Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 221 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

tightly clinched in the iron grasp of the mysterious stranger whom Bessie had called father. Inspired by ea nameless terror over which he had no control, little wonder tho Danite felt bis senses leaving him. When he once more awoke to consciousness it was with a horrified start—he scarcely knew why, more than that an expectancy of some- thing awful possessed him. He was lying upon his back on the ground, and an effort to rise roved tobim that be was free and unfettered. ut as he arose toa sitting posture, a half sheet of paper slid from his breast to the ground, upon which was rudely printed, in phosphorescent letters, the single word: mn ** BEWARE!” Significant in all its untold meaning, it warned him that for some cause his life had been spared. With a curse, he was about to rise to his feet, when he made another discovery which gave him a greater start than the finding of the paper had caused him, for, lying upon the ground be- side him was his lifeless wife, whom he had commissioned to dispose of the stranger—the same woman who had claimed to be the wife of Sugar-Coated Sam. * Ha! this tells the story to me, plainer than words,” the Danite muttered. ‘I know now who the white-bearded devil is—he whom I have all along supposed six-feet under the sod. Ugh! this is bad—bad—bad!” ' ' And laboring under the sickening excitement of fear and horror, the plotter sprung to his feet and left the spot. The ghostly visitants of the previous night did not return, and thereat the citizens felt greatly relieved. After leaving the side of his murdered com- nion in crime, Commodore Burt had sought is room at McDuff’s and locked himself in, to finish the night in concocting plans for the | future. On the following morning when he emerged therefrom, it was to euter the Bella Union. There he dispatched a ‘‘three-finger shoulder- bracer,” after which he mounted a barrel in the center of the pavilion. With curiosity a number of bystanders gathered near, and when a sufficient crowd was collected the Danite looked them over and ‘*sized”’ them carefully. He saw a number of his own backers in the lot, and knew that they were nearly a majority, and that was all he wanted. “*Gentlemen!” he said, ‘‘I have heard several complaints lately—even since the death of Deadwood Dick—to the effect that some one of the townspeople or other are constantly losing their things through the agency of a sneak thief—little sums here and there, to be sure, but aeRregating largely in the long run. These jittlc thefts are carried on systematically, and are ere the hand of some ty fully acquainted “with the business. hat, then, would you say, if I were to disclose to you the fact that I have discovered the author of the deviltry?’ _ “Hurra! show us the varmint, an’ it’s to tha top avathree we'll be afther hoistin’ im,” a burly Irishman declared. . “Yas, them ar’ ther sentiments right frum _ ther bed-rock, Sbow us ther pilgrim w’ot’s ap- are eratin’ our circulation, an’ we’re bound ter other elevated thing by him, best we know how,” another miner chimed in. “T have to repeat that I have discovered the guilty one, and who do you suppose it is?” “Dunno! who?’ a chorus of voices cried, eagerly. “The wife of Deadwood Dick—Calamity Jane, as she is better known. Unknown to any of you, she is in your midst plying her vocation.” Where! where!” ‘*She can easily be found, by searching the ranch kept by the woman, Bessie Burt, who is also her coadjutor. The woman, Calamity, ’ when approached, very cleverly feigns illness, but the dodge don’t hold out, when ne one is around.” “Then, let’s bounce her—let’s send ’er up to search for her late husband,” a miner cried _ who had officiated at several lynching bees, and had a craving for more, ‘‘ All in faver, make manifest by yelling. “Tl? “Ty * Hyar!” came in a great shout. ‘Contrary, no!” proposed the miner. There was not one dissenting voiee. The Commodere chuekled maliciously as he noted the fact.” ‘Then to-night let it be for us to do the job. ‘We ean just as well take ’one off their cuard. ——— 0 | | | } Sugar-Coated Sam. and perhaps save several of our own party’s | “‘The famous bandit has paid his earthly score lives, as Calamity Jane is always on guard.” And so it was arranged that a raid should be made that very night, and Calamity and Bessie treated to a dose of that border medicine known as lynch law. CHAPTER X. A GHOSTLY CONFERENCE, LET us return to the bullwhacker poet, Shake- speare, and see what came of the little adven- ture he bad entered into, We left him the center figure of a decidedly picturesque circle, the outer edge ofywhich was formed of the mysterious white-draped figures whom he had first seen upon the tops of the shanties, in Grim Gulch. ‘* Now, see hyar, gents. This ain’t really a squar’ deal,” he expostulated: ‘‘1 allow et’s all funny enuff fer you, but sic my poodle dorg ef { don’t want yeouw Senate chaps to keep in yer own sphere, wi’out encroachin’ over on ther House 0’ Representatives. Ye parseeve I’m in- clined ter be fair and squar’, but | allus did b’lieve in every flea keepin’ in his own pasture. Torkin’ about fleas, hev any o’ you chaps gob em! The surrounding specters slowly shook their heads in the negative. ‘*Thort so,” the poet grinned, approvingly; ‘* fleas aire the holy terror of my life. As ther younger Shakespeare used to remark when I war gone: ** White pillers, sheets and rugs, Need not handled be with nippers, Fer tho’ they’ ll oft be bugs, You’ve a warrentee ’gin skippers. Muchee likee! chirps the festive earthly sem- blance o’ yours truthsomely: but he w’u’d ruther you’d keep yer distance, if et’s all the same to you,” But the ghostly circle stepped one pace nearer, and gave vent to an unearthly laugh. Shake- speare fairly wilted beneath the sepuichral chorus, and his scrawny burro seemed similarly affected. ‘“Humph! dog my Maltese cat!” the bull- whacker muttered, when he found power of ut- terance. ‘A feller’d think you’ve got the hy- poprepérposterous ter hear ye sigh. Reckon ye ain’t easy, hey? despite ther fac’ thet ye’ve es- caped from yer coffins, Thar was Bill Bustover up at Salt Creek, fer insiance—Bill he war a tough pard, tho’ he natterly had a good heart, which one day got out o’ kilter, an’ Ben Boxer sed as how Bill died o’ ther James Jams, Any- how, about a week arter Bill hed been planted | bis shadder cum back an’ handed me a string o verses for publication in the Clean Shave Bazoo, 0’ which I were then editor an’ proprietor, They ran thusly: * Thermometers an’ compasses— Barometers ner meters Oan ne’er depict ther scorcbin’ rays, O’ Hades’ infernal heaters. They fricassee ye o sapen bright; Pig-tails they cook, an’ ’coons, While sinners bad, in generale, They’re cravin’ without boons, This lower world is desolate; Ther snow storms much amazes; Jest try a change ef ye don’t b’lieve That Hades aire hot as blazes, An’ I durst allow thet’s sum ther figger o’ ther thermometer up your way.” No answer came from the ghosts; the mute beckon of their outstretched fingers was all the reply the poet got for his little speech. And he liked it not. “Oh! ye needn’t speak if ye don’t want ter,” he said sure - ‘*Ef ye think ye kin make me, ther gréat poet o’ ther Pacif, believe thet you’re gennywine bony-fried ghosts, yer off yer erbase—clean off. No sheep’s fleece can ye elucidate my understanding with, nary a time; no patent eye-closer kin ye apply sufficient ter close up my pair o’ Peruvian peepers—not fer many colored-coated Josephus. Plain as uster be ther proboscis upon my physique, ar’ ther fact thet thar’s no more ghost about you than there is erbout ther business-end of a mule, an’ so ye might as well cum down to bizness, acknowledge ther corn, an’ hev a confab. Ef ye don’t wantertork, why jest sayso. I nevyer war much of a talker, in my best days, an’ I recollect thet I’m gettin’ slow, ther more m age advances. Ef so beit Deadwood Dick is ther prime instigator of one philosophic poetiea wants ter jine.” ‘Deadwood Dick belongs net to the Spirit Band ef Silver Brew,” 2 deep veice™ raplied. er gang, then hyar’s paragrapher what and is at rest.” ‘*Bully fer Dickey! I warn’t quite satisfied on thet pin’t an’ thort I would investigate. ’Spect et’s all right, only I had a premonition that Dickey war yet on his pegs. No ’ffense, eh? Reckon [ll journey back ter Grim Gulch.” ‘* An’ I reckon ye won’t!” the ghostly speaker declared, with emphasis. ‘‘ You are our prisoner, until we see fit to otherwise dispose of youl “Then at a motion from bim, the other ‘‘ ghosts” closed in, and Shakespeare was a prisoner ere he was scarcely aware of it. It needed no further experience to determine that his captors were too strong-handed to be other than humans; no vapor or etherealism was there in the grip of the hands that held him while he was being bound. This operation successfully performed, the bullwhacker’s eyes were blindfolded; and then his feet were liberated and he was marched off, a man having hold of either arm. ‘Yas, ver mighty smart—too cute fer any- thing,” he grumbled, as he was trotted along rather briskly. ‘*Thar ain’t nary a shadder 0’ respect about ye fer ther fine arts or ye’d respect a courter of the Muses. Jist let me return to Grim Gulch, an’ [’)] sw’ar et shan’t cost ye a nickel when ye want an epertaff composed fer yer tombstone. I git thar, on epertaffs, I do, an’ I tell ye ther biggest kinds o’ complerments aire paid me, ter boot. Thar’s heaps o’ ther statesmen I’ve epertaffed ahead o’ time, so as ter be ready when they shuffled off. Ther beaucbifullest stanzer I ever perpetrated, how- ever, | got off on Big-Mouthed Sam, over in Piute: “Big mouth-ed Sam Is dead an departed He died of a bile in his gall; When he hit from the shoulder I tell ye et smarted But he’s cloaked his sins under a shawl. “That aire ar’ werry good, stranger, but et ain’t no sarcumstance:— “* Heer lies Mrs. McGraw, A woman of jaw, Who slipped off the coil quite disgusted; * She scalped with a saw, Her new son-in-law, An’ his proboscis quietly bu’sted, ** Or techin’ another subject:— ‘*Hyar sleeps Jim Plum Ther biggest bum, Thet evyer pulled a trigger; He got his last meal - Of Trojan steel Fer callin’ Ching Chag a ‘ nigger.’ ‘Yas, gents, ef ye’ll remounteth me upon mine ’umble jack-mule, and headeth mine course to- ward Grim Gulch, ye can freely call upé6n me at any time fer leetle effusions like the above or to suit any circumstances.” **Can’t help what you want; the best thin for you to do is march along and shut up!” was the surly response of the commanding ghost. ‘When we want any epitaphs very likely we can provide some to suit.” Shakespeare was about to venture some reply, but was checked from so doing by a rap upon the head that dropped him to the ground, sense- less. The scene had changed, when he awoke to consciousness, and found the bandage removed from his eyes. He was lying upon the floor in an apartment of what appeared to be a one- roomed log cabin. At all events the walls on either side, and the ceiling overhead were com- posed of partly hewn logs, with clay stuffed be- tween the chinks, But, there were several doors from which it appeared that there must be other apartments. he room in which the bullwhacker found himself was wholly unfurnished, and untenant- ed, save by himself. Where he was, or what he had been put here for, he could not tell, but be felt next to posi- tive that he was a prisoner, despite the fact that his bonds had been removed, and he had the freedom of his limbs, Examination proved that each door was locked on the pon side, and being made of heavy oaken slab, there appeared to be slim chances of escape, as far as the doors were con- cerned. * There was but one window of any sort, and this was a small grated opening up near the ceil- ing; barely large enough for the passage of a ca Shakespeare surveyed his situation as well as he was able b the rays that struggled in through this window grating. ther felt himself —e ~~ Mo Ebooks im