A look of anxiety flitted across Bevan's face.

"It's in the magazine. I got a fresh keg last week, an' thought it
safest to put it there till required--an' haven't I gone an' forgot to
fetch it in!"

"Well, that don't need to trouble you," returned the boy, "just show me
the magazine, an' I'll go an' fetch it in!"

"The magazine's over the bridge," said Bevan. "I dug it there for
safety. Come, Tom, the keg's too heavy for the boy. I must fetch it
myself, and you must guard the bridge while I do it."

He went out quickly as he spoke, followed by Tom and Tolly.

It was a bright moonlight night, and the forks of the little stream
glittered like two lines of silver, at the bottom of their rugged bed on
either side of the hut. The plank-bridge had been drawn up on the bank.
With the aid of his two allies Bevan quickly thrust it over the gulf,
and, without a moment's hesitation, sprang across. While Tom stood at
the inner end, ready with a double-barrelled gun to cover his friend's
retreat if necessary, he saw Bevan lift a trap-door not thirty yards
distant and disappear. A few seconds, and he re-appeared with a keg on
his shoulder.

All remained perfectly quiet in the dark woods around. The babbling
rivulet alone broke the silence of the night. Bevan seemed to glide
over the ground, he trod so softly.

"There's another," he whispered, placing the keg at Tom's feet, and
springing back towards the magazine. Again he disappeared, and, as
before, re-issued from the hole with the second keg on his shoulder.
Suddenly a phantom seemed to glide from the bushes, and fell him to the
earth. He dropped without even a cry, and so swift was the act that his
friends had not time to move a finger to prevent it. Tom, however,
discharged both barrels of his gun at the spot where the phantom seemed
to disappear, and Tolly Trevor discharged a horse pistol in the same
direction. Instantly a rattling volley was fired from the woods, and
balls whistled all round the defenders of the hut.

Most men in the circumstances would have sought shelter, but Tom
Brixton's spirit was of that utterly reckless character that refuses to
count the cost before action. Betty's father lay helpless on the ground
in the power of his enemies! That was enough for Tom. He leaped across
the bridge, seized the fallen man, threw him on his shoulder, and had
almost regained the bridge, when three painted Indians uttered a hideous
war-whoop and spr