Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 383 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

ee a RF, Been driven out of Butte with the rest of them?” ee z —— —E a8 “From Butte—driven away with the rest. But I am freezing, and will die here unless you let me in.” “What is your name?” ** Dick Eerries.” There was a quick step inside, followed by the drawing of the bars, and the door was thrown wide open, Dick Herries caught 9. glimpse of a large man and a bright fire, and then he saw no more, Then the large man acted strangely. Instead of bringing the stranger in and closing the door, he rushed out, filled his two hands with rnow, and applied it freely to Herries’s nose andl ears, rubbing it on, but not too briskly. Then he filled a basin with snow, and carried is inside. At the same time the cold air was pouring in; but he did not mind that. When he had carried in the basin of snow, he lifted the stranger tenderly, and carried him in, ane not until then did he close the door of the cabin. But his movements had been rapid and to the purpose, and not a moment’s time had been lost. Instead of taking the stranger to the fire, he Jaid him on the floor, at as great a distance from it as the size of the room would allow; then he hastened to strip off his garments and rub his limbs with snow from the basin. Having done all he cared to do in this direc- tion, he lifted his patient upon a bed, threw a Llanket over him, and left him lying there. When Dick Herries recovered his senses, he found himself in a comfortable room, with a good fire blazing at the end opposite to him, - Jlis host was bending over the hearth, engaged in some culinary operation. Herries’s stirring, and the faint cry with which he announced his return to existence, reached the ears of the man at the fire, and he rose and turned around. “So you're awake,” said he. ‘‘I allowed that you'd come around arter a bit. Reckon you may as well come toward the fire now, if you can fetch it.” Dick Herries strove to rise; but the effort was too much for him just then. ‘* Wait a minute,” said his host, ‘‘ and T’ll come and help you.” He set a coffee-pot on some coals in a corner of the hearth, went to the bed, helped Dick Yerries to put on a portion of his clothes, and then partly led and partly carried him to the fire at the other end of the room, where he placed him in a comfortable seat. Herries looked at him then, and “ sized him up” as well as his physical and mental condition would let him. He saw a large man, both tall and stout, ap- »arently about fifty years of age, with abundant known hair and beard only slightly grizzled roughly but comfortably clothed, and a general appearance of good-humored sturdiness. Paver honesty was written all over a human countenance, the record was plain on that man’s ce. An honest ranchman, evidently, and a man to be depended on at all times ‘and under all circumstances, “Who are you, my frienc”’ inquired Dick Herries. ‘‘My name is Stephen Boreman, and I am right glad to see you, Dick Herries.” ‘Glad to see me? That is queer,” “Right glad to see you, I say, though ft was sorry to find you in such a bad fix. It was touch and go with you, mister, and you didn’t fetch up here a minutetoosoon, Your ears and nose would have been gone, sure, if [Thadn’t hap- pened to know the symptoms and how to do the right thing.” ‘They feel rather funny now,” remarked Herries, ‘‘and I am almost too weak to talk.” ** Don’t try to talk, then. Mebbe you ought to have some whisky; but I hain’t got a drop in the house.” “There is a great bottle full of it in my pocket, Mr. Boreman, and you are welcome to it if you will have it. I shall never touch it, myself! _ “Tf you don’t feel the need of it, you are bet- ter off without it. Take a tin of hot coffee, now, and then you must try to eat a bit.” Stephen Boreman poured out some steaming coffee for his guest, without milk, and sweetened with brown sugar, and Dick Herries found it delicious. whl ; It seemed to warm and invigorate him almost immediately. -_ Then he ate some broiled bacon and hard bread as he spree his coffee. “Tt sounded strange to me, Mr. Boreman,” said he, ‘‘ when you told me that you were glad to see me. Did yeu hear me say that I had _ *“T heard suthin’ of the sort, but didn’t ketch on to the meanin’ of it.” Dick Herries took from his pocket a copy of the Butte Vigilance Committee’s notice to quit, which he had picked up and preserved, perhaps as a reminder of the sad experience that follow- ed his rapid downfall. He unfolded it and handed it to Stephen Bore- man. - The ranchman reed it carefully, and with vis- ible indications of dispieasure. ¢ r &.», Silver Sam, Detective. ‘*That’s what I called a cussed shame,” he said. ‘‘It would have been more merciful to shoot the men, or even to hang ’em, than to send ’em adrift at this season of the year. It’s the toughest winter I ever knew, and I couldn’t turn a stray dog out of the house in such weather.” ‘“‘Tt was more than kind of you to welcome one of those outcasts,” remarked Herries. **Nota bit of it. I’ve only begun to pay a part of the debt I owe you.” ‘* The debt you owe me ?” ‘* Jest that. [ don’t know what they’ve got against you upin Butte, but you’re more than welcome to cara Boreman’s shanty. Why, Mr. Herries, if 'd known that you were out on the road, I'd ha’ traveled miles to find you and bring you in.” Dick Herries did not attempt to conceal his surprise at this announcement. ‘*T can’t understand this,” he said. ‘‘I don’t remember meeting you anywhere. What have I ever done for you?” ‘*T never saw you afore this night, Dick Her- ries; but you’ve done a heap for me.” x5 at is it?” **'You saved my boy Dave from goin’ to the devil head-foremost.” ‘Indeed! I know nothing about it. rious to learn the particulars.” **'You shall have them. Between three and four months ago Dave came here with a good pile of money, and went up to Butte to see the sights and find out what kind of fun there was a-goin’, ** He found a durned sight too much fun, and got just full enough to want to fight the tiger which was the quickest and easiest way he coulc think of to git rid of the money he had worked so hard for. ‘*He went into your place, and you were on deck, and you took him in hand. You won a couple of hundred from him as slick as a whis- tle, and then you gave him back the money, and gave him a solid, settin-down sort of a lec- ture with it. You wound up by showin’ him jest how the thing was done, and provin’ to him that he had no more chance at that sort o’ game than a lamb in a pack 0’ coyotes. ‘* He wasn’t so far gone but what he took it in straight, and was very thankful for the les- son. He sobered up right off, and came home and told me all about it; and we both swore that you was the biggest trump in the pack, and that we would try to git even with you if we ever struck the chance. That’s the debt I owe you, Mr. Dick Herries.” ‘*Tt seems to me that you are making a good bit out of a small matter, my friend. I don't remember anything of the circumstances you mention; but I may say that I was not in the habit of skinning green young fellows, prefer- ring to put them in the right track. It was enough for me to shear the wolves, and I used to fleece them so thoroughly that I made plenty of enemies among them.” ‘*Put it any way you please, Mr. Herries. It was a big thing for Dave and me. And now I want you to go right to bed, as sleep is the thing you need more’n anythin’ else.” Iam cu- CHAPTER VIII. DICK HERRIES’S FRESH START. Dick HERRIES slept well during the remainder cf the night, and did not awake until a late hour in the morning, as his kind host refrained from stirring, so that the guest might receive the full refreshment of a sound sleep. ‘ ‘When he goc wp aml dressed, he found himself though rather wea, feeling brighter and better than he had felt in a iong time. It was quite a ~vhile, indeed, since he had gone to bed sober, and &° appreciated the improve- ment in his condition. A hot breakfast, the best that Stephen Bore- man’s ranch could afford, put new life anc vigor into him, and he was surprised at the appetite he had for bacon and corn bread. When he had finished his breakfast, he waz for setting out immediately. It was in vain that Stephen Boreman begged him to stay there and make the ranch his home as long as he could content himself to remain. He could not content himself to stay another hour, declaring that something was calling him on, and that action was absolutely necessary to nice gorges : i. " = * can get down to Virginia City or bann well enough,” he said, ‘‘and there I will find work of some kind. I shall get on in some way, now that I have taken a fresh start. I have no fears on that score.” He took his flask of whisky from pocket, and set it on the table. é “Tf you want that stuff, my friend,” he ob- served, ‘‘ I will leave it here, as I have no fur- ther use for it.” **T don’t seem to have any call for anythin’ in that line,” replied the ranchman. ‘‘Mebbe you had better take it along, as you might need it.” ‘‘T shall not need it. That is what put me where Lam, and I have had enoughof it. ButI will take it with me, just for the pleasure of re- sisting the temptation to touch it.” | : his coat- £ Stephen Boreman prepared a bag of provisions for his guest, and begged him to accept a con- siderable sum of money; but Dick Herries posi tively refused to take a dollar. ‘* You have done enough for me, my friend,’” said he, ‘ bP hs owed me any debt, or fancied that you owed it, you have more than settled the account by saving my life. You may be sure that I will never forget you; but I want to start clear, and depend on myself to help my- self.” The ranchman gave him directions for his route, including distances and stopping-places where he might find food and shelter, and Dick Herries crossed the creek and struck the south- ern trail again. The day was bright, and the air, though frosty, was clear and invigorating. Dick Herries was astonished to parca how well and strong he felt, how lightly and easily he carried himself, and how rapidly hope rose in his breast. His only trouble then was the thought of Kate, who was necessarily exposed to man dangers in the calling she was compelled to fol- low, and in such a town as Butte. But he had a strong reliance in her pride, her strength of purpose, and the spirit and courage which she had exhibited from a child. Last night he had rin pe contrasted his position with hers; but to-day he almost wished that she might be there with him. He stepped forward briskly, finding a real enjoyment in the keen and frosty air. Ata little distance from Stephen Boreman’s ranch he halted and glanced at the snow at the side of the trail. ‘* About here,” he said, ‘‘I would be lying now, frozen stiff, if I had not happened to see the light across the creek and made my way to that good fellow’s ranch,” The thought that he was alive and well after that perilous experience, gave him fresh strength and courage, and he pushed forward at a rate of speed of which he would not have be- lieved himself capable the day before, The dry snow crunched under his tread, and he Pa mile after mile behind him in his steady and determined tramp. About the middle of the afternoon he stopped at the mouth of White Wolf Canyon to eata portion of the food with which Stephen Bore- man had provided him, and to consider the question of a stopping-place for the night. There was a place not far away—partly ranch and partly tavern—the location and distance of which he knew, and he believed that he could make a short cut to it by passing through White Stale Canyon, otherwise known as Indian Bill’s: ole. No trail had been broken through the canyon, but the crusted snow would easily bear his: weight, and he believed that he would be able to reach Sim Ackwell’s by nightfall. So he left the trail, and struck boldly across: to the canyon. It was in the nature of a valley, rather than a true canyon, being a pass which trended up- ward, with high hills on either side. At that season it was mainly a receptacle for snow, which had drifted there in such vast. quantities that spring would have hard work to get rid of it. Dick Herries could not avoid such a sense of insécurity as made him wish that he had not. chosen that route. If the crust of the snow should give way under his feet, there was no telling to what a depth he might drop. e might find himself buried beyond the pos- sibility of extricating himself; but the crust bore him steadily and firmly until he forgot that danger, and the only thing that troubled him was the difficulty of the ascent. It was much steeper than he had supposed it. would be, and the slippery surface of the snow made it hard work for him to get ahead. His: progress, therefore, was unpleasantly slow, to» say nothing of the danger of breaking through. the crust. it was pear sunset when he reached the crest: of the pass, and there was dismay in the reflec- tion that a considerable distance still separated. him from Ackwell’s. But the greater part of the remaining journey hn’ = down-hill, and that would be com- paratively easy. Besides, the night promised to be clear and’ bright, and he need not fear losing his way in. the darkness. : He was about to take a fresh start down-hill, when a strange noise fell upon his astonished ears, It pa like the cry of some human being in distress. It was & moaning, wailing | cry, as if it might have been uttered by a child and was quite can and distinct, though it had. a muffled and distant sound. He could not i e how such a cry could come from anything but a human being, unless: there might be a wildcat about. He looked over the crusted snow, and among the snow-covered trees that lined the sides of the canyon, but saw no indication of the pres- ence of a living creature. Again he was about to move onward, wher he heard the cry again, a little clearer than be- ail - fore. (e(0) ™) (e DOOKS:com —