DEADWOOD DICK, THE ROAD-AGENT.
"=$500 Reward:= For the apprehension and arrest of a
notorious young desperado who hails to the name of Deadwood
Dick. His present whereabouts are somewhat contiguous to the
Black Hills. For further information, and so forth, apply
immediately to
HUGH VANSEVERE,
"At Metropolitan Saloon, Deadwood City."
Thus read a notice posted up against a big pine tree, three miles
above Custer City, on the banks of French creek. It was a large
placard tacked up in plain view of all passers-by who took the route
north through Custer gulch in order to reach the infant city of the
Northwest--Deadwood.
Deadwood! the scene of the most astonishing bustle and activity, this
year (1877.) The place where men are literally made rich and poor in
one day and night. Prior to 1877 the Black Hills have been for a
greater part undeveloped, but now, what a change! In Deadwood
districts every foot of available ground has been "claimed" and staked
out; the population has increased from fifteen to more than
twenty-five hundred souls.
The streets are swarming with constantly arriving new-comers; the
stores and saloons are literally crammed at all hours; dance-houses
and can-can dens exist; hundreds of eager, expectant, and hopeful
miners are working in the mines, and the harvest reaped by them is not
at all discouraging. All along the gulch are strung a profusion of
cabins, tents and shanties, making Deadwood in reality a town of a
dozen miles in length, though some enterprising individual has paired
off a couple more infant cities above Deadwood proper, named
respectively Elizabeth City and Ten Strike. The quartz formation in
these neighborhoods is something extraordinary, and from late reports,
under vigorous and earnest development are yielding beyond the most
sanguine expectation.
The placer mines west of Camp Crook are being opened to very
satisfactory results, and, in fact, from Custer City in the south, to
Deadwood in the north, all is the scene of abundant enthusiasm and
excitement.
A horseman riding north through Custer gulch, noticed the placard so
prominently posted for public inspection, and with a low whistle,
expressive of astonishment, wheeled his horse out of the stage road,
and rode over to the foot of the tree in question, and ran his eyes
over the few irregularly-written lines traced upon the notice.
He was a youth of an age somewhere between sixteen and twenty, trim
and compactly built, with a preponderance of muscular development and
animal spirits; broad and deep of chest, with square, iron-cast
shoulders; limbs small yet like bars of steel, and with a grace of
position in the saddle rarely equaled; he made a fine picture for an
artist's brush or a poet's pen.
Only one thing marred the captivating beauty of the picture.
His form was clothed in a tight-fitting habit of buck-skin, which was
colored a jetty black, and presented a striking contrast to anything
one sees as a garment in the wild far West. And this was not all,
either. A broad black hat was slouched down over his eyes; he wore a
thick black vail over the upper portion of his face, through the
eye-holes of which there gleamed a pair of orbs of piercing intensity,
and his hands, large and knotted, were hidden in a pair of kid gloves
of a light color.
The "Black Rider" he might have been justly termed, for his
thoroughbred steed was as black as coal, but we have not seen fit to
call him such--his name is Deadwood Dick, and let that suffice for the
present.
It was just at the edge of evening that he stopped before, and
proceeded to read, the placard posted upon the tree in one of the
loneliest portions of Custer's gulch.
Above and on either side rose to a stupendous hight the tree-fringed
mountains in all their majestic grandeur.
In front and behind, running nearly north and south, lay the deep,
dark chasm--a rift between mighty walls--Custer's gulch.
And over all began to hover the cloak of night, for the sun had
already imparted its dying kiss on the mountain craters, and below,
the gloom was thickening with rapid strides.
Slowly, over and over, Deadwood Dick, outlaw, road-agent and outcast,
read the notice, and then a wild sardonic laugh burst from beneath his
mask--a terrible, blood-curdling laugh, that made even the powerful
animal he bestrode start and prick up its ears.
"Five hundred dollars reward for the apprehension and arrest of a
notorious young desperado who hails to the name of Deadwood Dick! Ha!
ha! ha! isn't that rich, now? Ha! ha! ha! _arrest_ Deadwood Dick! Why,
'pon my word it is a sight for sore eyes. I was not aware that I had
attained such a desperate notoriety as that document implies. They
will make me out a murderer before they get through, I expect. Can't
let me alone--everlastingly they must be punching after me, as if I
was some obnoxious pestilence on the face of the earth. Never mind,
though--let 'em keep on! Let them just continue their hounding game,
and see which comes up on top when the bag's shook. If more than one
of 'em don't get their fingers burned when they snatch Deadwood Dick
bald-headed, why I'm a Spring creek sucker, that's all. Maybe I don't
know who foots the bill in this reward business; oh, no; maybe I can't
ride down to Deadwood and frighten three kind o' ideas out of this Mr.
Hugh Vansevere, whoever he may be. Ha! ha! the fool that h'isted that
notice didn't _know_ Deadwood Dick, or he would never have placed his
life in jeopardy by performing an act so uninteresting to the party in
question. Hugh Vansevere; let me see--I don't think I've got that
registered in my collection of appellatives. Perhaps he is a new tool
in the employ of the old mechanic."
Darker and thicker grew the night shadows. The after-harvest moon rose
up to a sufficient hight to send a silvery bolt of powerful light down
into the silent gulch; like an image carved out of the night the horse
and rider stood before the placard, motionless, silent.
The head of Deadwood Dick was bent, and he was buried in a deep
reverie. A reverie that engrossed his whole attention for a long, long
while; then the impatient pawing of his horse aroused him, and he sat
once more erect in his saddle.
A last time his eyes wandered over the notice on the tree--a last time
his terrible laugh made the mountains ring, and he guided his horse
back into the rough, uneven stage-road, and galloped off up the gulch.
"I will go and see what this Hugh Vansevere looks like!" he said,
applying the spurs to his horse. "I'll be dashed if I want him to be
so numerous with my name, especially with five hundred dollars affixed
thereto, as a reward."
* * * * *
Midnight.
Camp Crook, nestling down in one of the wildest gulch pockets of the
Black Hills region--basking and sleeping in the flood of moonlight
that emanates from the glowing ball up afar in heaven's blue vault, is
suddenly and rudely aroused from her dreams.
There is a wild clatter of hoofs, a chorus of strange and varied
voices swelling out in a wild mountain song, and up through the very
heart of the diminutive city, where the gold-fever has dropped a few
sanguine souls, dash a cavalcade of masked horsemen, attired in the
picturesque garb of the mountaineer, and mounted on animals of
superior speed and endurance.
At their head, looking weird and wonderful in his suit of black, rides
he whom all have heard of--he whom some have seen, and he whom no one
dare raise a hand against, in single combat--Deadwood Dick, Road-Agent
Prince, and the one person whose name is in everybody's mouth.
Straight on through the single northerly street of the infant village
ride the dauntless band, making weirdly beautiful music with their
rollicking song, some of the voices being cultivated, and clear as the
clarion note.
A few miners, wakened from their repose, jump out of bed, come to the
door, and stare at the receding cavalcade in a dazed sort of way.
Others, thinking that the noise is all resulting from an Indian
attack, seize rifles or revolvers, as the case may be, and blaze away
out of windows and loopholes at whatever may be in the way to receive
their bullets.
But the road-agents only pause a moment in their song to send back a
wild, sarcastic laugh; then they resume it, and merrily dash along up
the gulch, the ringing of iron-shod hoofs beating a strange tatoo to
the sound of the music.
Sleepily the miners crawl back to their respective couches; the moon
smiles down on mother earth, and nature once more fans itself to sleep
with the breath of a fragrant breeze.
* * * * *
Deadwood--magic city of the West!
Not dead, nor even sleeping, is this headquarters of the Black Hills
population at midnight, twenty-four hours subsequent to the rush of
the daring road-agents through Camp Crook.
Deadwood is just as lively and hilarious a place during the interval
between sunset and sunrise as during the day. Saloons, dance-houses,
and gambling dens keep open all night, and stores do not close until a
late hour. At one, two and three o'clock in the morning the streets
present as lively an appearance as at any period earlier in the
evening. Fighting, shooting, stabbing and hideous swearing are
features of the night; singing, drinking, dancing and gambling
another.
Nightly the majority of the miners come in from such claims as are
within a radius of from six to ten miles, and seldom is it that they
go away without their "load." To be sure, there are some men in
Deadwood who do not drink, but they are so few and scattering as to
seem almost entirely a nonentity.
It was midnight, and Deadwood lay basking in a flood of mellow
moonlight that cast long shadows from the pine forest on the peaks,
and glinted upon the rapid, muddy waters of Whitewood creek, which
rumbles noisily by the infant metropolis on its wild journey toward
the south.
All the saloons and dance-houses are in full blast; shouts and maudlin
yells rend the air. In front of one insignificant board,
"ten-by-twenty," an old wretch is singing out lustily:
"Right this way ye cum, pilgrims, ter ther great Black Hills Thee'ter;
only costs ye four bits ter go in an' see ther tender sex, already
a-kickin' in their striped stockin's; only four bits, recollect, ter
see ther greatest show on earth, so heer's yer straight chance!"
But, why the use of yelling? Already the shanty is packed, and judging
from the thundering screeches and clapping of hands, the entertainment
is such as suits the depraved tastes of the ruffianly "bums" who have
paid their "four bits," and gone in.
But look!
Madly out of Deadwood gulch, the abode of thousands of lurking
shadows, dashes a horseman.
Straight through the main street of the noisy metropolis he spurs,
with hat off, and hair blowing backward in a jetty cloud.
On, on, followed by the eyes of scores curious to know the meaning of
his haste--on, and at last he halts in front of a large board shanty,
over whose doorway is the illuminated canvas sign: "Metropolitan
Saloon, by Tom Young."
Evidently his approach is heard, for instantly out of the
"Metropolitan" there swarms a crowd of miners, gamblers and bummers to
see "what the row is."
"Is there a man among you, gentlemen, who bears the name of Hugh
Vansevere?" asks the rider, who from his midnight dress we may judge
is no other than Deadwood Dick.
"That is my handle, pilgrim!" and a tall, rough-looking customer of
the Minnesotian order steps forward. "What mought yer lay be ag'in
me?"
"A _sure_ lay!" hisses the masked road-agent, sternly. "You are
advertising for one Deadwood Dick, and he has come to pay you his
respects!"
The next instant there is a flash, a pistol report, a fall and a
groan, the clattering of iron-shod hoofs; and then, ere anyone
scarcely dreams of it, _Deadwood Dick is gone!_