Twice Bought | Page 3

cried those in the rear of the crowd.
"Tom Brixton, to be sure," answered Gashford, with a laugh. "He
always loses; but it's no great loss this time, and I am not much the
richer."
There was no response to this sally. Every one looked at Brixton,
expecting an outburst of rage, but the youth stood calmly
contemplating the dice with an absent look, and a pleasant smile on his
lips.
"Yes," he said, recovering himself, "luck is indeed against me. But
never mind. Let's have a drink, Lantry; you'll have to give it me on
credit this time!"
Lantry professed himself to be quite willing to oblige an old customer
to that extent. He could well afford it, he said; and it was

unquestionable truth that he uttered, for his charges were exorbitant.
That night, when the camp was silent in repose, and the revellers were
either steeped in oblivion or wandering in golden dreams, Tom Brixton
sauntered slowly down to the river at a point where it spread out into a
lakelet, in which the moon was brightly reflected. The overhanging
cliffs, fringed with underwood and crowned with trees, shot reflections
of ebony blackness here and there down into the water, while beyond,
through several openings, could be seen a varied and beautiful
landscape, backed and capped by the snow-peaks of the great backbone
of America.
It was a scene fitted to solemnise and soften, but it had no such
influence on Tom Brixton, who did not give it even a passing thought
though he stood with folded arms and contracted brows, gazing at it
long and earnestly. After a time he began to mutter to himself in broken
sentences.
"Fred is mistaken--must be mistaken. There is no law here. Law must
be taken into one's own hands. It cannot be wrong to rob a robber. It is
not robbery to take back one's own. Foul means are admissible when
fair--yet it is a sneaking thing to do! Ha! who said it was sneaking?"
(He started and thrust his hands through his hair.) "Bah! Lantry, your
grog is too fiery. It was the grog that spoke, not conscience. Pooh! I
don't believe in conscience. Come, Tom, don't be a fool, but go
and--Mother! What has she got to do with it? Lantry's fire-water didn't
bring her to my mind. No, it is Fred, confound him! He's always
suggesting what she would say in circumstances which she has never
been in and could not possibly understand. And he worries me on the
plea that he promised her to stick by me through evil report and good
report. I suppose that means through thick and thin. Well, he's a good
fellow is Fred, but weak. Yes, I've made up my mind to do it and I will
do it."
He turned hastily as he spoke, and was soon lost in the little belt of
woodland that lay between the lake and the miner's camp.
It pleased Gashford to keep his gold in a huge leathern bag, which he

hid in a hole in the ground within his tent during the day, and placed
under his pillow during the night. It pleased him also to dwell and work
alone, partly because he was of an unsociable disposition, and partly to
prevent men becoming acquainted with his secrets.
There did not seem to be much fear of the big miner's secrets being
discovered, for Lynch law prevailed in the camp at that time, and it was
well known that death was the usual punishment for theft. It was also
well known that Gashford was a splendid shot with the revolver, as
well as a fierce, unscrupulous man. But strong drink revealed that
which might have otherwise been safe. When in his cups Gashford
sometimes became boastful, and gave hints now and then which were
easily understood. Still his gold was safe, for, apart from the danger of
the attempt to rob the bully, it would have been impossible to discover
the particular part of his tent-floor in which the hole was dug, and, as to
venturing to touch his pillow while his shaggy head rested on it, no one
was daring enough to contemplate such an act although there were men
there capable of doing almost anything.
Here again, however, strong drink proved to be the big miner's foe.
Occasionally, though not often, Gashford drank so deeply as to become
almost helpless, and, after lying down in his bed, sank into a sleep so
profound that it seemed as if he could not have been roused even with
violence.
He was in this condition on the night in which his victim made up his
mind to rob him. Despair and brandy had united to render Brixton
utterly reckless; so much so, that instead of