Again we must convey the reader to the wild metropolis of the Black Hills.
In the bar-room which we have once visited the Vigilantes of Custer were
again congregated.
Moravy had a story to tell which sent a chill of horror to the hearts of
the iron hangmen who surrounded him, and in rough but eloquent language
he told the story of Rosebud Dan’s singular capture and the death of the
Creole Antenat.
At the mention of the Wolf’s cognomen an attentive listener on the outer
rim of the spell-bound circle started as if struck in the side by a dirk.
This was Red Crest.
What! the man whom he had helped to swing over a beam still alive, and
capable of taking human life with the revolver?
The Indian was superstitious; he could not believe all of Moravy’s
narrative.
A spirit, not a living being, had entered the cave and taken Antenat’s
life.
But, thought the Sioux a moment later, the guards lassoed something
tangible; they dragged it into the cavern, and it was this person who
shot and killed.
Red Crest, if questioned about the matter at that time, would have told
the story of Deadly Dan’s hanging.
“What do you say, Indian?”
But Red Crest kept his lips sealed.
For what purpose did these lawless men want to know Judge Lynch Jr.’s
whereabouts? Time and again they had sworn vengeance against him; they
had even hunted him among the shadows of Cut-throat.
“Boys, thar’s grit in Red Crest,” said the Vigilante, captain as he sent
a smile among his impatient men. “He hesn’t got a spark of betrayal in
him.”
The Indian, who had not removed his eyes from Maverick Joe for a second,
made a sign for him to proceed.
“I propose that the boy take command of the Vigilantes of Custer--that
we swear to follow whar he leads--that we stand by him through thick and
thin, and let him hang when he wants to. That’s the ticket that Maverick
puts into the box. Boys, I want Cut-throat cleaned out. When the Mining
Commission comes hyar to report on our wealth, I want ’em to ride through
that grand old canyon and never feel any o’ them infernal strings around
their silken necks. Thar’s Cut-throat, boys, the glory of Colorado--it’s
a real canyon of the gods, and I say, put the boy at the head of the
Vigilantes of Custer, and change its name to Paradise Gap, or something
else that don’t suggest wiping out!”
The men with a wild shout of approval on their lips could hardly wait
until Maverick Joe concluded, but when he clinched the sentence by a
mighty sweep of his arm, a cheer rose that fairly shook the building.
“He will not reject the proposition.”
For a moment the boy leader’s keen eyes swept the score of bronzed faces
before him. Then he stepped forward.
“To saddle!” he said, in a voice of command. “The Thugs of Cut-throat are
desperate as starving wolves. Let every man remember this. They may not
be death with their strings in every instance, but with the rifle and
the revolver they never miss. So, avengers of Colorado, I grant you five
minutes for good-byes to wives and sweethearts.”
“I don’t think thar’s a chap hyar who owns any such property!” cried
Maverick Joe; “least-wise, thar’r’ only sixty women in Custer, an’ they
b’long to luckier fellars. No kissing when we go to battle, captain.”
With wild eyes, flashing with triumph, Jack Drivewell sat once more on
his horse, his haggard face turned toward Cut-throat.
He did not look like a sane man; there was the unmistakable make-up of
the lunatic about him.
He sat there statue-like and stern until a sound startled him, and made
his eyes flash.
Quick as a flash of lightning he drew his revolvers and leaned forward.
But the next instant he started back and hugged the canyon wall. In
that position he sat and held his breath while Captain Harry and his
Vigilantes rode past entirely unconscious of his presence.
“The boy and Maverick together?” he repeated twenty times. “What does it
mean? Ah, if I thought they war huntin’ the big bonanza, I’d hev asserted
my right to the whole claim.”
The Vigilantes moved on, their hoof-beats did not rouse the echoes of the
canyon; but Old Jack still occupied his halting-place.