Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 991 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

ie ae Oe eee oe Two Dudes from Doomed Camp. a —— . ope ij 4 ._—_ ——— ‘ath a 9 - - aris ‘rye if | ie “Ts TH Pree Ge. hie ~ ER i Bob saw before him a man whose fig- ure was power itself, and whose one arm told him who was the man he faced. It was Orson, the Owl—Orson, the One- armed! His face darkly savage looked more ferocious in the uncertain light, and his voice had the cruel harshness of the desperado. “I'd begun to git a little impatient,” asserted the man; “ but you’re back and that’s enough. I'll take my letter.” The astonished dude sharply scruti- nized the desperado, and thought of Bil- ly Whiskers’ estimate of Orson’s charac- ter. “Come! I'll take my letter—the one you took from beneath the stone, Letter- thieving may do in the Doomed Camp, but it won’t work in Shakedown. My letter, you young baboon, or I'll paint Oregon Dave’s room with your brains!” Up came the single arm and the re- volver into which Bob looked seemed to have a magnified muzzle, “The letter or death!” CHAPTER X. THE STORY IN THE SHANTY. Bob Hanley, though thus menaced by the One-armed, stood like one who did not fear the desperado, “Hand it over or there’ll ba another tenant of the little cemetery on the hill,” was ejaculated. Bob heard voices in the room below, but Ben did not come. Oregon Dave was waiting on some cus- tomers, and was chatting with them, perhaps about the events of the day. Suddenly Orson dropped his arm, and bounding to the window gazed intently down upon the street over the sloping roof. A moment only; then he turned for the door. ““Some other time,” he said. ‘‘ We meet again. You will hear from Orson, the Owl, sooner than you care to, Good- night.’’ And the man with the missing hand Vanished. Bob went to the window. He beheld Orson quit the porch and join some one in the street. “One of the men of Blackheart Camp perhaps,” thought the dude, as the pair made off. “I may hear from him again, but he cannot hasten matters too much for me,” Then the queer face of Oregon Dave appeared at the door. “Come down,” the landlord said to Bob. “ They want to see you.” Bob descended and walked into the presence of six men in the reception room, The tallest one seemed to lead, and, eat young Man put in appearance, he said: “We're here in the interest of peace. We're the peaceful angels of Shakedown. Kidd is nearly gone; he wants ter see you.” “To see me?—Mountain Kidd? dead?” “Yes, to see you. He is still alive.” “TI will see him,” replied Bob, and es- corted by the Angels of Peace he walked up the street and was halted in front of a little shanty. One of*the men pushed open the door and motioned Bob to enter. “You kin be alone with him. That’s his request,” said the captain. ‘ He'll last till mornin’, probably, and no one shall hear what passes between you.” Bob, closing the door behind him, ad- vanced toward a low couch in one cor- ner of the place, upon which lay the figure of a m=n. Not He recognized Mountain Kidd in the faint light, and the black eyes of Shake- down’s king-pin fastened themselves upon him. “It’s you, is it?” the giant said, hold- ing out his hand. “It was a cowardly shot, but just Jake’s way. You heard it all—my confession, my defiance after- ward and the hot accusation. But let all that pass. I want ter see you. Is the door tight shut and no one to hear?” “Yes,” and drawing a_ three-legged stool beside the couch Bob waited for the dying man to proceed. “It’s pretty hard ter be shot by one’s own brother,’’ was what the dying man first spoke. “ What’s that?” cried Bob,’ in amaze- ment. ‘““Never mind. He sent the bullet home. I knew he could shoot, for I taught him—to my sorrow. Now, boy, you want the papers which old Bandy drew up; but you may have ter fight for them,” “Where are they?” “Orson has them all—the will and the story. They straighten out the tangle; without them Nelly will be a pauper, and you can’t convince the world that your story is true. Bandy made it right before he died. Nickell was a mystery which no one solved till after his death —that is, no one but me.” “You knew who he really was?” “Yes. He was not the girl’s father, but most all the camp suspected that. He died in a strange way; he war found sittin’ in his chair stone dead, one night, by Alkali Tom.” “The same man who found the Un- known beside the white rock?” “Exactly. Alkali Tom is lucky that way,” smiled Mountain Kidd. “It’s what you call a coinceedence, eh? But this is not why I sent for you of all persons in Shakedown to-night.” Bob did not speak, “You came down here ter find out who killed the Unknown. You say you know who he was, but you want ter know whose hand struck the last blow.” “You are right. We have an interest in that dead man and in the ground.” Mountain Kidd cast a long look at the door and seemed to collect his thoughts, “The hull thing’s strange,’ said he, with lowered voice. “It’s been a long time comin’.” “What has?” “These events. Look here, boy! wens leave me if I tell you all?” “4 T oO,” “IT mean you won’t go away till I’m pianted.” “Of course not.” “That’s good. Orson killed him!” ‘Did you see it, Kidd?” The eyes seemed to get a wild light. “IT saw it,” responded Mountain Kidd, feebly, but with emphasis. “I saw it, and I'd face Orson with the story.” “Was he alone? ’”’ “That he was. It was a cool bit 0’ business. He found the man alone. He was comin’ ter Shakedown for a purpose, but Orson knew him on sight.” * And he wanted him out of the way?”’ “Certainly. It was the work of the One-armed. For once this is a crime Pinos Jack had no hand in.” “Why did Orson want the Unknown dead?” asked Bob. : “That man would have turned some things topsy-turvy in Shakedown,” an- Swered Kidd. ‘‘He would have shown & hand which would have trumped all 0’ Orson’s cards.” “ And he a stranger to Shakedown?” “Yes; it was the first time he ever saw the camp.” : “And he was killed at the very fringe You i by : | best " ref he! oh 2 eh hel * ys Pe at a 3 fi ~ A rae hay ¢ hy , ~_ ™ ‘ > * * : -* . . y' ‘ * af Fd: “, . 1 (as i) kel Fhe ane > *s . =a? s AU “ i! 4 ; ye ‘a1 ty : Tee fa Rab & } sys Vy; = 5 ob 2 ~ . ‘ >of 5. . y oy - - ¥ © ye .. Pi of it! What ought to be done with the murderer, Kidd? ” The wounded sport ground his teeth and his lips met. “Thar’s no question about that,’ he returned. “‘What should become of a murderer no matter if it was a case of revenge? ” “ You have resolved to betray Orson, have vou?’ “ Only in the-interest of Justice. Jus- tice! Ha, ha! Hear old Pinos Jack talk about the goddess! It’s funny, isn’t it?’ He laughed in a manner that made Bob shudder. “Tll face Orson with my testimony if you can arrest him before it’s too late,” he went on. ‘“ The camp will believe a dyin’ pard when it comes to that. Or- son is playin’ a high hand for big stakes. With the will in his possession and the ogy ie. out o’ the way, why, he’s right. n it. “ Bring the gun here!” he requested. “They took it away from me awhile ago, when I talked flighty like. It’s over thar on the shelf. I’m all right now.” Bob took the sport’s revolver from a shelf just beyond his reach and laid it on the couch beside him. Mountain Kidd hid it eagerly under the dirty bed-clothes and then looked wist- fully at the young ferret. “Go out an’ find him,” he said. “ Fetch him here, accused of the crime. Shake- down will stand by you after she’s heard my story. I'll solve this mystery in a jiffy. You may find him in his shanty or with some of the men from the camp over the hills. Orson has a secret post- office somewhar in camp, but go out ana find him. I’m not goin’ ter be a witness: long, thanks ter Jerusalem Jake.” Mountain Kidd pushed Bob from the couch, and with a questioning glance at. } the stricken man the young detective walked away. As he opened the door he caught sight. of a group of men in front of The Comet and the strains of “The Miner’s Last. Dream ”’ came to his ears. “Billy is entertaining the toughs of Shakedown,” thought Bob. “ He has been. corralled by them and—” His sentence was broken by a man. who stepped out of the shadows of Kidd’s. cabin. “You’re through, eh?” was asked. “War he rational? All O. K. yet?” “Yes, yes. Where will I find Orson, the Owl?” “ Over thar. He has got Billy Whiskers: ter sing one o’ his songs for the men of Blackheart Camp.” “ Are they here?” “Yes, ten or more o’ them.” Looking at the crowd in front of The Comet, Bob took in the dangerous scene at a glance. “What do you want with Orson?” asked the Shakedown “Angel.” | “I want to see him. I have business with him.” “Not while they are with him, I hope.” “Yes; now or never.” The other laid his hand on Bob’s arm and leaned toward him as he said: “Didn’t Kidd put yer up ter it all, boy? Wasn't it his request? It’s the old - feud—the old quarrel over the little mine they opened years ago.” '“T can’t help that,” was Bob’s re- joinder. ‘“‘I want to see Orson, the Owl.” . “Tf you must you shall,” was the an- swer. “‘ You shall see him now; but re- member, if you rouse him you can’t ex- pect help from the Angels of Peace,” With his hand on his revolver the dude walked toward The Comet, while the voice of Billy Whiskers sounded the chorus of the pathetic song. + ‘ » ane ‘ - ¢ £26 oo. ele Vertes pb. es i >. a" iy i at | ot a, oS : Ded - : ~ - + ' : , Ps 7 — o he F, al as. ici *= ¢ - ° var ‘ — . ‘ | { 4 st oe. } "7 > 2 , vy * « ~ 4 - * Ay. LJ pe. lle: oS ly yy | PA : - & 4 P ) o% " T . H ; ae .~ 4 + a