Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 1004 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

12 i a — ee ar re es ee OT eee <a: Bie ~- y= : — Scorcher Sam’s Sweep-Stakes. “But you expect to be on hand?” “Tf nothing prevents.” “* All right.” In due time they came to the institu- tion, and Scorcher Sam leaped lightly out of the cart and entered the grounds and proceeded to ‘the house.’ The door was opened to him, and he made some inquiry concerning something which he knew would not be understood, and could not be answered, yet which gave him the pretext for calling. After a few moments’ talk and an apology for bothering, Sam came away and entered the cart, and they drove off. At a certain corner Sam got out. It was understood that the sergeant was to drive some distance around and approach the stables from the side fur- thest from the station. Sam reached the stables first, and, se- curing his wheel, he removed his disguise and made his exit by a rear way through some vacant lots to another street, and left the vicinity. “Well, there is something accom- plished,” he said to himself. “*Who would have thought that the two cases would dovetail like that? But, strange things happen in real life as well as in fiction, and I am not surprised at anything that occurs.” Taking it leisurely, Sam went up to the same neighborhood again, and came down by way of the old mansion to which attention had been drawn. He surveyed the place carefully. There was little sign of life about it. Any one at a casual glance would have said that the place was deserted. On the gate and on the walk, however, as well as along the curb, indications to the contrary were present, and Sam be- lieved that it was nothing more nor less than a place for concealing stolen goods, In the rear, on the other street, a new house was in the course of construction, though work seemed to be going on at snail’s pace. There was no one to be seen in or around the old mansion. Sam had stopped, as if to rest, some distance away, and had thrown himself on the grass under a tree. Much of the ground in this neighbor- hood has remained untouched to this day, and is almost in its primitive state, as when the noble redmen of the woods were in possession. There he remained until at last a couple of men sauntered up the avenue and began loitering in the neighborhood; then Sam prepared to go. He knew then the sergeant had reported and that men had been sent to pipe the place, and that ‘these were they. To make doubly sure he gave them a sign as he rode past them on his wheel, and the signal was answered. That set- tled the point, and he rode away, con- fident that even if the rascals took the alarm and sought other quarters his chief would be duly informed of their newer rendezvous. Being so satisfied, he sought Cactus Bill’s Circus. CHAPTER XIV. WINNING A CONFIDENCE. It was late in the afternoon. The show had closed until the -even- ing performance. Inquiry for Cactus Bill proved that he was not there, but had gone out. Those around could not say when he would return, but certainly before the time for the evening performance. If not, there would be no performance, Sam inquired for Dona Teresa. She was in her private tent in the rear of the show tent, and it was said she had company. The Seorcher had noted a ladies’ wheel in the rack at the side of the tent, and had recognized it as Bessie Blake’s, so he rightly guessed who the company was. He asked to see Dona Teresa, and sent word who he was. In a few minutes he was conducted to her tent, where she gave him greeting. Bessie, the Boulevard Detective, was there, and Sam bowed to her, not offer- ing to recognize her until he received a cue from her. She rose almost at once. “TI will be going, Dona Teresa,” she said. “‘I am very grateful to you for the talk about the Wild West you have given me, and I am sure it will work into a good story for my paper.” “Do not leave on my account, madam,”’ urged Sam, motioning her to remain. “I shall be here only a few moments, and would be sorry to interrupt your evi- dently pleasant tete-a-tete. I would not have intruded upon the Dona, only that the proprietor is absent.” “TI confess frankly that I am loath to gO, ” admitted Bessie. ‘“ If you assure me, sir, that my presence—” “Is entirely welcome to me; be seated again, I beg.” Bessie sat down. The Scorcher knew that she had not accomplished her mission there, but was not ready to give it up. “T will state my errand at once, lady,”’ explained Sam, addressing Dona Teresa. “TI have been so fortunate as to dis- cover the man for whom you are in quest—” “Louis Murrill? ” “The same,” * You are sure?” eagerly. “There can be no mistake; I saw the sear on his neck.”’ “Where is he? Tell me where he Is, and let me meet him face to face. I ask nothing else in life.” Her eyes were dilated, her fists clinched, and she had half started up from the chair on which she was seated, in the moment of exeitement. She was eager. “TI cannot tell you that, at any rate not at present,” said Sam. ‘I am afraid that you would do some desperate deed that would get you into trouble. We have laws here which, your cause for hatred being just and the man having done you a wrong, will undertake to move in your behalf.” “That for the law!” cried the young woman, with a snap of her fingers in disdain. ‘‘ What satisfaction would it be for me to turn him over to the law? I must meet him face to face; I must deal with him with my own hands—do you understand?—with my own, own hands! I pray you tell:me where to find him. Do not keep the knowledge from me, I im- plore.” She was upon her feet, and she held out her clasped hands to Sam in sup- plication. ‘No, no, it is impossible,” said Sam. “ Better that I should tell your brother, and let his judgment temper your im- pulse. I must again warn you to take care, for there are, as I told you before, two men who look very much alike, and you might possibly get the wrong one.” “There can be no mistake, if I see that scar.” | “No, if you see that, as I did, there can be no mistake. But, you must not take the law into your own hands; I must not permit that if I can prevent it.”’ “At least, then, you will remain until: my brother comes?” ~~ — —— “No, I cannot do that, but I will come again. You can tell him I have been suc- cessful. Permit me to say good-after- noon.” 3 With that Sam bowed himself out and returned to his wheel, leaving Bessie Blake to take up the matter where he had dropped it, knowing that he had opened the subject well for her. For a moment after he had gone, Dona Teresa was silent. “No doubt you wonder what it is all about,” she then observed to her visitor. “JT confess it has greatly awakened my curiosity,” acknowledged Bessie, “ but of course I do not expect you to take me into your confidence, a stranger.” “You are a woman, and—” “And what, dear?” *You can give true sympathy 4nd ad- vice. I so long to open my heart to some one.” “You have your brother—” “Yes, yes, but men do not understand as women understand. And yet, you are a stranger to me. You would make a story of it all, as you call it, for your’ paper.” “No, believe me, dear, I would not— But do not confide in me; I do not ask it of you. And yet, I would like to offer you sympathy, too, for my heart has gone out to you strangely, since I first saw you. It seems as if you must be a sister of mine.” “You have spoken so kindly to me. Most of the women who visit our tent look down upon me because I belong to a show. We all must live, and this is my brother’s way.” “It is as honorable a calling as my own, so long as you keep it honorable,”’ said Bessie. “That is the way I reason.” “Who was the gentleman called?”’ Bessie asked. It was plain that the young woman had not seen her and Sam together, al- though it might turn out that the broth- er had. “He is of the police,” answered the actress. “‘He was here early in the day when that man happened to enter the tent, and he prevented my brother from shooting him then.” “That would have been horrible.” “T thank him for it now, though I was angry enough at the time. My broth- er would be hanged, had he killed him, of course.’’ ‘Not a doubt of it.” “ And I would not desire that, though I am willing to give my own life for the sake of a just revenge.” “You should not do that. That would be but small révenge, it seems to me, when the blow must surely recoil upon your own head, Better to invoke the law to your aid.” who “And have it drag along till all pa- tience is worn out, and then, perhaps, set the villain free—” “Tt surely would not do that.” “Does it not do so more often than otherwise, when money is on the wrong side?” “T hope you' are wrong, at any rate.” “No, no, I cannot wait for the law; I must face him, and force the truth from his lips. Oh! if you could only know what I have suffered, and all be- cause—” “Hush, dear; perhaps your secret is too sacred to repeat.” “Tt is too sacred to be allowed to go unavenged. Oh! if he had but told me, so that I might go—” “You whuld need your brother’s arm as well as his head, my dear. He did right not to tell you. You must wait Zea , he 4h 4 com - : i t / : }