Part 1 (1/2)
Deadwood d.i.c.k, The Prince of the Road.
by Edward L. Wheeler.
CHAPTER I.
FEARLESS FRANK TO THE RESCUE.
On the plains, midway between Cheyenne and the Black Hills, a train had halted for a noonday feed. Not a railway train, mind you, but a line of those white-covered vehicles drawn by strong-limbed mules, which are most properly styled ”prairie schooners.”
There were four wagons of this type, and they had been drawn in a circle about a camp-fire, over which was roasting a savory haunch of venison. Around the camp-fire were grouped half a score of men, all rough, bearded, and grizzled, with one exception. This being a youth whose age one could have safely put at twenty, so perfectly developed of physique and intelligent of facial appearance was he. There was something about him that was not handsome, and yet you would have been puzzled to tell what it was, for his countenance was strikingly handsome, and surely no form in the crowd was more noticeable for its grace, symmetry, and proportionate development. It would have taken a scholar to have studied out the secret.
He was of about medium stature, and as straight and square-shouldered as an athlete. His complexion was nut-brown, from long exposure to the sun; hair of hue of the raven's wing, and hanging in long, straight strands adown his back; eyes black and piercing as an eagle's; features well molded, with a firm, resolute mouth and prominent chin.
He was an interesting specimen of young, healthy manhood, and, even though a youth in years, was one that could command respect, if not admiration, wheresoever he might choose to go.
One remarkable item about his personal appearance, apt to strike the beholder as being exceedingly strange and eccentric, was his costume--buck-skin throughout, and that dyed to the brightest scarlet hue.
On being asked the cause of his odd freak of dress, when he had joined the train a few miles out from Cheyenne, the youth had laughingly replied:
”Why, you see, it is to attract bufflers, if we should meet any, out on the plains 'twixt this and the Hills.”
He gave his name as Fearless Frank, and said he was aiming for the Hills; that if the party in question would furnish him a place among them, he would extend to them his a.s.sistance as a hunter, guide, or whatever, until the destination was reached.
Seeing that he was well armed, and judging from external appearances that he would prove a valuable accessory, the miners were nothing loth in accepting his services.
Of the others grouped about the camp-fire only one is specially noticeable, for, as Mark Twain remarks, ”the average of gold-diggers look alike.” This person was a little, deformed old man; hump-backed, bow-legged, and white-haired, with cross eyes, a large mouth, a big head, set upon a slim, crane-like neck; blue eyes, and an immense brown beard, that flowed downward half-way to the belt about his waist, which contained a small a.r.s.enal of knives and revolvers. He hobbled about with a heavy crutch constantly under his left arm, and was certainly a pitiable sight to behold.
He too had joined the caravan after it had quitted Cheyenne, his advent taking place about an hour subsequent to that of Fearless Frank. His name he a.s.serted was Nix--Geoffrey Walsingham Nix--and where he came from, and what he sought in the Black Hills, was simply a matter of conjecture among the miners, as he refused to talk on the subject of his past, present or future.
The train was under the command of an irascible old plainsman who had served out his apprentices.h.i.+p in the Kansas border war, and whose name was Charity Joe, which, considering his avaricious disposition, was the wrong handle on the wrong man. Charity was the least of all old Joe's redeeming characteristics; charity was the very thing he did not recognize, yet some wag had facetiously branded him Charity Joe, and the appellation had clung to him ever since. He was well advanced in years, yet withal a good trailer and an expert guide, as the success of his many late expeditions into the Black Hills had evidenced.
Those who had heard of Joe's skill as a guide, intrusted themselves in his care, for, while the stages were stopped more or less on each trip, Charity Joe's train invariably went through all safe and sound.
This was partly owing to his acquaintance with various bands of Indians, who were the chief cause of annoyance on the trip.
So far we see the train toward the land of gold, without their having seen sight or sound of hostile red-skins, and Charity is just chuckling over his usual good luck:
”I tell ye what, fellers, we've hed a fa'r sort uv a shake, so fur, an' no mistake 'bout it. Barrin' thar ain't no Sittin' Bulls layin' in wait fer us, behead yander, in ther mounts, I'm of ther candid opinion we'll get through wi'out sc.r.a.pin' a ha'r.”
”I hope so,” said Fearless Frank, rolling over on the gra.s.s and gazing at the guide, thoughtfully, ”but I doubt it. It seems to me that one hears of more butchering, lately, than there was a month ago--all on account of the influx of ruffianly characters into the Black Hills!”
”Not all owing to that, chippy,” interposed ”General” Nix, as he had immediately been christened by the miners--”not all owing to that.
Thar's them gol danged copper-colored guests uv ther government--they're kickin' up three pints uv the'r rumpus, more or less--consider'bly less of more than more o' less. Take a pa.s.sel uv them barbarities an' shet 'em up inter a prison for three or thirteen yeers, an' ye'd see w'at an impression et'd make, now. Thar'd be siveral less ma.s.sycrees a week, an' ye wouldn't see a rufyan onc't a month. W'y, gentlefellows, thar'd nevyar been a ruffian, ef et hedn't been fer ther cussed Injun tribe--not _one!_ Ther infarnal critters ar' ther instignators uv more deviltry nor a cat wi' nine tails.”
”Yes, we will admit that the reds are not of saintly origin,” said Fearless Frank, with a quiet smile. ”In fact I know of several who are far from being angels, myself. There is old Sitting Bull, for instance, and Lone Lion, Rain-in-the-Face, and Horse-with-the-Red-Eye, and so forth, and so forth!”
”Exactly. Every one o' 'em's a danged descendant o' ther old Satan, hisself.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: Ha! ha! ha! isn't that rich, now? Ha! ha! ha! arrest Deadwood d.i.c.k if you can!]
”Layin' aside ther Injun subjeck,” said Charity Joe, forking into the roasted venison, ”I move thet we take up a silent debate on ther pecooliarities uv a deer's hind legs; so heer goes!”