DELAWARE TOM;
OR,
THE TRAITOR GUIDE.
BY HARRY HAZARD,
AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
No. 38. The Heart Eater,
No. 43. The White Outlaw,
No. 54. Arkansas Jack,
No. 66. Rattling Dick.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CONTENTS
I An Altercation 9
II The Storm-Cloud Breaks 19
III A Wild Race 30
IV The Forlorn Hope 34
V Delaware Tom 43
VI Tom Maxwell Turns Indian 50
VII A Tangled Trail 59
VIII Savage Tactics 68
IX Bound to the Stake 77
X The Winding Trail 83
XI Reunited 88
XII Dog Eat Dog 96
DELAWARE TOM;
OR,
THE TRAITOR GUIDE
CHAPTER I.
AN ALTERCATION.
Mid-afternoon of an oppressively hot and sultry day, in the year ’54.
We call the reader’s attention to a scene, that, if not romantic, is at
least attractive and interesting; a wagon-train of emigrants, as is
attested by the quantity of driven stock—horses, cattle and sheep. The
presence of women and children is still further evidence.
It moved slowly and drearily along over the vast, almost barren stretch
of level plain, as though the nearly spent day had been one of hard and
unremitting toil. The horses or mules, their heads hanging down, with
drooping ears and tails, their hides damp with sweat and covered with
the fine sand cast upon the air by the trampling hoofs, or the slowly
revolving wheels, scarcely heed the stinging lash or the impatient
exclamation of their drivers.
The loose stock move dejectedly along, cured of their morning propensity
of running from the trail to snatch a mouthful of grass, or nip the tops
of a bush, while more than one of the boys, whose duty it is to keep
them within proper limits, dozes in their hard saddles.
But there are three persons who appear full of life and free from the
general weariness of mind and body. There: one of them a woman—a girl;
the others men.
The first, who rode at several hundred yards in advance, if closely
scrutinized, proves to be an old man, who has numbered his half-century,
or perhaps nearly a decade more. A close scrutiny, we say, for his
figure was as erect and vigorous, his motions as free and supple, the
fire of his keen gray eye as clear and penetrating as a generation
since.
His hair and long flowing beard were gray, although the thickly clinging
dust effectually disguised this. From his position, his arms, his
actions, it was plain he acted as guide to the wagon-train.
The next figure, about half-way between this man and the foremost wagon,
was also a man, and merits a brief description at our hands for more
than one reason.
In stature he was about the mean hight, of a rather slight figure, but
with a muscular and active development, clothed in a plain and well-worn
suit of gray. His dusky, olive complexion, black hair and eyes like a
sloe, had given him the sobriquet of “Dusky Dick,” a name that was
already famous throughout the West.
Although not much, if any beyond his third decade, Richard Rouzee, or
“Dusky Dick,” had followed the calling of a guide for a number of years,
and gained the repute of being peculiarly unfortunate, having lost
one-half the trains he had acted as pilot for, and rarely escaped
without at least one fierce and desperate struggle.
More than one dark rumor had been put in circulation, and some more
boldly declared that he was in league with the red-skins, and only acted
as guide, the more surely to compass his purpose. But this was only
conjecture, and could not be substantiated by any valid proof.
The third person, who rode at some little distance to the right, so as
to escape the annoying dust, was a young woman of more than common grace
and beauty, although the latter quality was somewhat obscured by the
long, weary day’s travel.
Rather above the medium hight, of a superbly rounded and developed form,
that was admirably displayed by her neatly-fitting riding-habit of
black, she sat her horse with the ease and grace of an accomplished
_equestrienne_, although he chafed and fretted at the restraint of a
tightly-drawn rein, caracoling and prancing in proud strength and
spirit.
It was a clear-cut profile and beautiful complexion that Dusky Dick
beheld from the corner of his dark, sinister eye, that glared with a
fire of unusual admiration. But this his slouched hat concealed, and his
smooth, beardless face gave no outward sign of the dark and troubled
thoughts that filled his brain.
Then he pricked his half-wild mustang viciously with his spur, and
darted suddenly up beside the lady, who uttered a half-suppressed
exclamation of annoyance, and made no attempt to conceal the expression
of dislike and impatience that clouded her usually sunny features.
“It has been a wearisome day, Miss Clara,” began the guide, speaking in
a low and remarkably musical voice although his eyes flashed as he
noticed her evident aversion. “But we are almost at the end of our day’s
journey. See—that long dark line yonder, a little to the left, is our
stopping-place, beside a clear and beautiful stream. I know the spot,
well.”
“So we camp there? Well, I am glad of it, for more than one reason,”
replied the lady, in an impatient tone.
“And may I ask why so?”
“Do you wish to know the truth?” asked Clara, with a slight emphasis.
“Certainly; the truth will be doubly pleasant, coming from such winsome
lips,” Dusky Dick returned, with a half-mocking bow and smile.
“Well then, the main reason is that once there, you will have other
things to attend to, and will not have so much leisure to annoy others
by impertinent and unwelcome attentions,” curtly replied Clara, urging
her high-mettled horse ahead, as if desirous of escaping the company of
the swarthy guide.
“And another reason is—that a certain baby-face, Buenos Ayres by name,
will not be long in feeding his horses, and then, of course, will hasten
to pay his respects to the belle of the wagon-train,” sneered Dusky
Dick, keeping close to Clara, whether she rode fast or slow.
“Mr. Rouzee,” at length exclaimed Clara, her eyes flashing angrily, and
her cheeks flushing, “your place as guide is yonder, along with Tom
Maxwell, and not out here. If I appear rude, you force me to be so.”
“A guide’s place depends greatly upon circumstances, Miss Calhoun; and
just now I prefer this position.”
“Then occupy it alone; I will go back to the wagon,” she added, reining
in her horse.
“Stay, Miss Clara,” cried Rouzee, his black eyes glittering. “Keep your
place, but mark me, the time will come—and soon too—when you will repent
these haughty airs, and solicit as a favor, what you now affect to
scorn. I tell you that the time is not far distant when you will crouch
at my feet—when you will hang around me for a word—a smile; when you
will call me _master_. Do you hear?”
“And I tell you, sir, that when we camp to-night, you will have to
answer to the charge of being drunk while upon duty,” haughtily retorted
Clara, her eyes flashing. “Will you go, sir, or must I appeal to my
father?”
The guide did not reply, but plunging his long, cruel spurs into the
flanks of his mustang, he dashed rapidly up alongside of the old
borderer, Tom Maxwell, who received him with a cold, half-suspicious
start. Evidently there was little love lost between the two men.
Just before sunset, the long line of trees was reached, that bordered
upon a small stream, and preparations were immediately begun for
encamping, while Dusky Dick and Tom Maxwell galloped off to hunt for
“sign.”
The mules and horses were ungeared and turned loose, after being
hoppled, and the wagons were formed into a rude sort of corral, one line
covering the joints in the other. All was bustle and apparent confusion,
although each person knew his duty and busied himself about that alone.
Fires were built, and over them stooped the women, preparing supper for
the different messes; while the children brought wood and water, or else
rolled and tumbled over each other with merry shouts, in their play,
little recking what the morrow might bring forth.
To one of these fires, a little apart from the remainder, we now turn.
Over it was bending the form of an old negro woman, whose wrinkled
features and gorgeous red and orange head-gear, looked weird and wild
through the flame-tinted smoke.
A little to one side of this sat three persons, or rather half reclining
against the moss-covered roots of the gigantic oak tree, idly watching
the motions of “Aunt Medora,” as she turned the hissing bacon, or the
nicely browning “hoe-cake.” One of these was Clara Calhoun; the others
were men.
The eldest one—tall, portly and of a soldierly bearing—was her father,
the leader or captain of the wagon-train. Of perhaps fifty years in age,
his muscular frame gave no evidence of decay, and the fire of youth
still seemed to shine in his large dark eyes. The heavy, grizzled
mustache and beard, gave a somewhat stern cast to his features, that
were massive and regular, and his voice, used to command, enhanced this
idea; but at heart he was kind and gentle.
The other was a young man, between his fifth and sixth _lustrum_, with a
handsome, manly face and form; with a calm, steadfast look in his gray
eye that instinctively commanded one’s respect, and told that he could
be depended upon in any emergency, however dangerous or trying.
His garments were plain and almost poor, but there was an air of
conscious independence and freedom in his bearing and demeanor, that
attracted one, despite himself.
“Father, do you know that I think you made a great mistake in hiring
this Dusky Dick, or whatever may be his name, to act as guide?”
“Why so, Clara?” asked her parent, with an air of surprise.
“Well, you may laugh at me, or call me visionary, but I shudder whenever
he comes near me. I believe he is a traitor, and that he has some deep
purpose of his own that means danger to us all. If you ask my reasons, I
can only say what I have; I only feel that he’s not what he seems, and I
shall never rest easy until we are well rid of him.”
“I don’t like him overly well, myself,” slowly replied Calhoun, “but
still, I think he is honest and trustworthy.”
“Then why does he not attend to his business, instead of intruding where
he can’t help but see his presence is unwelcome?” warmly cried Clara.
“Why, daughter, what do you mean? What has he been doing?”
“Just this. I can’t stir a step from the wagons, but what he is at my
side, with his disagreeable smile and worse compliments. At first I did
not appear to mind them, but of late he has grown still more impudent,
and the worse I rebuff him, the more he persists, until now, unless it
is put a stop to, I will feel obliged to keep within the wagon all the
time.”
“You never spoke of this before, Clara,” uttered Calhoun, slowly. “If he
has troubled you so much, why not have told me?”
“Because I thought he would desist, and then there would be no trouble.
But to-day he grossly insulted me.”
“Stay, Buenos,” commanded the major, placing a hand upon the young man’s
arm, as he made a motion of anger—“let me settle this. He insulted you,
Clara?”
“Yes. He told me that the time was not far distant when I would crouch
at his feet, and be glad to call him _master_!” exclaimed the maiden,
her eyes flashing.
“But what led to this?”
“I hardly remember, but I told him he had other duties to perform, that
would become him better than forcing his company upon those to whom it
was unwelcome. I had tried to leave him by riding faster, to one side,
or by falling back; but he kept close beside me.”
Major Calhoun arose and glanced around upon the animated scene. The two
guides had returned, and were awaiting supper, meanwhile smoking their
pipes.
“Tom Maxwell, come here for a moment,” called the leader, and the tall
guide sprung nimbly to his feet and approached the group, doffing the
dirty felt hat, with an almost reverential bow to Clara.
“Maxwell, my man, I wish to ask your advice, and I trust you will be
plain and candid, in your reply,” began Calhoun.
“Maje, I’m Tom Maxwell, an’ you’ve hearn tell o’ me afore now; but did
you ever hear ’at I lied, or made a prac_tyce_ o’ any sech a dirty,
sneakin’ business? The truth is a mighty broad an plain trail, boss, to
them which is clear in the sight, an’ my ol’ mother l’arnt me to squint
true ’long that trail, tellin’ me—‘Now, sonny, jest foller your nose,
an’ go ahead!’ An’ ever sence then, I’ve did so, on’y, mayhap, steppin’
a lettle to one side in the matter o’ a red-skin, or sech like; but I
al’ays tuck it up jest whar I left it. I’ll tell you the truth ef it
bu’sts me—go on!”
Calhoun appeared used to the somewhat rambling style of the old guide,
and resumed:
“We were just talking about this Dusky Dick, as you call him; what is
your opinion of him, Tom?”
“H-u-m! As a guide, or a man?”
“Well—both.”
“Ya—as,” drawled Maxwell, smoking rapidly. “Fust, as a guide. He’s quick
an’ sharp-witted, knows a buffler-chip from a ant-hill; he is dead shore
on a trail or fer sign; a bully shot, rider, an’ all that; kin tell you,
or mark down like a printed map, every river, crick an’ waterhole that
is atween here an’ Salt Lake. Or to sum it up, as the lawyers o’ St.
Louey ’d say, he knows every feet o’ the trail, kin tell whar to ixpect
Injuns, or not to ixpect ’em, ekil to anybody what lives an’ breathes.”
“You praise him up very highly, Tom,” remarked Buenos Ayres.
“Do I, then? That’s jest as folks thinks. But honest, I don’t know a
single man ’at I’d ruther hev along ’th me, ’n this very Dusky Dick,
_pervidin’_, mind ye, thet he hed some strong intrust in the train’s
gittin’ through right side up, all hunky. But ef so be he hed a spite
ag’inst anybody, then I’d ruther hev the devil hisself fer a chum,” he
said, earnestly.
“Well, as a man,” added Major Calhoun.
“Wal, fust; he shoots off his mouth too durned much; he’d talk the ha’r
off ’m a buffler bull’s hump, an’ not more’n hafe try. He’s wuss ’n old
Daddy Lapyear, the preacherman which used to keep camp meetin’ nigh to
whar I lived when a little shaver; an’ more’n that couldn’t be said.
Look at his eyes—look at his face—look at his motion; look at him all
over, well. The hull outfit sais _snake_, jest as plain as geese-goose;
an’ the wust kind o’ sarpint, too—the ongainly, sneakin’ copperhead.
“Ef he tuck a dislike to a feller, would he come right out flatfooted
an’ tell him so? Nary time—not muchly! He’d lay low an’ bite ’em in the
heel. He’s pizon, I tell ye, pizon from head to toe, an’ sartin death.
Ef he gives you a black look, jest putt your heel on his head an’ squash
it. But look to your boots, fust. Gi’ me a match, youngster.”
Calhoun then repeat the threats of Dusky Dick, he had that day addressed
to Clara, and then awaited Tom’s reply, in some anxiety of mind.
“An’ he said _that_—_he_ did?” slowly returned Maxwell, his brow
knitting, as he puffed furiously at his relighted pipe.
“Those words, or to the same effect.”
“Wal then, thar’s snags ahead, boss, you kin jest bet your high old
ocean ware!” exclaimed Tom. “What’re you goin’ to do ’bout it?”
“I don’t know, just yet. That is what I asked your opinion for.”
“Wal then, ef he said them words, he _meant_ somethin’. He ain’t the
sort o’ feller to shoot his mouth off at nothin’, when he’s mad, jest
fer the fun o’ hearin’ hisself talk. Look here—do you know ’at he’s lost
_four_ trains in the last two years? an’ that one more jest got through
by stud-hoss luck, a’ter two days’ hard fightin’? I don’t say ’at he’s
in cahoot ’th the reds, not a-tall; but ef I hed a spite ag’in’ this
’ere train, an’ wanted to git it wiped out, I’d jest go to Mister Dusky
Dick, _Es_quire, an’ say—_whar’s the brigynees, Dick?”_ significantly
replied Tom, tapping one horny finger against the other palm.
“Then what do you advise, Maxwell?” somewhat anxiously asked Major
Calhoun, deeply impressed by the earnest words of the veteran guide.
“What do I ’vise? Now thar you’ve _got_ me, as Joe Nerr said to the
whale when he sucked him in. What _d’you_ think?”
“I thought some of discharging him,” was the thoughtful reply.
“The very wust thing you could do! ’Cause why. Ef he _is_ a runnygade,
thet is jest what he’d choose hisself, an’ then he’d hold high, low,
jack in his hand, ’th a fa’r show o’ ketchin’ the game, to boot. No,
sir! You must keep him, an’ say nothin’ to make him ’spicious, an’
then—_watch ’im_. You’ll watch—the young feller, _he’ll_ watch, an’
_I’ll_ watch, an’ it’s hard but what we kin manidge to keep him in
trim.”
“’S—st!” cautioned Ayres, rising erect, with hand upon his ready
revolver. “So, Mr. Dusky Dick, this is a specimen of your manners, is
it? Eavesdropping!” he added, as the form of the guide stepped out from
behind the tree beneath which the party were sitting.
“Should the _criminal_ be absent when he is being tried?” sneered
Rouzee, with a slight emphasis on the word italicized. “I was passing
by—I heard my name coupled with treachery—and so I paused.”
“Jest so—I was hungry—I saw a fat goose—I stole it, said the fox!”
murmured Tom, carelessly hitching his belt around. “I told you he was a
snake!”
“And what did you hear?” demanded Calhoun, arising.
“I heard myself accused of treachery—of being a renegade, and in
collusion with the Indians. If not in so many words, at least plainly
enough to be understood,” said Dusky Dick, deliberately.
“Well then—what is your answer?”
“What can it be! You are dissatisfied with me, and condemn me unheard. I
will not serve any man who does not trust me fully. Tom Maxwell, yonder,
knows the route quite as well as I do, and is capable of acting alone. I
will bid you good-by, now.”
“You mean to leave us?”
“Yes.”
“If you heard so much, Mr. Rouzee, as you say, surely you heard
Maxwell’s last words?” coldly added Major Calhoun. “We prefer not to
part with you; at least, not until we have reached a safer portion of
the country than this is.”
“True as preachin’!” softly interjected the old guide.
“Do you mean to detain me against my will?” said Dusky Dick, stepping
back a pace.
“If necessary—yes.”
“By force?”
“By force, if you compel us to adopt harsh measures,” impatiently
exclaimed the major.
“Now look here, Mr. Calhoun,” began Rouzee, in a firm tone. “I’m a free
man, and not bound to you in any way. I have honestly performed my part
of the contract, thus far, and if I choose to leave you now, all you can
do is to retain my wages. Do this if you will, but I’ll not stay with
you any longer.”
“Ef I hed a jass-ack what wouldn’t go, d’y’ think I’d wallop ’im?—bet
your monkey-musek I _would_!” gently whistled Tom Maxwell, eying Dusky
Dick with a benignant smile from beneath his battered slouch hat.
“You are but one—we are three—or if but one word is spoken aloud,
fifty.”
“And I am Dusky Dick!” cried the guide, in a defiant tone. “You have
heard of me before now, but you will _know_ me, if you persist in this
outrage. I tell you that I _will_ go, and there is but one thing that
can stop me—_death_!” and as he spoke, he leaped back so as to place the
trio in front of him, and drawing a brace of revolvers, he cocked them
with a clear, significant click.
“That long-legged beauty yonder told you that I could shoot true, and
for once he told the truth. You may keep me here, but it will not be
while I can draw trigger or sight along a barrel. Stop!” he added,
sternly, as the three men made a motion toward advancing. “The first
weapon drawn, or the first step toward me, will be the death-warrant of
Miss Clara yonder! Before God, I will shoot her, if I am molested!”
They saw that he was in terrible earnest, and instinctively shrunk back.
“Shell I take him, maje—shell I take him?” hoarsely whispered the old
guide, his form crouching and trembling with anger, at the rebel’s
audacity.
“No—no, don’t stir, Tom—for your life, don’t!” cried Calhoun, fearfully.
“The devil will shoot her if you do! Go, then, if you wish it, but if
you harm one of the party, I will hunt you down like a dog! Go, while
you can,” he added, bitterly.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Dusky Dick, “you are very generous, Major Calhoun, and
I congratulate you upon the facility with which you reverse your
decision. I _will_ go, but you may expect me again, very soon. I love
Miss Clara too greatly to abandon her so abruptly, for good.”
“Shoot him, father!” cried Clara, as she sprung up behind the huge
tree-trunk. “Never mind me—don’t let him brave you so!”
The three men abruptly turned around at this sudden interruption, and
then as they saw that the maiden’s maneuver placed her in comparative
safety, they quickly drew their weapons; but the guide had vanished, and
his taunting laugh of defiance echoed back through the woods.
“After him, Tom—Buenos! and shoot him like a wolf, if you find him!”
shouted Calhoun, as the three men dashed through the timber, in the
direction from whence had come the insolent laugh.
But their efforts at Dusky Dick’s capture were all in vain, although the
majority of the now fully aroused campers set out in pursuit of the
fugitive; and one by one they returned to their now cold supper, silent
and filled with a dim foreboding of impending peril.
“It’s a bad job, maje, a pesky bad job,” quoth Tom Maxwell, as he helped
himself to a fresh supply of the rude but wholesome viands; “an’ I’m
dub’ous that it hain’t all over yit. He never shed ’a’ got away—never!
But who under the sun would ’a’ thunk he’d ’a’ p’inted them pistils at
Miss Clary? The dratted sarpint! Burnin’s too good for sech as _he_ is!
Lord—Lord! what’s this world a-comin’ to, when sech pesky critters is
made?”
Double guards were posted that night, and an unusually strict watch was
kept, but the long night passed by without further event worthy of
record, and as the sun arose, it shined down upon the party slowly
trailing along their weary way.