Beadle's New York Dime Library, No. 148 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

— i ie a i i ‘mechanically so ‘There was a swelling of the chest, a dull burn- ‘that told of des -gle word or movement was wanted to Pay on ‘tate affairs. rte man was ready to figh y ' looks ye all have! My blood’s beginnin’ to hile, and the hearts blood of a hundred Ingins won’t satisfy me when I git set to goin onc’t, now mind, ye rampin’ niggers you, Long Run pretended not to have heard the old borderman’s words, but fixing his eyes upon the scout, asked: “* What does the scout of the pale-faces say? will he give up the young man, or will he not?” “Long Run, do you take us for a pack of cowards? Do you ge we will surrender one of our men to you? Never!” ‘*'You must, or take the con ‘* We'll take the consequences. Long Run turned to his warriors, who had all the while, maintained a stoical silence, and addressed a few words to them in the Ojibway tongue. Every warrior arose to his feet. A deep bush fell upon the parties. Hands ht the weapons at the girdle. uences.”’ ing of the eye, and slow, labored breathing rate and deadly resolve within each man’s breast. And now but a sin- t to ithe death. the two lines of foes stood ‘wavering in awful suspense—like the swaying peda at walls ere they lose their balance Before the signal for the beginning of the con- flict could be given by either party, however, the storm was stayed by a loud, gruff voice within the cabin door. The terrible spell was broken, and every eye was bent upon the doorway. , With a swaggering step, a white man, with a huge pack on his back, came dancing into the room on tiptoe. Calmly he placed his pack on the floor and seating himself upon it, crossed his legs, folded his arms over his breast, then, with apparent surprise, regarded the two lines of foes with a comical expression upon bis “‘ By the fires of Popocattypetel!” he at length broke forth, “if this doesn't beat me, J mae Muggins, the whisky dealer, all into a suds! Who'd ’a’ ever thought of finding a dozen Ojibs in the cabin of One-Armed Alf, all standin’ in a row likeschool-boys toeing amark! And hyar’s a hull kit of whites, all in a row, too! And sweet Moses and Canaan dear! What tigerish Why, what's uP ys? Anything that Jabez Muggins, the life-givin’, -ticklin’ cockalorum of the Great Lakes, can have a fingerin? Sneeze it out, One Arm; or yor, you red skinflint, muddy chops, whar’s the it’rence to Jabez? An understandin’s wanted, gents—must have it—wil/ have it, or over goes creation. Come, whistle out your story, One Arm—gobble it out, red-skin, you lizard-wat- tled bung-nose of thunder.” The last words were directed to Long Run, who replied, disdainfully: . *“ Whisky-trader all tongue — big talk —no sense,” “Oh, git e-out with yer slipsoft cackle. Tramp up and expostulate like a slick-tailed *possum, or shed yer paint, and show yer color.” ‘* You have come in on the eve of a desperate conflict, Muggins, - said the scout. “Oh, I did, hey? Sorry I disturbed ye boys, but then I'll stand a wetter on it. That is, 1’ll treat all around and tickle yer tasters, and then I'll stand a chance to sell ye every drop of spasm-juice in ole ‘Knowledge’ here. Why, I’m an orful ole fool, chicks; but I don’t keer if you’d shell out every dog-gone rinktum in your pockets for bottled joy. I’m not mi- serly—oh, no—but thar’s not filthy lucre out- 09 of ry earth to dash my eetpont & so now, ys, jist wag paws over my keg and go in on pe hae ole drunk. I tell ye What, I’ve got a bunkumsquintum article here that will jist make a git up and tater—make ye love each’ other like all fire and blazes—say, won’t you all have a snifter?”’ . “This, Muggins,” said One-Armed Alf, ‘is no time to trifle, and you'll oblige me by de- vagis ss | at once, or remaining quiet.” ‘**Bah, now! Lookee here, ole One Arm, if you think I’ve no right here, shell out yer dock- ey ments.” The scoundrel’s in ie with the Indians,” exclaimed Old Jack; * kill him!” ‘‘ Not so, ole bear, ’m_ wm utral, I are, upon principle; but, if I ever fite at all, it’s on the side that’s mos’ likely to whoop, and so ye kin jist count me ag’in’ ye if yer gorin’ to have a leetle blood-spillin’.” ‘**Shoot him! shoot the traitorous coward!” cried Old Jack, fierce with rage. “I would kick him out of the cabin,” said One-Armed Alf, “but such an _ insignificant creature do+sn’t deserve so much notice.” “ Git eout, now, ole Giant,” exclaimed the trader; “* by the smoke ef Halifax, if some one ’d boost me up, I’d give you a sweet scented diff atwixt the squinters that’d onorganize yer cal- culations in the slapupest style, so I would— ‘whoop tee doodle, whoop tee doo ’—say, larkies, can't 1 induce you to invest in a good, hearty spasm?” | Seeing that no one cared to invest, the trader arose and began waltzing, with a drunken swag- ger, up and down the room between the two ee i lee - a ey — lines of foes, singing his favorite song as an ac- companiment to his movements. His intrusion at the time had stayed the rising storm between the foes; still they maintained their hostile at- titude, neither party yielding an inch. The savages stood with their arms folded beneath their blankets, and, no doubt, with their wea- oe in hand. As yet not one of the whites d drawn a weapon, but stood empty handed. They did not wish to begin the affray, for the odds were against them, and there would little hopes of victory. Some of them hoped that the intrusion of the whisky trader would terminate in conciliation. But there was little prospect of this, for the lnaians maintained a silent and sullen demeanor, and kept their black, snakish eyes fixed upon them with an un- wavering and dogged determination, that could not be broken by the apparent unguarded looks of the whites, nor the ludicrous antics of Jabez Muggins, the whisky-trader. Seeing that the whites were not inclined to provoke a fight, Long Run asked: “Do the whites still say they will take the consequence?” *““We do, most assuredly,” responded One- Armed Alf. ‘*See here, my purty bobolinks,” chimed in Muggins, ‘‘ don’t go to quarrelin’ ag’in, but take a snifter of peace from my keg ot glory. Be brothers, and I’ll make money by it. This ere durned fightin’ and scratchin’ makes trade dull. But, if ye will fite, howsumever, I'll jis’ hold my coon-skin over the light and let ye fite her outin the dark—extarminate each other, and then I'll come in fur tie spiles of war, sol will, ‘whoop tee doodle, whoop te doo,’” and he whirled away to where the lamp, that lit up the room, was burning—took off his coon-skin cap and held it over light, thereby shading it, and wrapping the whole room and its inmates in blinding darkness. ‘*Now,” he said, ‘‘ you see you are all one color, and so why not be brothers—ay! there you are ag’in,” and he suddenly removed bis cap from over the lamp, permitting the daz- zling rays to flood the room again. Both the Indians and the whites appeared to regard these queer movements of the whisky trader with no little curiosity; although the red skins still maintained their unflinching po- sition and sullen, determined looks; and our friends held their guarded watch upor them, lest the trader was trying to divert their atten- tion from his real friends, who would be en- abled then to pounce upon and massacre all without resistance. ‘‘Ho! ho! ho!” Muggins finally broke forth. ‘*Why in the nation don’t you fellers sail in on yer muscle and not stand in idleness, lookin’ at each other like a passel of bloody ewe And now, if enny of ye want to run, I’ll shader the lamp ag’in, then ye kin shove out. You see, I’m inclined to be ginerous-hearted for sake of peace and trade—now !|—scat!” Again he shaded the lamp with his cap, en- veloping the room in shadows. ae Then there followed a sudden, vivid flash; the crack of a fire arm, succeeded by a death groan and the dull thump of a heavy body fall- ing upon the floor, Again the cap was raised, and the Jight flared out, this time upon a terri- ble scene. CHAPTER X. THE MYSTERIOUS SHOT. THE scene upon which the whites and their red enemies gazed was that of a lifeless body lying upon the floor before them, still quivering in death’s last agonies. It was the form of the renegade, Long Run. He had fallen forward upon his side, with his hands clasped over his breast, where a little stream of blood was well- ing from a tiny bullet-bole, and trickling down between his fingers. An expression of horrible agony was frozen upon his face, and his eyes stared open, wild and glassy. Every savage and white man seemed petri- fied—bound to the spot by the frightful scene, The Indians stood mute with horror, their arms still folded beneath their blankets, and their eyes riveted with terror upon the body of their dead friend. One-Armed Alf still stood where he had for the last ten minutes, leaning upon his long cane, regarding the scene with surprise and astonishment; while his companions gazed with distended eyes, and faces marked with a strange fear, about the room, as if looking for the one that had fired the fatal shot. But he was not to be seen. Not a man in the cabin held a weapon in his hand; and yet the time that intervened between the report of the piece and the instant that the trader permitted the light to flood the room was but a moment, and had one of the whites fired the shot, he could not have concealed his weapon without being seen. Moreover,.the report was that of a rifle, and such a weapon could not have been set aside or concealed in an instant, as might have been done with a pistol. In view of these facts, it was plain ee that none of those in the cabin had fired the shot, and yet no one could have fired through the open door, for Long Run stoed with his back toward the opening, and bad been shot by a weapon in front of bim. Now arose the question, who was the un- known slayer?—who had fired the fatal shot! The silence that followed the death of the renegade was broken by the whisky-trader, who suddenly exclaimed, in excessive terror: ‘Lor’ Harry, who shot, who shot, Heavens, oh! I didn’t think my foolin’ would result thusly. Ob, agony! that spirit I see’d—l did see it rise up in the middle of the floor—it war the Spirit of the Woous, and it war he that plumped Long Run. Oh! Je-rusalem, let me outen this—quick! or I'll faint!” He mame a dash for the door, but an Indian intercepted bim on the threshold. ‘* Let the kritter go!” yelled old Jack Eller advancing toward the Indian; “let the idiot go, and git out of here yerselfs, ye red blood- bounds of sin, you! Take this putrid carcass of yer master, and git, or I’ll—” He did not finish the sentence. An Indian sprung across the room, and seizing him, aimed a deadly blow at his head. The old borderman, however, retained much of his youthful activity, and dodging the blow, he grappied with red-skin in a hand-to-hand encounter, Then arose a wild, fearful yell within the cabin. The two lines of foes seemed to dis- solve instantly into one, as they closed in dead- ly combat. At the very beginning of the affray, the table u which the lamp sat was over- turned and they fcught in }artial darkness. The crack, crack of pistols; the dull, crunchin blows of fists and tomahawks:; the thump o falling bodies, mingled with yells, execrations and cries of agony, made the forest ring with wild, horrible intonations, To add to the dangers and terrors of the mo- ment, the overturned lamp set a pallet of leaves and reeds on fire, and the red flames flared out and crept up the wall like a serpent, filling the room with thick, fetid smoke and stifling heat. This new enemy strikes a new fear to the hearts of the combatants. There is a lull in the conflict. They are a hard with suffo- cation. They rush toward the door for egress and the open air, but they find it is closed and ‘ ey tear at the fastenings like mad- men, but they can not open it, It is fast, Some one had shut them in with the hissing crackling flames. They turn—they glare a each otber like men driven to desperation, then they close again in conflict; but their efforts are weak—tbeir struggles are feeble, for they are the struggles of suffocating—dying men! CHAPTER XI. OUT OF THE INFERNO. IT was on the morning following the night of the events just narrated. The sun had just risen and was shooting his fiery beams across lake and woodland. The birds were singing their morning carol as they did of yore; and the wildwood was vocal with that strange, monot- onous voice of nature, when the tall, gaunt fig- ure of a man emerged from the dense forest sur- rounding the cabin of One-Armed Alf, the Giant Scout. Isay surrounding the cabin, but this is not exactly the case, for there was nothb- ing but a heap of ashes and smoldering embers where once the cabin stood. The figure was that of One-Armed Alf him- self. His faithful hound trudged at his heels, Both had escaped from tbat fearful ordeal in the cabin the night before. There was a look of sadness and regret upon the face of both dog and master as they stopped and regarded the ruins of their home, from the ashes of which little jets of blue flame were spurting out here and there, and above which the black- ened and charred remains of a numter of human skeletons lay revealed in all their repulsive astliness. : As he stood leaning upon his long knotted cane, sad, bitter ——- paseed in review be- fore the scout’s mind. ‘ boughts of his past life came trooping up before him as if to open anew the wounds of a broken heart. But, grad- ually, these were dismissed, and he came down to that part of his past life that extended no further back than the evening before, when, with his friends, he stood face to face with Long Run’s minions, and when, side by side with them, be fought amid burning flame and stifling smoke. And nowcame up in his mind the question: “*Who of all my friends escaped that bell of fire and death last night?” As if in partial answer to his question, a foot- step sounded bebind him, and turning, he be- held a buman figure with tattered and torn garments, bruised, blackened and bleeding face, and with hair and whiskers singed to a crisp emerge from the undergrowth and approach im. ‘Hullo, friend Alf,” the distressed man ex- claimed, *‘ thank God, you too escaped that furnace of fire and death.” But for the voice, One-Armed Alf would not have recognized the man; old Jack Eller, the hero of Brandywine. ‘‘ Heaven be thanked, Jack!” cried the scout, grasping the old borderman’s band: ‘‘safe, thank God! but I see you bear many painful proofs of last night’s awful conflict.” ‘* Yes, friend Alfred,” replied Biler, “TIT came mortal nigh roastin’ alive in that oven cf fire, But I got out, and God only knows how I done CONMIGO) cS (E@)