Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road Part 9

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: A fact.]

CHAPTER VII.

DEADWOOD d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sengers, 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 pa.s.sengers 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 s.h.i.+rt-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 d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.senger) 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."

"Pis.h.!.+ 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 s.e.x, 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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sengers on top of the stage s.h.i.+ver 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 s.p.a.ce 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 b.u.t.ts of weapons, and hearts to beat faster.

"Halt!" Again the cry rings forth, reverberating in a hundred dissimilar echoes up the rugged mountain side.