Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 94 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

es young sister alone in the woods of Sioux-land, and liable to fall into the hands of Golden George? The thought roused Midnight Jack. ‘¢ Where is my brother?” ‘*Down at the dog-feast.” ‘* And the white boy?” Before Mouseskin could reply there came from the cottonwood forest the barking of myriads of Indian dogs. ‘“What means that, Mouseskin?” cried the road-agent, grasping the red boy’s arm. ** The white boy!” exclaimed the little Siowx. ‘The red boys have taken him into the woods; they have tied him to a tree, and set the hungry dogs upon him.” The road-agent could not repress a cry of horror; if it did not betray him to Mouseskin, it made the boy fix a strange stare upon his painted face. And when he thought of the hundreds of gaunt wolfish dogs which he had seen since his entrance into the Indian village, and pictured in his imagination the awful peril that environ- ed Gopher Gid, he darted suddenly away leav- ing Mouseskin bewildered in his tracks. CHAPTER XTI. CUSTER’S BUGLE. ‘Ir I could steal back and get the drop on ou, Midnight Jack! No! that would not be air after my word. He forced it from me— curse my stupid ears that would not hear his step! A man would ore avy promise that was wanted when a revolver was pressed against the base of his brain. Ill keep my word, Mid- night, though, ety I am not bound by it; Tit not molest you inthe Indian camp. Do you know that Tanglefoot has penetrated your dis- guise?—that you walk over a volcano? But, you'll get out, all right; the devil who guards you will bring ‘you through safely; he will reserve ‘ee for me—yes, for Golden George, Midnight. It’s only a question of time; we’re bound to meet; my errand to this part of In- dian-land makes that meeting one of the cer- tainties of the future. Beyond that red town no promise binds Golden George. He is the tiger unchained! he will possess that pretty face that left Fort Sully in a wagon not long ago—that girl who is hunting for the brother driven from home by a father’s curse! Mine! mine! SA tps bird; you shall be mine! The hand of Midnight Jack shall not keep you from George Antill’s arms. The nabobs of Dead- wood shall soon admire the child wife of Golden George, the Tiger of the West.” Thus spoke the individual whom the road- agent drove from Red Cloud’s village in the summary manner which we have already de- scribed. He stood on a hill whose summit overlooked the wigwams appearing ghostly in the star- light. e was a handsome man; the paint on his face could not conceal this fact. His figure, tall and graceful, was admirably pused ; his dark hair, now devoid of the oil which had help- ed to make him a dandy in Deadwood, almost touched his shoulders, and the words as they fell from his lips possessed a soft intonation that proved that Golden George could play the lover when occasion required. He was widely known. At Fort Sully he had gambled in the officers’ quarters; in the camps of the Nation’s wards he had participated in many a wild orgy; a smiling fellow but a dead shot; a tiger when aroused. No one had ever caught this free rover in a lie; he spurned a falsehood; he made love as Golden George, and in the same character he went to the Pacific coast and fought the tiger openly in the gilded dens of Fr’isco. Dora Lightway stopped at Fort Sully on her way West. Her beauty had attracted the Ti- ger’s attention; but as he was engaged in a series of games which bound him to the cloth for the time being, she passed from his sight. But he was not long in following the vehicle that bore her away. He came up with it in the spot where we saw it last, still ladened with the Petey: cargo that ever filled a Conestoga. e saw the oath of vengeance which Midnight Jack had chalked on the side of the death-cart. He took the back trail to the spot of the second battle, and from that to the Sioux village. He expected to find the beautiful object of his search there, and did not dream ‘of meeting Midnight Jack. So much for Golden George’s past connection with our story. For a Jong time he stood on the hill with the red-skins’ village nestling at his feet. The fires in the square were burning low, the dogs—-those gaunt canines that infest the Indian camps— were still prowling around, but quietly. ‘* Have I missed her?” he thought. ‘Did I ride to this place to meet—Midnight Jaek and not the little sylph? Tanglefoot says he knows of no captive in the village; and if she were here would he not know it? Must I go back and_be- gin that trail anew? It would take me from that old foe of mine, and it is written that we must meet and fight to the death. Why delay that time? Why not go back—down into the vil- lage and call him out?) My word—ay, that’s it. Golden George keeps that!” A moment later the hillock was deserted. ‘*| will not go away! ‘To-morrow is the sun- dance. Tanglefoot will tear Midnight’s mask off. I will wait for that event; then I will go back.” Not far from the hill the speaker came sud- denly upon a lithe-limbed horse, secured by a leathern tether to a young cottonwood. The cord ‘permitted the steed to pick at the sparse herbage that grew about the roots of the tree, and a light whinny greeted the Sport. ‘*T came back soon, eh?” ejaculated Golden, atting the symmetrical neck of the black horse. ‘Left the village rather unexpectedly; was politely invited out, and accepted the invitation with alacrity. It was one of those pistol invita- tions,"old chum, that you’ve seen me give the boys. Ha! ha! ha!” from among the low-hanging limbs of the cottonwood the Sport drew a light saddle, which he speedily adjusted to the horse’s back, and sprung into the leathern seat. “T don’t like this Indian guise!” he said, vexa- tiously. ‘‘I’m not at home in it, and then, Golden George is not obliged to wear it in Sioux- land, any way.” As he rode from the spot where he had found his horse, he threw off the rough cavalry jacket which fitted his body, and drew a soft hat from his bosom; then a little water from the canteen that was hidden by one of the skirts of the sad- dle removed the coloring from face and hands, and as he passed the belt of timber and emerged upon a little open country, lit up by the rising moon, he was Golden George, the Sport, not the mock Indian of the Sioux town. ‘* The shanty is still up in Powder Valley,” he said to himself. ‘‘Vll go down there. To-mor- a night Pll come back and strike the right trail. He now gave his horse the spurs, which he had clapped to his heels, and the animal cantered lightly away. Gently the village was left behind, and the queen of the skies saw the handsome Sport of eadwood galloping across the lovely country which lay bewitching in hill, dale, and silvery stream beneath her gorgeous throne. ‘* Hist!” The horse stopped suddenly and threw his slender ears erect. “A horn, by my life!” ejaculated the Sport, a look of surprise in his eyes. ‘‘ It sounds like a military bugle; but there are no troops in these parts. I’m near no government station. They have wild stories about Deadwood, that the ghost of Custer’s bugler haunts this Indian land; but that’s all bosh—old women’s twaddle. A horn it is—no! a trumpet—there it goes again. Ghost or not, that trumpet belongs to some regi- ment,” Across the little valley that seemed to termi- nate abruptly in darkness, came the distinct music of the bugle. The horse heard it and turned his head upon his master, as if to ask for a solution of the mystery, _ - So it puzzles you, eh?’ smiled the Sport, no- ticing his steed’s action. ‘Don’t you think it’s the bugler’s ghost sounding that last charge of the old Seventh Cavalry?” _Once more the notes came across the moon- lighted valley. “It is beyond the timber; at the river. A company of cavalry, after all, perhaps; but from whose command?” Still puzzled but determined to solve the mys- tery, the Sport galloped ahead again, crossed the valley, penetrated the timber, and saw the moonlight on the waves of the swift little river that rushed toward the broad bosom of the Mis- sour'l. ‘* Now blow your trumpet ghost or soldier!” said Golden George banteringly, as he drew a revolver and set the deadly hammer. But he was not rewarded with a single blast. ‘Fooled! deluded!” he said, putting up the pistol. ‘‘ Now back to Powder Valley, and nev- er a word about this ghostly sell.” He turned his horse’s head up the stream to whose bank he had ridden, and the animal was 11 already obeying the pressure of the spurs, when Golden suddenly drew rein. Another moment and he was on the ground holding in his hands a beautiful silver bugle up- on whose shining surface could be seen the in- scription ‘‘ Seventh Cavalry, U. 8. A.” The mystified look in the Sport’s eyes was complete; and he at that moment would have formed an exquisite study for the painter. For many moments he could not speak; he turned the little trumpet over and over in his hands, read the legend a hundred times, andat last put it to his lips. “Pl blow a blast!” he thought. ‘‘ Maybe it will bring the ghost back.” Then a musical call, weird but beautiful came from the mouth of the historic bugle, and Golden George listened with a smile at the echoes that came back from the wood. But another sound accompanied them: it made the Sport snatch the bugle from his own lips and turn about. ‘What was that, horse?’ he cried. ‘‘ Noecho, on my life. You heard it; ay, and so did I!” ‘‘ Here!” came a voice from a spot not far away. ‘ You are white and to me you must be a friend, Heaven must have directed you to the trumpet. My weak hands could hold it no longer.” Golden George was advancing with rapid strides upon the as yet unseen speaker, and al. most suddenly he came upon a girlish figure. ‘“T am a friend to the helpless!” he said. ‘What? a girl! by my life! Heaven must have guided me hither.” The next moment they met, and Golden George tock the outstretched hands of the sud- denly discovered one. ‘* Ah! your face is white!” cried the girl, with joy, as he bore her toward his horse waiting for lim in the moonlight. ‘‘I blew with the faint hope that a friend would hear, and you came, Oh, many thanks for this deliverance! I am not to go back to the Indian lodges! I have a protector now, No! Lam not an Indian girl. lhey dyed my skin; they—” ‘*ITsee you are not Indian,” interrupted the Sport. ‘* Your face shall not be turned toward the wigwams agoin.” He felt the lithe figure creep nearer to his heart; he saw implicit confidence in the swim- ming eyes upturned to him. ‘*| know you!” he continued, looking down upon her. ‘ You are the little lady who stole the hearts of the young blue-coats at Fort Sully a few days ago.” A blush chased some of the pallor from the fair girl’s cheeks, and her lustrous eyes fell. ‘‘l was there!” she said. ‘‘Oh! the terrible scenes through which I have passed since! But did I meet you at the station? I met so many kind people there that I forget—” “We did not meet, but I saw you,” was the reply. ‘‘My name is Antill—George Antill—at your service.” ‘Mr. Antill—” ‘‘Pardon me!” he continued. ‘I want to tell you all. They call me Golden George, beyond the Missouri—I mean west of the river.” ‘* What!” cried the girl, starting up and star- ing into the handsome, triumphant face of the Sport. ‘Golden George, the gambler — the wickedest man in the Far West? The officers’ wives told me to look out for you. Merciful Father! did I leave the Indians to fall into your wr37 ‘So it seems, my little girl,” was the response. ** The ladies of Fort Sully don't like me, and I don’t care that! for any woman in the wide world but Dora Lightway. That’s your name, I believe!” A cry of despair welled from Dora’s heart. The snap of the Sport’s fingers and his words sounded like the knell of.doom in her ears, With a powerful effort she started back, but Golden George pounced upon her like an eagle, and the next moment his eyes were flashing like a triumphant demon’s above her. CHAPTER XIII. GOPHER GID AND THE DOGS. Our old friend, the Screaming Eagle, noticed the fi of the road-agent as it neared the spot where he stood, and gliding toward it, a parently unperceived, the twain met in the shadow of a wigwam. ‘Wal, Midnight?” ‘Let me talk,” was the low response which told that the speaker had something important to communicate, “ Dora is really alive! She is a fugitive out there somewhere. The reds are forming a secret cabal against us. We must depart. Do you hear those dogs?” COMMIT NOVO KS G (El)