Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 721 — page 2: what you’re looking at

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

&T°} eating rifle of the most improved <7 the olde name’s Hammond, I reckon?” saluted . casting ? lve, ‘*That willdo. How much am I to pay you ' for your services?” ‘* And tbe burros?” sé Yes.” ‘‘ Tt is dangerous traveling in the mountains.” ‘*T admit that.” ** Los Apaches !” ‘* }f you are afraid I will get another guide.” ‘* No—no, senor—J’m not afraid—but itis worth more when there is danger—great danger.” ** Very true!” **T ought to have a hundred dollars—” ‘Very well, I shall expect you here by sun- rise. You may go.” With a low bow the Mexican guide turned and walked from the veranda, and Frank Hammond was alone, He was a young man, not over twenty-three, of medium build, with light bair and deep blue eyes. His face was beardless, his complexion as delicate as that of a woman, yet beneath that mild exterior lurked a dauntiless spirit, unflinch- ing courage and great physical strength and ac- tivity. e wore a suit of light gray material fitted closely about his well-proportioned orm. Frank Hammond had just arrived in Desert City, a little mining-town that lies near the foot- hills of the Sierra Madre Mountains, in South- east Arizona. He had come directly from Kansas City to join his father, who was the owner of a large cattle ranch which lay fifty miles from Desert City. He had traveled by stage from Tombstone that morning, and had been looking for some one to guide him across the mountains to bis father’s ranch, In the af- ternoon a Mexican, claiming to be a guide, bad come to the young traveler at the hotel, and of- fered his services, This led to the conversation with which our story opens. Frank Hammond was seated on the piazza of the ‘‘ Montezuma Hotel,” a low, adobe struc- ture with wide, sweeping verandas on three sides, and boasted of being the only hotel in Desert City. The day was intensely hot—for it was mid- summer, and few i were astir in that sleepy littletown, Now and then a Mexican ox-cart would golumbering slowly along the dingy street, and here and there could be seen a few villain- pi aon | ** Greasers ” and half naked Indians, moving leisurely through the town. ‘“* It seams strange that father did not meet me here, as he promised,” mused Frank, throwin the stub of a cigar from hislips. ‘He shoul have been here yesterday. . “I think something has happened to bim.” poe He drew a letter from his pocket as he spoke, and for the third or fourth time read as follows: _“ Desert Crry, ie ser ‘“My Dear Son:—I have just got settled on m new 1 miles southeast of this place. ready sold the one on the Pecos, in New Mex- have ico, and e this my futurehome, Sol have ecided to have you come as soon as possible, Come to Desert City, via Tombstone, and I will meet you here, eC Wi ks from yo-day.. owever, if anything should happen to preveat my coming here to meet ous t time, you can easily secure a ide who can pilot you across the mountains, our nearest rou i be to take the old Zuni trail from here, and follow it to the Urkos Pass, then leave it and travel ht out for twenty-five Hoping to see you at the appointed time, I “ Your affectionate father | cat * RicHaRD miles. am ND,.”’ ‘Yes, [ must start for the ranch to-morrow,” Frank mused, as he replaced the letter in his pocket, ‘‘ Those devils of Apaches are on the es again, and I fear father has encoun- tered some of them on bis way here.” He rose from his seat and paced restlessly up and down the little piazza. - esently he heard footsteps approaching, and turning, beheld a D gs sous ng old man stand- ing before him. Tae stranger was fully six feet + in hight, and evidently was possessed of great muscular strength. A pair of keen gray eyes peered out from beneath bis broad-rimmed hat. _ His face was nearly hidden by a short growth of dark whiskers which were sprinkled with ’ gray. He was dressed in the garb of the typi- ‘eal prospector, and looked as if he had seen the TCvuch side of life. A brace of heavy pistols or- Dal-yented his belt, while in his hand he carried ttern, a) ont a 6 oh , oar it the first time,” replied how did v00k of surprise on thé stranger. _ how did Yo. learn my name?” | : UL ou j said I guessed it,” grinned the old Frank “But ** Yes; but how?” laughed Frank. **Mebby I heard you talkin’ to the proprietor of the hotel this mornin’—” ** That is very hkely.” ‘‘An’ mebby I heard you ask if a man by _ name of Hammond bad come here yester- a — ** Well?” ‘Used to live on the Pecos, in New Mexico?” ‘‘Then you know my father!” exclaimed Frank, ‘“‘I know’d a man by the name of Richard Hammond,” : ‘“*He is my father! Have you seen him? Is he in town?” ‘You can’t be a son of the Hammond I know,” the stranger observed, ignoring Frank’s questions, ‘* Why do you think that?" **Cause you hain’t got none of his judg- ment,” , ‘*Perhaps not; but that has not yet been proven,” ‘Yes it has,” . ** How do you mean?” ** You just now hired a guide ?” Fix Ch ‘* An’ a Greaser !” «sé Yes—” A low Jaugh escaped the old man’s lips, ‘ “‘T'll be dinged if you hain’t got lots to arn about this yere country, young feller,” said the old man, *‘ an’ fore you’re byar very long you'll Varn to have nothin’ to do with them onery cusses —that is, if you don’t git a knife in your back before you have a chance to l’arn.” ‘‘ Look here, Hsp Ve returned Frank, a little impatiently. ‘‘ Your advice may be well meant and all that, but, don’t you lose any sleep on my account, I am amply able to take care of myself. I believe you know something about my father which you could tell me if you will. If you will not, it is useless for us to bandy words over the matter.” “T’ll be dinged if you ain’t a son of your dad’s!” admitted the old fellow, advancing and extending his band. “I know your father. I was working on a ranch on the Pecos when I first saw him.” ‘** ‘You bave not seen bim lately?” ‘* No; not since he left the Pecos Ranch.” ‘* He promised to meet me pegs henge , but it seems he never came. I shall start for the ranch to-morrow morning.” ** Across the mountains sc Yes,” ‘* It'll be a dangerous journey. You may run onto some Apaches,” “You are right, and a Greaser is a poor per- son to depend upon in time of danger.” ‘* That’s correct,” gett I could get you to aecompany me m , ‘“*T was jist goin to offer my services,” **T will pay you liberally.” “‘ Then 1 won’t go.” ‘*What do you mean?” questioned Frank, in astonishment. ** Nothin’; only I don’t want no pay. Your father did me a good turn once-—up the Pecos, an’ I don’t mind takin’ a run over to his ranch with you, if you’re willin’.” ‘‘Just as you please about the pay,” replied Frank. “‘T shall certainly be glad to have you with me,” : ‘Then Pll £0," | “Very well. We start at sunrise to-mor- row, “That will suit me to a tee. But, I hain’'t told ou my name—” oO ‘‘ Well, jist call me Nat. They used to call me Nathan Barker, but when I come to Arizony I jist b’iled it down to Nat. A man don’t bave much use for a name out here, anyhow, I hain’t had no use for mine yit, but I reckon a feller feels better to have some kind of a handlg to go by. Wal, I must be movin’, [ gota cabin up the holler. I reckon Pll go an’ be packin’ up for the soursey. Will you walk up with me?” “No, I thank you Nat; | don’t feel like mov- ing about much in this bake-oven atmosphere.” Then I’ll see you to-night when the sun goes down,” and with this Nat Barker strode up the Although few people were astir in Dasert nae during the day, the same could not be said of it at night, for scarcely had the fiery sun ba down, when an lchange took place. The streets became th ag, ee gambling-places were crowded. Lighting a cigar, Frank Hammond strolled leis- urely down the busy street. Hep through the busiest part of the town, and so absorbed nged with people, : the | i € a r : ‘ ’ \ ’ vi 4 : 14 7 a . . ’ oe comic Y 4 mf “ . é in SE . q se was he in thought, that before be was aware of the fact he was in the outskirts of the “ city,” He turned tu retrace his steps, when, sudden- iy a dark form sprung toward him; he caught the - ept of a knife in the starlight; but leaping quickly aside, Frank dealt bis assailant a blow that sent him staggering against the wall of an adobe shanty, Frank then quickly drew bis pistol, but before he could bring it into action, the would-be assas- sin turned, and dodging behind the building, disappeared in the darkness, But in the brief glance he bad obtained of the desperado, Frank recognized the Mexican guide he had engaged that sent : ‘* Well, I'll be hanged!” muttered Frauk, as he walked back to the hotel. ‘‘I believe Nat was right about those Greasers, I’m glad I found out this one in time, I must see Nat and tell him of my adventure, and bave bim secure some burros for us. I don’t think I care to employ that guide. He walked swiftly up the street_and was soon paeieen in front of the ** Desert Fountain” Sa- oon. ‘‘ Perhaps I shall find Nat in bere,” he thought, turning and entering the open door. The room was filled with a mixed crowd of old miners, gamblers, cowboys and Mexicans, n the front part of the long, dingy room was a bar which) was receiving liberal patronage. Further’ back were several gambling-tables, surrounded by an eager crowd, and money was being staked freely. As Frank entered the place a shaggy-bearded man of about thirty-five, with a pair of heavy pistols sticking in bis belt, approached the bar and ordered a drink of the ‘‘ worst p’izen in the place,” ‘‘There was an evil look about his face, and it was evident by the way the customers at the bar gave him roum that he was a bully of some sort. ‘* Hello, Mockton!” saluted the’ bartender, familiarly, shaking hands with the new-comer, ‘* Where have you been keeping yourself?” ‘‘ Been out rounding oe tenderfeet for the fool-killer!” blurted Mockton, as he poured his liquor into the glass, | ‘* Well, I reckon bows got enough for a ship- ment,” laughed the bartender, “Yes, I done a pretty fair business—” then as his eyes fell on de Hammond, he a cd: “Tm d 1 overlooked a Maverick, though and he nodded significantly at Frank. Dy, The crowd in the room broke into a roar of laughter at this, and all eyes were turned on Frank. But if aware that the words were theant for him, Frank’s countenance failed to ow it,” _ “Young man,” continued Mockton, “‘ you look ight as if you m have been raised on buttermilk, Come up to the bar and let me put my brand SFO you peaking t, maf" quetioed ere you in uestion Frank, suddenly turning on Mockton, “ Well, now, that’s pretty cool,” grunted the bully—f ‘ockton was a bully, and few men in Desert City cared tocross him—* ] reckon you'll learn to listen when J talk, before you leave this ‘‘-You must be something of an orator,” sug- ested Frank, sarcastically, 4 ’ Well, yes /” blurted Mockton, his voice risin ina as he spoke, ‘‘and when a pale-hair skunk like you gets sassy, I just stand him on bis. til £ get through with my head Ay a spittoon The crowd again broke into a roar of laughter. All evidently believed that Mockton was g to furnish them some rare sport at the expense, of the stranger. They expected him to wilt at this speech from the bully, and one of the by- standers whispered to Mockton not to be too hard on the tenderfoot at first, as he might be frightened away. They exchanged glances of rh tape however, when F mond re- “T believe your threats—a]l wind.” ‘You impudent little the infuriated Mockton; | such sass without mopping the floor with oo your ‘trying sd ead Baba i You don’t think I can’t do it, do you?” , ‘Do you want me to take your word for it” queried Hammond, merrily.“ You seem to bo. & better talker th are fighter.” — _A murmur o went ezagy ‘the rowd at this tat d of weakening, as ee . we prite oath, and clinching his fist, the speeches to be like your skunk!” fairly roared “do you think I'll take ou?” rank, actual! With a fierce 4 i : : My ley) Od Pe a @ 5 (e) Ss an ~ y 7 at a ee E_