rather two
side by side, were stretched across the tops of two barrels, and upon
this humble table Peter Brush spread a plain but substantial supper.

Cold meat, bread and butter and tea--that was all it consisted of, but
of these there was plenty, and Tom made a fierce onslaught upon them.

“I’m sorry we haven’t any pudding or pie, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “I know
somethin’ about cookin’, but I ain’t up to that.”

“Brush made a pie once,” said the doctor, shuddering. “It looked pretty
well, but I tasted it, and the taste is still in my mouth. He tried to
eat it himself, but couldn’t. A pig came along, and we gave it to him.
I never saw that pig again. I suspect he died of the colic.”

Peter Brush laughed good-naturedly at this story, and only retorted:

“How much better would you have succeeded, doctor?”

“Worse, if possible. Don’t suppose I’m running down your culinary
skill, friend Brush. I freely admit that it exceeds mine.”

“I never tasted anything so good in my life,” said Tom, with a large
sense of enjoyment.

“Hunger is a good sauce, my lad. To-morrow you may be more critical.”

Supper was over at length, and the three friends sat down before the
cabin door.

“Tom, now I come to look at you,” said Brush, “you are the most
complete ragamuffin I ever saw. Isn’t he, doctor?”

Tom laughed and looked rather ruefully at his dilapidated garb.

“I’ve worn this suit seven or eight months,” he said, “through woods
and underbrush, sleeping in it at night when I lived with the Indians,
and roughing it as I never expected to. Do you see those shoes?”

They scarcely hung about his feet, while his suit was torn, soiled and
tattered.

“If mother should see me now, she would be in despair,” he said, “and
that isn’t the worst of it.”

“What is the worst of it, Tom?”

“I am not only ragged, but penniless.”

Peter Brush and the doctor exchanged a look of satisfaction. They were
glad that Tom was penniless, because their help would be so much the
more welcome.

“How is that, my lad?” asked Lycurgus. “The Indians didn’t take away
your money, did they?”

“No; but after I left them and joined the party I finished my journey
with, I had a use for all my funds. I had to buy a horse, and just as I
came to the last stage of my journey he either ran away or was stolen.
The last fifty miles I made on foot. As to the rest of the money it
went for incidental expenses. Do you want to know how much I have left?”

He took from his pocket two cents.

“Those won’t pass here, Tom. Nobody will take so small a coin as that.”

“Not even for a suit of clothes?” asked Tom.

“No.”

“Then I must go to work and earn enough. What are the chances around
here, Mr. Brush?”

“I’ll show you what we’ve done, Tom.”

Peter Brush led the way to his treasury, as he called the place where
he had stored his gold dust.

“What do you say to that?”

“Is it gold dust?” asked Tom, taking up a handful in curiosity.

“Yes.”

“How much is all that worth?”

“Six thousand dollars.”

“You don’t mean to say you found it all here?” asked Tom, amazed.

“Yes, I do. We struck a rich vein.”

“Is there more?” asked Tom, eagerly. “I will go to work to-morrow.”

“You don’t ask who this belongs to,” said Peter Brush, rather
ungrammatically.

“To you and the doctor, of course.”

“And to you.”

“But I didn’t gather any of it,” said Tom.

“It makes no difference,” said Brush. “The firm was Spooner, Brush &
Thatcher, and a third of it belongs to you as junior partner. Tom, you
are worth two thousand dollars.”

“But I can’t take it, Mr. Brush,” cried Tom. “I can’t accept your great
kindness. I had no hand in collecting this gold.”

“Because you were with the Indians when we left you.”

“You couldn’t help it.”

“But we saved our own lives by leaving you there. You had the worst of
it. Do you want to make us ashamed of deserting you?”

“No, but----”

“Then you must take your share of the money. If you don’t, we’ll throw
it away, won’t we doctor?”

“Yes, Tom must take it.”

“Then, my dear, kind friends, I will take it, for your sake and my
mother’s. I wish I could change a part of it for a suit of clothes.”

“You can. There’s a trader in the village who keeps a general stock of
goods. We’ll fit you out in the morning.”

“And is there a chance to mail a letter. Mother hasn’t heard from me
for months; she may think I am dead.”

“There’s no regular post-office, but you can leave the letter at the
trader’s, and it will go to ’Frisco by the first chance. Letters don’t
often have to wait over a week.”

“It seems like a dream,” said Tom. “An hour ago I came here a
penniless tramp. Now, thanks to you, I am a rich boy. I can’t realize
that I am worth two thousand dollars.”

“Now, Tom, you must tell us how you escaped from the Indians. You
haven’t told us a word yet.”

“True, Mr. Brush; I will begin at once.”

So Tom told his story, and you may be sure he had attentive listeners.
It will not, of course, be necessary to repeat it here, since we
already know what is of most interest. In response to questions, Tom
mentioned many details which were of greater interest to his friends
than they would be to us.

“That Indian boy is a regular trump, and no mistake!” said Mr. Brush.
“I wish you had brought him with you.”

“I shall never forget his kindness,” said Tom. “I shall think the
better of all Indians for his sake all my life.”

So the evening wore on, and bed-time came. Tom wrapped himself in a
blanket, and, weary with his long journey, was soon in the land of
dreams.

CHAPTER XLI.

TOM AND THE GRIZZLY.

When Tom got up the next morning he found breakfast ready.

It was nearly eight o’clock.

“You must think me lazy,” he said.

“Oh, no; you were fatigued by your journey. Besides, we don’t go to
work very early.”

After breakfast Tom wandered out and surveyed the gulch with sad
interest.

“This is the place,” he said, “where my father was robbed and perhaps
murdered. I wish I could solve the mystery of his fate.”

“Don’t let it affect your spirits too much, my young friend,” said Dr.
Spooner. “Your father may have died before his time, but he is in the
hands of his Creator. We must submit to the inevitable, trusting and
believing that in the end all will turn out for the best.”

“You are right,” said Tom, “but here where my poor father disappeared,
I can’t help recalling him to mind.”

“And very natural it is, too.”

After a walk, Tom joined his friends in their labors. The claim was
not exhausted, and they decided to remain at Rocky Gulch as long as it
was worth working.

Tom did not work all day. He devoted a part of every afternoon to
exploring the gulch, with the view of finding the bag of gold dust,
which Mr. Darke had concealed, and then been unable to find. In more
than one place he dug down, only to be disappointed. It was provoking
to think that somewhere, perhaps where he had himself walked, there
was hidden beneath the surface a sum of money belonging to him and his
mother by right of inheritance, which would have made the family rich.

But Tom did not employ all his leisure time in this way. Sometimes he
took his gun, for he had bought one since he came to Rocky Gulch, and
wandered for miles over the hills, or through the valleys, shooting a
bird or a squirrel, according to the opportunities he had.

One day he took for an entire holiday; he was alone, Mr. Brush being
rather indisposed, and the doctor being in attendance upon him.

Having so much time at command, he wandered further than ever before.
He had not had much sport. In fact his thoughts were upon his home, and
he walked on without much thought of the scene about him, when there
came to his ears, borne by the wind, a shout, which sounded very much
like “Help! help!”

This roused Tom instantly, and brought back his thoughts to the present.

Whence came the voice?

He could not immediately determine. He looked about him, but could see
no person. But he saw something else which sufficiently startled him.

Squatting beneath a large tree was a huge bear, which, from his
appearance, Tom instantly recognized as a grizzly. He knew, though
he had never seen one before, that the grizzly bear of California is
stronger and more formidable even than the lion, being just the sort of
stranger which a prudent man would be most anxious to avoid.

Tom started back in alarm, but the bear had not yet seen him. In fact,
the attention of the huge animal seemed otherwise directed. He was
looking up into the tree.

Following his gaze, Tom solved the mystery of the voice. Crouching
among the branches was a well-dressed man, who looked exceedingly
uncomfortable.

The bear below was “holding the fort,” and as long as he remained there
the man did not dare to come down.

“But why didn’t the bear climb the tree?” some of my readers may be
tempted to ask.

For the reason that the grizzly bear, at any rate, when fully grown,
seldom or never climbs. He leaves that to the more common species.

As long, therefore, as the besieged party remained in the tree, he was
safe. But it was hardly a position in which he could feel comfortable
in his mind. Peering anxiously around, he at length espied our hero,
whom he had not before seen, and called out:

“Boy, have you got a gun with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then shoot that confounded grizzly, who is waiting for me at the foot
of the tree.”

“Suppose I miss him,” suggested Tom.

“Then you must look out for yourself. He will transfer his attention
from me to you.”

“That would be rather serious.”

“You needn’t miss him. Aim just behind the ear.”

“I will try.”

“If he chases you climb up the nearest tree.”

Close to Tom was a tree which he judged that he could climb easily.
This gave him a chance of escape in case he should fail to disable the
huge beast.

By this time the bear had discovered Tom, but, apparently thinking
him unworthy of notice, he just growled a little and resumed his post
beneath the tree.

“It’s me he wants,” cried the man besieged. “Ugh, you brute! I wish I
could wound you mortally, and see your dying agonies.”

The bear listened very complacently, evidently feeling that the
advantage was on his side.

“Come, boy, are you going to shoot?” asked the man in the tree.

Tom did not answer.

He was carefully taking aim. He was fully conscious that his own
personal safety depended upon the effectiveness of his shot. In fact,
his safest course would have been to leave the spot and the beleaguered
man to his fate. But Tom was not that kind of a boy. He was bold and
courageous, and he would have been ashamed if he had coolly deserted
a man whom it was in his power to help, at however great danger to
himself.

[Illustration: “At a glance Tom saw the Bear watching the man crouching
among the branches.”--Page 217. _Tom Thatcher’s Fortune._]

So he quietly and carefully took aim, and then pulled the trigger.

The grizzly uttered an angry growl, and correctly guessing the quarter
from which the attack had come, was fired with revenge. He started
toward Tom, and our hero would have stood a slender chance had the
great beast succeeded in reaching him. But the shot had done its work.

The grizzly had scarcely gone a rod when he staggered and fell in a
great floundering mass upon the ground.

Tom was already up in the tree he had selected for a refuge before he
ventured to look at his enemy.

His heart was elate with joy and triumph when he saw how effective had
been his shot. It was no light thing for a boy not yet seventeen to
bring down the monarch of the California forests.

The bear made a few convulsive movements, and then settled into the
rigidity of death.

“He’s done for!” exclaimed the stranger joyfully, preparing to descend
the tree. “He will never trouble us any more.”

“Then I’ll come down,” said Tom.

Together they met beside the huge beast.

Then the stranger, turning to Tom, said:

“My young friend, you have saved my life. That is a debt I never can
pay, but I don’t mean to let it go unacknowledged. What is your name,
and where do you live?”

“My name is Tom Thatcher, and I live at Rocky Gulch.”

“Ha! I am going there. We will go together.”

“I shall be glad of your company,” said Tom, politely.

On the way the stranger introduced himself as Robert Percival, a
banker, from San Francisco.

“I have some interests at Rocky Gulch,” he said. “I feel an affection
for the spot, for here I laid the foundation of my fortune. Feeling the
need of a little rest from business cares, I have come out here from
the city. By Jove! I came near getting a permanent vacation. If you
hadn’t come to my help, I can’t undertake to say that I should ever
have been able to return to any business in the city.”

Toward the close of the afternoon Tom and his new friend reached Rocky
Gulch.

CHAPTER XLII.

A STARTLING DISCLOSURE.

As there was no hotel, nor even tavern, at Rocky Gulch, the banker,
Percival, gladly accepted Tom’s invitation to pass the night at the
cabin occupied jointly by himself and his two friends.

“But what will your friends say?” asked Percival.

“They will be glad of your company,” said Tom, promptly.

The banker looked pleased.

“My visit will prove pleasanter than I anticipated,” he said.

When they reached the cabin Tom found that Mr. Brush was much better.
In fact, he and the doctor were at the door smoking.

“Dr. Spooner, Mr. Brush,” said our hero, “allow me to introduce a new
acquaintance, Mr. Percival, of San Francisco.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Percival,” was the cordial greeting of both, as
they extended their hands.

“I have promised Mr. Percival accommodations for the night,” continued
Tom.

“He shall be welcome if he doesn’t object to rough it,” answered Brush.
“We don’t live in a palace.”

“My friend,” said the banker, “it seems to me a palace compared with
what would have been my lodging but for the lucky chance of meeting
your young friend here.”

The doctor and Mr. Brush looked inquiringly first at one, then at the
other.

Tom smiled, but left Mr. Percival to tell the story.

“I was emphatically up a tree,” said the banker, “with a grizzly
standing guard underneath, when this brave boy (Tom blushed at the
compliment) came up, and taking effectual aim, disposed of Mr. Bruin.”

“You don’t mean to say you killed a grizzly, Tom?” exclaimed Mr. Brush,
in excitement.

“It is a literal fact,” said Robert Percival, “and one of the largest
specimens I have ever seen.”

“Where is he?”

“We were not able to bring him along,” said Tom, smiling. “If you and
the doctor can manage him I will give him to you.”

“I’ve always wanted to kill a grizzly,” said Peter Brush, meditatively.
“It would be a feather in my cap. Yet here am I, a man of fifty-two,
and I have not had a chance yet, while you, a mere stripling, have
succeeded.”

“I didn’t go to do it,” said Tom, with a queer smile.

“No, but you’ve done it, while neither I nor my friend the doctor, I
presume, have ever succeeded.”

“I think I could dispose of a first-class grizzly if he would only
consent to take my medicines,” said the doctor, dryly.

At this there was a general laugh.

“Mr. Percival,” said the doctor, “I venture to say that you and Tom are
hungry.”

“I am famished,” said the banker.

“I am glad you are hungry, for I am cook this week, and hungry men are
not fastidious.”

“I will help you, doctor,” said Peter Brush.

“Out of regard for our guest I will accept your offer,” said Dr.
Spooner. “I am sorry I haven’t a few pounds of Tom’s grizzly to cook.”

“I am content that he didn’t make a meal of me,” said the banker,
shrugging his shoulders.

Supper was enjoyed, and the four who partook of it were unusually
jovial.

After the meal was finished Robert Percival’s business instinct led him
to inquire of his hosts how well they had succeeded in their mining. He
was surprised to learn how much gold dust they had accumulated.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “business is business, and that as well as the
need of recreation has brought me out here. If you feel inclined to
part with your dust I will make you as favorable an offer as any one in
San Francisco, and give you drafts in payment.”

The three partners consulted, and Peter Brush acted as spokesman, and
promptly accepted their guest’s offer.

“Nothing will suit us better,” he said. “We are sure you will deal
honorably with us.”

“Even if such were not my custom,” said Percival, “I would do so for
the sake of your young associate, who has rendered me so important a
service. I confess my surprise at seeing so young a boy engaged in this
business. Is he related to either of you?”

This drew out Tom’s story. It was told partly by Mr. Brush, partly by
our young hero himself.

Robert Percival listened from the first with interest. But as the story
proceeded, and reached the point where our hero’s father was robbed
and left for dead near the very spot where they were conversing, his
interest increased, and was apparently mingled with surprise. When the
tale was told he ejaculated:

“This is a most extraordinary occurrence.”

“Not so extraordinary,” said Brush. “In the early days of California
emigration, robbery and murder could not have been so very uncommon.”

“But you don’t understand me, my friend. It is extraordinary that this
story should be told to me.”

“Why?” asked Brush and Tom, and the doctor looked equally inquisitive.

“Why? Because I myself found the bag of gold dust of which the boy is
in search, and I was one of the party who found his father and carried
him from the gulch!”

This statement was listened to with unbounded amazement by his three
listeners.

CHAPTER XLIII.

TOM COMES INTO A FORTUNE.

There was deep silence for more than a minute.

All eyes were turned upon him who had made so extraordinary a statement.

Then Tom asked in a subdued tone:

“Was my father dead?”

“No, but he was insensible from concussion of the brain.”

“How long did he live, Mr. Percival?”

“HE IS LIVING NOW!” answered the banker.

Tom stared at the speaker in incredulous amazement. Dr. Lycurgus B.