Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 257 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

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J ° -_ self, miss—I should say, madam,’ and Vernon | But at the first sharp exclamation which Curtis flushed a little. ‘The most censorious | broke involuntarily from Bertha’s lips, Curtis could not find fault with your conduct ever since | wheeled and by the clear moonlight caught this journey began.” | Sight of the two figures beside the huge bowlder ** You are kind, and I thank you most sincere- | ly,” said the young woman, extending herhand | immediately recognize either of them, his first and pressing his warmly. ‘‘ If I have wronged | thought being of treachery, of peril threatening the camp and its occupants, most likely through either of you gentlemen, however unconsciously, I trust you will not lay it up against me.” | the evil agency of the mates of Budd Painter, ** And if either of us have injured or wronged | their present captive. ou?’ asked Benedict, a faint smile curling his Believing this, he stole swiftly but cautiously ip, as he gazed intently into her fair face. along to foil their dastardly purpose, only to be ‘* You have my forgiveness, from the bottom | undeceived by the agitated voice of Bertha of my heart,” | Burnham as she struggled to free herself from the frenzied grip of Clay Benedict, who was at that moment but little better than a madman, What followed the reader has seen. Curtis _acted promptly and on the impulse of the mo- ment, not recognizing Benedict until the blow that hurled him headlong into the water was partly delivered, The reaction was instanta- neous, and feeling that he had made a terrible mistake, he bardly needed the wild appeal of the young woman to risk his life in the desper- ate endeavor to rescue the man who had fallen before his strong right arm. It was a noble action in more senses than one, Himself a lover of Bertha, though as yet he had not dared avow that passion, Vernon Curtis knew that Clay Benedict also worshiped her, and when he heard her so wildly implore bim to save the drowning man, he felt that ber choice escape by flight. My foot must have slipped, | had been made, that the dashing gold-digger and in trying to save me from falling, Mr, Bene- | had surely won her heart and love. Yet in the dict must have slipped into the water. In my | face of this crushing belief, he staked bis own fright, I cried aloud for help, and Mr. Curtis | life against the frightful odds and won—for her came to the rescue. He leaped into the torrent | sake, and dragged him to the rock where you found He saw more clearly now, since the revela- them, father,” hurriedly uttered Bertha, her | tions made by the Burnhams. He felt that eyes downcast, fearing to trust them under in- | Bertha feared Benedict for some reason, and spection. sirce the latter showed signs of a desire to quar- You saved me!” exclaimed Benedict, turn- | rel with him, he was quite willing to give bim ing to Curtis, his voice bard and unnatural, his | the chance he seemed to seek, eyes glowing redly. “*Tt was an adroit story she told the old man, * Wor which I deserve no thanks,” with acon- | of how 1 came into the water, but you and I cealed meaning in his tones which Ralph Burn- | both know she was not telling the exact truth. bam alone failed to fully comprehend. ‘‘ For, | I’ve got an ugly Jump on my head, where it if I mistake not, it was my hasty coming that | struck against arock, but on the opposite sito is led to the accident, however firmly this lady | another made by a pair of knuckles.” may believe the fault was hers.” ‘* Exactly,” was the cool retort, as Benedict ‘If so, you nobly made amends by risking | paused, ‘‘I heard a lady crying for help. I almost certain death to save his life after he | saw her struggling in the grasp of a man, and fell into the water, He cannot hold any grudge | of course 1 ran to help her. I struck hard—but against you for what bas happened.” if I had known who that man was, I dare say I ‘** Waal, I should re-mark /” cried Burnham, | should have thrown still more force into my indignantly. ‘‘ Hold a grudge fer doin’ that? | blow.” Clay ain’t sech a pesky fool as you try to make ‘Yet she said you risked your life to save him out, little one.” mine,” slowly added Benedict, speaking like one **Clay—Vernon,” said Bertha, earnestly, | who was holding his passions in check with no taking their hands and joining them together | little difficulty. ‘‘ Why did you do that?” while she added: ‘‘ We have been the best of | ‘* Because she asked me, and because, at that friends in the past, and I sincerely trust we | moment, I began to fear I had made a mistake will never be less cordial in our intercourse. | —that it was only alove-quarrel, in which I had preae what has happened and shake hands, I | too hastily interfered.” beg it as a favor.” ** You know better now?’ Vernon tightened his grip on the fingers of ‘I do; and if it was all to do over again, I’d the man whom he had long suspected was his | think twice before taking the chances,” said rival for the love of the wife whom they had Curtis, with a short laugh. He bowed low over the extended hand, but made no move toward taking it in hisown. Her face paled asshe drew back, ‘* That much is settled, then,” said Burnham, overlooking this point. ‘*‘ Now how come it that you two lads got into the drink, up yender? That’s what interests me the most, just now.” ‘* Shall I act as historian, or do you prefer taking the role, madam?” asked Benedict, with a hard smile. “ It was all a mistake—a miserable misunder- standing,” said Bertha, hastily, dreading bis further speech, ‘‘I hardly know bow it came about, myself. We were talking—” ‘* More definitely, I was asking ber—believing her a beart and hand free maiden—to be my wife,” interposed he. ‘* I was so startled that I believe I tried to eee A deemed a maiden free, but bis cheek flushed ‘*Good! ‘You are frank, and that encourages me to be the same. No matter what the cause, or excuse, you struck me. I never yet forgave or forgot a blow, and I am too old to begin with this. Blow for blow, is my motto, and—” ‘*'You’ll git a heap more of ’em then you kin ay back, onless you give over this durn fool- ishin’ au’ call it squar’,” interposed a stern voice, and Ralph Burnham rose up from behind a bowlder, pressing in between the young men. An web spnhl sneered Benedict. ‘*Durned ef I keer what ye call it, now I’ve got at the bottom’o’ this mixed up affair,” was the sturdy retort. ‘‘ I could see they was some- thin’ goin’ on that you all didn’t want me to smoke, an’ so I tuck this way o’ makin’ the dis- kivery. lLain’t sorry, though it shows you up in mighty onagreeable colors, young feller. l’ve thought a monstrous heap o’ you fer a like- ly lad, or blame my cats ef I wouldn’t lend you a belt longside the cabeza that wouldn't be so easy got over as the clip you was jest talkin’ about—I would so /” “Don’t let that stop you,if you are really spoiling for a rumpus, Mr. Burnham, Only it might be safer for you to hold your passions in check until daylight. It’s hardly clear enough now to distinguis gray bairs, and if struck, I’d be mighty apt to return the blow.” “ My bairs are not gray,” pointedly uttered Curtis. : ‘Come, none of that!” sharply interposed the veteran, ‘‘ You, Vern, git back to your duty a-watchin’ of the dam; an’ you, young pepper- pot, bridle your tongue a bit. Ef I was to call a council o’ the men, an’ tell ’em flatly jest what sort o’ game you’ve bin playin’ this night, what do you reckon ’d be the consequence? A laryit or strap oil, an’ plenty of it!” Vernon Curtis turned away in prompt obedi- ence, while Clay Benedict stood in sullen silence before the old man. ‘‘ Mebbe it’s as Berthy says,” added Burnham after a brief pause. ‘*‘ Mebbe T be to blame in part fer what bas bappened. Ef so, I’m sorry; er I don’t know when I met two young fel- lers I tuck a stronger fancy to then you an’ Vern, an’ I'd hate like fun to hev to treat either hotly as he felt no answering ar] " ** 1] thank you—thank you oth, most grate- fully,” said Bertha, believing the reconciliation perfect. ‘* Pears like you’re makin’ a beap o’ fuss over nothin’. Course they’re fri’nds, Good-night, Jads; it’s bed-time.” CHAPTER VI. BUDD PAINTER GIVES WARNING. THIS was too plain a bint to be ignored, and the two young miners turned and left the tent together. sit was his turn to mount guard over the | dam, Vernon Curtis turned in that dirgction, earshot of the miners who sat around the little camp-fire, smoking a final pipe before turning in for the night. Then he panes Curtis lightly on the arm, speaking coldly: ss “a word with you, sir, before you return to guard duty.” “Tf you have anything of importance to say, certainly,” was the prompt response, as the young ge d-digger paused and faced the speaker. Or, if you prefer it, we can do our talking on the dam, up yonder.’ The last sentence issued impulsively from bis lips as he caught the red gleam from the other’s eyes, and noted the look of hatred imprinted upon bis countenance. ‘* That 1 would prefer, as you must know, but it is altogether out of the question at present. The old man already suspects something of the truth, and were we to both leave camp now he would follow to investigate before we could finish our little discussion. Curtis made no response in words, simply nodding stiffly. In truth, he hardly knew what to say. The events and discoveries of that even- ing had completely bewildered him. t being his turn to act as night-watchman over the dam, he had been thus engaged when Bertha and Benedict passed over to the chute, unnoted by him, thanks to his having been fur- ther up the stream, on the opposite side, had passed beyon near the mouth of the chute, though he did not | | o’ ye with harshness, But one thing is sartin sure, We cain’t hey you two growlin’ an’ snarlin’ at each other all the time from thison. Onless you kin make up your minds to jine ban’s an’ let the past slide, I’ll call a council o’ the lads an’ let them decide which one is the most to blame. When they p’int him out, I’ll give him bis sheer o’ the dust we’ve dug out, an’ he kin travel wharever the notion strikes him—jest so it ain’t in our comp’ny. ‘‘ That’s plain talk, Clay, but it’s straight. As a fri'nd an’ well-wisher, I vise you to turn it over in your mind to-night, an’in the mornin’ Ill come to ye fer your answer,” Without waiting for the young man to speak, Ralph Burnham turned and followed after Ver- non Curtis. Benedict watched him until bis figure was lost amid the shadows which lurked around the foot of the rocks, then turned and strolled over to where Budd Painter was placed for the night, in as comfortable a position as possible for a man whose hands and feet were firmly pinioned. _ One of the miners was sitting near him, act- ing as guard, ‘Pil take your place for a few minutes, Fisher,” said Benedict, quietly. ‘I’ve been having a little talk with the boss, and thought I'd come over and see if I could learn anything from this fellow.” The miner was willing enough to transfer the duty, and nimbly arising, passed over to where his fellows were earnestly discussing the present situation of affairs, Benedict took his place, filling and lighting his pipe, covertly eying the prisoner while thus oc- cupied, avagely, sullenly, the Hard Man from "Way Back watched [ +», his breath coming hard and short, his blo st eyes glowing like those of an enraged Wi». beast, ‘** Old fellow, you’re a precious fool!” abrupt- ly said Benedict, pualing a cloud of smoke toward the captive. ‘*‘ Here you are, trussed up like a pig for market, instead of roaming at your sweet will through the spacious confines of this de- lightful valley of bliss and peacefulness—and all because you refuse to exercise your tonguea trifle when asked,” An inarticulate growl that might well bave been a curse, was the only response, but Bene- dict imperturbably resumed: ‘“* Even yet it may not be too late. Mind you I’m not asking you to promise to keep your ug] y paws off me, for just at the present time, a little excitement of that sort would not come amiss—” ‘*Then set me free!” eagerly muttered the prisoner, his assumed stoicism vanishing like magic, ‘‘I don’t ax you to give me back my tools. Only cast off these cussed ropes an’ let me hev the free use 0’ my arms fer five minnits an’ ef you don’t git all the ’citement you want to chaw on fer a Jifetime, then I’m a how)in’ liar an’ a bandy-jegged ground-hog. Jest fer five minnits.” For a brief space Clay Benedict hesitated, strongly tempted to grant the fellow’s wish, for in fact be felt that unless he could find some means of speedily venting at Jeast a portion of the pent-up passions with which his heart and brain were fairly ablaze, he must go mad. The Hard Man frcm "Way Back watched his face as closely as the uncertain moonlight would permit, hoping, yet fearing for the re- result, and then he huskily added: “"'Twon’t take but a minnit. Jest slit off these ‘farnal tugs an’ we kin settle it fer ood, an’ all long afore them chuckle-headed galoots over yender kin smell a mice. Do it an’ feel fer once like a white man. Dare an’ double dare ye to doit. The man as takes a dare ’ll steal a sheep, an’ a sheep-stealer’s the low-downdest critter that crawls over the face o’ the foot- stool. Agh gh-h! I knowed it!” he added, with . a snort of supreme disgust, as his eager watch- fulness told him the momentary indecision had left the face of his hated enemy. ‘* You're weakenin’; you're losin’ your grip; what teenty bit o’ sand you ever hed is runnin’ out at the tips o’ your fingers, an’ you wouldn’t fight a sick kitten, onless you could ketch it asleep an’ hed along a kipple o’ bulldogs fer to hold it while you did the maulin’ with a twenty-foot pole. Git out/ You ain’t nuther white, red nur black; fish, flesh nur vegittable; but the pot-serapin’s an’ dish washin’s of a low-down two-cent restriant, an’ scatter .the cholery whenever the wind blows across ye. Git out, oul 4 So intense was his disgust, so fierce bis batred, that Painter spat with all his force straight at the white, sneering face before bim, but, luckily, perbaps, for his lease of life he missed his aim, and before be could repeat the attempt, Clay Benedict altered his position for another where his face was concealed in the shadow. ‘* Another attention like that, my fine fellow, will end in your having a tough mouthful to chew on for the remainder of the night,” said Benedict, sternly, but in low, guarded tones. ‘“‘T came here to serve you, if you will let me do it. I can’t promise to set you at liberty right away, because I am only a deck-hand here, and the boss bas the say-so; but I can make your situation more comfortable—” COMME ooXo)| > z - - y \, — 2 o