Part 9 (2/2)
”The girl--what about her?” he asked, after some moments had elapsed.
”She will be as much to the way as the boy will.”
”She? Well, we'll attend to her after we git him out of the way. He is the worst obstacle to our path, at present. Maybe when you see the girl you will take a fancy to her.”
”Pis.h.!.+ I want no petticoats clinging to me--much less an ignorant backwoods clodhopper. She is probably a fit mate for an Indian chief.”
”You are too rough on the tender s.e.x, boy,” and the elder Filmore gave vent to a disconnected laugh. ”You must remember that your mother was a woman.”
”Was she?” Clarence bit the end of his waxed mustache, and mused over his sire's startling announcement. ”_You_ recollect that I never saw her.”
”D'ye carry poppin'-jays, pilgrims?” demanded Jehu, turning so suddenly upon the two pa.s.sengers as to frighten them out of their wits.
”Popping-jays?” echoed Filmore, senior.
”Yas--shutin'-irons--rewolvers--patent perforatin' masheens.”
”Yes, we are armed, if that is what you mean.”
On dashed the stage through the echoing canyon--on plunged the snorting horses, excited to greater efforts by the frequent application of the cracking lash. The pines grew thicker, and the moonlight less often darted its rays down athwart the road.
”Hey!” yelled a rough voice from within the stage ”w'at d'ye drive so fast fer? Ye've jonced the senses clean out uv a score o' us.”
”Go to blazes!” shouts back Jehu, giving an extra crack to his whip.
”Who'n the name o' John Rodgers ar' drivin' this omnybust, pilgrim?--you or I?”
”You'll floor a hoss ef ye don' mind sharp!”
”Who'n thunder wants ye to pay fer et, ef I do?” rings back, tauntingly. ”Reckon w'en Bill McGucken can't drive ther thru-ter-Deadwood stage as gude as ther average, he'll suspend bizness, or hire _you_ ter steer to his place.”
On, on rumbles the stage, down through a lower grade of the canyon, where no moonlight penetrates, and all is of Stygian darkness.
The two pa.s.sengers on top of the stage s.h.i.+ver with dread, and even old Bill McGucken peers around him, a trifle suspiciously.
It is a wild spot, with the mountains rising on each side of the road to a stupendous hight, the towering pines moaning their sad, eternal requiem; the roar of the great wheels over the hardpan bottom; the snorting of the fractious lead-horses; the curses and the cracking of Jehu's whip; the ring of iron-shod hoofs--it is a place and moment conducive to fear, mute wonder, admiration.
”_Halt!_”
High above all other sounds now rings this cry, borne toward the advancing stage from the impenetrable s.p.a.ce of gloom ahead, brought down in clear commanding tone whereto there is neither fear nor hesitation.
That one word has marvelous effect. It brings a gripe of iron into the hands of Jehu, and he jerks his snorting steeds back upon their haunches; it is instrumental in stopping the stage. (Who ever knew a Black Hills driver to offer to press on when challenged to halt to a wild dismal place?)
It sends a thrill of lonely horror through the vein of those to whose ears the cry is borne; it causes hands to fly to the b.u.t.ts of weapons, and hearts to beat faster.
”Halt!” Again the cry rings forth, reverberating in a hundred dissimilar echoes up the rugged mountain side.
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