Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 94 — page 2: what you’re looking at

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

wy) Midnight Jack, THE ROAD-AGENT ; ‘ Gopher Gid, the Boy Trapper of the Cheyenne. A Story of the Sioux Country, BY T. C. HARBAUGH, AUTHOR OF “NICK 0’ THE NIGHT,” “‘ HIDDEN LODGE,” ‘* NIGHTINGALE NAT,”’ ‘“‘ DANDY JACK,” ‘* KIT HAREFOOT,’’ ETC., ETC. CHAPTER I. THE WHISKY-SMUGGLER’S MISHAP. ‘* LINCHPIN lost!—wheel off!—broke-down!” In a dark little valley, lying nearly midway between Fort Sully and Deadwood, and not far from the Cheyenne river, one of those curses of the Far West, a gin-trader or smuggler, had met with an accident. The rather cumbersome vehicle which his double mule team had drawn from the banks of the Missouri, had not only lost a linchpin, but the wheel in rolling off had upset the wagon, to the irretrievable damage of the spindle. The face of the trader was a ludicrous ad- mixture of wrathand despair. Volleys of oaths fell from his lips like intonations of musketry, and the manner in which he contemplated his misfortune, told plainly that he had not the power of ooo age ge aright. ‘‘ Now, what hev I done to lose a linehpin at the very time when they ar’ a-dyin’ fur whisky at Deadwood?’ he said, mournfully. ‘‘ Must a man what tries to make an honest livin’ be ruin- ed by a bu’sted spindle? An’, just as I said be- fore, when drinks is on the rise at Deadwood, an’ when everybody is lookin’ fur me an’ the cargo? Things was goin’ along swimmin’-like, an’ I war countin’ up the profits when, kerchuck! went the wheel, an’ I came down like a specu- lator’s hopes. Whoa!” and he bestowed a savage kick in the flanks of the nearest mule. ‘Turn r head the other way, an’ don’t look round, with a twinkle in yer eye, as if to say, ‘Sarves ye righ’, Tanglefoot!’ The way uv the righte- ous is hard, or words to thet effect. One hun- dred and sixty dollars’ wu’th of whisky; an’ iter down when the boys is as dry as a her- ! . To emphasize his wrath, the whisky-smuggler — e wagon heavily with his clenched The blow seemed to relieve his perturbed hae and he further soothed them by taking a ong draught from a demijohn, which he fished from the mysterious depths of the bane pc The shadows of a brief summer twilight were falling about the unfortunate man. The trail which he had been following toward the west was one not unknown to him, for more than once he had carried a cargo of the vilest brand of whisky over it. He knew the country, too not wholly unfrequented by road-agents an marauding Indians, to whom his cargo would prove the richest of prizes. With the butt of a revolver visible above the waistband of his heavy duck trowsers, Timon Moss, or Old Tanglefoot, as he was called, from the character of his following, surveyed the wreck of his wagon. He was a broad-shouldered, peer a man, of two-and-forty, whose face did not belie his occupation. His eyes were small, and almost hidden by bloated cheeks, between which rose the reddest of noses—the trade-mark of Bacchus. His ents consisted of a faded cavalry ket, minus the trimmings, which, open in nt and much too short, displayed the dirty bosom of a check shirt. He wore dark-brown trowsers of heavy ducking, the nether ends of | which were stuffed into the tops of a pair of for- midable boots, run down at the heel, and split at the toes for the ease of multitudinous corns. A slouched hat completed the smuggler’s attire, and the shock of dark hair which peeped from under the gr brim, mourned the lengthy absence of a com b. The little eyes, however, were sparkling, and full of that kind of cunning which the whisky- smuggler of the frontier must bring to his as- ce, if he would thrive in his nefarious busi- ness. And Timon Moss had thriven. True, he had no bank-account, but he had amassed quite a Kittle fortune in the precarious trade of whisky- smuggling, at which more than one blue-coated goverument official had winked. Just where he Midnight Jack. kept his money nobody knew; but not a soul doubted that Timon had, notwithstanding his own ruinous habits, a snug fortune to which he could retire at any day. Besides his cargo of liquid death, Old Tangle- foot carried many other things to Deadwood— ckages on which he charged an extortionate reight, and not a few letters. Therefore, on the day when the breaking of the spindle on the very spot of all others be- tween Fort Sully and Deadwood which the smuggler hated and feared, he had much of this miscellaneous matter on board. During the trip the demijohn had been emptied several times, and Timon had treated no one, either. “T must git out o’ this valley of misfortune somehow or other,” the smuggler said, seeing the shadows deepening about him. ‘‘Jest four miles further on, an’ the old wagon might ’a’ broke an’ be hanged. Bless me! if Pll stay hyar to-night! Why, hyar’s whar the Sioux fell on Brady’s boys, an’ took their scalps, an’ also hyar’s the spot where the regulators pulled Red Bob an’ pard up.” The memory of these lawless occurrences was enough to stimulate Tanglefoot to action, and, unhitching the mules, he inaugurated a hunt for a piece of timber, which he hoped to transform into a drag to serve in lieu of the wheel. Armed with an ax, Timon was not long in finding the desired stick, and when with the aid of sundry straps and chains he had secured it to his satisfaction, the last streak of day left the yee and the pale light of the stars took its ace. Then with a self-congratulatory pull at the demijohn, Timon hitched up the mules again tossed the useless wheel into the wagon, and sprung to his accustomed place. The swearing, the cracks of the villainous whips over the heads of the patient beasts, and their desperate efforts to pull the vehicle for- ward again, made up a scene never witnessed ce ab by the hills that surrounded the little valley. , _ Git ep! you stubborn Injun-colored brutes!” cried Timon, who, standing on the seat, was dealing his mules inhuman blows with the cut- ting Jash. ‘‘ Must the righteous suffer thus jest because whisky is risin’ at Deadwood, an’ the stock’s nearly exhausted? Oh! murder! go on, en mee miles, an’ l’ll give ye all the feed on ! But he cursed, struck and pleaded in vain. The heavy drag obstructed progress, and though the faithful mules pulled with all their strength, they could not draw the wagon over ten feet at an effort. “Thirty miles from a bushel of gold, an’ bu’sted!” roared the smuggler in despair, spring- ing from the box and throwing the lines at his Then he threw his hat upon the ground, and executed upon it a dance which might have suggested the idea which seemed to afford an avenue to prosperity. ‘‘Bless me, if I don’t lighten the load! They do that when a ship’s in trouble at sea, an’ the ship Timon Moss jest now is in a fearful strait. Salt ter an’ soda! the thing is reasonable. [ kin fix up a story between hyar an’ Deadwood. Fell in with Midnight Jack or the Sioux, either one will do, but the Midnight Jack story will look more likely. This load really belongs to ba ater ff ~ ith the thought of lightening his load giving a triumphant twinkle to his little dark eyes, Timon sprung into the wagon and cast his eyes around upon hi ps (4 cargo. Ten whisky-kegs, with a single exception full to the bung, formed the principal part of the load; then there were sundry boxes and packages, consigned to citizens of Deadwood, among them the legs of a billiard table, and the nucleus of a library which “‘ some eastern chap” was going to start in the mining town. ‘‘Can’t throw any of the licker overboard!” Timon said, with settled emphasis. ‘‘ Thar’s them confounded books, consigned to that pas ha’red chap who says that our great grand- mother was anape. Ill tell him that the In- iuns took ’em from me to start a sarculatin’ iibrary on the Pawnee Loup, an’ if he objects to the statement we'll lay ’im out with his boots on. A library at Deadwood!” and Tanglefoot laughed as the consignment was pitched over seers her, th ar goes our eat ndmother, the ape said Timon, and for nape ten minutes the lightening of the cargo went on. But the ey was not touched, and the only articles whic remained in the wagon beside it were consign- ments to the gamblers, and other sporting men of Deadwood. !? ‘Two hundred pounds lighter, my long-eared ards!” ejaculated Timon, over whose florid ace the evidence of his exertion was pouring. ‘Now a last pull at my straw-colored bird, an’ then [ll say ho! for the sun-dance or ho! for Deadwood. I can’t make up my mind.” Old Tanglefoot’s hands flew eagerly to the demijohn incased in a network of split willows, and he was in the act of lifting the often-touch- ed nozzle to his lips when a human voice made him start. “Tsay, stranger, ain’t ye losin’ a right smart bit o’ yer carge?” The voice, while it uttered the words just written in the style of the frontier, was not rough, like an ill-bred man’s, but musical and sweet as a child’s, The demijohn almost dropped from Tangle- foot’s hands, and he retreated from the boyish countenance which, full of health and good-hu- mor, appeared at the rear end of the wagon. ‘You appear to be losin’ a good bit of yer load, I say,” said the same pleasant voice again, “What is up? an’ whar ye bound?” “Bound to start these mules!” was Tangle- foot’s reply. ‘I lost the cargo on purpose, ur I’ve broke down, I say, youngster, ye’re devil- ish inquirin’; but git out an’ leave me alone.” But tbe face did not stir. If Timon had look- ed closely he would have seen the mischievous eyes laughing at the figure which he cut. ‘Git out an’ help yerself to what I’ve drop- ge said Tanglefoot, imperatively, and then e added to himself: “'Twon’t do! It might spile the Midnight Jack story.” The next moment with his hand on the butt of his ‘‘navy,” Timon Moss glided across the kegs toward the boy. ‘Say, what’s yer name?” he asked, gruffly. ‘T ouess it’s Gopher Gid, an’ I’m not afraid o’ anybody in the Cheyenne country.” ‘Ain’t, eh?’ hissed Timon. ‘* Wal, the rea- son is because you’ve never met Old Tanglefoot before. Do ye ever go to Deadwood?” ‘‘Been there once!” answered the boy, who showed signs of retreating from the basilisk eyes of the whisky-smuggler. ‘‘Then, by the spirit of Bacchus! ye’ll never go thar ag’in!” The revolver full cocked and tightly griped by hands that had wielded it before, shot from its sheath, and the boy with a cry of fright dis- appeared in an instant. ‘Can’t git away that easy!” grated Timon. ‘** Blast my cargo! if you shall go to Deadwood an’ spile the Midnight Jack story. Things hev got kind o’ desprit with me!” The whisky-smuggler leaped from the wagon as the last sentence fell from his lips. His murderous eyes instantly caught sight of his intended prey, and, with a roar not unlike that of a jungle tiger he darted forward. But the next moment the western villain exe- cuted a sudden halt, for a loud cry came down from the shadows above: ‘“ Whoopee! I’m the Screamin’ Eagle of the Smoky Roost! I’m a genuine death on his pale hoss, an’ I kin whip my weight in Injuns an’ wild-cats twenty times a day. Clar the track! (I'm the Thunderbolt of the Dark-edged Cloud! a reg’lar skyscraper !” Such were the words that halted Old Tangle- foot, and, revolver in hand, he looked up, as if he expected to see the speaker leap upon hir from the hills overhead. CHAPTER IL. THE KING OF THE TRAIL. rh ae Timon Moss, the whisky-smuggler, while in- venting a story with which he hoped to explain the absence of much of his motley cargo upon his arrival at the capital of the Black Hills, ‘cave audible utterance to a name well known in the Great West at the time of which we write. Let us turn to the owner of the cognomen. Midnight Jack was a prince among daring road-agents. He was noted for his uniform successes, his devilish bravery, and his hatred of double dealing, — The various trails leading from the govern- ment stations along the Missouri to the Black Hills comprised his operating grounds, and more than one stageless and mailless agent had made his appearance at Deadwood, with the the old story of misfortune which had become an old song. Tall and handsome, affecting the dress of the Sicilian brigands, with a mass of dark hair fall- ing to his shapely shoulders, this pest of the road was the most ee ee a man in Dakota. He was stil young, and the plun- dered agents whose lives he had spared said that he was nothing more than a mere boy. (G1 O00) eoilm gS) eon