t 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 creeping stealthily
towards his enemy's tent, an act which would probably have aroused the
suspicion of a light sleeper, he walked boldly up, entered it, raised
Gashford's unconscious head with one hand, pulled out the bag of gold
with the other, put it on his shoulder, and coolly marched out of the
camp. The audacity of the deed contributed largely to its success.

Great was the rage and consternation of Gashford when he awoke the
following morning and found that his treasure had disappeared. Jumping
at once to the conclusion that it had been stolen by Brixton, he ran to
that youth's tent and demanded to know where the thief had gone to.

"What do you mean by the thief?" asked Fred Westly, with misgiving at
his heart.

"I mean your chum, Tom Brixton," shouted the enraged miner.

"How do you know he's a thief?" asked Westly.

"I didn't come here to be asked questions by you," said Gashford.
"Where has he gone to, I say?"

"I don't know."

"That's a lie!" roared the miner, clenching his fist in a threatening
manner.

"Poor Tom! I wish I did know where you have gone!" said Fred, shaking
his head sadly as he gazed on the floor, and taking no notice whatever
of the threatening action of his v