Beadle's Half Dime Library — page 6: what you’re looking at

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6 Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. “Tdid git a taste. Was ridin’ ‘long, keerless like, thinkin’ to ketch up wi’ your train afore the storm broke, when the wind ketched me an’ rolled both me an’ Patchie—my hoss, that is, boss—chuck over the aidge o’ the kenyon. I manidged to ketch holt o’ a bush, an’ saved my meat, but I reckon Patchie has gene straight to hoss-heaven, ef thar be sech a ace. pM Catch up with us—but we have passed no canon lately,’ echoed the emigrant, Alfred Zimmerman. ““Tuck a short cut—kem through the upper pass,”’ hastily explained the disguised outlaw. “You were following us, then?’ asked Zimmer- man. ““Yes—but who’s that feller—the big varmint, who's gawpin’ at us’s though he’d never see’d a free trapper afore?” abruptly demanded Mole, his voice changing. ‘‘That—Bob Harris, he calls himself. He joined us the other = wounded; had some trouble with the Blackfeet, I believe. Why—do you know him?” “Not by that name—though seems to me’t I've met him some’r’s—or somebody a good deal like ‘im. Told ye I was a free trapper.. Two weeks back the red-ski smelt me out, and lit onto me hot an’ heavy. They wag led by a white feller. I puta lead-pill under’his hide. Thort I’d made ‘meat’ 0’ him, but I mought’a’ bin mistaken, Didn't hev much time to take notes, but I'd sw’ar ‘at he was like enough to ¢hat feller yender, to be his twin-brother,”’ quietly snufiled Mole, “Tt may be—I have had my suspicions about him. He puts himself too forward. e finds fault with acs fn ll Se that none “but a fool or a traitor would have led us this far north. But hist—he is coming this way,’ and Zimmerman dropped his voice. The mountaineer, Bob Harris, who had for several minutes been closely ee the outlaw, now ad- vanced toward them, a peculiar light his keen eye. A long rifle rested across his left arm; his right hand clasped the lock, as though to guard it from the driving particles of snow. “Hullow, Zene Kalloch—kem hyar to settle up hev ye?” he uttered, in a quiet, peculiar tone that thrilled the emigrant strangely, he knew not why. “T reckon you're yelpin on the wrong trail, stran- ger,” eae Mole, and the nasal twang was now plainer than ever.- “I was chris’ened by the name o’ Hurraw Jake—that is, ef I war chris- *ened a-tall, which I cain’t justly sw’ar to, bein’ as I was so young like. As fer settlin’, I’m a free trap- per—none o’ your shif’less squatters. Wharever my trap is sot, thar I settles fer the time bein’.”’ “Hurraw Jake’s good—so’s free trapper—so’s cheek. Bunny what big mistakes a feller will make sometimes. Knowed a feller one time what made hisself b’lieve he war another man—fact! Most ’s big a mistake es I made jes now. ‘D ’a’ swore you was a Blackfoot sub-chief!” , “Some folks hes queer idees o’ fun—I reckon you're one on’em, stranger. But see! I’m a babby, mildes milk, when I ain’t riled—but then ag’in I'm a izen airthquake on wheels! ’Nough’s enough, but oo much’s a plenty. Call me Green Burdock, or anything else you like, jest so ye don’t go fer to in- sinivate as {’m sech a outdacious pizen riptyle es a Blackfoot! That riles me—it does 80/” twanged Mat Mole, puffing out his cheeks eee pe “‘Tsaid a chief—but I hedn’t heerd your tongue work. A squaw’d be better. But let that go. You’d orter know me better than to try to bluff me on Jack high an’ nary a pa'r, Zene Kalloch—fer I b'lieve tha be him. Ef so, no man.’d dirty his han’s wi’ rubbin’ you out in a stan’-up fight. e’d do like I've swore to do—put his heel on your head an’ squash all the pizen out o’ it! Thar—you needn't finger your knife. I ked blow ye through afore ye ked draw it. Waita bit. These fellers ‘pear curious to know what’s up. I reckon I'll spin ’em a bit of a arn, jest to ixplain why I’m down on Zene Kalloch. ou kin lis’en, too, Hurrah Jake—an’ when I’m done ef you kin still say ’at you’re not my game, then { *pologize any way you_will—wi’ knives or rifles, to guit,’’ quietly said Bob Harris, as the emigrants be- ganto gather around. “Thar, old man—that'll do. You've tuck your own skelp, You needn’t look no furder. We'll jest play ’at I’m tho feller you'res lookin’ fer. Which shell it be—hot lead or cold steel?” ‘Then you giv’ up ’at you're Zene Kalloch?”’ ‘Give up nothin’! I’m Hurraw Jake, but I'll stan’ in this feller’s moccasins ontel you're satisfied.’ “Don’t be snatched, Blackfoot—yowl find the time quick enough a-comin’. Gentlemen, you want to Jmow what’s up, an’ I don’t blame ye. Felt the same way more’n once’t myself. Lis’en, Won't keep ye long, 'ca’se this—gentlenan—’pears in a hur- ‘Nigh twenty years ago I fust met Zene Kalloch, when we was both consid’able younger ’n we be now. I saved his life in a Injun scrimmage when, his skelp hed fa’rly started, I nussed him like a mo- ther, ontel he was 4 man ag’in. I shared my traps wi! , while he made pelts enough to git a outfit o’ his own. We was like sworn brothers fer over two years. Itold him all ’bout my folks to the set- tlements jest above St, ae ontel it ‘peared like he was raaly one o’ the fam ly. I tuck him home wi’ me, an’ told ’em all he was my brother, an’ they treated him as sech. “He me [ost in time fer my only sister’s weddin’. She married a young settler, poor, like we wag our- selves, but true-hearted an’ honest, But thar—I don’t reckon as you fellers feels much intrust in sech old matters.- 1 won't try to tell everythin’ that happen- ed. Only you mustn’t jedge altogether by this crit- ter, es he is now. ‘““Wal—two years ater, Mary run away wi’ the euss—tuck her little babby along. We hunted ’em —moe 'nd Jethro Cowles, her husban’—but *twas no use. We lost the trail For a year I hunted night an’ day. ThenI larnthe’d stwecke out fer the Black- foot kentry. I follered, but missed him, though I heerd enough about him. He had turned prairie pi- rate, and hed bin choosed a sub-chief o’ the Black- feet, who called him Creepin’ Panther, “But I needn't tell ye o’ all I did; o’ the long weary years I spent in s’archin’ fer the sarpint. ii never set my eyes on him but once. I was tuck by the Blackfeet then, an’ oneo the braves!recognized me. Ihed sent a few o’ his kin yelpin’ ‘long the last trail, an’ ney. saved me to put me to the torments in style. I found Zene och in the camp then. He kem an’ taunted me wi’ what hed happined. He told me that he hed soon tired o’ Mary, an’ as she bothered him wi’ her tears, he jest sold her to a half- breed Kanuck. He said she killed herself that same night. Es fer the kid, that he hed giv’ to a Injun squaw, years ago. ‘I stood this es long ’s ITcould. ThenI bu’st loose and struck the devil down wi’ his own knife. I thort I'd killed him, an’ made a break fer liberty. I jump- ed on a hoss, an’ got away by the skin o' my teet! It was a year or more afore I Varnt Kalloch was still livin’. I've hunted him ever since—but never sot eyes on him until this day.”’ “A solemncholly slory, but it don’t prove me to pei he feller you're lookin’ fer,” quietly observed the outlaw. ‘“Lift up the ha’r over y’ur left ear. Ef thar ain't the mark o’ a skelpin’-knife, then you ain’t Zene Kalloch,”’ gritted Bob Harris, leaping forward and clutching the long black loeks. A simultaneous cry broke fromthe emigrants, as the telltale scar was revealed. But before one of their number could raise a hand, a long-bladed knife flashed in the air and was buried to the very hilt in the trapper’s throat, . ‘““ Thaw's my answer, Bob Harris—curse ye!”’ cried Mat Mole, as he freed his hair and darted away from the wagons, running along the pass swiftly as a moun- tain goat, leaping from side to side to avoid the bul- lets that were hastily sent after him. The stricken mountaineer sunk to the ground, a frothy blood oozing from his lips as he Seah ‘*God’s curse rest on him forever! he’s ed me, too—Mary—sister—I am—coming—com—ah |!’ His head drooped. He was dead. CHAPTER VI. LEGEND OF THE MEDICINE SPRING. Tum five trappers stared in opened-mouthed amaze- ment, For the moment they a Sie gre incapable of either motion or speech. The of their comrade the abrupt disappearance of the weird woman and her beautiful companjon, held them spellbound. Yellowstone Jack was the one who first cast off the peculiar sensation of awe. “Gone in n’, I reckon, boys; le’s see the | fun,’’ he muttered, with a sickly smile, as he advanced toward the mysterious boiling spring. This action fully proved his courage ie he agen than if he had <a a war-party of Blackfeet In- diang single-hande Yellowstone Jack was super- stitions, like all of his class, ae ae implicit faith in ‘‘ medicine,” good and bad. 6 believed in spirits, in spooks and hobgobling, just as he did in powder, lead and steel. Yet he strode forward and quickly scaled the curious-looking parapet or ‘‘curb,” that surrounded the em 2 The basin was nearly circular, probably twenty-five feet in diameter at the widest part. The water was almost perfectly transparent. Yellowstone Jack could look down into the beautiful ultramarine depth to the very bottom of the basin. The sides were or- namented with coral-like forms of a great variety of shades, from pure white to a bright chrome yellow, while the blue sky reflected in the transparent water gee an azure tint to the whole far surpassing art. ear the center of the basin, the water was in a state of ye a miniature fountain, some three feet in hight. Around this the water sparkled and effervesced something similar to, though in a lesser degree, the far-famed Soda Springs of Bitter Root river. A thin vapor hovered over this spot, and the water really had the appearance of’boiling. 4 “What's the sign, Yellowstone?” called out Brindle 0e, “You kin come up. They've puckacheed—but how ? That gits me/” “Spooks is spooks—an’ go’s medicine,” quoth Hoo- sier, uncovering his head with an action that was almost reverence. ‘This is a big medicine spring— what good ’d it be ithout its sperits? This ‘ne ’s got two, I reckon.”’ “They handled thar bow-arrers powerful like hu- man critters though—I didn’t know sperits needed to use sech things. An’ yit—whar kin they ’a’ gone? We kin see the sides an’ the bottom, every inch. Thar ain’t no hole ’cept that ’ne at the bottom whar the water bubbles uP, an’ it ain’t big es a man's fist. A mortal critter kedn't go through that. They jumped in—they didn’t git out ag’in, or we’d’a’ see’d em. Ireckon you're right, Hoosier—we’ve see’d the sperits o’ the Medicine Spring,” gravely muttered éllowstone Jack. “Did ary one 0’ ye notice thar right paws?” sud- denly put in Heely Hank. ‘This is the place whar old Black Harris kem to make medicine that time!” The BES interchanged quick glances, The lines upon their weather-beaten faces deepened. The expression of awe now appeared one of fear, Yellow- stone Jack uttered, in a tone of forced raillery: You're wuss’n a nen 4 Heely Hank—you’d wake a dyin’ man up to ax e he b'lieved in the devil! But thar’s Mexy—we’ve clean forgot the pore feller.” What meaning was hidden beneath the words of Gila Hank? A wild, fantasticlegend. To explain the effect of his words upon his comrades, I will give a brief sketch of it here. Black Harris—so called from his dusky complex- ion—was a noted fe ote and mountain-man, the comrade and friend of such noted men as Kit Car- son, Jim Beckwith, La Bonte, Sublette, Greenwood, Bridger, Old Marblehead, Bill Williams, and scores of equally well-known heroes of the West. Like the majority of his class he was superstitious, believed in “medicine,” and one time, after an unusually long run of illfortune, he journeyed to the En- chanted Grounds to renew his ‘‘medicine.” Near- ing the Boiling Spring, a young white woman sud- denly barred his path. She was dazzlingly beau- tiful—an “angel ‘ithout wings,’’ as Harris was wont to declare. She told a pitiful tale of peril and priva- tion. Her friends had been massacred by Indians, She was carried into captivity. A week before, she managed to escape, peg had wandered through the mountains ever since, starving. Black Harris forgot his mission, and kindled a fire by which he roasted a ptarmigan. He gat at her feet and watched her eat. Then she began to sing—a low, weird melody, strangely sweet, soothing to the senses as the gen- tle murmur of the summer breeze eddying through the foliage of the mountain pines. The trapper’s head slowly bowed. His soul seemed floating upon a sea of ecstatic bliss, The soft white hand fluttered over his head. The warm, slender fingers caress- ingly smoothed his one tangled hair, His head sunk upon her lap. e song grew fainter, as though coming from a distance. A vail seemed settling over the ae | brain. The hand glided down over his cheek, but it no longer felt so soft—it seemed’ to scratch—to sear his skin as it touehed his throat. He felt something touch the knife at his belt. His eyes opened. An arm lay before his face, It was no longer white and delicate—it seemed to be black, covered with stiff bristles. He sawa bon leg—a cloven hoof. The truth flashed upon nd, as he felt the knife slowly slip from its sheath. He grasped the handle and tore it free. A horri- ble yell smote upon his ear, as he leaped erect. A frightful object confronted him, “T knowed what it was in a minit,’ Black Harris was wont to say, ‘‘fer I’d see’d the picter o’ the devil in a paper at Taos. I jest giv’ a che ell an’ lit onto the critter. We hed it red-hot, then, reckon we fou't fer nigh a hour. I've fit Kiman- che, ‘Patchie, ’Rapaho and Blackfeet, but they wasn't a primin’ to him/ I reckon he'd ‘a’ bin too many fer the old man, only his foot caught in a hole, an’ I downed him. I sent my butcher up to Green river twicet, an’ then he sickened. He giv’ a yell and then skooted over the mount’ns. See— ou see this claw? Icut that off when I jerked my e loose,’’ the old ‘sinner would add, holdin up a crooked claw, that hung suspended arene be neck by a piece of sinew. One man—a stranger to Black Harris—swore that the claw had come from the foot of a carcajou. The irate —— denied this, by driving his knife hilt deep in the man’s breast. After that no one doubted the strange story, and it passed into tradi- tion. Even at this day the legend may be heard around the camp-fires. I was told it by a trapper who devoutly believed in its truth; yet he was a keen-witted, shrewd and sensible min, in everything except his strong superstition. Yellowstone Jack and his comrades had often heard this legend, and they knew that this was the very spring mentioned by Black Harris, The strange scenes they had witnessed—this beautiful woman and her marvelous disappearance had fully aroused their superstition, They found Chavez, the Mexican, dead. The arrow had pierced his neck, dividing the spinal column. They lifted his body and bore it h that ill-favored spot, A shrill, pierc & taunting laugh came to their ears, as they passed down the valley. Turning, they beheld a weird figure standing. upon the mound they had Sone up behind. It was that of the old hag—the witch of the Boiling Spring. “This is the devil’s den, boys—I cain't breathe easy in it,” huskily muttered Yellowstone Jack, has- tening forward with his burden. This belief seemed shared by his comrades, since their pace was acceler’.ted, nor did one of them cast another look backward or oo for breath until they had wns an abrupt bend in the valley that shut off all view of the Springs, Yellowstone Jack paused beside a large bowlder that stood upon one end; at its base was a small hol- low.. The men read aright his questioning look, and nodded assent. With their knives the hollow was deepened, the loose earth carefully placed in a pile. Then the body was deposited in the trench and a few leaves and twigs strewn over it. The dirt was pushed back and pressed down. Then the four men leaned heavily against the bowlder until it slowly toppled over, forever concealing the grave from human eyes, “Fe desarved a os NSE a ef human critter ever did,” said Jack, brushing the perspiration from his brow. ‘ He was a squar’ man, clean through, ef he did hev greaser blood in him.” “Big es the rock is, twon’t keep him down, I’m dub’us,” gloomily muttered Brindle Joe, ‘A mur- dered man cain’t rest peace’bly long’s the one what, rubs him out goes onpunished. But kin we take the skelp o’ a spook? Not much!” “T don’t know—mebbe we was too og in gittin’ skeered—thar’s a pesky lot o’ humbug in this world, Mind, I don’t say ‘t this #s a humbug—but I do say *t I'm goin’ to look inter it a little closter afore long. Chavez was too good apard to let go so easy, But it’s time we was gittin’ back to quarters. Thar’s a storm brewin’—I kin feel it in my bones!’ Half an hour later a glorious prospect was opened before the eyes of the trappers. They stood apon a y away from oO mMICLOOkS (CC) CO©