Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 478 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

4 2 «& (. rhe page + ee -* t ~ i ¥ . » } fq a ees 4 . : ; . veda ‘YY oe oe 1 Pa : OR aes . , : = ie a* : es ba 4 , ‘ a ya io a. ray PE - 4 . ~~ = ’ »s : - . -of excitement. . a ‘ “y Old Tom Rattler. the hand turned and began another subject. His movements were not so rapid as before and his lines and curves more delicate and graceful. It.soon became apparent that he was drawing the head and bust of a female and there was no little curiosity and speculation as to the out- Some of the old gamblers, through force of habit, offered to bet on the result, but found come, no takers. The artist worked away, leaving the face un- til the last; then, when he turned his attention to that part of tho picture, and the features of the subject assumed an expression of familiarity under the magic touches of the workman, a dee and profound silence fell upon the audience. aside for its inspection, a smile of triumph and satisfaction upon his face. that of Zulima Randall, the cherished idol of the eamp. The audience broke into an applause that was long and continuous. lt was nota wild, bois- terous applause, but one full of the spirit of re- spect and admiration—such as would have been given to the maiden herself had she appeared efore them, When there finally came a lull in the excite- ment, an old miner sprung to his feet and shouted: ‘Mister Artist, if you'll freeze that are pic- ter there so’s it won’t rub off, Pll give you tea ounces o’ gold for it,” ‘*That iz impozzeeble, monsieur,” Laclede re- plied, with apparent reames. “Wal, it’s too gol-ali-fired bad,” added the miner, resuming his seat; “it looks like a waste to rub that picter out.” After the audience had gazed upon the pic- ture of the maiden for several minutes, the art- ist erased it, and then turning to the audience, said: ‘*Genteelmen, ze Reverend Paul Postle will now to you somethings say more better as I can «! to you.” | e stepped aside, and the Reverend Paul Postle advanced to the platform, and bowing, said: “Gentlemen, the artist, Mr. Laclede, who speaks English so imperfectly, has fequested me to say a few words to you in relation to another gift that he possesses in connection with that of an artist or caricaturist; he claims the power of being able to reveal some—not all—hidden things, and fathom what to many would be a mystery. Heclaims that the gift comes to him by birth, he being the seventh son of the sey- eoth daughter born under the planet Jupiter. To some this idea may savor of superstition, but subsequent events will prove to you how much there is in the gift the gentleman lays claim to. I know nothing at all about it, and am only speaking for Mr. Laclede, and by his request, ow, in order to prove what he claims, his next sketch will be in connection with an event which, I am informed, threw a cloud of sorrow over your camp, and left your minds, your Vigilantes, and your detectives wrapt in mystery and confusion. 1 refer to the brutal murder of Judge Benoni Randal, and the unsolved mystery surrounding the crime.” At mention of this tragedy there was an au- dible commotion in the audience; but after a moment’s pause Paul Postle continued: ‘* Mr, Laclede never saw Judge Randall dead or alive yet he authorized me to say that since he came here and heard of the tragedy, he went into a sidep or trance, and while in this state, saw Judge Randall. In fact, he is so positive that he saw the victim of that murderous ar- row that he proposes to produce the face of the dead man on that canvas, and lét you judge then of his powers as a clairvoyant. You who knew Benoni Randall can reAdily decide the matter when you See the picture. As for m», I never saw the judge, and therefore am incom- etent to decide one way or the other. Mr. Laclede, you can now proceed—” ‘‘That’s all humbuggery,” a voice was heard to say. A genéral murmur passed from one end of the room to the other. The curiosity of the au- dience had been worked up to the highest pitch The artist had disrlayed such wonderful skill in the reproduction of things with ‘which hey. were familiar, that—no differ- ence how little faith they had in his clairvoyant powers—they felt he merited their respectful attention. Rev, Paul Postle remained standing on the artist's right, facing the audience, whose eyes ‘were now focused upon the canvas. The artist first drew the life-sized fi man and clothed him in a miner’s garb, of a Then, t Was some minutes before the finishing touches were put on the picture, and the artist stood The picture was as before, he drew the outlines of the head, and then stopped work, closing his eyes as if in deep reflection. He passed his hand over his brow, and finally with a start opened his eyes and re- sumed his work; and before he had finished the picture, exclamations of surprise from the lips of those nearest to the canvas were heard, and finally, a wild burst of surprise and wonder rung through the whole house. The face of Judge Randall was there before them as natur- al as had been the face of Zulima. ‘*That’s the judge!” ‘*That’s him!” “A pecac picter!” were some of the exclamations 1eard mingled with others bordering on super- stitious belief, Some one at a window outside made the re- mark loud enough to be heard inside that he was satisfied, and would bet that Laclede had seen Randall before his death and was familiar with his looks. But this assertion had no effect on the audience, for so completely had Laclede won the admiration of all that their confidence in him could not be shaken by aspersions. After the audience had taken a zood look at the judge’s picture, the artist erased some parts of it and added new lines that changed the atti- tude of the body and the features to those of a manin greatagony. He also added the picture of the shaft of an arrow protruding from the man’s breast. A low cry of horror ran through the crowd at sight of this picture, and expressions of in- dignation, and even Jow curses were heard all around the room. While the audience were gazing upon the pic- ture of Randall in the throes of death, the art- ist began work on another near the center of the canvas. First, he roughly drew a clump of bushes, and then further along he drew the fig- ure of another man,-holding in his hand a bow and arrow. But this figure he left headless, and turning to the crowd he said: “Gentlemen, ze preacher say more to you *bout ze tragedy.” | Postle, who still stood near the artist, said: ‘““Gentlemen—men of Last Lick, now comes the climax—the most wonderful of this terrible tragedy, and the full test cf this artist’s myste- rious and supernatural powers. I am told the most skillful detectives have been unable to track down the murderer of Judge Randall, even though you have offered a large reward tor his apprehension, Now, then, this remark- able man claims that he has seen the face of that murderer in a trance as plainly as he saw the face of his victim, You now know come- heii of his mysterious power. He produced the face of Judge Randall on the canvas, so you all have admitted; and, gentlemen, he will now undertake to produce on canvas the face of the murderer of your friend Randall !” As Postle conclude Laclede advanced, and with evident nervousness, bowed to his audi- ence. Then, crayon in hand, he turned and ad- vanced to the canvas, The preacher still remained stancing, his right hand at his back and his eyes flashing keenly over the crowd as if he expected to read in the eopnnenence of some one there evidence of ilt. | S acide raised his hand to begin the promised revelation of the most mysterious mystery that had ever perplexed the minds of a community; but before he had made ‘a single stroke a pistol flashed in one of the open windows, and the hand of the artist fell at his side ard a cry of pain burst from his lips! At the same instant almost—before a man in the house could move—before the sound of the pistol had scarcely crossed the room, the long arm of the Reverend Paul Postle was thrust out above the heads of the audience—a der- ringer in his hand rung out with a spiteful crack, and a cry of agony arose on the night outside of the window! ' CHAPTER IV. WHO WAS PAUL POSTLE? FIVE seconds after the report of Postle’s pis- tol the Pick-and-Shovel was the scene of wild, mad confusion. -A perfect panic ensued. Seats were overturned; men were knocked down and trampled upon; and to add to the confusion the lights were overturned and put out} and the frantic mob’ fought and crowded its way in darkness. The yells, curses, and threats of the trampled men, the crash of doors and windows, and’ the bang and rattle of chairs and boxes were deaf- ening. It was several minutes before the house was emptied; then Freiner. lit a lamp and pro- ceeded to take an inventory of his losses, But ‘the first thing he noticed was Jules Laclede, ss a . . Tey * = 4; ~—- s fs s a * oe . vs : . I ¥ ; - ct aay : | who was coming toward him holding in his left hand his right arm, which had becn dreadfully lacerated by the bullet of his would-be as- sassin. Outside, under the open window, a man lay prone upon the earth in dying agony—the vic- tim of the parson’s derringer. ‘* Bring a light! bring a light, quick!” shouted. a voice; “‘somebody’s in a bad fix out bere!” A lamp was carried to the window. Its light streamed out upon the prostrate form of the man, A cry of surprise and horror burst from the lips of those standing around at the start- ling discovery they made. The man that lay weltering in his life-blood, that welled from a bullet-hole in the head, was Major Robert Bell ! And the hand of Rev. Paul Postle had done the deed, Cries of vengeance rose on the night. Major Bell was carried into the hotel and placed on a cot, and the doctor summoned, Two miners, Casper Jones and Sandy Farrall, were sent to bring the major’s daughter, Sybil, and her friend, Zulima Randall, to the ide of the wounded man. : The doctor found the major unconscious. ‘*There’s but one chance in a thousand for him,” he said, after he had made an examina-~ tion of his wounds, This added new fuel to the flame that was already burning in the breasts of the excited miners. ** Where is the preacher? Where is the mur- derer?’ was asked on all sides. But no one answered, for no one knew. Rev. Paul Postle had disappeared; but like blood- hounds the excited miners. went plunging through the camp in search of him, To still add to the excitement of the hour, Jones and Farrall came running back to the hotel, almost breathless, with the startling in- telligence that both Sybil Bell and Zulima Ran- dall were not to be found. From old Aunt. Deborah, Zulima’s servant, who had just recov- ered consciousness from a blow on the head whem they reached the house, they learned that four masked men had come here shortly after Major Bell had started to the entertainment, and seized, bound, and gagged the girls, and upon her—Deborah’s—attempt to call for help, one of the villains had knocked her senseless, That the girls had been carried away into the moun- tains by those four outlaws there was not @ doubt, The news almost paralyzed those that first heard it. The Vigilantes met at once in their room to take action in the cases that had so suddenly prmcnved themselves to their consideration, e entire committee, with the exception of Ralph Hatton, one of their best men, was pres~ ent. A warm discussion over the tragic events at the Pick-and-Shovel and the abduction of Sybil and Zulima ensued. Finally one member declared that he believed that the events of that night were the culmin- ating acts in a foul conspiracy which had had its beginning in the murder of Judge Randall. ‘‘ This, then—” began another member, but he was interrupted by the guardian of the door with the announcement that the absent mem- ber, Ralph Hatton, had arrived. Mr. Hatton was admitted, and when seated, the speaker continued; ‘* As I was going to say, Judson’s as- sertion would, if true, involve Rev, Paul Postle and that artist in the conspiracy, and the sud- den disappearance of the parson convinces me that his decuctions are about right.” Several other members spoke in about the same strain; but finaly Ralph Hatton arose and said: . ‘* Brothers, I have listened in silence since I came in, to your theories of to-night’s tragic events in this camp, and I am prepared to say that you are all, in.a measure, wrong as to the part Rev. Paul Postle is playing. From the time I first met the preacher here in Last Lick I thought I knew him, or, at least, had seen him before; and after refreshing my memory I con- cluded I. dad seen him some years agoin Pueblo, In fact, I would bave had no doubt of it had it not beey for his language. The old fellow that I met at Pueblo was the worst butcher of the English language I ever meé. He never spoke except in the most outlandish, wkimsical and. thoroughly Western yernacular, and I then made up my mind that he was one of those 1l- literate old mountaineers whose stock of ex- pletives and slang was imexhaustible, But this man Postle has used very fair language, though in his talk to-night at the Pick-and-Shovel he used a few words that led me to suspect that my Pueblo acquaintance was before me dis- comic ‘ saad 2 he + ai 9 — - . p '