DEADWOOD DICK ON THE ROAD.
Rumbling noisily through the black canyon road to Deadwood, at an hour
long past midnight, came the stage from Cheyenne, loaded down with
passengers, and full five hours late, on account of a broken shaft,
which had to be replaced on the road. There were six plunging,
snarling horses attached, whom the veteran Jehu on the box, managed
with the skill of a circusman, and all the time the crack! snap! of
his long-lashed gad made the night resound as like so many pistol
reports.
The road was through a wild tortuous canyon, fringed with tall
spectral pines, which occasionally admitted a bar of ghostly moonlight
across the rough road over which the stage tore with wild
recklessness.
Inside, the vehicle was crammed full to its utmost capacity, and
therefrom emanated the strong fumes of whisky and tobacco smoke, and
stronger language, over the delay and the terrible jolting of the
conveyance.
In addition to those penned up inside, there were two passengers
positioned on top, to the rear of the driver, where they clung to the
trunk railings to keep from being jostled off.
One was an elderly man, tall in stature and noticeably portly, with a
florid countenance, cold gray eyes, and hair and beard of brown,
freely mixed with silvery threads. He was elegantly attired, his
costume being of the finest cloth and of the very latest cut: boots
patent leathers, and hat glossy as a mirror; diamonds gleamed and
sparkled on his immaculate shirt-bosom, on his fingers and from the
seal of a heavy gold chain across his vest front.
The other personage was a counterpart of the first to every
particular, save that while one was more than a semi-centenarian to
years, the other was barely twenty. The same faultless elegance in
dress, the same elaborate display of jewels, and the same haughty,
aristocratic bearing produced in one was mirrored to the other.
They were father and son.
"Confound such a road!" growled the younger man, as the stage bounced
him about like a rubber ball. "For my part I wish I had remained at
home, instead of coming out into this outlandish region. It is
perfectly awful."
"Y-y-y-e-s!" chattered the elder between the jolts and jerks--"it is
not what it should be, that's true. But have patience; ere long we
will reach our destination, and--"
"Get shot like poor Vansevere did!" sneered the other. "I tell you,
governor, this is a desperate game you are playing."
The old man smiled, grimly.
"Desperate or not, we must carry it through to the end. Vansevere was
not the right kind of a man to set after the young scamp."
"How do you mean?"
"He was too rash--entirely too rash. Deadwood Dick is a daring whelp,
and Vansevere's open offer of a reward for his apprehension only put
the young tiger on his guard, and he will be more wary and watchful in
the future."
This in a positive tone.
"Yes; he will be harder to trap than a fox who has lost a foot between
jaws of steel. He will be revengeful, too!"
"Bah! I fear him not, old as I am. He is but a boy in years, you
remember, and will be easily managed."
"I hope so; I don't want my brains blown out, at least."
The stage rumbled on; the Jehu cursed and lashed his horses; the
canyon grew deeper, narrower and darker, the grade slightly
descending.
The moon seemed resting on the summit of a peak, hundreds of feet
above, and staring down in surprise at the noisy stage.
Alexander Filmore (the elder passenger) succeeded in steadying himself
long enough to ignite the end of a cigar to the bowl of Jehu's grimy
pipe; then he watched the trees that flitted by. Clarence, his son,
had smoked incessantly since leaving Camp Crook, and now threw away
his half-used cheroot, and listened to the sighing of the spectral
pines.
"The girl--what about her?" he asked, after some moments had elapsed.
"She will be as much to the way as the boy will."
"She? Well, we'll attend to her after we git him out of the way. He is
the worst obstacle to our path, at present. Maybe when you see the
girl you will take a fancy to her."
"Pish! I want no petticoats clinging to me--much less an ignorant
backwoods clodhopper. She is probably a fit mate for an Indian chief."
"You are too rough on the tender sex, boy," and the elder Filmore gave
vent to a disconnected laugh. "You must remember that your mother was
a woman."
"Was she?" Clarence bit the end of his waxed mustache, and mused over
his sire's startling announcement. "_You_ recollect that I never saw
her."
"D'ye carry poppin'-jays, pilgrims?" demanded Jehu, turning so
suddenly upon the two passengers as to frighten them out of their
wits.
"Popping-jays?" echoed Filmore, senior.
"Yas--shutin'-irons--rewolvers--patent perforatin' masheens."
"Yes, we are armed, if that is what you mean."
On dashed the stage through the echoing canyon--on plunged the
snorting horses, excited to greater efforts by the frequent
application of the cracking lash. The pines grew thicker, and the
moonlight less often darted its rays down athwart the road.
"Hey!" yelled a rough voice from within the stage "w'at d'ye drive so
fast fer? Ye've jonced the senses clean out uv a score o' us."
"Go to blazes!" shouts back Jehu, giving an extra crack to his whip.
"Who'n the name o' John Rodgers ar' drivin' this omnybust,
pilgrim?--you or I?"
"You'll floor a hoss ef ye don' mind sharp!"
"Who'n thunder wants ye to pay fer et, ef I do?" rings back,
tauntingly. "Reckon w'en Bill McGucken can't drive ther
thru-ter-Deadwood stage as gude as ther average, he'll suspend
bizness, or hire _you_ ter steer to his place."
On, on rumbles the stage, down through a lower grade of the canyon,
where no moonlight penetrates, and all is of Stygian darkness.
The two passengers on top of the stage shiver with dread, and even old
Bill McGucken peers around him, a trifle suspiciously.
It is a wild spot, with the mountains rising on each side of the road
to a stupendous hight, the towering pines moaning their sad, eternal
requiem; the roar of the great wheels over the hardpan bottom; the
snorting of the fractious lead-horses; the curses and the cracking of
Jehu's whip; the ring of iron-shod hoofs--it is a place and moment
conducive to fear, mute wonder, admiration.
"_Halt!_"
High above all other sounds now rings this cry, borne toward the
advancing stage from the impenetrable space of gloom ahead, brought
down in clear commanding tone whereto there is neither fear nor
hesitation.
That one word has marvelous effect. It brings a gripe of iron into the
hands of Jehu, and he jerks his snorting steeds back upon their
haunches; it is instrumental in stopping the stage. (Who ever knew a
Black Hills driver to offer to press on when challenged to halt to a
wild dismal place?)
It sends a thrill of lonely horror through the vein of those to whose
ears the cry is borne; it causes hands to fly to the butts of weapons,
and hearts to beat faster.
"Halt!" Again the cry rings forth, reverberating in a hundred
dissimilar echoes up the rugged mountain side.
The horses quiet down: Jehu sits like a carved statue on his box; the
silence becomes painful to those within the stage--those who are
trembling in a fever of excitement, and peering from the open windows
with revolvers cocked for instant use.
The moon suddenly thrusts her golden head over the pinnacle of a hoary
peak a thousand feet above and lights up the gorge with a ghastly
distinctness that enables the watchers to behold a black horseman
blocking the path a few rods ahead.
"Silence! Listen!" Two words this time, in the same clear, commanding
voice. A pause of a moment, then the stillness is broken by the
ominous click! click! of a score of rifles; this alone announces that
the stage is "covered."
Then the lone horseman rides leisurely down toward the stage, and Jehu
recognizes him. It is Deadwood Dick, Prince of the Road!
Mounted upon his midnight steed, and clad in his weird suit of black,
he makes an imposing spectacle, as he comes fearlessly up. Well may
he be bold and fearless, for no one dares to raise a hand against him,
when the glistening barrels of twelve rifles protruding from each
thicket that fringes the road threaten those within and without the
stage.
Close up to the side of the coach rides the daring young outlaw, his
piercing orbs peering out from the eye-holes in his black mask, one
hand clasping the bridle-reins the other a nickel-plated seven-shooter
drawn back at full cock.
"You do well to stop, Bill McGucken!" the road-agent, observes,
reining in his steed. "I expected you hours ago, on time."
"Twarn't my fault, yer honor!" replies Jehu, meek as a lamb under the
gaze of the other's popgun. "Ye see, we broke a pole this side o'
Custer City, an' that set us behind several p'ints o' ther compass."
"What have you aboard to-night worth examining!"
"Nothin', yer honor. Only a stageful uv passengers, this trip."
"Bah! you are getting poor. Get down from off the box, there!"
The driver trembled, and hesitated.
"_Get_ down!" again commanded the road-agent, leveling his revolver,
"before I drop you."
In terror McGucken made haste to scramble to the ground, where he
stood with his teeth chattering and knees knocking together in a
manner pitiable to see. "Ha, ha, ha!" That wild laugh of Deadwood
Dick's made the welkin ring out a weird chorus. "Bill McGucken, you
should join the regular army, you are so brave. Ha, ha, ha!"
And the laugh was taken up by the road-knights, concealed in the
thicket, and swelled into a wild, boisterous shout.
Poor McGucken trembled in his boots in abject terror, while those
inside the coach were pretty well scared.
"Driver!" said the Prince of the Road, coolly, after the laugh, "go
you to the passengers who grace this rickety shebang and take up a
collection. You needn't cum to me wi' less'n five hundred ef ye don't
want me to salt ye!"
Bowing humble obeisance, McGucken took off his hat, and made for the
stage door.
"Gentlemen!" he plead, "there is need o' yer dutchin' out yer dudads
right liberal ef ye've enny purtic'lar anticypation an' desire ter git
ter Deadwood ter-night. Dick, the Road-Agent, are law an' gospel
heerabouts, I spec'late!"
"Durned a cent'll I fork!" growled one old fellow, loud enough to be
heard. "I ain't afeerd o' all the robber Dicks from here ter
Jerusalum."
But when he saw the muzzle of the young road-agent's revolver gazing
in through the window, he suddenly changed his mind, and laid a
plethoric pocketbook into McGucken's already well-filled hat.
The time occupied in making the collection was short, and in a few
moments the Jehu handed up his battered "plug" to the Prince of the
Road for inspection.
Coolly Deadwood Dick went over the treasure, as if it were all
rightfully his own; then he chucked hat and all into one of his
saddle-bags, after which he turned his attention toward the stage. As
he did so he saw for the first time the two passengers on top, and as
he gazed at them a gleam of fire shot into his eyes and his hands
nervously griped at his weapon.
"Alexander Filmore, you here!" he ejaculated, his voice betraying his
surprise.
"Yes," replied the elder Filmore, coldly--"here to shoot you, you
dastardly dog," and quickly raising a pistol, he took rapid and deadly
aim, and fired.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote B: A fact.]