AT THE "MET."
A few nights subsequent to the events related in our last chapter, it
becomes our duty to again visit the notorious "Metropolitan" saloon of
Deadwood, to see what is going on there.
As usual everything around the place and in it is literally "red hot."
The bars are constantly crowded, the gaming-tables are never empty,
and the floor is so full of surging humanity that the dance, formerly
a chief attraction, has necessarily been suspended.
The influx of "pilgrims" into the Black Hills for the last few days
has been something more than wonderful, every stage coming in
overcharged with feverish passengers, and from two to a dozen trains
arriving daily.
Of course Deadwood receives a larger share of all this
immigration--nothing is more natural, for the young metropolis of the
hills is _the_ miner's rendezvous, being in the center of the best
yielding locates.
Every person in Deadwood can tell you where the "Met" is, as it is
general head-quarters.
We mount the mud-splashed steps and disappear behind the screen that
stands in front of the door. Then the merry clink of glasses, snatches
of ribald song, and loud curses from the polluted lips of some wretch
who has lost heavily at the gaming-table, reach our hearing, while our
gaze wanders over as motley a crowd as it has ever been our fortune to
behold.
Men from the States--lawyers, doctors, speculators, adventurers,
pilgrims, and dead-beats; men from the western side of the Missouri;
grisly miners from Colorado; hunters and trappers from Idaho and
Wyoming; card sharps from Denver and Fr'isco; pickpockets from St. Joe
and bummers from Omaha--all are here, each one a part of a strange and
on the whole a very undesirable community.
Although the dance has been suspended, that does not necessitate the
discharge of the brazen-faced girls, and they may yet be seen here
with the rest mingling freely among the crowd.
Seated at a table in a somewhat retired corner, were two persons
engaged at cards. One was a beardless youth attired in buck-skin, and
armed with knife and pistols; the other a big, burly tough from the
upper chain--grisly, bloated and repulsive. He, too, was nothing short
of a walking arsenal, and it was plain to see that he was a desperate
character.
The game was poker. The youth had won three straight games and now
laid down the cards that ended the fourth in his favor.
"You're flaxed ag'in, pardner!" he said, with a light laugh, as he
raked in the stakes. "This takes your all, eh?"
"Every darned bit!" said the "Cattymount"--for it was he--with an
oath. "You've peeled me to ther hide, an' no mistake. Salivated me'
way out o' time, sure's thar ar' modesty in a bar-girl's tongue!"
The youth laughed. "You are not in luck to-night. Maybe your luck will
return, if you keep on. Haven't you another V?"
"Nary another!"
"Where's your pard, that got salted the other night?"
"Who--Chet Diamond? Wal, hee's around heer, sum'ars, but I can't borry
none off o' him. No; I've gotter quit straight off."
"I'll lend you ten to begin on," said the youth, and he laid an X in
the ruffian's hands. "There, now, go ahead with your funeral. It's
your deal."
The cards were dealt, and the game played, resulting in the favor of
the "Cattymount." Another and another was played, and the tough won
every time. Still the youth kept on, a quiet smile resting on his
pleasant features, a twinkle in his coal-black eye. The youth, dear
reader, you have met before.
_He_ is not he, but instead--Calamity Jane. On goes the game, the
burly "tough" winning all the time, his pile of tens steadily
increasing in hight.
"Talk about Joner an' the ark, an' Noar an' ther whale!" he cries,
slapping another X onto the pile with great enthusiasm; "I hed a
grate, grate muther-in-law w'at played keerds wi' Noar inside o' thet
eyedentical whale's stummick--played poker wi' w'alebones fer pokers.
They were afterward landed at Plymouth rock, or sum uther big rock,
an' fit together, side by side, in the rebellyuns."
"Indeed!"--with an amused laugh--"then you must have descended from a
long line of respected ancestors."
"Auntsisters? Wa'al, I jest about reckon I do. I hev got ther blood o'
Cain and Abel in my veins, boyee, an' ef I ken't raise the biggest
kind o' Cain tain't because I ain't _able_--oh! no. Pace anuther
pilgrim?"
"I reckon. How much have ye got piled up thar in that heap!"
"Squar' ninety tens, my huckleberry, an' all won fa'r, you bet."
"Then it's the first time you ever won anything fair, Cass Diamond!"
exclaimed a voice close hand, and the two players looked up to see Ned
Harris standing near by, with his hands clasped across his breast.
Calamity Jane nodded, indifferently. She had seen the young miner on
several occasions; once she had been rendered an invaluable service
when he rescued her from a brawl in which a dozen toughs had attacked
her.
"Cattymount" Cass, brother of Chet Diamond, the Deadwood card-king,
recognized him also, and with an oath, sprung to his feet.
"By all the Celestyals!" he ejaculated, jerking forth a
six-shooter--"by all the roarin', screechin, shriekin', yowlin',
squawkin,' ring-tailed, flat-futted cattymounts thet ever did ther
forest aisles o' old Alaska traverse! _you_ here, ye infernal
smooth-faced varmint? _You_ heer, arter all ye've did to ride ther
cittyzens o' Deadwood inter rebellyun, ye leetle pigminian deputy uv
ther devil? Hurra! hurra! boys; let's string him up ter ther nearest
sapling!"
"Hal ha!" laughed Harris, coolly, "hear the coward squeal for his
pard's assistance. Dassen't stand on his own leather fer fear of
gettin' salted fer all he's worth."
"You're a liar!" roared the "Cattymount" spreading himself about
promiscuously, but the two words had scarcely left his lips when a
blow from the fist of Ned Harris reached him under the left eye, and
he went sprawling on the ground in a heap.
"Here! here!" roared a stranger, rushing in upon the scene, and
hurling the crowd aside with a dexterity something wonderful. "What is
the meaning of all this? Who knocked Cass Diamond down?"
"I had that honor!" coolly remarked Ned Harris, stepping boldly up and
confronting the Deadwood card-king, for it was the notorious Chet
Diamond who had asked the question. "I smacked him in the gob, Chet
Diamond, for calling me a liar, and am ready to accommodate a few
more, if there are any who wish to prefer the same charge!"
"Bully, Ned! and here's what will back you!" cried Calamity Jane,
leaping to the miner's side, a cocked six in either white, shapely
hand; "so sail in, pilgrims!"
Diamond cowered back, and swore furiously. The wound in his breast was
yet sore and rankling, and he knew he owed it to the cool and
calculating young miner whose name was an omen of terror among toe
"toughs" of Deadwood.
"Come on, you black-hearted ace thief!" shouted Calamity Jane,
thrusting the muzzle of one of her plated revolvers forcibly under the
gambler's prominent nose--"come on! slide in if you are after squar'
up-an'-down fun. We'll greet you, best we know how, an' not charge you
anything, either. See! I've got a couple full hands o' sixes--every
one's a trump! Ain't ye got no aces hid up yer sleeves?"
The card sharp still cursed furiously, and backed away. He dare not
reach for a weapon lest the dare-devil girl or young Harris (who now
held a cocked pill-box in each hand),-"should salt him on a full lay."
"Ha! ha! ha!" and the laugh of Calamity rung wildly through the great
saloon--"Ha! ha! ha! here's a go! Who wants to buy a cupped-winged
sharp?"
"Sold out right cheap!" added Ned, facetiously. "Clear the track and
we'll take him out and boost him to a limb."
At this juncture some half a dozen of the gambler's gang came rushing
up, headed by Catamount Cass, who had recovered from the effects of
the blow from Harris' fist.
"At them! at 'em!" roared the "screechin' cattymount frum up nor'."
"Rip, dig an' gouge 'em. Ho! ho! we'll see now who'll swing, _we_
will! We'll l'arn who'll display his agility in mid-air, we will. At
'em, b'yees, at 'em. We'll hang 'em like they do hoss-thieves down at
Cheyenne!"
Then followed a pitched battle in the bar-room of the "Metropolitan"
saloon, such as probably never occurred there before, and never has
since.
Revolvers flashed on every hand, knives clashed in deadly conflict;
yells, wild, savage, and awful made a perfect pandemonium, to which
was added a second edition in the shape of oaths, curses, and groans.
Crack! whiz! bang! the bullets flew about like hailstones, and men
fell to the reeking floor each terrible moment.
The two friends were not alone in the affray.
No sooner had Catamount Cass and his gang of "toughs" showed fight,
than a company of miners sprung to Harris' side, and showed their
willingness to fight it out on the square line.
Therefore, once the first shot was fired, it needed not a word to
pitch the battle.
Fiercely waged the contest--now hand to hand--loud rose the savage
yells on the still night air.
One by one men fell on either side, their life-blood crimsoning the
floor, their dying groans unheeded in the fearful melee.
Still unharmed, and fighting among the first, we see Ned Harris and
his remarkable companion, Calamity Jane; both are black, and scarcely
recognizable in the cloud of smoke that fills the bar-room. Harris is
wounded in a dozen places and weak from loss of blood; yet he stands
up bravely and fights mechanically.
Calamity Jane if she is wounded shows it not, but faces the music with
as little apparent fear as any of those around her.
On wages the battle, even as furiously as in its beginning; the last
shot has been fired; it is now knife to knife, and face to face.
Full as many of one side as the other have fallen, and lay strewn
about under foot, unthought of, uncared for in the excitement of the
desperate moment. Gallons of blood have made the floor slippery and
reeking, so that it is difficult to retain one's footing.
At the head of the ruffians the Diamond brothers[C] still hold sway,
fighting like madmen in their endeavors to win a victory. They cannot
do less, for to back off in this critical moment means sure death to
the weakening party.
But hark! what are these sounds?
The thunder of hoofs is heard outside; the rattle of musketry and
sabers, and the next instant a company of soldiery, headed by Major
R----, ride straight up into the saloon, firing right and left.
"Come!" cried Calamity Jane, grasping Harris by the arm, and pulling
him toward a side door, "it's time for us to slope now. It's every man
for himself."
And only under her guidance was Ned able to escape, and save being
tailed and captured with the rest.
* * * * *
About noon of the succeeding day, two persons on horseback were coming
along the north gulch leading into Deadwood, at an easy canter. They
were the fearless Scarlet Boy, or as he is better known, Fearless
Frank, and his lovely protege, Miss Terry. They had been for a morning
ride over to a neighboring claim, and were just returning.
Since their arrival in Deadwood the youth had devoted a part of his
time in a search for Alice's father, but all to no avail. None of the
citizens of Deadwood or its surroundings had ever heard of such a
person as Captain Walter Terry.
The young couple had become fast friends from their association, and
Alice was improving in looks every day she stayed in the mountains.
"I feel hungry," observed Frank, as they rode along. "This life in the
hills gives me a keen appetite. How is it with you, lady?"
"The same as with you, I guess. But look! Yonder comes a horseman
toward us!"
It was even so. A horseman was galloping up the gulch--no other than
our young friend, Ned Harris.
As the two parties approach, the faces of each of the youths grow
deadly pale; there comes into their eyes an ominous glitter; their
hands each clasp the butt of a revolver, and they gradually draw rein.
That they are enemies of old--that the fire of rancor burns in their
hearts, and that this meeting is unexpected, is plain to see.
Now, that they have met, probably for the first time in months or
years, it remains not to be doubted but a settlement must come between
them--that their hate must result in satisfaction, whether in blood or
not.