“Ah, but I heard him ask Wilcox for some in cash or notes, if he had it. The fellow said he’d got cleaned out on the road up, and must have some money to take him back. So Wilcox gave him some; I can’t say how much it was, but any’s worth finding. Besides, he’s a gold ticker—a real handsome one, as big as a frying-pan. And then there’s the three horses, and first-chop colonial saddles.”
“Is there anybody with him, then?”
“Two young ’uns came with him, but they’ve gone down into the town, an’ if they’ve come back, it don’t matter much. I fancy he’s turned in now. I’ve been watching him this good while, till I come down to hunt up you and Bill.”
“Well, let’s be off then,” said the mulatto; and the three began to run. The boys tried to make a short cut for the tent, but lost ground instead. When they reached the tent Mr. Lawson was on his back, half-throttling, however, the mulatto who knelt upon him, whilst the other two scoundrels were giving him savage blows and kicks.
“Put—a—ball—in—to—him,” gasped the mulatto.
Before a pistol could be pointed, however, the two boys had leaped on the two men, and by the suddenness of the onslaught toppled them over, tumbling at the same time themselves. For a minute a confused heap of trunks and limbs heaved and wriggled on the floor; but Mr. Lawson rolled himself out, and, getting uppermost in turn, brought down his huge Northumbrian fist with a tremendous thud upon the mulatto’s face. As soon as the other two men could scramble to their feet, they took to their heels. The boys had got hold of their pistols by that time, and Mr. Lawson was reaching out his hand for his revolver. Three bullets whistled after the two runaways, but neither was hit. Meantime the mulatto, save for his stertorous breathing, lay like a log upon the ground.
“Get your horse, Harry, and ride in for the police,” said Mr. Lawson. “We’d best tie the scoundrel first, though.”
Harry and Donald went to catch the hobbled horse; Mr. Lawson turned to refasten an up-pulled tent-peg, and to get a cord, and when he turned round again, the mulatto was gone.
“The rascal was only shamming,” said Mr. Lawson, feeling rather silly, when the boys returned. “I turned my back for a second, and he wriggled off like a snake. Now, boys, turn in, and I’ll keep watch till the sun comes up. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get a snooze, I shouldn’t have been laid on my back by those mean curs. I must have been sleeping like a top when they pounced in upon me. I’ve to thank you, boys, and let us all thank God.”
Mr. Lawson and the boys stayed over the Sunday at Jim Crow Creek, but it was a strange Sunday. The miners knocked off work, but they economized the Sabbath hours in fighting out the week’s quarrels, which they could not spare time to settle on week-days. The only “service” was one conducted by a tall, gauntly-sinewy Cornish miner, who shouted at the top of his voice, and worked himself into a pale perspiration as he flung about his long limbs as if they were galvanized. A few of his hearers looked pleased to be reminded anyhow of what the day was. A few more looked ashamed because they were ashamed to look pleased too. But most grinned, and then passed on to find more exciting amusements.