Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 90 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

“fr a . Sr eR, eee 2 2 * 16 — > db ee i ee The Dread Rider. ‘‘ Wildcats! But warn’t ye in ’arnest? I war.” “*T have decided that you shall be thrown off yonder precipice, and upon the canada’s rocky bottom your mangled carcass will be food for the buzzards.” While a strange look gleamed from his eyes, Rock’s countenance seemed to elongate fully two inches, as he heard his condemnation, and gazed toward the canon, less than two rods distant. “Then I’m to answer yer question an’ git nothin’ fur it? Yer ter hev all ther fun, an’ I’m to do the work. This coon don’t hitch.” ‘‘San Mullre don’t forget nor forgive. He will have his vengeance!” “By Randel Rock! ‘I like yer pluck, old yaller-skin, But I reckon two can play at thet game. This beaver don’t shell—” ** Oh-oh-o-0-h-oh !” In an instant Rock’s whole demeanor had changed. With a fearful contortion of the face, he was suddenly bent nearly double, groaning and shrieking in anguish. “Oh! I'm a goner! I’m kilt! Oh my! rubbed out! gone under! Oh!—oh—o—help! hel—” ““Carambal” cried San Mullre, ‘‘ What is the matter?’ ‘‘Oh! cramps! I’m subject—oh—to ’em! I hey ’em—oh—awfully! Can’t ye—oh—I’m a gone sucker!” and all the while he was thrash- ing to and fro in the wildest agony. His cap- tors keeping as near to him as possible were powerless to help him. Suddenly he fell head- long to the earth upon the canon’s very brink! Another foot and he would have gone over. Then, with spasmodic twitching and jerking, he finally contracted himself into a heap after the fashion of an opossum, and not a muscle moved, “Valgame Dios! The dog is dead!” cried Mullre. Quickly reaching the spot, the twain bent low over the curled up form, when suddenly, like an arrow from a pent-up bow, a pair of heels shot through the air, striking the larger Mexican fullin the stomach, and hurling him back into the canon, to fall upon the rocks for- ty feet below! Then, quick as a flash, the Regulator was upon his feet, and with all his power threw his body forward against San Mullre, who, with a wild death-shriek, followed his accomplice over the precipice. ‘“Whop! whoop!” shouted Rock, forgetting that he might have other foes in the vicinity, forgetting all elsein his sudden triumph, and fairly dancing for excitement. ‘‘ How’s thet for cramps, old Greasers? I reckon yer plans hev changed! Can’t fool Rock Randel so easy, if he is subject to cramps! whoop! But, good- by, old smoky-skins! long rest to ye! Vm goin’ to git my paws undid, seein’ ye won't do it!” Well might Rock go on his way rejoicing, for he had played a sharp trick, and did it successfully. Well could he say as he hurried back to his comrades. ‘‘ Randel is a hard Rock to run against.” CHAPTER XXI. WHO SHOT RANDEL!? Ir is the night following the scenes we have just related. The Regulators have gathered again but Long Gus Durrell has not returned— never will! His lifeless body has been found this afternoon on Chester plain! Mark Waring has not come back! Nothing has been learned of his fate! Vall Deckers has not been seen since the night before. He has probably either fled the country, or fallen a victim to the Dead Duelist! Mexican Pete and Hank Webber will never come back till the grave gives upits dead. Rock Randel, as we may suppose, came in good spirits, spite of the fre- quent hints and remarks concerning “silver bullets.” Some ten or a dozen are gathered at the Prairie Home, holding an animated discussion; the sole theme of their talk the events of the few past days. ‘““Was Gus shot with a copper bullet?’ asks one. “Yes,” answers True Bill, who had been one of the party to find the Ranger’s body; ‘“plum through the head, same’s all the rest!” “This beaver don’t chip the trail, he don’t!” exclaims a tall, raw-boned Regulator, savoring strong of the mountain air. ‘‘ Ef thar hain’t sum ha’r-liftin’ afore long, this chile ’ll cache, he will! or be thrown cold! This coon don’t be ’possum fur enny sneakin’ coyote! be h: Digger, Blackfoot, Greaser, or enny furrin galoot! D’ye hyar, neow? I’m half froze for ha’r! §So shin up, old hosses!” The last is directed to the group around him, as the speaker seeks relief from his trouble at the bar. The men have barely gathered at the bar, when they are startled by the abrupt entrance of some one at the door. They turn; it is Rock Randel. But why is he so excited? ‘‘ Boyees!” cries the impetuous Regulator, ‘“T have made a diskivery! I know the hull mystery!” ‘What! of silver bullets?’ asks Burley, facetiously, while an angry flush suffuses the other's face. It is certainly an ill-timed joke. “No!” fairly howls Rock; ‘‘but [ve jess overheerd a talk in ther chaparral, an’ I—” Crack! The report of a pistol suddenly rends the air! With a cry of pain, Rock presses his hand upon his side, and falls heavily to the floor! Listening to the Regulator’s speech, the crowd had not seen a hand part the folds of the skin, which hangs in lieu of a door between the bar-room and that adjoining, had not seen a man with a cocked pistol, anda pair of glar- ing eyes in the background. ‘Good God!” cries True Bill, ‘‘ Rock is shot dead!” Then, with wild shouts and angry cries, the men rush for the room from whence the shot had been fired. But, no one is there; though an open window seems to tell how and where the assassin has flown. ‘Out, men! and after him!” cries Curt Dash. ‘Don’t let him escape! that?” The captain has suddenly seen a dark object lying on the floor. He picks it up. ’Zis a black mask! ‘‘By time!” exclaims Gil Rey, ‘‘ it war done by Black Wayne, es true es I’m a livin’ bea- ver!” “Come, men! we will find himif such a -| thing is possible! He can’t escape, if we do our duty!” A moment later, and but three men are left in the Prairie Home. True Bill and another have remained by Rock, and are trying to dress his wound, which they find deep and— well, they hope not fatal, though that hope hangs upon aslender thread. He has not re- turned to consciousness yet, and they are almost dreading it will be but the step to eter- nity. “ Poor boy!’ murmurs Bill, “‘ for nigh onto twenty years ye hev tramped with this old hoss, and many’s the good turn ye hev done him, He always hed a hankerin’ fer ye ever since he picked ye up when but a wee totitle o’ a chick by Randel Rock. But, don’t think he'll furgit ye, or how ye war rubbed out, fer he won't! No! He’ll spend the rest o’ his days in trappin’ the sneakin’ varmint! and once he lays eyes on him, all creation can’t save him frum what he desarves! I swear it, by Randel Rock! Waugh!” It seemed impossible for the outlaw to es- cape. The Regulators had not delayed in their action; but some had sought hasty egress through the window, others, out of the door. They had surrounded the house, searching it and the outer-buildings. They had scoured the plain, and hunted the chaparral. They had not forgotten the river-growth, or any known place of refuge. Some had mounted their horses, and ridden beyond the Rio Burte; others had hastened to the village and routed the settlement. But nowhere could they find their man; nothing could they find to tell the mystery of his escape. Ha! what is. Even the sluggish Orman Burley joined in the chase. Mounting his iron gray, he was one to ride to the river. But he has not been bet- ter rewarded for his trouble than the others; and at last he turns his horse for home, Orman Burley, returning to the Prairie Home, is passing over the very same path that Curt Dash and Vall Deckers were on when they heard the Phantom Rider, But he is not: dreaming of danger, as he rides leisurely along, when suddenly he feels, or seems to feel, that a horseman is silently following him! Quickly turning in his saddle, he sees, to his horror, that he is followed, not by a real horse and rider, but by the Dead Duelist, upon his phan- tom roan! With a startling cry, he spurs his horse for- ward, hoping to escape by flight; but an in- vincible power quickly seizes him, and his on- ward course is abruptly checked. That fearful form is riding right by his side. That long dark rifle is lying across the pommel of the saddle, its muzzle within six inches of his per- soa, Look which way he will, and those piere- ing orbs seem to be gazing him in the face. Never truly courageous, he now trembles lik» an aspen. Every moment he expects will be his last, But suddenly a horseman is heard approaching, Some one is coming, and he will be saved. Hope—nay, despair! It precipitates the crisis, He sees the fatal weapon raised; he reels in his seat; he utters a sharp cry, and falls to the earth. His horse gallops madly on. The rider rapidly approaches, A laugh—a shot—a shriek —the clattering of another fleeing horse —and all is blank! ma CHAPTER XXII. ‘ROGUES IN OOUNOIL. NIGHT, with all its solitude and gloom, still hangs over Chesterville. The great round moon, now nearing the zenith, lights up the earth with a somber brightness. No sound breaks the stillness. All nature is in repose, Around the Prairie Home, where but a few short hours before occurred the tragedy which we have clready narrated, there seems now nothing of life. No light glimmers from: within, none of its inmates stirring. But, in spite of all this, two men are in the bar-room —two men, alone in the moonlight, sitting near. together, consulting in hurried whispers. ‘‘ For God’s sake, Tom, what’d you see?” They are the first words that have been spoken aloud, and the answer comes in the same tone: ‘‘ What I pray to God I may never, neve: see again.” When we see that the first speaker wears a dark mask, we know it is Black Wayne, the outlawed desperado, the terror of» Shelby county. By his voice, we judge, yet can hardly realize, that the other is our old friend, Orman Burley, keeper of the Prairie Home. “ But, Tom, your hair is snow-white, and you look ten years older than you did at sun- set.” ‘“T know it! I know it!” gasps the one ad- dressed as Tom. By the moonlight we can see that his hair is really white. He can’t be Orman Burley, for his was jet-black only a few hours ago. ‘‘Ts was fearful! It was fearful!” he con- tinues. ‘‘I saw him! and as true as you live, Dick Morgan, I never expected to get back here again.” “Well,” said the other, after a pause, ‘ the line grows shorter and shorter; the circle smaller and smaller. There are only Ralph and you and me.” ‘And my turn comes next, know it,” groans Tom, ‘‘Come, come, Tom Hanson, brace up and beaman. This is no time for sniveling.” ‘Don’t blame me, Dick; don’t blame me. But that cursed Red River affair has ruined us, Oh, God, why did we ever do it!” ‘‘Hool!” exclaims the other, angrily, “ cease your prating. You forget that we are men— bold, determined men! Why need we fearf Have we not the chance to escape, if we will? I feel it, I Gomilebooks