THE "CATTYMOUNT"--A QUARREL AND ITS RESULTS.
The "Metropolitan" saloon in Deadwood, one week subsequent to the
events last narrated, was the scene of a larger "jamboree" than for
many weeks before.
It was Saturday night, and up from the mines of Gold Run, Bobtail,
Poor Man's Pocket, and Spearfish, and down from the Deadwood in
miniature, Crook City, poured a swarm of rugged, grisly gold-diggers,
the blear-eyed, used-up-looking "pilgrim," and the inevitable wary
sharp, ever on the alert for a new buck to fleece.
The "Metropolitan" was then, as now, the headquarters of the Black
Hills metropolis for arriving trains and stages, and as a natural
consequence received a goodly share of the public patronage.
A well-stocked bar of liquors in Deadwood was _non est_ yet the saloon
in question boasted the best to be had. Every bar has its clerk at a
pair of tiny scales, and he is ever kept more than busy weighing out
the shining dust that the toiling miner has obtained by the sweat of
his brow. And if the deft-fingered clerk cannot put six ounces of dust
in his own pouch of a night, it clearly shows that he is not long in
the business.
Saturday night!
The saloon is full to overflowing--full of brawny rough, and grisly
men; full of ribald songs and maudlin curses; full of foul
atmospheres, impregnated with the fumes of vile whisky, and worse
tobacco, and full of sights and scenes, exciting and repulsive.
As we enter and work our way toward the center of the apartment, our
attention is attracted by a coarse, brutal "tough," evidently just
fresh in from the diggings; who, mounted on the summit of an empty
whisky cask, is exhorting in rough language, and in the tones of a
bellowing bull, to an audience of admiring miners assembled at his
feet, which, by the way, are not of the most diminutive pattern
imaginable. We will listen:
"Feller coots and liquidarians, behold before ye a real descendant uv
Cain and Abel. Ye'll reckolect, ef ye've ever bin ter camp-meetin',
that Abel got knocked out o' time by his cuzzin Cain, an becawse Abel
war misproperly named, and warn't _able_ when the crysis arriv ter
defen' himsel' in an able manner.
"Hed he bin 'heeled' wi' a shipment uv Black Hills sixes, thet would
hev _enabled_ him to distinguish hisself fer superyer ability. Now, as
I sed before, I'm a lineal descendant uv ther notorious Ain and Cable,
and I've lit down hyar among ye ter explain a few p'ints 'bout true
blessedness and true cussedness.
"Oh! brethern, I tell ye I'm a snorter, I am, when I git a-goin'--a
wild screechin' cattymount, right down frum ther sublime spheres up
Starkey--ar' a regular epizootic uv religyun, sent down frum clouddum
and scattered permiscously ter ther forty winds uv ther earth."
We pass the "cattymount," and presently come to a table at which a
young and handsome "pilgrim," and a ferret-eyed sharp are engaged at
cards. The first mentioned is a tall, robust fellow, somewhere in the
neighborhood of twenty-three years of age, with clear-cut features,
dark lustrous eyes, and teeth of pearly whiteness. His hair is long
and curling, and a soft brown mustache, waxed at the ends, is almost
perfection itself.
Evidently he is of quick temperament, for he handles the cards with a
swift, nervous dexterity that surprises even the professional sharp
himself, who is a black, swarthy-looking customer, with "villain"
plainly written in every lineament of his countenance; his eyes, hair,
and a tremendous mustache that he occasionally strokes, are of a jetty
black; did you ever notice it?--dark hair and complexion predominate
among the gambling fraternity.
Perhaps this is owing to the condition of the souls of some of these
characters.
The professional sharp in our case was no exception to the rule. He
was attired in the hight of fashion, and the diamond cluster,
inevitably to be found there, was on his shirt front; a jewel of
wonderful size and brilliancy.
"Ah! curse the luck!" exclaimed the sharp, slapping down the cards;
"you have won again, pilgrim, and I am five hundred out. By the gods,
your luck is something astonishing!"
"_Luck!_" laughed the other, coolly: "well, no. I do not call it luck,
for I never have luck. We'll call it chance!"
"Just as you say," growled the gambler, bringing forth a new pack.
"Chance and luck are then twin companions. Will you continue longer,
Mr.----"
"Redburn," finished the pilgrim.
"Ah! yes--Mr. Redburn, will you continue?"
"I will play as long as there is anything to play for," again finished
Mr. R., twisting the waxed ends of his mustache calmly. "Maybe you
have got your fill, eh?"
"No; I'll play all night to win back what I have lost."
A youth, attired in buck-skin, and apparently a couple of years
younger than Redburn, came sauntering along at this juncture, and
seeing an unoccupied chair at one end of the table (for Redburn and
the gambler sat at the sides, facing each other), he took possession
of it forthwith.
"Hello!" and the sharp swore roundly. "Who told _you_ to mix in your
lip, pilgrim?"
"Nobody, as I know of. Thought I'd squat right here, and watch your
_sleeves_!" was the significant retort, and the youth laid a cocked
six-shooter on the table in front of him.
"Go on, gentlemen; don't let me be the means of spoiling your fun."
The gambler uttered a curse, and dealt out the pasteboards.
The youth was watching him intently, with his sharp black eyes.
He was of medium hight, straight as an arrow, and clad in a
loose-fitting costume. A broad sombrero was set jauntily upon the left
side of his head, the hair of which had been cut close down to the
scalp. His face--a pleasant, handsome, youthful face--was devoid of
hirsute covering, he having evidently been recently handled by the
barber.
The game between Mr. Redburn and the gambler progressed; the eyes of
he whom we have just described were on the card sharp constantly.
The cards went down on the table in vigorous slaps, and at last, Mr.
Pilgrim Redburn raked in the stakes.
"Thunder 'n' Moses!" ejaculated the sharp, pulling out his watch--an
elegant affair, of pure gold, and studded with diamonds--and laying it
forcibly down upon the table.
"There! what will you plank on that!"
Redburn took up the time-piece, turned it over and over in his hands,
opened and shut it, gave a glance at the works, and then handed it
over to the youth, whom he instinctively felt was his friend. Redburn
had come from the East to dig gold, and therefore was a stranger in
Deadwood.
"What is its money value?" he asked, familiarizing his tone. "Good, I
suppose."
"Yes, perfectly good, and cheap at two hundred," was the unhesitating
reply. "Do you lack funds, stranger?"
"Oh! no. I am three hundred ahead of this cuss yet, and--"
"You'd better quit where you are!" said the other, decisively. "You'll
lose the next round, mark my word."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Redburn, who had begun to show symptoms of
recklessness. "I'll take my chances. Here, you gamin, I'll cover the
watch with two hundred dollars."
Without more ado the stakes were planked, the cards dealt, and the
game began.
The youth, whom we will call Ned Harris, was not idle.
He took the revolvers from the table, changed his position so that his
face was just in the opposite direction of what it had been, and
commenced to pare his finger nails. The fingers were as white and soft
as any girl's. In his hand he also held a strangely-angled little box,
the sides of which were mirror-glass. Looking at his finger-nails he
also looked into the mirror, which gave a complete view of the
card-sharp, as he sat at the table.
Swiftly progressed the game, and no one could fail to see how it was
going by watching the cunning light in the gambler's eye. At last the
game-card went down, and next instant, after the sharp had raked in
his stakes, a cocked revolver in either hand of Ned Harris covered the
hearts of the two players.
"Hello!" gasped Redburn, quailing under the gaze of a cold steel
tube--"what's the row, now?"
"Draw your revolver!" commanded Harris, sternly, having an eye on the
card-sharp at the same time, "Come! don't be all night about it!"
Redburn obeyed; he had no other choice.
"Cock it and cover your man!"
"Who do you mean?"
"The cuss under my left-hand aim."
Again the "pilgrim" felt that he could not afford to do otherwise than
obey.
So he took "squint" at the gambler's left breast after which Harris
withdrew the siege of his left weapon, although he still covered the
young Easterner, the same. Quietly he moved around to where the
card-sharp sat, white and trembling.
"Gentlemen!" he yelled, in a clear, ringing voice, "will some of you
step this way a moment?"
A crowd gathered around in a moment: then the youth resumed:
"Feller-citizens, all of you know how to play cards, no doubt. What is
the penalty of cheating, out here in the Hills?"
For a few seconds the room was wrapt in silence; then a chorus of
voices gave answer, using a single word:
"Death!"
"Exactly," said Harris, calmly. "When a sharp hides cards in Chinaman
fashion up his sleeve, I reckon that's what you call cheatin', don't
you?"
"That's the size of it," assented each bystander, grimly.
Ned Harris pressed his pistol-muzzle against the gambler's forehead,
inserted his fingers in each of the capacious sleeves, and a moment
later laid several high cards upon the table.
A murmur of incredulity went through the crowd of spectators. Even
"pilgrim" Redburn was astonished.
After removing the cards, Ned Harris turned and leveled his revolver
at the head of the young man from the East.
"Your name?" he said, briefly, "is--"
"Harry Redburn."
"Very well. Harry Redburn, that gambler under cover of your pistol is
guilty of a crime, punishable in the Black Hills by death. As you are
his victim--or, rather, were to be--it only remains for you to aim
straight and rid your country of an A No. 1 dead-beat and swindler!"
"Oh! no!" gasped Redburn, horrified at the thought of taking the life
of a fellow-creature--"I cannot, I cannot!"
"You _can!_" said Harris, sternly; "go on--_you must salt that
card-sharp, or I'll certainly salt you!_"
A deathlike silence followed.
"_One!_" said Harris, after a moment.
Redburn grew very pale, but not paler was he than the card-sharp just
opposite. Redburn was no coward; neither was he accustomed to the
desperate character of the population of the Hills. Should he shoot
the tricky wretch before him, he knew he should be always calling
himself a murderer. On the contrary, in the natural laws of Deadwood,
such a murder would be classed justice.
"_Two!_" said Ned Harris, drawing his pistol-hammer back to full cock.
"Come, pilgrim, are you going to shoot?"
Another silence; only the low breathing of the spectators could be
heard.
"_Three!_"
Redburn raised his pistol and fired--blindly and carelessly, not
knowing or caring whither went the compulsory death-dealing bullet.
There was a heavy fall, a groan of pain, as the gambler dropped over
on the floor; then for the space of a few seconds all was the wildest
confusion throughout the mammoth saloon.
Revolvers were in every hand, knives flashed in the glare of the
lamplight, curses and threats were in scores of mouths, while some of
the vast surging crowd cheered lustily.
At the table Harry Redburn still sat, as motionless as a statue, the
revolver still held in his hand, his face white, his eyes staring.
There he remained, the center of general attraction, with a hundred
pair of blazing eyes leveled at him from every side.
"Come!" said Ned Harris, in a low tone, tapping him on the
shoulder--"come, pardner; let's git out of this, for times will be
brisk soon. You've wounded one of the biggest card-devils in the
Hills, and he'll be rearin' pretty quick. Look! d'ye see that feller
comin' yonder, who was preachin' from on top of the barrel, a bit ago?
Well, that is Catamount Cass, an' he's a pard of Chet Diamond, the
feller you salted, an' them fellers behind him are his gang. Come!
follow me, Henry, and I'll nose our way out of here."
Redburn signified his readiness, and with a cocked six-shooter in
either hand Ned Harris led the way.