Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 942 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

3 aa « < ~ 7 ,o s 2 i Ae - oo ~ ~~ et -~ “ eon > Bar - - . — ; 4.7? : —_—- ; : ——s * = ah i ¥ 5 Ns ¥ ot ‘>< et e ss a i< te” . 4 fae - = ee ae a ay ts . “ve ee S i dog jist tell yer, boy, ther Sioux got it hot and hard, and I barely got away.” “TI thought you were with the soldiers?” *So I were; trap, and I left camp ter spring it on ’em, but it all went wrong, so I is afoot, hun- gry and mad clean through, for thet would hev’ been a big haul fer my red- Slains, you bet; but I guess I'll hev’ a talk With ther old man.” “You will not, Indian Dick,’ was the firm response of the youth. CHAPTER XVIII. A SILENT WITNESS, There was something in the words of the youth, and his wiy of uttering them, that told the renegade white man that he meant just what he said, so he growled forth: “Waal, yer needn’t git mad about it, kid, for I doesn’t want ter go whar’ I is - mot welcome.” “T told you, Indian Dick, that my father was asleep, and I would not have him disturbed. “You want a horse, you say, so I will let you have one, and I will give you what food you need, but you shall not enter that cabin, and I mean it.” * All right, kid, what you say goes, I guess, as I'm at your home, so trot out ther grub and let me hev’ ther critter and I'll git; but recommember me ter ther old man, who is my pard, if you hain’t.” “You and I never were friends, Indian Dick, for you were never kind to me when I was in the Indian village, and the Sioux I hate. ‘Stay here and I'll bring you the food, and I’il lend you’ an extra saddle and bridle we have, so keep them and the pony too.’ The man growled out something which Don did not hear, but rema.:ned where he had been told to wait, while he saw the youth tiptoe into the cabin and» soon come out With a bag of provisions, ‘ a ther old man “awake?” “TI were in hopes he were, as I wants ter see him and hey’ a talk with ‘him about a plot I has; ter git rid o’ ther sol- diers in this country, fer they kin be run jnter traps, one and all of ’em, if we goes about it right.” * All right; tell me your plans, and as soon as I can I'll come up to the village for you to return here with me and talk it over; but you know I'll have to slip in as a redskin, as I never go there, so don't be surprised to see Me any night.” “JT won't, and I hope you ‘i come as ‘soon as ther old man kin sit up, for he's ther one ter coax ther soldiers inter a ' trap, and you kin do your share, too. “When yer comes yer shall know jist ‘What my plans is, aud you bet we'll stop "em from puttin’ any more soiled in this country.” “Well, we'll talk it all over ‘when I come for you; but now I have to seem unkind to you, though I guess you un- _ derstand it, Indian Dick.” “You bet I does, and I guesses you is right. “Waal, give my good wishes ter ther old man, and Ij) look out fer you afore Buffalo Bill’s aKey sent on arter more soldiers, and I but I had planned ther a But the moment the rewegade disap- peared down the valley, Don went to the side of the cliff, over which hung a lad- der made of rawhide. Quickly he ascended to the cliff, .two hundred feet above, and running along a ridge came to a high point which com- manded a view of the large valley be- yond. Then he saw the renegade riding along at a canter, and following a trail that led to the mountains where the Sioux had their villages. “He has gone; but I have suspected he would hang about to return after a while with some excuse, hoping to see my father. “1 could have captured him, but I can wait; but it will never do to let him earry out his plot, so I guess I'll go and have a talk with Buffalo Bill about it in a day or two.” Seeing that the renegade was now miles away on his trail, Don returned along the ridge, descended the rawhide ladder, and entered the cabin, anxious now to bury the body of the hermit as soon as possible. Taking the blanket-enveloped form in his arms he carried it from the cabin, and, placing it upon a rude wagon, the wheels sawed out of logs, and which he used for, hauling wood for the fires, le drew it up to the spot where he had dug the grave the day before. Springing down into the grave, he gently placed the body there, put some pine boughs over it, and, taking from his pocket a well-worn prayer-book, which had belonged to the hermit, he began to read in a low, impressive voice the serv- ice for the dead, all unmindful that a tall form had approached silently and unseen, and was standing within thirty feet of him, looking on at the strange, weird scene with intense interest. ‘ CHAPTER XIX, THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. Buffalo Bill left the littie Pinto pony and the other animals in the pastureland be- fore the cabin, and, rifle in hand, ascended’ the trail to the ledge that overhung the stream, crossing the latter on a rustic bridge made of wild grapevines. The door of the cabin was open, and a call was not answered. Looking in, the scout saw no one, and he began to “glance quietly about him. He saw that the ledge sloped back to the head of the Canyon, where the stream entered over a fall, the sound of which came to his ears. There was plenty of timber there, and the whole scene was a picturesque and pretty one. The rawhide ladder leading to the top of the overhanging cliff caught the eye of the scout, as did all else about the cabin, a little vegetable garden, a number of chickens, a shelter for the horses in rough weather, and other surroundings that went to make up a very comfortable home in- deed for the depths of that wilderness. But where were the occupants? “They cannot be far away, for the two beds I saw in the cabin, the saddles and other things prove there are several per- sons dwelling here,” muttered the scout, Then he “eontinued his search, until Tough Tussle. 11 him break the boughs and toss them into the grave. Buffalo Bill had now approached quite near to him, still unseen. He saw him take a small book from the pocket of his buckskin hunting-shirt, stand at the head of the grave, and, taking off his feather cap, drop it upon the ground. The scout respectfully removed his som- brero, and, unwilling to brevk in upon the youth at such a time, he stood in silence observing him. He heard the voice of the boy as he read the service of the dead, saw him stoop and, gathering up a handful of dirt, tbrow it upon: the body in the grave as lic uttered the solemn words: ‘‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The scout noticed the quivering of the voice that told of deep feeling, and only when the last words were uttered did he step forward, saying quietly: “Permit me to help you, my boy pard.” The youth had placed his rifle against a tree and hung his belt of arms upon it, so that he could work the more readily. The tall form of the scout was between him and his weapons, as he half sprung toward them. But he halted as he recognized who it was that had spoken to him. His face had at first paled, but then flushed, and he stood undecided, as though hardly knowing what to do. Then he said, as the scout’s eyes beamed kindly upon him: “You have tracked me here’ ol ‘No; I had no need to.’ “What do you mean?” “But for you that Indian in ambush would have killed me, and when I fled I left you in danger, and it worried me greatly that I had to do so. “As /Il was flying before the Sioux L = upon a troop “ot soldiers coming to earch for me, and under the command of " w gallu young officer, who quickly gave the Indians a good whipping. ‘Then he was willing to come on to the camp where you went to warn Colonel Doan, and remain there while I came to look you up.” “But how did you track me here?” “TI left it to your pony, and he brought me here,” ‘Bad Pinto.” ‘No; on the contrary, good Pinto.” ‘On the way I was ambushed by a young chief, whom I turned the tables on, and after burying him I came on to your re- treat. ‘‘As I came into the little valley I saw a fresh trail leading out to the right, and feared I might miss you, but looking about, I saw you here, and so came and waited while 3 one in that grav e.” “Do you know who lies in that grave?” quickly asked the youth, “T do not.” “My father.” “Ah! you have my sympathy, my poor boy.” “We was not my own father, for my parents were massacred by the Sioux years ago, when I was a Very little fellow; but he bought me from the chief and made me a son by adoption, and he was always very good to me, and taught me all you read the service over the b Ke long, for you kin play Injun fu’st class {and sneak in ter my tepee and no red-| presently his eye caus ght sight of a form | I know.” me skin suspect yer.” passing through the timber with an arm- “JT am sorry that he is dead, boy pard; i ae — With this Indian Dick followed the } ful of pine bushes. SS, but you must let me take his place, for I -\. youth, Who was carrying a bridle and} “It is my Boy Hermit,” cried Buffalo | will. be your friend now.” Ee tiie Saddle, to the valley, and the gray pony, | Bill, and he started toward the timber. “Oh! will you?” and the face of the = % pas a very good animal, was quickly roped As he drew near the roar of the water- | youth brightened, but quickly changed to os, eM De vane gotten ready. fall increased, and keeping his eye upon | a look of madness again as he asked: — ee B bev a i “So-long, boy pard, jnati. we meets the boy, he saw him halt by the side of an |“ Do you know who killed my father?” | oa Tae ee and whi renega ted and hs grave. at naa aa i, No, I donot. | jy bia - he | e was 80: W yed up in Ww a | : Br rae | eabin. pe aie ty Py sgicecasr disisis Ge i es an plan - es ae Ae s prt 7 ’ Ppt d * Pee ef € . + <<, ms <u poe Raia. ne * = ey LA) ee