 Chapter 9 The Unknown Wins and Loses It was the black unknown who gave the word go, and the bullwiker hurled his knife directly toward the mark upon the door. Hurled it well, too, for it struck within a couple of inches of the hastily prepared bullseye. A cheer went up from the crowd, who had hitherto had no particular amount of faith in the bullwiker's aim, and it tickled the poet hugely, for he executed a grotesque breakdown in celebrations of his first good throw. Ho, ho! Who sayeth that their great Peruvian poet ain't on his muscle, he roared, with a broad grin? Did you see how party that noble blade went quivering clust to the eye of the bull? This time I'll pull out the bovine's side entirely, you bet. But he didn't. The knife went further from the bullseye than the first one. Karhoop! I got nervous that time, and put on too much elbow, he cried, a little chagrined. Knife-thrown is about as uncertain as life, I tell you. A feather can't tail when he's gone to make a miss. Go! The next throw was more successful, for the knife went quivering in the center of the bullseye, precisely. That! Feast your eyes on that, will ye, and tremble in your boots, the bullwiker shouted, turning to the unknown. Oh, I'm a colt, I'm a snortin' cavortin' warhawfs, wrought from the histrionic battlefield of Waterloo, where water was first invented. Here goes again for another bullseye. And sure enough, he did succeed in putting the blade point of his fourth knife in the circle close beside its predecessor. Another round of applause came from the friends of the bullwiker. I guess that surprises our black-bearded friend, Carol Carnery, ejaculated sarcastically. Not so much as an early death will surprise you, sir, the unknown retorted. Indeed, I am pleased to see your man exhibit so much skill in the use of the knife, and presume he will win. You may hope so for your own good, you Mormon devil, calamity cried, turning your glittering eyes upon the salt lake riffian. For if I get free, you can bet I'll make mincemeat of you. This too elicited quite a cheer, for the Mormon was no favorite among the roughs despite his effort to establish himself in their confidence. Altogether the audience was getting very enthusiastic. I have no fear of serious consequences, Carnery responded with provoking composure. No one needs you, the unknown replied grimly. For even if the girl escapes your vengeance, she is not through with me, I fancy. Ha-ha! No. In what way have I deserved your enmity? Calamity replied, more surprised than ever, for she had believed she would gain her liberty at the hands of the strange, dark individual whose voice was like the sullen growl of thunder. That remains to be told, he replied. I must to say that I hold a mortgagee against your life, which I shall foreclose. If I don't win, you are still the prisoner of these gents you see around you. Go ahead, Sir Millwecker, you have yet two knives to throw. And here they go, just feast your eyes on their Shakespearean wind-up with this exciting drannier. Whiz, away sped the fifth knife from the poet's hand, and buried its keen point deep in the door a half-foot from the bullseye. Bah, that don't look as if you were going to win, Carol Karner growled. You'll lose the girl, you fool, and cheat us out of our vengeance. If he loses her, it's his loose pilgrim, one of the miners said. And if Blackbeard wins her fair, he shall have her case over square, we air it, ain't that so, boys? The men of Death Notch gave a nod of assent. Carol Karner rose up. He had hoped to find no mutiny among the men, so the Calamity would not be given to the unknown under any circumstances. Whiz, Shakespeare's last knife hurdled through the air and entered the bullseye, making just half of its allotted number, which had entered the circle. Very good indeed, the unknown said. But I think I can put the whole six in the circle. Pull out your knives and I will try, at least. Shakespeare obeyed, not nearly so well pleased as he might have been. I order and put them all home myself, he said. But every time I get just ready to let fly, some concern line of poetry would just pop into my noodle and discombobber at my aim. Here's one that popped in just as I heaved the last knife. Mary had a little lamb at her at Uster Kick. She pulled the wool all off its back and made a feather tick. Well, please don't give us any more of the same style or it may injure my aim also, the unknown added satirically. As he equipped himself with his knives preparatory to the test, watch me now to see that I do it fairly. He then hurled one of the bows toward the door. Thud. It entered the circle exactly in the center, the blade passing through the door up to the hilt, illustrating, strikingly, with what force the missile had been thrown. Pull that knife out. I want to put another in the same place, he said with a faint smile. It was done, and he was as good as his word. He hurled another knife into the same spot. One after another was pulled out, and one after another he buried it in the same hole until he had not only exhausted his own half dozen, but had also buried the poet's knives there too, without making it miscalculation in his aim. When he had finished, he turned to the spectators with a bit of triumph gleaming in his eyes. Have I won, gentlemen? He demanded with a smile. Of course you've gone and won, and I'd be dreaded if you didn't do it fair and square, and their gal is ewned, declare thy William Henry Shakespeare, mayor of this yard town of death-notch. Give us your hand, you galoot. Your hand, givna. You hand, and to squeeze just for good luck. No, I thank you. I do not care to shake the hand of a greater robe than myself, the unknown replied dryly. Then he turned to calamity. Girl, I have won you fairly, and now you are doubly mine. But I do not want you just yet, and so will give you your liberty for a few days, well-knowing that you will not dare to run away. Gents, give her liberty, and see that she is offered no molestation until I get ready to claim my revenge. Ha-ha! It shall be sweet revenge, the revenge of years maturing. Then, with a grim laugh, the dark stranger wrapped his cloak closer about him and stalked from the tavern. One or two of the miners went to the door after him and saw him stride swiftly away up one of the gloomy gulches which centered into the basin like the spokes of a wheel to the hub. Calamity was then released, but Karner had taken the precaution to escape to his room to save trouble. Just outside of the basin, in the moonlight that streamed into the gulch, the unknown came unexpectedly upon a woman who was seated upon a fallen tree and engaged in a good old-fashioned cry. The new-fashioned cry of today is a combination of sighs and snuffles. Consequently, it occurred to the unknown that this woman's hearty out-and-out cry might safely be pronounced old-fashioned. He was considerably surprised at his discovery and hesitated about disturbing her. But resolved to learn her trouble, he finally stepped forward and touched her upon the shoulder. Excuse me, madam, but is your trouble of a nature that needs assistance from a strong and willing hand of one whose whole life has been one of trouble? Mrs. Morris, for it was she, looked up at the start. Who are you, sir? She demanded an alarm, for his dark and forbidding appearance did favorably impress her. One who is a gentleman, and a friend of the oppressed, ma'am, even though dark my aspect, coming accidentally upon you and noting your evident grief, I was prompted to ask if a strong hand could be of assistance in alleviating the trouble. No offence, I trust. Not necessarily, if you are sincere in what you say, Mrs. Morris replied a little more assured. I am in deep trouble, and fear I can obtain no relief. I have lost my only daughter, and cannot find her. I attract her to this bad, wicked town of dead-notch, but only to find that she had suddenly disappeared. Ah, then you are Mrs. Morris, a California lady, the unknown said, his surprise doubling, for at first he could form no idea of her identity. Yes, I am Mrs. Morris, but how could you know that? Because the circumstances of your daughter's flight to this country are known to me. Your daughter is a guest in my solitary camp in the mountains, and she told me her story. It was I who abducted her from the tavern, that she might not become the victim of her enemy, the Mormon villain. God be praised, the relieved mother cried, clasping her hands trifling. You are sure she is there, safe and well? She was this morning when I left her there, in the care of her negro companion. Come with me, and you shall soon see her. How can I ever pay for this kindness? You have taken a great load from my heart. How far is it to the place where I can see my daughter? Not over a mile, and we can soon walk it. Will you take my arm? No, thanks. I am quite strong and love to walk. Lead and I will follow. Oh, sir, my daughter is of good cheer, is she? Not brave, considering the trial she has passed through, I judge. Her negro companion is lively enough to cheer her up, where she gloomily disposed, the unknown declared, as he led the way up the gulch. Did she tell you why she fled from home? Yes, I could well understand her case, for I came near being caught in such a trap once myself, was the gloomy answer. This being found standing over dead persons does not always signify that one so discovered is guilty. The guilty one glides away when the unwary and thoughtless approaches. The remainder of the journey was finished in silence. Mrs. Morris was busy with her own thoughts, congratulating herself on having her child in spite of Carol Carnar and wondering if they would be lucky enough to escape from the mountain before he could find and offer them further molestation as he had promised. She felt that he was capable of any villainy, no matter how base. In the course of a half hour they came to an abrupt termination of the gulch in the face of the mighty towering wall of rock, at the foot of which was a hut of bows and poles, and in front of that a crane, upon which a kettle hung over a temporary fireplace. There was no visible stir about the place as they approached, and the unknown quickened his pace. They must have gone inside, he said, but his words belied his belief. He sent in trouble. A few steps further and they came upon an appalling spectacle, seated upon the ground with his back leaning against the tree was Nicodemus Johnson, with his banjo in his hands, as if preparatory to playing, but he was stone dead. By heaven there's bad work here, the unknown cried, bounding forward into the hut. He came out an instant later, but unaccompanied. Your daughter is gone, madam. Some human demon has been here and killed the darkie and carried her off as she has not in the hut. I believe the cursed crazy dwarf is the author of this outrage. Poor Mrs. Morris again burst into tears on learning her daughter's fate from the unknown's lips. Oh, what shall I do? What can I do toward rescue in my poor child? she cried, nearly frantic with her loss. You can do literally nothing, my dear madam, at present, the unknown answered. It will require a strong shrewd man to pick the culprit's trail and discover his hide-and-place. But it may not have been this dwarf you speak of who has done this terrible work. Can't not Carol Karner have discovered this place and carried off poor Myrtle after killing Nick? I judge not. Come, I will show you the way back to the town. What? Not without my making an attempt to discover my poor lost child. Hmph! You'd have poor success as I before intimated. The best thing for you is to return to town and get accommodations at the tavern. All that can be done toward finding and rescuing your daughter I will attend to in person, with as much interest as though she were my own child. Oh, thank you, sir, thank you. You are a good noble man." The unknown laughed, darkly. Far from that, I'm afraid, he said with a grim smile. Still, I am not so bad a man as I might be, you see. Come, let us go. They accordingly left the solitary camp and walked back to death notch through the moonlight. The unknown accompanied Mrs. Morris nearly to the tavern and then took leave of her, promising that he would devote his earnest efforts to the recovery of her daughter. Mrs. Morris then returned to the hotel and to her room, which she had engaged earlier in the evening. It was a severe blow, this second disappearance of Myrtle to the poor mother, whose expectancy had been so wrought up by the words of the unknown concerning her safety. The following day was a gloomy one. The sky was black with ominous banks of clouds, and a steady unceasing rain poured down from early dawn till dark. Yet within the cabin of the old chief red-hatchet a cheery fire burned upon the hearth, and the chief and his daughter sat before it, the former seeking solace from his pipe, and the latter engaged on some fancy beadwork. It is a wild day, the chief grunted gloom. Such a day it was that red-hatchet was driven from his town, and nearly all his braves slaughtered. The thought causes the blood to boil in red-hatchet's veins, and his spirit thirsts for revenge upon the pale-faced usurpers more than ever before. Then why does not red-hatchet go forward and claim his property? Was it not deeded to him by the government in exchange for lands in the Colorado Valley which the government wanted because of their golden value? True! Who speaks? And the old warrior turned about in surprise, for it was not Sysca who had spoken. A young Indian in full paint and regalia of a war chief stood upon the threshold, a strong stalwart brave of straight build and great muscular beauty, but whose every feature and style of dress proclaimed him to be of a different race of red men than red-hatchet, who was of a tribe fast becoming extinct, the Poneese. The stranger was further from the south, and his features indicated him to be an Apache. Who is the brave whose face is covered with war-paint? Red-hatchet repeated, rising to his feet. Dancing plume is no common brave, but a great chief of the Apache nation was the haughty reply. He comes from the lands of Arizona into the north, with his band of braves to seek a home in the land of game and gold and also a wife for his wigwam. He hears of the wrongs that the pale faces have inflicted upon red-hatchet and comes to offer consolation. The Apache and the Poneese have ever been enemies. Why does dancing plume then come and seek conciliation with red-hatchet? Because red-hatchet is alone and unprotected, because his spirit cries for revenge upon the pale face, usurpers of his rights, and dancing plume can avenge the Poneese wrongs. His warriors are all young, brave and strong. They would call it but a play-spell to clear away the pale faces. Your words sound well, but red-hatchet is not blind. The Apache has an object in thus coming to the aid of a foe of his race. Which dancing plume does not deny? Red-hatchet has a pretty daughter, whose beauty and goodness is known widely. Dancing plume needs a princess for his wigwam. Red-hatchet is getting old and needs someone to hunt his game. Dancing plume would take the Ponee maiden as his wife, win back the town of Sequoy, and with red-hatchet dwell there in peace and prosperity. Red-hatchet was silent a few moments. Then he turned to Siska. What does my child say to the proposition of the Apache chief, he asked, his eyes gleaming at the satisfaction afforded him by the younger chief's prospectus. Siska has nothing to say. It was red-hatchet who gave her to the Dwarf. It is for him to say whether he will break his treaty with the Dwarf and give Siska to dancing plume, was the reply. Ah! Then another claims the Ponee maiden, the Apache said. A pale-faced dwarf to whom red-hatchet promised Siska, if he would carry out red-hatchet's vengeance as dancing plume has offered to do, the old chief explained. Show him to me, and it shall be a struggle for the victory, was the young chief's demand. If dancing plume falls, his brave shall win back the town and present it to red-hatchet. Shall it be as the Apache has proposed? Let the Ponee speak. Red-hatchet agrees. But dancing plume must settle the difference with his rival. Wah! Dancing plume caught spattle. Why should he fear a pale-faced dog when from boyhood he has led at the head of his tribe? The tomahawk shall be dug up. Dancing plume will go for his braves and ere another sunrise after the morrow, though war-hoop of the Apache shall echo through these valleys and mountains. Dancing plume has said it, and he never lies. Then, kissing his hand to Siska, he turned and left the cabin with a firm, stately stride. A bad outlook was there for the town of Death-Notch. A worse fate was promised those who had driven the Ponees from their village, which an unscrupulous Indian agent had illegally assigned to them. Carol Karner prided himself on being a villain, and he had often said it, that the man who could conceive more efficient and novel schemes of rascality than he was hard to find. The following day, the same that witnessed dancing plume's visit to red-hatchet, in the height of the storm, the Mormon left the town, carrying with him in a bundle of few articles which he calculated he would need. No one paid any attention to his departure except Calamity Jane, and she concluded that he had decided to quit the place before any trouble occurred. About the middle of the afternoon a stranger rode into the settlement, through the pouring rain, on the back of a scrawny-looking mule, and, dismounting in front of the poker-house, entered the bar-room. He was a medium-sized man with bushy red beard and hair, and decidedly seedy-looking. She had not recently visited a clothier, evidently, for his lower limbs were clad in dirty, patched overalls, thrust into the tops of a stodgy pair of boots. The trousers were, in turn, met by a greasy red shirt, open at the throat, with accompaniment of a beltful of revolvers at the waist, and a slouch-hat crammed down onto the head until it almost hid from view the eyes. And dripping with the rain, through which he had come, this sandy complexion gent walked into the bar-room, and up to the bar, and gasped out—whisky, in a wheezy tone, as if he had not lubricated his internal machinery very recently. Nor did he begin to stop at a mere glass, for no sooner had poker jacks set the bottle upon the counter than he grabbed it up and allowed the contents to gurgle down his throat. When he had drained it to the last drop he returned the empty bottle to the astonished bartender with a grateful sigh, at the same time plunking a ten-dollar piece upon the bar. And, stranger, there were powerful bad-oil, that aren't a hornet nor even a wasp in it, to give it life, he said in the same wheezy voice, but when a fellow's machinery ain't oiled, it won't run, and so I had to submit to the inevitable. Well, I should allow it didn't cost you much of an effort, Jack Grinned, for you did it right gracefully, and it'll cost you just five. Take their saw-buck, Pard, take it freely, for I should have given twenty if there had been only just one good hornet's nest in it. Then wiping his mouth he turned gravely to survey the crowd which the pouring rain had driven into the house. It was a motley assemblage of rush-shod humanity, evil, sinister, and not pleasant to contemplate. For several moments he surveyed them as if making an inventory of their different natures. Then he mounted a table, cleared his throat, and struck an attitude, as if about to deliver a stump oration. Gents, pilgrims, glutes in general, I want to ask you, do I look like a cuss who would tell a lie? He began in oratorical tones. Do I look airy a bit less than a second George Washington? A silence among the crowd was his answer. They had not yet got an inkling of what he were driving at, and preferred to keep mum. Brethren, the brick-bearded bullwacker continued after a pause, it duff me dollarous to note that you have yet received no inspiration from the honest reflection of my countenance, but such is fate. Bear it in mind, ever hence, beauties benign, that a man who can juggle down a quartet death-notch petroleum without airy a bumblebee in it is an honest man. Moreover, fellow citizens, never look adversely upon one of your own sex, because he is handsome. It are a phenomena peculiar to the male race of whites. I was once just as humbly as airy galoot present, but alas, I have had trouble by his dire trouble, and my benign and saintly resignation to their inevitable is added luster and glorious angelic beauty to my physiognomy, despite all efforts of mine to the contrary. But I am no saint pilgrims, not a golden heron near the sprout of a wing as thou art about me. No sirree, I am a warrior, I am on the warpath, yearning for gore. Shall I tell you why, my disciples? Aye, I will, though it shall ring tears from this heart of mine as large as watermelons. To begin with, picture yourself a pleasant home of a well-of-to-do merchant who never took over seven drinks a day, in which were a wife and sonny her child. The devil comes into the house in the figure of a man. His oil at tongue tempts the wife. She attempts to flee with the tempter, but her child clings to her skirts and begs her not to go. In a passion the woman smites her own flesh and blood to the floor and flies with the devil. The child is found by the farmfather in a dying condition, and with her departing breath he swars for vengeance. Years pass, but at last it draws near. Pards, here before you stands that merchant. Do you wonder he yearns for bug juice to satiate his thirst to revenge? Gar almighty know, declared Shakespeare. While in full clear to my allarynx would I be if I'd been through such trouble? Of course you would, and if I were to assert to you that after years of search I've trailed my faithless wife here to this very house, you'd be willing to lend a helping hand to booster up to a limb of the first convenient tree, wouldn't you? If ever fable monster did purge upon a roost, then where are the very pilgrims what'll lend our hands to boost? Quote the poet with a caper. Falorty, saceman, if there is any show for a necktie party, issue your invitations to us to once. Then know that the murderous is in this year's house, in the guise of a Mrs. Morris, and I, her desarded husband, seek revenge. The stranger cried fiercely, Hurrah! Give her the rope without parley. Don't! A voice cried, Don't dare to disturb that innocent woman. See, this man is an impostor. And while speaking Calamity Jane bounded forward from the hall where she had been listening and tore a false beard from the honest man's face. And there, exposed to the gaze of those he had cleverly deceived, stood Carol Karner, the Mormon. End of CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. OF DEADWOOD DICK. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Corrie Samuel. THE POET PLOTS. For a moment after his strange unmasking, Carol Karner stood confronting the girls' sport, almost speechless with rage. Then he drew a knife and rushed fiercely at her, but stopped when he perceived that she held a cocked six in hand. Slack up your locomotive, if you please, she ordered for him to relay. Or I shall perforate you. Don't expect I'd see you leave the tavern, did you? And then I'd tumble to your little game the minute I see you. Everlasting curses seize you, the baffled schemer hissed. If you put up that pistol, I'll kill you. It would be rather kind of me to give you that advantage, but I can't hardly see the point. Calamity returned dryly. And I'll allow that, for your own personal safety. It would be your likeliest move to make yourself scarce about this burg. In other words, I'll give you five minutes to get. If I see enough of your anatomy after that to get a decent aim at, I'll blow you high, then dynamite-blowed hell gate. But I protest. Gentlemen, I appeal to you for protection. The scoundrel cried, turning to the roughshod audience he had just been addressing. Will you see me thus bulldozed by this young Tigris in breaches? I'll allow you'll have to fight your own battle, pilgrim. Poetical Shakespeare asserted, with a broad grin. You were superfan at pulling sheepskin over our eyes, and with a pan you'll have to rest on your own oars, you bet. If the gal says git, allow that about the healthiest thing you can do. Yes, you bet, and you'll need to be expeditious in order to get out of range with my pop-gun in the four minutes that yet remain. Calamity added, glancing at her watch. Come, be moving, or you're a cadaver, sure. I'm recollect, if I ever catch you in this town here after, I shall pop you over without ceremony. Karner gazed at her a few seconds, with a face that was livid with rage, then turned and strode to the door. Remember! he cried, turning and shaking his clenched fist at her. Then he hurried forth into the pouring rain. Calamity followed him to the door, and kept her revolver levelled at him until he had left the basin. Then she returned to the bar room. From wence she went to her own apartment upstairs. The poet-bullwacker was a shrewder man than many gave him credit for being. While outwardly blatant and boastful, he was capable of putting this and that together, and forming some pretty correct conclusions. Among others he had lately conceived a little money-making plan of his own, from things that had come to his notice. In the first place he had, by figuring and guessing, concluded that the girl, Vergi Verna, or more correctly, Myrtle Morris, was of more pecuniary value than ordinary girls, for the reason that she was wanted by two parties. First by Carol Karner, who had offered five hundred dollars reward for her, and secondly by Mrs. Morris. How much could be extorted from her the bullwacker had no idea, but he had conceived the notion that she would be glad to pay still more handsomely. In the second place he had formed another idea that he could find the girl. He had twice gotten a glimpse of Old Scavenger, the Mad Dwarf. He had seen the terrible face of the Avenger at the tavern window the night of Pinto Dave's death, and knew that Dwarf had been the one who had fired the fatal bullet, simultaneous with the report of Calamity Jane's weapon. Something argued to him that Vergi was in Scavenger's power. Thus concluding the poet formed a determination to obtain the girl himself, if possible, and surrender her to the one who would her. On the day following, which was a pleasant sunny one, he left the town and spent his time in the mountains and forests that surrounded Death Notch on every hand. His object in this was to obtain a glimpse of the Dwarf. One glimpse was all he wanted. He could then strike the Maniac's trail and follow it, no matter where it led. For not many years before the bullwacker had been a scout upon the plains, and had acquired great skill in picking and following trails. To solve this here enigma must see his nibs contigme, then may Satan all amrigme, and bears and wild cats digme, if I did not find that there a-pigme. He said, smiting his brow. It was well along in the day ere he caught a glimpse of old Scavenger descending a mountain path. The Dwarf had a haunch of a recently killed deer upon his shoulder, and was evidently making for his camp. No sooner did he spy him than the poet secreted himself hastily in a clump of chaparral, and waited to learn which course the Maniac would take after reaching the gulch. Oh! Now I'll struggle lead, his trail I'll quickly read, I'll next thing get him treed, and waltz off with their girl and deed. Was the poetical thought of the bullwacker. Scavenger continued to descend the rugged path, until he reached the gulch bottom, when he paused and glared around him, as if to assure himself that no one was in the vicinity. His eyes gleamed with a wild, unnatural fire, and altogether he was a horrible object to see. That he was utterly insane, no one could doubt who beheld him. After a moment's survey of his surroundings, he turned and strode up the western course of the gulch, which led into the heart of the wooded mountains. Allowing him to get fairly out of sight, the bullwacker then emerged from concealment, and took up the trail, and followed it step for step. If I shouldn't find the girl, I'll be madder than the hornet who at a spout bid off his own ear. He still looked wise. I'll allow, however, that I'm on the right trail. And Wharf led him a long walk ere the destination came into view, and caution required the trailer to stop. The avengers' camp was in the gulch bottom, in a little forest-glade. A rude camp-lodge of boughs had been constructed for shelter. Near this, upon a log, sat none other than Vergy Verna, or Myrtle Morris, the Mormon's bride and victim. She was not free, however. A strong, small-linked chain was locked about her waist, and then fastened to the strong limb of a tree overhead, which shaded the spot where she sat. From his position, which was several rods distant from the camp, Shakespeare could not hear anything that was said by either the fair prisoner or her captor, but he saw that Wharf shake his fist at the former, as he laid down his haunch of meat. The cursed little skunk is ugly to her eye-pine. The poet grunted disapprovingly. Wonder if I hadn't better pop him over and have done with it. Guess, however, it would be best to tackle him when he's asleep, and secure him in the real flesh and blood. If I would put him in a cage, I expect I could hire him out to barn him as a curiosity. It was getting dark, and not being particularly desirous of shedding human blood. The poet decided to postpone action until the Dwarf slept. In the meantime Scavenger built a fire, and slicing off some meat from the haunch with his keen knife, spitted it upon a stick, and proceeded to roast it. When he had a sufficient quantity prepared, he laid several pieces upon a chip, and handed the food to Myrtle, who had been watching him with a grave, anxious face. There, eat you, girl, that will bring the roses back to your cheek for me to kiss away, he said, with a horrible grin. Myrtle pushed the meat away and disgust. I do not want anything to eat you, human beast, she gasped in horror. All I want of you is to release me, and to let me go my way. Oh, ho, that would be kind of nice, wouldn't it? He grunted. But you're too much of a hurry, my rosebud. I wouldn't send you off at night, you must wait till morning. Ah, then will you release me? Oh, please say that you will, the young woman said, pleadingly. Yes, yes, I'll release you, to be sure I will, from every earth to the care, trial, and temptation. I'll send you where Deb would dexet my child, oh yes I will, I'll cut your pretty throat, and you'll die easy, and go straight to Jordan's golden shores on the broad route. Myrtle uttered a scream as she comprehended his purpose. Oh, surely, surely you will not harm me, sir, only promise me that you won't? What have I ever done that you wished to kill me? Nothing, nothing at all, but I have sworn to kill every white helion I could get a hold of, and I shall fulfil my oath. Tomorrow, just at sunrise, you shall die, and there will be another notch upon Red Hatch its tally-pole, put there by me. Ha, ha, ha! And he laughed, like a demon incarnate, as he was. Poor Myrtle! What else could she do more appropriate than indulge in a good hearty cry, which she did? It did not affect the Avenger, however, for he ate ravenously of raw meat, after which he smoked his pipe, and rolled himself up in his blanket near the fire, preparatory to going to sleep. Myrtle's chain was of considerable length, so that she could enter the hut and recline upon a bed of boughs which had been provided for her. Outside the camp, the bullwacker poet waited impatiently for the midnight hour to arrive, having decided that it would be his best time to act. It came at last, and he stole stealthily forward, with cat-like tread, into the glade, a cocked revolver in his hand, ready for use in case necessity compelled him to fight for his prize. He soon reached Dwarf's side without arousing him. Then, armed with a rope, he sprung upon the unsuspecting Avenger, and secured his hands in almost a twinkling, then his feet, so that Scavenger was utterly powerless to move by the time he had fully awakened to a sense of what was going on. "'Course is on you,' he gasped, struggling to get free. "'Who are ye? What do y'all mean? What do you want?' "'My name is William Henry Shakespeare, the Poet of the West, I'm Phyllis Arfculpto, to other women's rights,' the bullwacker declared. "'I'm going to bind you to a tree for wool fodder, and then waltz off with a captive.' And he was as good as his word. Securely binding the Dwarf to a tree, he then entered the tent, bound myrtle hand and foot, and throwing her over his shoulder, strode away out of the glade, followed by terrible curses from the lips of old Scavenger. End of Chapter 11. CHAPTER 12 OF DEADWOOD DICK Not long after the departure of the bullwacker, old Scavenger had quite exhausted his vocabulary of epitess, and relapsed into a more quiet state. Cursed the bullwacker, he hissed. He has robbed me of my vengeance, and tied me here the mercy of the wild beasts, or any passer-by who might be of a disposition to torment me. Ho! Who comes here now?' In the early moonlight he saw a man enter the glade, and stride directly toward him. Nearer he approached, and the Avenger was unable to make him out as an Indian in full war-paint. It was Dancing Plume, the Apache. A shiver of dread and doubt went over the Dwarf's figure, when he perceived it was not old Red Hatchet, as he had first believed. What would the Indian do to him? Perhaps take advantage of his helplessness, and skelp and torture him. Not so demented was Scavenger as to not realize the doubtful comfort of such a proceeding. But Dancing Plume was not that kind of warrior. He was willing and not afraid to meet any enemy face to face, weapon to weapon. He had accidentally discovered the captive Dwarf from the edge of the glade, and recognized him as his rival in the suit for the hand of Siska. He resolved to take advantage of the opportunity, thus afforded, to come to a settlement. Lag! What is the poodle pale face doing in this shape? He demanded, pausing before the Avenger, and surveying him sternly. Why is he bound to a tree? A cursed bull-whacker took me a prisoner when I was asleep, and left me in this condition. Old Scavenger replied, You're a good Indian, will you set me free? Dancing Plume will set the pale face free, but he must draw his knife, and fight for his skelp and his life. The Apache chief responded gruffly. But why would have I even done that you should wish to force me into a fight? Scavenger demanded, in alarm. For, though of great prowess himself, he was aware that the Apaches are wonderfully accomplished in the use of the knife. Poodle pale face's Dancing Plume's rival. The young warrior answered. He holds a claim upon Siska, the mountain flower, and Dancing Plume also claims her. Therefore Poodle pale face must win her by killing the Dancing Plume, or lose her by losing his own life. As he concluded speaking, the young war chief cut Scavenger's bonds, and then stood on guard his keen blade ready for use. Draw your knife and strike, he said firmly. It need not take long to find out who wins the mountain maiden. Scavenger measured his opponent with his wild eyes, for a moment, and then shook his head doubtingly. The Indian is too skilled with the knife for the pale face to hope to win. Therefore I'll skip. And even as he spoke he dodged to one side, and ran for dear life. But in this he had counted without his host. His first leap had not taken him so far that he could miss a terrible blow in the back from Dancing Plume's knife, a blow that promised to weaken him beyond the power of flight. We will pass over the scene that followed as something too horrible to describe. Suffice to say, when he presented himself at the cabin of Red Hatchet that evening, Dancing Plume was dangling from his belt the reeking scalp of the dwarf Avenger. CHAPTER XIII. TWO SENSATIONS Several days passed thereafter, without any incident worthy of mention. Mrs. Morris remained at the poker-house in death-notch, anxiously awaiting, from the unknown tidings of her lost daughter. Calamity kept her company most of the time, and did much to cheer and comfort her. Not a glimpse had been caught of Carol Karner since his departure at the order of the girlsport, and it was hoped that he had cleared out for good. On the fourth morning, after the night of the old scavenger's death, the town of death-notch was, billed like a sarcus, as one minor remarked. Posters hand-printed were stuck up in every conspicuous place, and what was more, they were the proclamations of two separate parties, each having a different subject to unfold to the gaping assemblage that swarmed forth to read them. First and most important to the average citizen was a poster concerning themselves which read thus. Notice to the pale-faced dogs who drove Red Hatchet and his tribe from the town of Sequoy, which the government had given him warning, is given that unless they fly at once, their own pale-faced country, their scalps shall hang upon the lodge-pole of, dancing plume, chief of the Apaches. The meaning was plain enough, but the rough man, of death-notch, did not take any stock in it. More than one threat had been thus hurled at them by Red Hatchet, but had not been executed. What reason had they to believe that this one would be? The other poster was framed in language more familiar and ran. Notice to every man, female and cherub, win their classic precincts of death-notch, on their morrow at sunrise I, William Henry Shakespeare, shall expose at public auction from on top of Pictor Rock, nigh your town, their following property, to with, one pretty piece of humanity, other feminine gentler, age about twenty, good-sound teeth, travels pretty good jog, sired by a California chap, warranted, gentle, and good lurking, found astray in their mountains, and will be sold to their highest bidder, to defray expenses a keepin' and transportatin', dog-gone good-bargin'in', perty as a new wax-figure, just like an angel, but little bigger, sweet as blaze has bet your life, chance for pilgrims to get a wife. A big attendance is desire, William H. Shakespeare auctioneer. This created more of a sensation than Dancing Plume's proclamation. Calamity read it, and at once communicated the news to Mrs. Morris. At your best chance to get back your gal, she said, the one who bids most gets her, but I can do nothing, I have about a hundred dollars with me, and it is more than probable that some Ruffian would bid above that psalm to get my poor child in his power. Mrs. Morris answered, in deep distress, O dear, what can I do? Well, we'll see, Calamity said meditatively. There's all is, more than one way, out of the woods, and we'll work it somehow. I don't happen to be overflushed with bits myself, or I might add a little to your pile. I'll go out and skirmish, and see what I can find, for we must be prepared to bid smart to-morrow. She went downstairs, and for a wonder found poker-jack, the only inmate of the bar-room. He was seated, tipped back in an easy chair, engaged in reading, but looked up with an odd. Good morning, Calamity, he saluted. Quite a sensation stirred up again, eh, to break the monotony. So it seems, Jack, I allow, I did you a square deal, when you were in trouble once, up in deadwood, didn't I? You bet she did, Calamity, and I have always remembered it, because I had been subject to a funeral expense, but for you. Well, I was handed to help you, and considered you deserved it, and now if I were to ask a favour of you, what would you say? I'd granted in a minute, old friend. You have but to name it. Well, I'll tell you what I want. I want money to bid if Mrs. Morris's daughter to-morrow. Then she went on, and explained the circumstances, already known to the reader. Jack listened a few moments, and then scratched his curly head. Well, I allow, I can do a little toward remedy in the difficulty, he announced. Let the girl go, for which I will, I'll get her. Mrs. Morris can bid as high as her pile goes, and I'll take care of all above it. The next morning dawned brightly, and by sunrise nearly every man, woman, and child of Deathnotch had forsaken the camp for the scene of Shakespeare's auction. Under rock was a high mass of rocks deposited in the gulch, a few hundred rods beyond the town. The sides were almost perpendicular, up and down, rendering it impossible to reach the top of the pile, except by use of a rude stone staircase, which Indians of past ages had hewn out, and these were so arranged that a person at the top could easily defend himself from the attack of a small regiment. The sides of these rocks were covered by grotesque pictures of Indians, animals, and reptiles, which had been chiseled there by rude and savage sculptors. Upon the top of the rock two blocks of stone answered the purpose of chairs, and on these the rescuer poet and his prisoner were seated. Poor Myrtle's face was tear-stained, and wore a sorrowful expression, but it lighted up, and she gave a cry of joy when she saw the familiar face of her mother. Oh, Mama! Mama! she cried, putting forth her hands. Save me! Yes, my child! Mrs. Morris cried, tears standing in her eyes. Have courage, dearest! When he saw that his audience had gained about as large proportions as it was likely to. The bullwacker arose, a pair of cocked rovers in his hands. Fellow citizens! he cried. It does me proud to see y'all here. I knew you'd come, cos you all want to bid for my prize. She's mine, I captured her, and I'm going to sell her for the highest market price, and I'll shoot the first one who tries to take her a four-arm paid. Now, how much do I hear for the gal? How much for her? Just as she is. Recollect. Terms of cash. On delivery of goods. Two bits! cried a miner. Fifty dollars! cried another. One hundred! shouted still another. That's it. Keep the ball in motion, boys. The poet cried with enthusiasm. Put all the value on her you can, cos you know I always invite the crowd to drink when the state of my financial will admit. I'll give a hundred more. Pokerjack said, coolly. Two. Two hundred dollars I have? Who'll make it three? Five hundred! I'll give five hundred! a voice cried. The voice of Carol Karner. But just where he stood among the crowd no one could see. I'll make it a thousand. Pokerjack cried. I'm going to have the girl, gentlemen, so the rest of you may as well give up. Twelve hundred! We'll see who has the girl. The voice of Carol Karner again cried, and this time calamity was on the watch, and sore whence the voice emanated. The Mormon was rigged out with long black beard and hair, and accuted with miner's habiliments, and was also armed with a pick, shovel, and pan. If I keep my word I'll have to go over and plug him, she mused. I'll wait and see first how this turns out. I'll raise it to fifteen hundred, Pokerjack said promptly, and I've got the do-cats to pay it. Look! Look! Someone shouted, and all eyes were turned down the gulch. Coming towards them, mounted upon a flying horse, was the unknown yelling and waving his hat above his head. Behind him, not hardly out of rifle range, came a dark mass of horsemen, whose horrible screeches and nodding plumes proclaimed them to be Indians. In an instant all was consternation and confusion, and flight was made in every direction. No one thought of out but their own safety, except Pokerjack. Even he was alarmed, but saw that action was necessary. He saw the bullwacker desert his prize by leaping from the rocks and seeking flight. He saw one black whiskered man make for the staircase, and knew it was the Mormon. Drawing a revolver he fired at his legs, and brought him down to the ground, howling with rage. Quick! Quick! he cried to Myrtle, running to the foot of the cliff. Jump off, and I'll catch you. Though bound and helpless, she contrived to fall over the edge, and he caught her neatly in his arms. Then, still carrying her thus, he bade Mrs. Morris follow him, and dashed up a narrow ravine which none of the others had taken. Nor did he pause until he had, with the precautions of a veteran scout, covered their trail, and reached a place of safety in a mountain cleft, several miles from the picture rocks. Here, for the present, they were in no danger of molestation from foes, either red or white. The same could not be said of the others. Like a hurricane of wrath, the warriors under the lead of Dancing Plume swept down in pursuit of the late residents of Death-Notch, and shot down and scouted them without mercy. Some may have escaped, but it is doubtful if many did so. Among the fortunate ones was the unknown, whose horse was fleet enough to carry him beyond the reach of the savages. Only one prisoner was taken back to the ill-fated town of Death-Notch, and that one was Calamity Jane. After remaining several days in the mountain, Mrs. Morris and Myrtle escorted by poker jack, started on foot for the nearest railway station, which they reached after about two weeks travel afoot. From there they returned to California, Jack still accompanying them, and defraying their expenses. And he, having to live a more respectable existence, it is not impossible that Myrtle will reward him with her hand at no far distant day. For several days Calamity was kept locked up in a cabin, which was guarded by savages, and left to herself, except when some food was brought her. One evening she was greatly surprised to see the unknown enter the cabin. Come, he said, your imprisonment is at an end. I have, through the kindness of Red Hatchet's daughter, secured your freedom, with the proviso that we both leave this place for ever. She at once consented. If she went with him, her fate could be little, if any worse, than if she remained with the savages. Therefore they both mounted horses, outside the cabin, and rode for ever away from Death-Notch. Two days later they arrived in sight of Piyosh. Here the unknown drew rain and said, Calamity! Is it possible my deception has been so clever as to deceive your shrewd eyes all this time? I am Deadwood Dick, who holds a mortgage of betrothal against you. And he removed the disguise that had saved him since being rescued from the quicksand. Which rescue, he explained, was performed by Siska, the poor knee, just as it was almost too late. Doomed he had been! But for her he would have perished from the face of the earth by a terrible death. And he willed that it should be so, ever after, in the minds of the people of Death-Notch, and had therefore adopted and maintained the disguise of the unknown. That night, in a private parlour at Piyosh, Dick and the poor, sore-hearted but brave and true Calamity, were married. And the author joins in the wishes of his readers, that they may live long and prosper. They, the two wild spirits, who had learned each other's faults and each other's worth, in lives branded with co-mingled shame and honour. End of Chapter Fourteen End of Deadwood Dick's Doom Or Calamity Jane's Last Adventure by Edward L. Wheeler