Beadle's Dime Library No. 170 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

—~-— = Sweet William, the Trapper Detective. —— . -- oa Fae inte * 7 - ~- ~ « + ' ‘ .* j e a but I kep’ puttin’ it off an’ off, tell it got harder an’ harder to own that you wasn’t my own flesh an’ blood. It’s better that you learn the truth from me, then to hev the blackest side putt afore ye by some sech p’izen critter as that Gerald Evans. Thank the Lord! I found him out afore it was too late!” ‘Then he—my father,” the word coming out with a painful effort, ‘‘ he is alive?” “Tm afeard not,” was the slow response. ‘Though why I should say afeard, when mebbe it poste be a blessin’ to know that he was dead —but it ain’t fer me to jedge bim. your father anyway.” “Tell me—l can bear the truth better than . suspense. Better from you than any one else. You will be just, I know,” said Belle, in a tone of forced composure. **T never liked him, even from the fust day we met,” said Gladden, his big eyes filled witha far-away look, as though reading the black past; “‘yit I don’t think he was anybody’s enemy but his own. He was a Englishman, ouvg, well l’arned, an’ han’some as a pictur oth in face an’ figur’, He was runnin’ ’round fer amusement, be said; come over the big waters to hunt an’ fish, but he never went no furder west than our house. The scenery, he said; but we all soon knowed that it was my sister Nell—she who was a’terward your mo- ther, little ’un.” “Then you are my uncle?” and the red lips were pressed tenderly against the giant’s brown aw. noe Yes; a uncle by birth, but a father in love. Durn the smoke! it somehow gits in my eyes ontel I cain’t see cl’ar! Never mind—it’s gettin’ late, an’ they’s a good deal to tell. Ef you only He was won’t speak—somehow it makes me fergit what | I want to say. ‘* Next to you, little ‘un, I never loved an woman like I did your mother. That makes it harder to say what fm goin’ to, but you must hear the hull truth, or you wouldn’t understan’ jest how it all come to pass. ‘‘ We was all very proud of Nell, but I know now that she looked down us, an’ felt herself ‘way above us. We was plain, rough back- woods people, while she was a fine lady. Some rich ‘lations tuck her an’ raised her like one o’ themselves, givin’ her a fine edication an’ all that. She used to visit us every year, but each time she come, ’peared like we was still furder apart. What she said was law tous, Morther, father an’ all, was like slaves to her, and she | knowed it, only too well. ‘* It was while Nell was on one o’ these visits that he come—Wilfred Hastings, his name was. — =e big glass decanter over your father’s head. Fri’nds interfered, an’ parted ’em, but not afore our father swore he’d murder the lyin’ cheat. hose words told heavy ag’in’ him in the end. ‘* Airly the next mornin’, Stephens was found dead in the street—murdered an’ robbed, an’ _ afore noon, your father was arrested fer the crime.” . oe he was innocent!” impulsively cried elle. ‘*T hope—lI b’lieve he was,” slowly responded Gladden. ‘ Ef he did it at all, it was when he was crazy with drink an’ hislosses. But every- thin’ was ag’inst him. They found some of the checks in his pockets, an’ his hands an’ clothes was spotted with blood. An’ layin’ on the floor’ o his room was a bloody knife, which was marked with bis name, an’ jest sech a weapon as _ doctors swore the dead man was killed with. ‘* It'd take too long to go over the hull trial; one or two peints ‘ll do. The two men who started to help your father home after the fuss at the club rooms, swore that when they was about half-way, be turned on them, an’ bein’ a big, stout man, made crazy by what had happened, beat ’em off an’ threatened to knife ’em ef they bothered him any more. The swore he drew that same knife on them, ontil, in fear o’ thar lives, they left him alone. That an’ the rest was enough, an’ he was shet up to stan’ his trial. ‘This much we heard from your mother, who brung us the first news herself. I told you afore thatshe wasawful proud an’ high-spirited. She never doubted his guilt, an’ takin’ you, theu less’n a year old, come home at once. It killed her. She didn’t live a month a’ter she come back to us, **On her death-bed she putt you in my arms _an’ made me swear I would raise you as m | own child, ive you my name, an’ never tell you a word about your father. I kept my word in the fust part, an’ would fer the rest only fer what happened here to-night.” * You have been tather and mother-—-all in one !’? murmured Belle, through her painful sob- ing. ‘‘On the day she was buried,” Gladden re- sumed, speaking rapidly, as though fearing to trust his feelings further. ‘‘On the day she was buried 1 got a paper that told the rest about your father. lt was a old paper, an’ I chanced upon it by accident. He was never brung to trial, fer he escaped, jist how nobody *peared to know. In the same paper thar was a piece which told of a dead body bein’ found in the river which was thought to be his’n, but the He an’ Nell got on wonderfully well together, | fishes hed been at it an’ they eouldn’t be sure. seein’ they was both so well brung up, an’ both knowed so much; better then one would think, whar both was so proud an’ high-spirited. ‘*We might ’a’ knowed what the end would be, but we was blind to it all, until it was too late to interfere. Father an’ mother both said no, when he axed us would we let ’em git mar- ried, but Nell carried the day, as she al’ays did, once she got her mind onto anythin’.” 40 They was married, but not from our house. It wasn’t fine enough for Nell. Boston writ on fer her to come an’ from thar house, an’ she went. other was sick, an’so none of us went. Father couldn’t an’ L wouldn’t—I hated him so bad. “They went to England to live. The first two or three letters from Nell was bright an’ cheery enough, but then we could see that they was somethin’ troublin’ her. I wanted to go over to find out what the trouble was, but we was poor, an’ afore I could scrape together money enough it was allover. I'll tell it jest as it happened, though it was a long time afore we knowed the bull truth. ‘Fer a year—ontil jest afore you was born— Hastings was a good husband, treatin’ Nell like she was a queen, but then he got into bad com- pany. He went from bad to worse, until it'd be weeks at a time that Nell never see his face, or heard of him, only through that kind o’ friends as takes delight in makin’ bad enough wuss, by carryin’ all sorts o’ stories, not bein’ too keerful as to whether they were lies or not. “He tuck to drinkin’ an’ to gamblin’ too heavy fer even his long puss. Everybody said he was goin’ to the devil as fast as he could, but the end came even sooner than his wust enemies thought fer. ht at hisclub. A party hed it married ‘« It was one ni bin playin’ keerds for two days an’ that was the second night at a stretch, only stoppin’ to eat an’ drink an’ mebbe ketch a wink or two 0’ sleep. Your father an’ aman named Stephens was pardners, an’ luck stood by ’em pritty con- stant, until nobody else could be found to play ag’inst’em. Idon’t know how many thousand pounds eax won, but it was a monstrous big amount. ot satisfied, an’ each one on ’em ‘* As nothin’ more was said about it an’ as he never made any attempt to find you or her, I — to believe the body found was really his’n. never dreamed different ontil that p’izen crit- ter said what he did to-night.” “Then you think he—he is still living?” **} don’t know what to think,” and Gladden thoughtfully rubbed the tip of his nose, ‘**E vans ain’t no fool. An’ he must know some- _ thin’ about the past, sence he couldn't ’a’ meant Our ‘lations in | me by those threats. It may be that your father got cl’ar—he may be still livin’, an’ this Evans may know all about him an’ whar he is. Ill see him to-morrow an’ git at the bottom o’ this ef 1 have to squeeze his heart dry!” ** No, father,” and the name never sounded near so dear to his ears as then. ‘ The past is dead—let it rest. You are my father—l want no other!” CHAPTER XXII. THE DEAD BEARS EVIDENCE. In avoiding one corpse to fall over another, with intense darkness all around, and an injur- ed, if not dying friend, lying close at hand, denying one the Leche of escaping all such horrors by precipitate flight; such was the far from pleasant predicament in which Sweet William now found himself. As his hand first touched that clammy, cold face, the old trapper believed it to be that of his young friend, and his start back was purely mechanical, but the discovery of the second body in such juxtaposition caused the truth to upon his mind with startling vividness. A black record was lying beneath his hand, if he was only cunning enough to find the key by which it might be read aright. As he stood erect, wiping his hand with an in- voluntary shudder, Sweet William noticed that the air was strongly tainted by a sickening odor. His herculean exertions in bearing his wounded friend so far and at such a place had obliged him to satisfy his laboring lungs through his mouth instead of nostrils, shige will ac- count fer his failing to make this discovery until on his return from the spring with canteen filled with water for Leo Friend. _ is not that 1 fear death itself, so much. | die without a murmur, of an honest wound like “It’s a frind, boy,” muttered Sweet William, reassuringly, as the young man started awa from the touch of his hand. ‘ You was tuc kinder fainty, you know, from your wownd, an’ I done fetched youin yere. I don’t reckon thar’s much ef any chaince o’ them black- petti- coated fellers stumblin’ on us in a hole like this, Jest take a drink an’ lay still fer a bit, ontil we both git back a little o’ the wind what’s gone—” ‘*] remember, now,” said Leo, and his voice was markedly stronger.’ *“‘I must have fallen into their clutches, but for you; and that would have been certain death. I thank you—from the bottom of my heart, I thank you!” ‘* Better wait fer thanks ontel you know whether or nol hev saved ye,” bluntly inter- posed the old trapper. ‘‘ That bit o’ lead must a’ hit you hard, fer you’ve bin bleedin’ like a stuck hog—”’ . ‘*I don’t care so much for that. You saved me from the rope, and a shameful death, though, before heaven, I am innocent of the crime for which they have condemned ~ * coulc this—” **°Tain’t a honest wownd—'twas given by the hand of a cowardly traitor!” and Sweet Wil- liam uttered a grating, vindictive curse against Gerald Evans that, bitter cause as he himself had to hate him, caused a cold shiver to creep over Leo Friend’s frame. ‘He shell pay fer that—fer that an’ all the rest. 1 swear it, by the Eternal!” | ‘‘It may have been an accident—” ** Don’t you say one word in bis favor, or Ill ever be sorry that I didn’t let him alone to work his will on to ye—mind that. He’s a snake—a p’izen sarpint from the day o’ his birth up.’ But Ill draw his teeth—sooner or later I’]l draw his teeth an’ smash his p’izen head onder my heel— bah! Don’t le’s say no more about the dog. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth—” ‘‘ And a worse smell in the air!” echoed Leo, for the first time noticing the noxious effluvia with which the atmosphere was filled. ‘‘ What can it be? There must be carrion close at hand.” ‘** You smell the flowers, I reckon,” said Sweet William, hurriedly. ‘ The woods is full o’ em— Leo uttered an exclamation of surprise, but the old trapper cut him short, with a strange petulance. ‘*T say it’s flowers you smell, nur you don’t © want to contradict me any more, nuther. I ain’t in the best o’ humors, jest now, an’ Pm \uglier’n p’izen when I’m crossed. You want to git up an’ lean onto me; we’ll go over to the spring, yender, an’ I'll take a look at your hart. So—now take it easy, an’ lean harder onto me— that-a-way.” me Leo Friend was feeling far too faint and weak to offer any resistance to the strobger will of his whimsical companion, and obeyed the blunt command without a word of remonstrance. Sweet William steered clear of the corpses, giving the spot where they lay as wide a berth as possible, half-leading, half-carrying the wounded man to where the little spring bubbled out from under a huge, moss-grown rock, form- ing a small pool at its base, then silently gliding away down another narrow ravine, to the west of that in which lay the bodies of the unknown dead ren. Thanks to the favoring breeze, the disagree- able odor was barely perceptible at this point, and with a long breath of relief, Sweet William placed his injured comrade upon a mossy, - strewn bench of earth, close beside the little pool of water. For a few moments ke stood in silence, his head bent in an attitude of intense listening. All was silent, save for the faint tinkling of the falling water, the soft rustle of — ‘ the dense foliage overbead and upon either hand, and the far-away sound of the whip-poor- will’s plaint. ‘* They’ve give up the chase, or else they’re runnin’ on a false scent,” he muttered, with an - air of evident relief. ‘“ ‘Lucky fer us it’s so, too. | That hurt o’ yours wants,’tending’ to, an’ that kind o’ work cain’t easy be did in the dark.” ‘* Don’t run the risk of a light on my ac- count,” protested Leo. ‘‘fd far rather wait until day dawns. The wound is doing well enough—it hardly hurts me at all, now; it only — feels numb—” pail , ‘That may be a good sign, or it may be a powerful one, jest a’cordin’ to how it hap- ns,” interrupted the old trapper. ‘“‘Ef the ullet hes gone clean through, or ef it lays whar — we kin git at it to cut it out, I don’t reckon we'll hev much trouble.” ‘‘ Tf not—if it bas gone inside?” ‘“‘ Ef that’s the case, an’ you feel like you say, ou’ll sea’cely live to w’ar gray ha’rs,” was the lunt response. —_ Leo Friend raised no further objection. He had passed through so many and such va ing A trials during the past week, had been depriv ee of rest and repose by intense anxiety for him- ~~ self and another even more dear, i re , thinkin’ he was the best player, they turned to 4 an’ played ag’in’ each other. ‘Luck set dead ag’inst your father, an’ he lost game a’ter game. He was well-nigh c A feeble groan came from out the darkness a few yards away, and thus guided, Sweet Wil- liam ae, fhe eng the side of his wounded comrade. was just recovering from the , g * 4 with drink, an’ bet turrible high; but it wasn’t | short swoon caused by the loss of blood and the | the pain caused by his wound and the severe a ; no use, He was cleaned out, an’ lost every cent pee of his wound consequent upon the hasty | drain attendant upon the loss of so much blood, oS ) he was wuth in the world an’ more too. n, | flight of the old trapper through the darkness | he felt wholly unable to guide his own actions, ee ; crazy with -his losses, he accused Stephens of | which prevented him from picking and choosing | much less those of one like the old trapper. He = cheatin’. Quick as a flash, Stephens smashed a! his.course. sunk down upon his leafy couch,and layin@ | Oe | EComicbooks.com -; ; ret er Sc an a e, . : , i %h0, ‘cas aT