Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 498 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

4. ~ - ———— “Yes, a detachment of the road -agents have made a wide detour, so as to approach this spot from the eastward, with the intention of surprising and wip- ing out the leper,” he gritted. ‘* They must have discovered that his shot was not fatal and that l escaped; and yet, 1 have seen no sign of their presenve upon any trail, nor dol see anywhere indications that a struggle occurred be- tween them and the leper. They came with a force sufficiently strong to tackle us both, too, for there were just six horses in the party. “On the whole, I don’t like the appearaace of things, I must roe on my ard; forif the Ser- nts really returned to slay the “4 ad and learn my ate, [am subject toa disagreeable surprise or an ambush at any m>ment, * And vaulting lightly into the sadcle, Perdido, with awary eye upon bis surroundings, rode eastward along the trail until he had reached the spot where the horse and hounds of Walking Death had lain con- cealed in the tall grass. ; There, with a crisp ejaculation, the sport drew rein and again dismounted, closely examining the hard earth anc the broken grass. ‘*Oho! the outcast was not afoot, as I cee ye he observed. ‘‘Here his horse lay concealed, and from this point came the shot that so nearly ended my career. “Here, too, is the trail of the six Serpents, ap- — from the eastward. If the leper yet ives, he is somewhere to the west or north, and be- o— the two factions of Bravo Brice'’s outlaw and, “* By Heaven! leprous outcast and scourge though he is—be his identity real or assumed—he shall not fall a victim to the red-banded clan while I can keep the saddle or lift a weapon. “Twice has he stepped between me and death, Now I shall take the trail, to rescue him, if living, to or, him, if dead.” And hesitating not an instant, Perdido mounted, turned, and spurred along the trail te the point of its convergence with that left by the Serpents of Cimarron the night before, when they fled so pre- cipitately from the dread outcast of the prairie. hen the sport halted long enough to examine closely the blending of the trails, and to satisfy himself that his conjectures were probably correct, “This last trail is some hours older than the first,’ he mused as he prepared to remount. ‘ From this point on I must guard even more closely against an ambush, for now that Bravo Brice and his men know that I am yet alive, they will at once suspect that [am on their trail, and leave no stone unturned in an effort to entrap me.” And, scouring the wide expanse of plain, the reckless sport urged his mustang along at a swift race, his dark face grim and set, his restless black eyes gleaming ominously. Dark and bitter, too, were the thoughts crowding in upon the quick brain of Perdido, and anon his keen, white teeth sunk into his nether lip until the blood trickled forth in a slender red strean). At such times his broad breast rose and fell with strong emotion. For hours he rode ouward. The suu had almost reached the meridian, when be suddenly drew rein and dismounted, just beyond rifle-shot of a small motte through which the trail led. “If in wait, the devils are tnere!” he gritted, look- ing closely to his weapons, ‘In such case, it will be no easy matter to reach the place undetected. And at best it is a risky proceeding, for the odds are all inst a man’s getting back here with a whole e de. ‘*But the play must be made, or the other side will jump in and capture the winning trick I will follow the trail right into the grove, for tbat is the course they will least expect me to take, if they are there and have discovered my approach.” And sinking down into the rank grass, Perdido crept swiftly forward upon all-fours, reaching the edge of the motte in an incredibly short time. The silence ofdeath brooded over the timber clump—a stillness eloquent of danger and death in the lone solitude, The motte was almost free of undergrowth, the ph sete part of the space among the dwarfed trees ing carpeted with a luxuriant growth of grass, No sign of life was visible; but on every side were indications that the grove had the night before been the camping-place of the Serpents of Cimarron, for the grass was trampled and crushed, and in many laces cropped short by the horses of the outlaw and, while under the trees was yet standing a wickiup. or brush shelter. At sight of this last object, a puzzled expression flitted over the dark face of Perdido. “Humph!” he exclaimed, “has Bravo Brice =. deticate of late, and dainty, or has some hap- ess woman fallen into his villainous clutches? “Great God! dolt that lam! The wickiun proves that my suspicions were correct—that Walking Death, the Leper, is none other than the lost Carlot- ta Dane, in deep disguise; and she is now a captive in the hands of her most deadly foes, Bravo Brice and his men, the paid mivions of Harold Chetwynd, the arch-conspirator |"’ As the swiftly enunciated words fell from the tongue of Perdido, he staggered rather than stepped from the friendly shelter of the tree behind which he had been ensconced, For a moment he reeled blindly; then his long, tapering fingers fastened in a firm gripe around the polished butts of his re- volvers, and, apparently oblivious to all sense of fear, with @ series of eager, tigerish leaps he reached the side of the wickiup. Burning with eagerness though he was, to thrust aside the brush and learn the secret of the wickiup, if secret it possessed, Perdido felt a strange hesi- | | tancy, a nervous dread, stealing over him and hoid- ing him in check. t he was not the man to falter ina purpose once formed, even though almost certain death hinged upon its execution. The Gaghing sport was a strange character—such a one that is but seldom encountered—in many ways an odd genius, in some a remarkable one; 4 the parlance of tne *‘ wild and woolly West,” “a game- cock, with plenty of crow and lots of gall, and a craw chock-full of sand.”’ Conquering the feelings that held him in abeyance, he raised his foot and sent it crashing through the side of the frail shelter. With a quick glance around, the sport dropped to a specs and peered through the aperture into the wickiup, Instantly a ghastly pallor overspread his face, and he sprung erect, with the exclamation: “By heavens! the wickiup has an occupant, and that occupant ts a corpse!” CHAPTER IV. CACTUS BURR, ESQUIRE, OF HARD LUCK. THat Perdido Fernandez, the reckless sport, was terribly agitated by the discovery he had just made was plainly evident, for the exclamation above re- corded came from his lips in low, intense accents, while his aspect was that of a man brought abruptly face to face with an object of especial and chilling horror, “Yes, the wickiup has an occupant. and that occu- pant is a corpse,” he mechanically repeated, as he stared fixedly through the hole in the side of the brush shelter. “‘ And thal c.rpse bears the muwkof the Destroyer ! ‘Great God! will his red work never cease?”’ Conquering his agitation, Perdido knelt and gazed stead ly through the apertu e at the face of the corpse —at the Destroyer’s mark, a serpent writhing in the iron grasp of a gauntle\ed hand, impr ssed 1n blood-red upon the waxen forehead. ‘He was a Serpent of Cimarron, and so deserved his fate,”’ uttered the sport, suddenly springing to his feet and beginning a restless walk to and fro. “T will call up Fleetfoot, and here in this grove rest him an hour, while I put the dead outlaw beneath the sod, ForI must mor him, Serpent though he was. In life, we were foes; but now, death has stepped in, and enmity between us has ceased.” ummoning the well-trained animal with a pecu- liar call, Perdido lariated it in the nfost luxuriant of the grass, then again turned to the wickiup. Quickly tearing away the end of the shelter, he grasped the dead outlaw by the shoulders and drew him forth, A stalwart man, gray and grizzled, had been the pee pe aa six feet in hight, broad-shbouldered, and of wondrous muscular development, A glance at his distorted face, protruding eyes and lolling tongue showed tliat his end had been most terrible. There were no bloodstains—no marks of violence on his person; but, infinitely more startling, around his hairy throat ran a slen ler, bluish line—the mark of a strungler’s cord! With a shiver of disgust, Perdido drew away. Sinking upon his knees, he with his bowie-knife be- gan the task of scooping out a shallow grave. When he had ended, naught but a mound of fresh earth was left to mark the grim tragedy of the motte. Then, after a rigid but fruitless search of the in- terior of the wickiup, the sport again mounted and with a hard set face spurred away to the northward —the trail running almost at right angles with its former course, All through the long afternoon—in the fierce glare of the sun, he rode, never for an instant faltering, though he and bis steed each betrayed signs of weariness, There was yet an hour of sunlght when he reached a narrow pass in the foothills, through which the trail ran, ‘‘Somewhere back in these hills Bravo Brice and his men are encamped for the night,"’ he muttered, halting. ‘*Their horses must be terribly jaded, for the trail has been gradually freshening until now it is but little more than an hour old. “{ must find cover for Fleetfoot, then creep for- ward and get the bearings of the outlaw-camp, for I am determined to learn before ea ig is gone if my suspicions are correct—if Carlotta Dane is alive and by some strange fatality a captive in the hands of her foes.” Only a moment Perdido hesitated, then pushed oe yet cautiously into the pass, A few minutes sufficed to discover the shelter de- sired—a deep and narrow ravine cutting into the wes:ern side of the gloomy pass. Two hundred yards up the ravine the sport dis- mounted and tethered the mustang, then hurried back and carefully obliterated his trail, That precautionary measure completed, he at once scaled the preci pecs wall of the sage to the sparsely-wooded hights, then took his bearings and pushed forward, laying his course parallel to that of the trail in the depths below. The way was rough and tortuous—even more so than the spert had suspected. Huge rocks and bowl- ders, and great thickets of undergrowth, so blocked the path at times, that he was tempted to descend to the pass and push boldly and rapidly along the trail, trusting to luck as much as to such care as could be exercised to avoid discovery by the Serpent of Ci- marron. ne too, the long, cool shadows of approncbing were creeping steadily up the face 0o e acclivity, warning the bold caventurer that he had time in which to carry out his remaining but little a. * § a %& ate > Cactus Burr, the Man from Hard Luck. re we - oe -ee . e e | And yet, he disliked to abandon bis first formed ‘ “lan, for he urgently desired to gain a point wlence a project—in which to meet and overcome the ob- stacles in his path, = could look down airectly into the canip of his oes, 7 They can’t be far up the pass,’’ he muttered, as he picked his way through one of the thickets; ‘and while thisis a rough road to travel, | prefer its scratches and bruises, with its secrecy, 10 the smoother way of the pass and the risk of discovery. “* Hello! hello! Now, what in tke world can this mean ?”’ The sport had struggled through the intricacies of the thicket, and now stood in a comparatively opea space. Malis face bore a startled look, and his attitude as well as his words betrayed intense surprise; and justly, too, for directly before him, upon a stake driven into the hard earth, floated a white handker- chief—a dainty, filmy affair, the property of a mem- ber of the gentler sex, and fresh anc fragrant with: the odor of white roses! ‘““What mystery is this?’ continued Perdido, clinching his hands and peering about as if he would pierce every nook and cranny of the sur- rounding jungle. *“Can this be some devilish trap? That bit of lace was not placed there without a pur- pose,’ A moment of hesitancy; then, as if satisfied that he was alone upon the hight, he strode forward deliberately plucked the handkerchief from its rest- me te : s he shook out its delicate folds, a-bit of crum- pled white paper dropped to the ground. “White roses!"’ uttered the sport, involuntarily, detecting the faint poreune as he stooped to secure: the paper. ‘* Carlotta Dane was passionately fond of that fowor—a strange coincidence, truly, Good heavens! Everything tends to confirm my sus- picions. Ay, here is proof, almost, that she is alive and in the hands of the merciless Serpents of Cimar- ron, for here upon the corner of this handkerchief are her initials, *C. D.’” The words burst forth in low, intense tones, vibrating with various emotions. Half-crouching, his face growing white and drawn, he stared with. glowing, burning eyes at the letters worked in the bit of lace. . For the moment, he seemed totally oblivious of bis surroundings, and of the fact that at any instant a bullet from some lurking member of the outlaw band might ihrow him forever off the trail. At lengeh he thrust the handkerchief into a pocket of his loose velvet jacket, and slowly smoothed out the folds of the raper. Then, n, as his eyes swept over the paper, he uttered a low, stifled cry of surprise, for there. traced in firm, round characters, in pencil, were the words: ‘‘Perpipo FERNANDEZ:—If you value your life, turn your back to this trail, and leave the Serpents of Cimarron and their unknown chief to their work of pillage and plunder, for border justice will over- take them. Death, vov, if, urheeding this, you con- tinue. “WALKING DEATH, THE LEPER.’ Uttering a harsh exclamation, partaking strongly of the nature of the snarl of an enraged tiger, the sport flung aside the warning missive and ; round it. to shreds beneath his booted heel. i “Curse him! curse him for a meddling fool!” he cried madly, his hands dropping intuitively upon the butts of his ready revolvers, “Not while so much as a drop of _blood r mains to animate m body will I falter. Until the end is reached I wilt not Bape the trail!”’ And striding guickly across the open space, he hurried onward, his face dark and lowering, and his black eyes gleaming fiercely, His blood seemed to surge through bis veins with the consuming heat of molten metal; and that his brain was crowded with conflicting thoughts was, at a glance, apparent. ‘How came the handkerchief in the hands of that leprous outcast?”’ be gritted aloud, the words on ping through bis set teeth with a peculiarly agreeable hiss. ‘Did he pick it up on the trail we both are following, or did it come into his possession by other means?” } F ‘Wal, pilgrim, I can’t answer thet thar riddle!’ inter:upted a voice, in which there was just a sus- icion of mockery; “but ye bet yer old patent- eathers ye’u better— . “ Whoa, thar! han’s up an’ empty, tankerous critter, or ye’ll wake up in kingdom-ecome ith a shaft bored plum’ center thro’ yer cabeza “Now ye do heer me rustle—me, Cactus Burr, Esquire, ov Hard Luck! In cool, crisp, Ps measured accents came the words, emphasized by the sharp click-click of a re- volver suddenly swung to a level. as forth from the shelter of a large bowider directly into the path of Perdido, the sport, slipped a most remarkable-look- ing personage. Aman of uncertain age, of slender, Well-kvit form, ra‘her under the medium in higit, and clad in broadcloth of fine texture and fashionable cut, with —- linen, a silk hat and bighly-polished Ss. His head was small, and of habitually defiant ise, crowned with curling iron-gray locks reach- ng to his shoulders; and his a as fresh and ee, in hue as a schoolboy’s. Wa8 Of a strong and decided mold, indisputably handsome, and lit up by . pair of large, dark-blue eyes, Cold, clear and . ng. In his shirt-front sparkled a diamond of rare size and brilliancy. eircito, inwandiy Sontiwe of what cei t death-trap, but outwardly calm and nonchalaat, ye durned can- comicboo f oe a