rendered Betty so attractive. As poor Tom Brixton once
said in a moment of confidence to his friend Westly, while excusing
himself for so frequently going on prospecting expeditions to Bevan's
Gully, "There's no question about it, Fred; she's the sweetest girl in
Oregon--pshaw! in the world, I should have said. Loving-kindness beams
in her eyes, sympathy ripples on her brow, grace dwells in her every
motion, and honest, straightforward simplicity sits enthroned upon her
countenance!"

Even Crossby, the surly digger, entertained similar sentiments regarding
her, though he expressed them in less refined language. "She's a
bu'ster," he said once to a comrade, "that's what _she_ is, an' no
mistake about it. What with her great eyes glarin' affection, an' her
little mouth smilin' good-natur', an' her figure goin' about as graceful
as a small cat at play--why, I tell 'ee what it is, mate, with such a
gal for a wife a feller might snap his fingers at hunger an' thirst,
heat an' cold, bad luck an' all the rest of it. But she's got one fault
that don't suit me. She's overly religious--an' that don't pay at the
diggin's."

This so-called fault did indeed appear to interfere with Betty Bevan's
matrimonial prospects, for it kept a large number of dissipated diggers
at arm's-length from her, and it made even the more respectable men feel
shy in her presence.

Tom Brixton, however, had not been one of her timid admirers. He had a
drop or two of Irish blood in his veins which rendered that impossible!
Before falling into dissipated habits he had paid his addresses to her
boldly. Moreover, his suit was approved by Betty's father, who had
taken a great fancy to Tom. But, as we have said, this Rose of Oregon
repelled Tom. She did it gently and kindly, it is true, but decidedly.

It was, then, towards the residence of Paul Bevan that the fugitive now
urged his canoe, with a strange turmoil of conflicting emotions however;
for, the last time he had visited the Gully he had been at least free
from the stain of having broken the laws of man. Now, he was a fugitive
and an outlaw, with hopes and aspirations blighted and the last shred of
self-respect gone.

CHAPTER FOUR.

When Tom Brixton had descended the river some eight or ten miles he
deemed himself pretty safe from his pursuers, at least for the time
being, as his rate of progress with the current far exceeded the pace at
which men could travel on foot; and besides,