Fortunately the ground improved just beyond this point, opening out into park-like scenery, which, in another mile or two, ran into level prairie land. This Trevor knew from description was close to the mountain range, in which lay the gully he was in quest of. The hope which had begun to rise increased, and communicating itself, probably by sympathetic electricity, to the horse, produced a shuffling gallop, which ere long brought them to a clump of wood. On rounding this they came in sight of the longed-for hills.
Before nightfall Simpson’s Gully was reached, and little Trevor was directed to the tent of Paul Bevan, who had arrived there only the day before.
“It’s a strange story, lad,” said Paul, after the boy had run rapidly over the chief points of the news he had to give, to which Betty, Fred, and Flinders sat listening with eager interest.
“We must be off to search for him without delay,” said Fred Westly, rising.
“It’s right ye are, sor,” cried Flinders, springing up. “Off to-night an’ not a moment to lose.”
“We’ll talk it over first, boys,” said Paul. “Come with me. I’ve a friend in the camp as’ll help us.”
“Did you not bring the piece of bark?” asked Betty of the boy, as the men went out.
“Oh! I forgot. Of course I did,” cried Trevor, drawing it from his breast-pocket. “The truth is I’m so knocked up that I scarce know what I’m about.”
“Lie down here on this deer-skin, poor boy, and rest while I read it.”
Tolly Trevor flung himself on the rude but welcome couch, and almost instantly fell asleep, while Betty Bevan, spreading the piece of birch-bark on her knee, began to spell out the words and try to make sense of Tom Brixton’s last epistle.