Before an answer could be returned, Fred Westly, having heard Paddy’s shout, came running up.
“Oh! Tom, Tom,” he cried, eagerly, “are you hurt? Can you walk? Can you run? The whole camp is out after you.”
“Indeed?” replied the fugitive, with a frown. “It would seem that even my friends have joined in the chase.”
“We have,” said the other, hurriedly, “but not to capture—to save, if possible. Come, Tom, can you make an effort? Are you hurt much? You are so horribly covered with blood—”
He stopped short, for at that moment a shout was heard in the distance. It was replied to in another direction nearer at hand.
There happened to be a man in the party which Westly had joined, named Crossby. He had suffered much from thieves, and had a particular spite against Brixton because he had lost to him at play. He had heard Paddy Flinders’s unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the fugitive’s track, had followed it up.
“Too late,” groaned Fred on hearing Crossby’s voice.
“Not too late for this,” growled Brixton, bitterly, as he quickly loaded his rifle.
“For God’s sake don’t do that, Tom,” cried his friend earnestly, as he laid his hand on his arm; but Tom shook him off and completed the operation just as Crossby burst from the bushes and ran towards them. Seeing the fugitive standing ready with rifle in hand, he stopped at once, took rapid aim, and fired. The ball whistled close past the head of Tom, who then raised his own rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired, but Westly threw up the muzzle and the bullet went high among the tree-tops.
With an exclamation of fury Brixton drew his knife, while Crossby rushed at him with his rifle clubbed.