Part 9 (1/2)
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: A fact.]
CHAPTER VII.
DEADWOOD d.i.c.k ON THE ROAD.
Rumbling noisily through the black canyon road to Deadwood, at an hour long past midnight, came the stage from Cheyenne, loaded down with pa.s.sengers, and full five hours late, on account of a broken shaft, which had to be replaced on the road. There were six plunging, snarling horses attached, whom the veteran Jehu on the box, managed with the skill of a circusman, and all the time the crack! snap! of his long-lashed gad made the night resound as like so many pistol reports.
The road was through a wild tortuous canyon, fringed with tall spectral pines, which occasionally admitted a bar of ghostly moonlight across the rough road over which the stage tore with wild recklessness.
Inside, the vehicle was crammed full to its utmost capacity, and therefrom emanated the strong fumes of whisky and tobacco smoke, and stronger language, over the delay and the terrible jolting of the conveyance.
In addition to those penned up inside, there were two pa.s.sengers positioned on top, to the rear of the driver, where they clung to the trunk railings to keep from being jostled off.
One was an elderly man, tall in stature and noticeably portly, with a florid countenance, cold gray eyes, and hair and beard of brown, freely mixed with silvery threads. He was elegantly attired, his costume being of the finest cloth and of the very latest cut: boots patent leathers, and hat glossy as a mirror; diamonds gleamed and sparkled on his immaculate s.h.i.+rt-bosom, on his fingers and from the seal of a heavy gold chain across his vest front.
The other personage was a counterpart of the first to every particular, save that while one was more than a semi-centenarian to years, the other was barely twenty. The same faultless elegance in dress, the same elaborate display of jewels, and the same haughty, aristocratic bearing produced in one was mirrored to the other.
They were father and son.
”Confound such a road!” growled the younger man, as the stage bounced him about like a rubber ball. ”For my part I wish I had remained at home, instead of coming out into this outlandish region. It is perfectly awful.”
”Y-y-y-e-s!” chattered the elder between the jolts and jerks--”it is not what it should be, that's true. But have patience; ere long we will reach our destination, and--”
”Get shot like poor Vansevere did!” sneered the other. ”I tell you, governor, this is a desperate game you are playing.”
The old man smiled, grimly.
”Desperate or not, we must carry it through to the end. Vansevere was not the right kind of a man to set after the young scamp.”
”How do you mean?”
”He was too rash--entirely too rash. Deadwood d.i.c.k is a daring whelp, and Vansevere's open offer of a reward for his apprehension only put the young tiger on his guard, and he will be more wary and watchful in the future.”
This in a positive tone.
”Yes; he will be harder to trap than a fox who has lost a foot between jaws of steel. He will be revengeful, too!”
”Bah! I fear him not, old as I am. He is but a boy in years, you remember, and will be easily managed.”
”I hope so; I don't want my brains blown out, at least.”
The stage rumbled on; the Jehu cursed and lashed his horses; the canyon grew deeper, narrower and darker, the grade slightly descending.
The moon seemed resting on the summit of a peak, hundreds of feet above, and staring down in surprise at the noisy stage.
Alexander Filmore (the elder pa.s.senger) succeeded in steadying himself long enough to ignite the end of a cigar to the bowl of Jehu's grimy pipe; then he watched the trees that flitted by. Clarence, his son, had smoked incessantly since leaving Camp Crook, and now threw away his half-used cheroot, and listened to the sighing of the spectral pines.