Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 278 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

. . -— — ‘** He hasn’t his ekal on the prairies,” replied Ben. ‘“ Look fer him whar ye may, ye won't find a hoss to go as far and do as much and do it as quick as Diamond. I'll say thet fer him. I’ve gut him to thank fer a life saved from the Blackfeet before now. But them days is done. I'm gettin’ to be an old man now. feel it in my bones.” ‘** Old!” replied Jules, ‘‘I’d like to find your match now in this section.” ‘* That’s easy enough to do,” said Ben; “ not but thet the time hez been when I was as spry a young chap as ye’d find atween the three Buttes and the cpr og I tell ve true, I’ve seen the time I could lick any thing on the prairie. I couldn’t doit now. I’m gittin’ too powerful weak, that’s the reason, and good enough reason, too. Ie’u’d lift a buffler onc’t; I kain’t do it now. But I’m no chicken to-day. “Say,” said Jan, ‘‘ vat you do mit my pear?” ‘Leave him here now,” said Ben. ‘‘ To- morrow I reckon we'll come back and take him into camp.” ‘* Vat you do mit him?’ queried Jan. “Kat bim, of course. ever hed any bear- steak, I guess, [ calculate you’ll say it’s mighty refreshing fodder, once you git any of it.” * Kata pear! Vy, dat ish worser dan to eat vrog,” said Jan. ** No, not so bad,” said Ben, “‘only the frogs taste the best. I judge you can’t beat them very easy.” “All right,” said Jan. ‘I eats any ting now;leatapear. I says nottings. Pring him vere Jule cook him, unt py tam, I eat him. Dat’s all.” ‘* We'll teach you something about frontier life by the'time we git done with ye,” said Ben. “I ruther guess thet ye will see the time when a baked =F a won’t be a bad dish fer ye.” **Paked Injun! Vat; you eat dem?’ ““T reckon the’r’ pooty good fodder, too, when a ain’t got nothin’ else to feed on,” replied n, coolly. “T dells you vat,” said Jan, getting angry again, “‘ ven I cooms to dis coontry I dinks it must be goot coontry, but now I dinks it is no more petter ash a Feejee Island. I vill not eat ked Injun. ’Tish no good; dat ish vat I inks,” ** Ye don’t know any thing about it,” said Ben. ‘ After ye’v’ been on the prairie a while ye will git over thet and not be half so squeam- ish. Jest lose yer sculp onc’t, and ye’ll be ready to eat an Injun raw.” “Stop dat. I veel very pad, I dinks dere is no Injun here.” **Mebbe not. Mebbe the prairie down thar ain’t the’r old stamping-ground, and mebbe it is. wap eng I’ve got my opinion, and I'll bet ) a ust beaver ag’in’ yours thet we see In- uns in less then a week.’ “1 not likes Injuns.” **Nuther do I. I calculate ther’s a good many of jest the same ej on the opts They don’t like the sculpin’ process, know a man thet hez heen sculped and is as lively asa cricket now. More’n thet, he hez put forty notches in his rifle-butt since the Blackfeet took his mii 3 ‘* Vat’s dat fer?” ‘* He makes a ‘notch fer every red nigger he wipes out. But I hear the dam, boys, and there’s our campin’-ground.” CHAPTER III. THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL. THEY had hardly forward a dozen steps, when they were startled by a sudden cry, which resembled nothing earthly. At the same moment Came the shout of a masculine voice, evidently in peril. The sounds, coming so suddenly upon their ears, startled poor Jan immensely, and he drew back with a look of horror, but Ben ran hastily forward in the di- rection of the sound, followed more slowly by the Frenchwan. They reached a level spot of ground between the cliffs where they widened enough t> leave perhaps an acre of ground in- cl , And upon this spot of ground two men were struggling for life or death. One was a bs ae the garb of a mountaineer, who d oie oe kree and with his hand clasped aboyt the body of his foe, was plying his knife-witlf desperate energy. The othér’“was a be'ig clad in skins, a savage, hairy, fearfu! creature, which could not be called a mar This ferocious creature had no weapon but a short ¢lub, with which if fought with desper- ate courage, warding «ff the strokes of the krifevand giving fearful blows in exchange. The nails of this horrible assailant were like the claws of a panther, The teeth protruded over The Three Trappers. — the lower lip, white and savage. As it fought it uttered the cry which welcomed the entrance of the trappers to the glen. A little way off, a young girl stood wich clasped hands, in an agony of terror. Ben had no time to look at her then, but: drawing his rifle to his shoulder, he fired at the nondescript, which seemed to have the best of it, and had the satisfaction of seeing the arm which lifted the club over the head of his opponent, drop palsied at his side. The brute uttered the same ferocious cry which had attracted their attention in the first instance, and turning, it darted up the face of the cliff near at hand, at a place where buman foot had never trod. Jules fired at him, but with- out effect, and he over the cliff and dis appeared from view, gnashing bis teeth and howling like a wounded wolf. Ben ran to the assistance of the young man, who had sunk bleeding to the earth, and raised him in his arms. The girl came forward at the same mo- ment, with a look of tender sympathy in her face which could not be misunderstood. ‘“‘How do you feel, Bentley?’ she asked. ‘‘ Are you badly hurt?” ‘**T hope not,” replied the young man. The next moment he fainted from the loss of blood, and while they used every measure in their power to aid him and stanch the flow of blood, Ben had time to look atthe girl. She was a lady-like woman, with a sweet face, a calm, bold eye, and a trim figure. Her dress was that of the better class of western emi- grants, though travel-stained and torn. The young man called Bentley was wounded in a dozen places by the sharp nails of his late assail- ant, and badly beaten about the head with the heavy club. They raised him in their arms and carried him forward. In a moment more they turned an angle in the path and reached their camping-ground. They gathered a quan- tlty of pine branches and threw their blankets on it and laid the wounded man uponit. Ben had some rude knowledge of surgery, a know]- edge which stood him in good stead now. He went away and came back directly, bolding in his hands a small heap of leaves. These he placed upon a flat stone and quickly reduced them to a pomace, which he applied to the wounds of the young stranger. By this time he had recovered his senses, and though yet faint from loss of blood, he understood his situation and the care which was being taken for his re- covery. The girl had followed them without a word. There was something in the face of Trapper Ben which inspired confidence in him. No wo- man could look in his face and feel the least fear of him afterit. A , brave old man, knowing his work, and doing it. When every thing which could be done for the comfort of the wounded man had been ac- complished, Jules Damand built a fire, and began to fry some venison-steaks, which he found in his saddlebags. There is a natural taste for the fine arts in cookery which seems to be characteristic of the French people, and Jules was no exception to the rule. To see him at work upon a venison-joint would make the mouth of an epicure water. And though Jan was no epicure, he wus dreadfully bun after his tackle with the bear, and watched the pro- cess of cooking with a sense of unsatisfied long- ing which pleased Ben exceedingly. ‘Yer hungry. old man?” he inquired. “Hoongry? You pet! I’m yoost as hoongry ash nefer vas, Vy you vait so long, Shules? Sh’pose you hurry pefore I die mit hunger.” “Not I. You will find that it is impossible to hurry meat. It must cook just long enough, or it will not be fit for pigs. You must not expect me to slight my cookery now, when there is a lady in the case.” ““Oh, coom, coom. Don’t keep him dere no more. I more hoon efery minnit.” Jules shook his head, and continued his work ‘of turning the steaks with an air of interest in the occupation which only a Frenchman can feel in such labor. At last his work was done, and taking some of the venison on a piece of bark, he approached the young lady, and hand- ed it to her with the look of a marquis offering refreshment to a duchess. And, indeed, the graces of Monsieur Jules Damand upon this pa would have done credit to any rank in life. *Yoost look at him,” whispered Jan, his sides shaking with subdued laughter. ‘“‘ You t’ink he sbentleman, ven I nefer sees such a vool vile I lifs.” ‘*Oh, Jet him be, Jan. Ye’r’ mad because you can’t show off before a gal the sr ae in. Don’t deny it, ye know it’s true,” said Ben. ‘‘ T nefer delis a man he lie,” said Jan, coolly, Po put ven J lie I dalks yoost ash you pees dalk- in’ now. Vat you dink of dat, eh?’ The young lady took the food offered her by the Frenchman, with a smile and bow, and ate with a keen appetite. The others hel them- a and even the wounded man disposed of a goodly quantity of the savory meat, When they had finished, Jules cleared the table by the summary process of throwing the bark into the river, and they drew up beside the fire upon! which Ben threw more wood. “Ef it wouldn’t be askin’ too much, young lady, I'd like to know how you kem bere, It ain’t often we see young and handsome gals. out in the wild Black Hills.” ‘You have a right to know, after what you have done for us,” she answered, in a sweet voice. ‘‘ Now don’t ye begin thet ’ar way,” demurred Ben. ‘‘I won’t stand it. Weain’t done noth- in’.” ‘*-You saved us from that terrible creature.” ‘‘ Psho! What signifies pullin’ a trigger? Thet ain’t no trouble to a man thet’s used to lookin” through the double sights. Tell yer eb and never ye mind us. We mout hev the will to do ye good, mebbe, s’posin’ we got a chaince. What's yer name?” ‘‘My name is Millicent Carter,” she answer- ed. ‘My companion’s name is Bentley Morris. We had hoe part of a party of emigrants on their way to the Far West, I suppose it is the old story to you. We wereattacked by Indians in the night, and weare all thatis left to tell the story.” ‘¢ Der Sherusalem!”’ cried Jan, with a look of horror. ‘I hate Injuns.” ‘‘ It was the durned Blackfeet, I'll bet a farm in Nebraska,” averred Ben. ‘‘ What? Not one of all the comp’ny left but you two?” ‘“Weualone. By the aid of the strong arm of my friend, I escaped from that scene of blood and death, at which my heart sickens even now. You will understand that but for him, I should have been one of the victims.” ‘* Millicent!” said the wounded man. ‘‘Be silent, Bentley. It was year bravery which saved me. You came back in the midst. of the fray, when you might have escaped alone.” ‘‘He’s a brave lad,” declared Ben, ‘‘ Ef he: denies it I won’t believe him, for he’s got it in his eye. Now, don’t you say aword. Go on, miss.” ‘‘Tt was many weary miles from this, and we: were footsore and weary before we eame so far. We reached the entrance to this place and came in to find a secure ase for the night.. As we -passed on I thought I heard footsteps following: us and told Bentley. He had heard them, too and was uneasy. We kept on our course until: we reached the place where you found us, and where Bentley determined to pass the night. It might have been an hour after,and he was athering some sticks with which to make a ittle fire, forI was cold and wet, when that terrible creature appeared on the rocks over- head, uttering its fearful cry. If I live to be old and gray, that horrible vision will never leave me. I see it plainly now.” ‘‘Blar up, miss; don’t be afraid. Yer safe enough now,” said Ben. ‘‘Put vat if dat tuyvel vas to coom pack ag’in, Penn?” suggested Jan, looking uneasily over his shoulder. ‘‘I pees afraid mit him b ‘He'd better not. Let him try it on ef he wants to git his gruel. Pm ekal to any low-live squab of thing like that, I reckon.. Don’t you be afraid, miss. Thar ain’t no-danger.” ‘¢ It is childish in me to fear now,” she said, ‘when I have such able protectors. There, the feeling is gone; I put implicit confidence in ” u. ‘“Thet’s right. You might do wuss then to trust old Ben Miffin. That’s my name, miss- Trapper Ben, they call me sometimes. This 1s Jules Damand. He'll stand by you, an’ cook all the vittles. This is Jan Schneider. He ain’t much to look at, but he killed a grizzly a little while ago, with that weepon he calls a roer. Don’t it roar when it goes off? I guess not!” ‘*1t ish goot gun,” declared Jan, ‘‘ Don’t you make fun off me now, Penn Miffin.” ‘* Who’s makin’ fun of ye? Lain’t. I’m tell- in’ the lady you’re goin’ to stand by her, and shoot that durned eritter ef it comes back here.” ‘Do you know what that thing could be called, sir?’ said the girl; “‘ it surely can not be a man.” ‘‘Don’t say sir tome. I’m old Ben Miffin. Please to cal] me by my name.” “If you like it?’ “You bet I like it. Iain’t ashamed of my cComicbooks.co