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* * * * *
New Series No. 262.} {Old Series No. 383.
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[Illustration]
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RAINBOLT, THE RANGER: OR, THE AERIAL DEMON OF THE MOUNTAIN.
BY OLL COOMES.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
No. 98 WILLIAM STREET.
* * * * *
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
* * * * *
RAINBOLT, THE RANGER; OR, THE AERIAL DEMON OF THE MOUNTAIN.
CHAPTER I. THE VILLAINS’ PLOT.
In fifteen minutes the emigrant train on the Union Pacific railroad was
to leave the depot at Omaha, going west.
Two men, evidently waiting for the train, might have been seen pacing
to and fro upon the station platform in close conversation.
The eldest of the two was apparently forty years of age. He was of
medium hight and build, with steel-gray eyes, sharp and brilliant. His
hair, which was cut closely to a well-shaped head, was of a dark brown,
as was also his heavy mustache and whiskers. He was dressed in light
gray clothes, after the prevailing fashion of the day (1869).
The other individual was a man of some thirty years. He was much taller
than his companion, but not so compactly built. His hair was black as
the raven’s wing, and hung about his shoulders long and straight. His
eyes were black, but small and evil-like. His face was smoothly shaven,
and bore the unmistakable evidence of a dissipated character. He was
dressed in a suit of dark clothes that fitted him stiffly and made him
appear ill at ease.
No one in Omaha knew these two individuals, yet their names were
spoken daily in connection with their crimes, for the former was Duval
Dungarvon, the notorious robber-captain of the Black Hills, and the
latter Blufe Brandon, the renegade Cheyenne chief known as Black Bear.
Having glanced about them to see that no one was near, the robber-chief
asked, in a low tone:
“Well, Brandon, have you made up your mind about that matter?”
“Not exactly,” added Brandon, “for, since I have considered that you
have oceans of gold stowed away in the ‘Hills,’ I think you can afford
to say ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand furies!” replied the robber-captain; “what would such
a notorious cutthroat as you are do with _ten thousand dollars_? You
couldn’t spend it among your accursed Indians, and you _dare_ not
attempt to spend it among white people. But, however, I suppose I must
submit, as the game is in your own hands. But, mind you, the girl has
got to be placed in my hands at the Devil’s Tarn, forty miles south of
Cheyenne, and if one hair of her head is injured I will not give you
one cent!” and the eyes of the robber-captain glowed like living coals
of fire.
“How soon will Sanford--I believe that’s what you called him--start for
San Francisco?”
“Within the next ten days, I understand; however, I will telegraph you
at Julesburg on the morning they start, using, of course, our hotel
_nom de plumes_. Now remember.”
At this juncture the conductor’s call of, “All aboard” ended the two
villains’ conversation, and bidding his companion adieu, Blufe Brandon
entered the cars, and in another moment he was rolling toward the
mountains.
Duval Dungarvon entered an omnibus and ordered the driver to drive him
to the Wyoming hotel.
And thus in a few minutes two villains--one a robber and the other a
renegade--both from the fastnesses of the Black Hills--had planned and
plotted a dark and perhaps bloody crime.
Five days later and Duval Dungarvon was again pacing the
depot-platform. He was alone, but, from the impatient look upon his
face and the occasional glance up the street, it was evident that he
was expecting some one.
Presently his face brightened as he saw a carriage, drawn by four
horses, rolling down toward the depot, and as it drove up alongside
the platform he walked to the opposite side and mingled with some men
collected there, but all the while kept a close watch upon the carriage.
When the vehicle stopped, a tall, noble, gray-haired man of some fifty
years stepped out and assisted a young and beautiful girl to the
platform. These were followed by four young men dressed in sportsmen’s
garbs, each carrying a new Spencer rifle and a game-bag.
The elderly gentleman was Colonel Wayland Sanford, and the young
girl his daughter Silvia. They were just about to start on a visit
to friends in San Francisco. Two of the young men, Willis and Frank
Armond, were the colonel’s nephews and men of means and leisure.
The other two, Walter Lyman, attorney, and Ralph Rodman, physician
and surgeon, were Willis’ and Frank’s intimate friends, who, like
themselves, did not have to depend entirely upon their profession for a
livelihood; so the four young gentlemen had concluded to accompany the
colonel and daughter as far as the mountains, where they could spend
the summer in hunting as recreation from the dust and heat of city life.
As soon as Duval Dungarvon saw the party enter the cars that stood
awaiting their load of human freight, he turned and entered the
telegraph office, and taking up a blank seated himself at a desk and
wrote the following message, which he at once dispatched:
“OMAHA, June 15th, 1869.
“WILLIAM BATES, Esqr., Julesburg, W. T.--Sanford and daughter leave
on morning train for San Francisco.
“CLIFTON PAYSON.”
Paying for the dispatch, the robber-captain went out upon the platform.
The cars were just rolling away, and from one of the windows he beheld
the eyes of Colonel Sanford fixed upon him like one in a trance; but
in an instant the train was gone, and, turning on his heel, he strode
away, muttering to himself:
“By furies! he recognized me! It’s a good thing he’s gone, Duval
Dungarvon, _alias_ Clifton Payson, for he might have given you trouble,
and the best thing for you is to get out of here yourself.”
And so he did. The next day the villain took the train west.
Had one from the grave confronted Colonel Sanford he could not have
been more startled than he was on seeing Duval Dungarvon. For fully an
hour he sat in profound silence, which his young friends attributed to
his feelings on leaving home, and the possible idea that he might never
live to return to it again. Finally, however, he rallied and talked
and joked in his usual humorous spirits.
After nearly two days’ ride the train rolled into Julesburg, where
it stopped for a few minutes. But one person took the train at this
point, and that person was Blufe Brandon, the renegade chief, his face
completely disguised in a mass of false, grizzly whiskers.
The renegade passed from coach to coach, and finally seated himself on
the seat behind Colonel Sanford, which happened to be vacant. Julesburg
was left far behind, and away in the distance westward the dark range
of the Black Hills loomed up against the glowing sky.
There being no way-stations, the train rolled rapidly on, never tiring,
never halting, gliding into the dark cut, by roaring cañon, over the
yawning gorge, beneath the beetling crag, through dismal tunnel--on,
on until it had entered the environs of the Black Hills. Then the
evil-eyed passenger from Julesburg glanced around, and, seeing no eye
upon him, placed his hand in his pocket and drew therefrom a small
packet which he at once tossed out at the window with considerable
force. A dull report like that of a pistol; a lurid flash like that by
a rocket, where the packet struck the earth, followed this act. But
one person in the cars saw that flash, and that was he who produced
it; but, far away up on a mountain peak, another pair of eyes saw and
read the meaning of that flash, and immediately from the same hight a
blazing arrow shot far up into the air, described a beautiful curve,
and then fell to the earth again. Then, fully three miles further on
toward the west, from the summit of another peak, a blue light might
have been seen swinging to and fro, then standing still, then rolling
through the air like a blazing hoop.
Suddenly, in rounding an abrupt curve, the glowing headlight flashed
on a red flag standing in the center of the track. Instantly the wary
engineer whistled down brakes, and in a moment the train stopped. At
that instant a yell that fairly shook the old hills fell upon the ears
of the passengers--a savage, blood-curdling yell, mingled with the
clash of firearms.
It required but a single thought for the passengers to realize the
terrible truth. _The train had been stopped by a band of Indians!_
Simultaneous with the yell of the Indians a loud, coarse voice cried
out:
“Put out the lights; the train has been attacked by the Indians!”
It was the voice of Blufe Brandon.
In an instant the lights were put out in that coach. Then followed
a confusion that beggars description. The yells of the Indians, the
report of pistols, the crashing of glass, the jamming of shutters, the
screaming of women, the commands and shouts of men, made the moment
awful, terrible.
In the midst of the excitement Brandon sprung to his feet, and, leaning
forward, seized Silvia Sanford around the waist--lifted her in his arms
as though she had been an infant, and turning, glided out the door and
sprung from the car.
“Oh, father, help! Some one is carrying me off!” cried Silvia, as she
was borne from the car.
“Great God! what foul treachery is this?” cried Colonel Sanford,
springing to his feet. “Willis, Frank, boys, all come, for Heaven’s
sake!” and, followed by the four young men, he rushed out and sprung
from the car just in time to see the villain disappear down a black
defile with his child.
The moment the renegade sprung from the car every Indian turned and
followed him, leaving the train to resume its course, which it did,
leaving Colonel Sanford and his young friends standing alone in that
awful gloom!
It was quite evident that the attack had been carefully arranged,
simply for the abduction of Miss Sanford, for no one was killed, nor
did the savages attempt to board the train as they had done on previous
occasions; but withdrew at a signal of their chief, Blufe Brandon.
A speechless silence fell over the colonel and his party. They stood
and gazed into the gloom that seemed impenetrable.
The prospect of recovering the lost girl appeared to the experienced
eyes of the father almost as gloomy as were the surroundings.
The remembrance of the face he had seen at Omaha as the cars were
leaving, the face of a man whom he knew to be his bitter, implacable
enemy, instantly caused him to connect the man with the disappearance
of his daughter.
Under these circumstances it was indeed fortunate that the father
was an experienced Indian-fighter. During the gold-fever of 1848, he
had crossed the plains twice, and spent many years in the mines of
California. Then during the Pike’s Peak excitement he spent a couple
of years there, and during the late Indian troubles he had command
of a regiment of cavalry upon active duty, their field of operations
being in the immediate vicinity of the Black Hills. Thus most of his
life had been spent upon the frontier, or among the Indians, whose
language, haunts and habits he had learned to perfection; and there
was but little of the country in which they now were but what he was
intimately acquainted with, though five years had elapsed since he had
last traversed it. Knowing that no time was to be lost he shaped their
course, and at once set off in the direction taken by the savages, the
darkness rendering it impossible to follow the trail.
Thus began the young men’s summer recreation on the plains!