Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 240 — page 2: what you’re looking at

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

2 Cyclone Kit, the Young Gladiator. Cyclone Kit, THE YOUNG GLADIATOR; OR, THE LOCKED VALLEY. A Strange Mountain Tale, of a Stranger Place and People. BY EDWARD L. WHEELER, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ DEADWOOD DICK ” NOVELS, ‘‘ ROSE- BUD ROB” NOVELS, ETC. CHAPTER I. THE WITCH OF PHANTOM ACRE. TOWARD the close of a mild, autumnal day, which had been damp and misty in the moun- tains, a horseman was riding along a sort of dugway trail that wound around, in and among the rugged mountains, many hundred feet above the level of the prairies, He was mounted upon a fine large horse, of jet-black color, whose trappings were both fanciful and costly. The rider was a young man, in point of years and appearance, and was possessed of a strong, well-molded figure, wherein were grace, sym- metry and strength. His face was well-chiseled and handsome, with dark, eagle eyes, a firm mouth, and mus- tache and narrow goatee, while his head was crowned with a wealth of dark hair, which swept back over his shoulders from beneath a broad- rimmed “ prairie’’ hat. Otherwise, he was clad in citizen’s attire, with his pants thrust in a pair of knee-boots, and a belt about his waist, which contained a pair of large six shooters, and a lasso; also, he wore a handsome rifle slung to his back. He looked every inch a free and easy roving scout, as he rode along, and there was an éx- pression of good-natured content upon his face, as he took in his surroundings. ‘* [ wonder if I am ever going to get rich out of this experiment?’ he soliloquized. ‘‘ I’ve been wild-goosing it for about a month now, without any result. I am inclined to think that after all the Walled City of Gold-Flake is more of a myth than reality. Eh? don’t you think so, Primrose?’ patting his horse affection- ately upon the neck. ‘* Yes, I reckon about the most sensible thin for me to do, would be to pull back for civili parts, instead of looking after a fabulous city, pictured by an old, time-hardened pilgrim, who one day chanced to drop down in Tom e—a city whose streets were paved with cobble- stones of gold, and whose people were banded together in one blasted Mormon ey to keep out us roe prospectors. Egad! they'll have a time and a half a-keeping me out, and they’ll have to start a Mormon burying ground before I leave, providing I can get my work in on those golden cobblestones.” Then he laughed—a peculiar, ringi g laugh it was, the echoes of which, borne’ bac him in weird intonations, caused the young prospector to start. ‘“‘Humph! that reminded me of thé mockin reply of something unearthly,” he muttere **This is a region well-calculated for things uncanny and hideous, I should say. Even tie rocks look as if they contained grim secrets, calculated to make a man’s hair rise.” Night grew on, and still he did not draw rein, but allowed his horse to pick its way along the narrow trail, as it ran in a tortuous course through the dismal mountain regions. Ashe rode his eyes were ever busy noting the country around bim, and searching out a suit- able camping-spot for the night, for he had rid- den far, and was fatigued. Just as the shadows were paypering thick into dense darkness, he abruptly drew rein at a point where the mountain was split in twain by a narrow black ravine, or more properly, fissure —for its width was barely sufficient to admit of the passage of a horse, . How deep into the mountain the black pass netrated, the lone traveler bad no means of earning just then, but he presumed it ran through the range to the opposite side. This, however, was not what had caused him to halt, he had journeyed all day without ‘find- ing any water for his horse or himself, and he knew that it would not do to go into camp without first finding that requisite. é Therefore, when the sound of gurgling water reached his hearing, he was not slow to stop, and gazed searchingly about to learn its lo- cation. But though he looked and still heard the gurgling, rippling sound, he could not see the water “Queer!” he muttered. “I certainly hear the welcome sound, but nary a stream can I see. Ah!” A thought struck him. pa igh from his saddle he dropped upon his knees, and applied bis ear to the trail, just oppo- site the mouth of the ravine. The mystery to him was solved. The water he heard had an underground channel, and evidently had its source some- where up the ravine. At the point where he listened was a little crevice in the rock, from which came the sound of the subterranean stream. Evidently the water ran several feet below the surface, so the young scout knew there was no, hope for supplying his needs at that point. ‘“‘l wonder if I’d better venture into that black flue?’ he muttered. ‘‘’Pears to me as if it 3 = be a grizzly or a rattlesnake retreat. But, | must have water, and I might have to go some miles before I’d strike any more. It’s darker than the ace of spades in there, but lll guarantee darkness never skeered Cyclone Kit yet. Primrose, I guess I’d better take you along, fer I wouldn’t want to lose you.” And remounting, he headed his steed into the rayine, which was descending, as it ran back into the mountain. Once fairly within its environs, he became cognizant of the fact that it was about the darkest place he had ever entered, for it was next to impossible, at first, for him to see his hands before his face. Primrose, too, did not like the place, as was evident by his snorts, and the carefulness he used in advancing. ‘¢ Steady, now, Prim!” his rider said. ‘‘ Don’t get uneasy. I opine we’ve been in some tip-over tumble-down scrapes, before this, and we hadn’t ought to get frightened easily. Who knows, old boy?—this may be the route to our destination—the Walled City of Gold-Flake. I’ve had an idea a fellow would have to strike some such a place as this, before he got to trav- eling over those golden cobble-stones!” Constantly descending ran the trail for half a mile—then, abruptly ascending it continued for several miles, while beneath it, all the way, ran the gling water. **] reckon I’m up for a night of it,” the scout muttered, after he had allowed nearly an hour to elapse without speaking. ‘“‘ I’ve some doubts now, if I ever reach the end of this confounded ravine.” But, at last he did, rather sooner than he had looked for. He rode up and out upon a sort of table-land, of a few acres dimensions, beyond which there appeared to be another abrupt stepping-off ce, As he did so, his horse suddenly came to a halt in front of a rude hut, of wigwam shape, which had been framed of poles, and sided u with tanned skins, and in the front of whic stood a ha ge ob goa, = in woman’s garb, engaged in ing a fire, with some pieces of punk. : She uttered a shrill cry, as Primrose gave a snort and hastily Deranied a rifle, which leaned against her lodge. ‘* Halt! Who comes there, at this unseemly hour, to the Phantom Acre?” she demanded, in a cracked, shrill voice, as she raised her rifle, threateningly. a * The stranger took a good look at her, before answering. She was a woman of perhaps sixty years, with yellow, badly-wrinkled skin, glaring gray eyes, and a mouth, which habitua y ©x- posed two tusk-like, protruding teeth—the only teeth in fact, she d boast of. Her hair, cateinaliy black, but now streaked here and there with lines of white, hung matted and disheveled ly over her eyes and about her shoulders; her hands were bony and hard, with long claw-like fingers. What little clothing she wore was in rags, even to a flaring red cape about her shoulders, and her feet were shoeless., Allin all, she was the nearest approach to a witch that the stranger had ever encountered. “You can put down your gun, old Mother Grundy!” he assured her jocularly.. ‘‘I am not going to eat you up, nor carry you off. I’m simply searching for some water, for myself and horse. around this part of the country?’ Do you happen to know of any ‘*No!” was the sharp answer, as the woman regarded him suspiciously. ‘‘Man or beast never comes here for water but to die. This is the Land of the Haunted, from which intruders never escape.” ““Oh! they don’t, eh? According to that I must be booked for sudden dissolution!” ‘You are right. Death is the fate of every one entering the Phantom Acre. You have come, and such a fate shall you be meted.” ‘You mean to insinuate that you’re a sort of supernatural concern, then, do you?” ‘Hal! ha! ha! No!” and the woman laughed in a blood-curdling manner, ‘‘ I’m Old Meg, the Witch; [’'m the earthly agent of those gone to the spirit-land. I control their actions and pro- tect their rights!” ‘¢ Ah! so that’s the size of it. Now it looks to me as if you ew as crazy an old delegate as is often picke But, be that as it may, you mind your business and Ill not harm you,” ‘‘Ho! ho! So you’re afraid of me!” ** No; I don’t easily get scared even by as re- pulsive-looking ogres as you!” ** We shall see! we shall see!” she cried, flying into a sudden passion. ‘‘ You have doubted my power: you shall behold it. Zamiel?” She stepped a pace toward her lodge and raised her hand above her head with a weird ate e adventurer watched her, and invyolun- ar gazed around the Phantom Acre. at he saw was not calculated to strengthen his disbelief in things supernatural, and he could but give vent to an exclamation of horror. Standing about a rod apart, all around the table-land, at its extreme edge, were tall, spec- tral figures, draped in flowing white and lookin core “espe indeed—as ghosts are suppose: to : 00 To add to the uncanny effect, a strange samo og tl halo of light clung around each gure. ‘‘Ha! ha! ha!” shrieked Old Meg, dancing about wildly. ‘‘ What think you about my power, now, doubting white dog?” It was a moment before the stranger could command his voice; then he turned and sur- veyed the witch with a stern, unflinching gaze. ** Well, as to your happy family of spooks, I must admit that you have got them under good control. But I presume if one took time to ex- amine the mysteries of this place, a very neat job of mechanical engineering could be brought to light, whereby you work those white, sheet- covered, phosphorus-painted automatons!” And, Perens around again, the scout per- t ceived that the apparitions, or whatever they were, were gone. Old Meg was close beside his horse, peering up into his face, when he turned toward her once more. ‘‘Your name?’ she interrogated, eagerly, huskily ; “‘ tell me your name!” * Why?” he asked, grimly. ‘‘ Because—I must know it—I must! You are one out of a thousand whose name I would use toask. Tell me! tell me!” ** Well; if it will do you any good to know, I generally blow about on a breeze under the title of Cyclone Kit. If I have, or ever had any other name, it does not matter to you, nor to your automaton spirits!” was the answer the adventurer vouchsafed. ‘*Cyclone Kit! Cyclone Kit!” Old Meg mut- tered, digging at her head with her talon-like fingers. ‘‘ A good name—characteristic of the man. Yes, you are a cyclone—you are a rock with a foundation—a man of steel! I can read you better than I can the phantom cipher upon the picture rocks. You are the very person I’ve been looking for these many days—a man whom man or devil or ghost could not change from a fixed resolution! ‘‘Humph! and may I inquire what an old fossil of pa caliber might want with such a man as I?’ Kit demanded, in rise. ‘‘ Need you ask? I want you for a purpose— ha! ha! yes, a purpose. I want you for my envoy—my sworn coadjutor, inall my plans and schemes. I want you, when I die, to inherit my gold, my witchcraft, my soul! But, before you can do that you must go into the borders of he infernal—you must descend, hence, into the Walled City of Gold-Flake!” —_——_—__>_ CHAPTER II. OLD MEQ’S STORY. Ir might not be wondered at if Cyclone Kit at thisannouncement. Here was thisold mountain ogre volunteering to send him to the very place he had months ago set out to find. (E] OOK) com ‘cs (E(e) ‘ — i. i —— Ss —