THE MYSTERIOUS HUNTER; Or, The Man of Death.
CHAPTER I.
Gold! GOLD in
California!
How this announcement, some twenty years ago, thrilled the
country from the Lakes to the Gulf! How topsy-turvy it
turned all preconceived notions as to the idea of
slowly-acquired wealth, and opened up dazzling visions of
untold riches to the universal Yankee nation! The Gold
Fever burst out suddenly and became almost instantaneously
a sweeping, raging epidemic. The banker locked up his
vaults, the merchant closed his ledger, the lawyer thrust
his brief into the grate, and the mechanic left his bench
-- all in thorough dis- gust with the old maxim, "slow, but
sure" -- turning their faces westward toward the Eldorado
of the Pa- cific.
Some went by steamer, via the Isthmus; others ventured by
sail, to incur the perils of Cape Horn; whilst others
still, most venturesome of all, struck out boldly across
the unexplored deserts of the Far West, to meet unknown
hardships, and encounter perils from flerce beasts and
flercer men.
With this much of preface, kind reader, let me in- troduce
myself. Henry Gregory, aged twenty-two -- a victim of the
gold fever -- at your service. . . .
CHAPTER II.
Independence, Missouri.
In due course of time we reached this young and growing
frontier city; a city that was to us the limit of
civilization, and the initial point of our journey across
the seemingly illimitable prairies of the Far West. . .
.
Independence was, as I have stated, a sort of mushroom
city. Like Jonah's gourd, it had sprung up in a
night.
Its population was a floating one, and composed of the most
heterogeneous material; and, after the manner of all
frontier towns, it abounded in drinking-saloons and
gambling-shops.
The evening prior to our departure was oppressively sultry,
and the streets were full of people. Hal and I lit our
cigars and started for a stroll.
Soon our attention was attracted to a scene under a little
clump of trees in front of a "canvas" drinking-shop. A
good-sized monte-table covered with red chintz, had been
erected, and on it were several piles of half and quarter
eagles. A group of half a dozen men stood around the table
eyeing the treasure. Behind the table sat two men, the
owners, no doubt, of the gambling establishment. One was a
large, thickset fellow, with low, repulsive features. His
hair was long and unkempt, and his whiskers and shaggy
eyebrows were perfectly enormous. He was broad-shouldered,
and, apparently, a physical giant. He was dressed in the
rude garb of the frontier, and had a belt stuck full of
pistols and knives. Undoubtedly he was a rough and ugly
customer. His partner was a Mexican. There was no mistaking
those clean-cut, sharp, angular features, those black,
piercing eyes, those white, ghastly teeth, that dried-up,
yellow, peppery skin. He was not a large man, only a trifle
above the medium; but every movement and word indicated the
craftiness and treachery of the full-blown Mexican. He was,
beyond doubt, every inch a knave, and even more to be
feared than his brutal-looking companion. The two were
Strength and Craft -- always formidable when
combined.
These two worthies appeared to own the establishment, and
to be employing the most seductive and persuasive speeches
to entice by-standers and passers-by to try their fortunes
in a game of hazard. They were but too successful, for the
spirit of gaming ran high. Were we not all, in fact,
risking every thing, even our lives, in a mad pursuit of
wealth? If wealth were to be gained here, what use to seek
further? So many reasoned, and were fleeced of what they
had, instead of adding to their means.
"Hold on!" whispered Hall into my ear. "This seems to be a
regular slaughter-shop. Look, now, that youngster has just
lost fifty dollars. What a precious pair of cut-throats
these monte-dealers are!"
He paused at the table. A half dozen wood torches blazing
in the air threw a lurid glare over the entire spot. Hal
was a good monte-player. His father had learned it in his
voyages to Cuba, for the Spaniards and Cubans are famous
for their proficiency in all such games, and had in turn
taught it to his family.
As we paused at the table, the heavy-whiskered desperado
glanced at us from beneath his shaggy brows, and I thought
I beheld a sudden furtive gleam in his eye, that meant
mischief for both of us.
"Who'll try thar luck next?" said he, in a heavy gruff
voice, that sounded like the distant mutterings of a storm
-- a splendid diapason bass. The group, composed of about a
dozen, did not seem inclined to indulge any farther in the
play, all of which had heretofore only served to swell the
piles upon the red chintz.
"Come, boys!" continued the fellow; "faint heart never wins
a fair lady, ye know, Hyer's sev'ral piles o' yaller boys a
waitin' fur yer pockets. Say, stranger, won't ye try yer
luck? Kiver these fifty dollars, hey?"
This last remark was addressed to Hal, who instantly
replied, in a nonchalant voice: "Fifty green cheese! Where
do you s'pose a poor devil like me could raise half that
sum? Say ten dollars now, and I don't mind."
"Small pertaters, hey!" sneered the bully, who was a little
nettled at Hal's complete sang-froid. "Ten dollars
hain't wuth countin' skeerce; but as trade's gettin' a
leetle dull, we'll try ye on ten of ye sez so."
"All right. Proceed," replied Hal.
The cards were cut and the game was quickly played -- the
golden eagle going to increase the piles on the
chintz.
"He! he!" laughed the whiskerando. "Got any mere ten spots
handy?"
"Strapped," replied Hal, with a suggestive shrug, "unless
you will put up fifty dollars against my diamond
ring."
"Humph! the ring's too small for me," growled the
bully.
"But not for me, Tom Landers," interrupted his companion,
the crafty, smooth-tongued Mexican. "Carajo! I will play
for it, if you please."
"Crack ahead, then!" growled the brutal Tom Landers. "I
don't play fur no sech gewgaws as that. If ye want to do
it, Senor Guaymas, I hain't nuthin' ter say."
The ring, with a cluster of several diamonds, was really a
valuable one. It had been presented to Hal's father years
before by a rich Cuban planter, and the dazzling brightness
of the precious stones had stirred up the avarice of the
Mexican gambler.
The diamond ring and fifty dollars were put up. The cards
were cut -- the game played swiftly. My chum was the
winner.
"Stop now, Hal," said I. "Let's go."
"Carissima!" exclaimed Senor Guaymas, with a most seductive
smile: "surely you will not leave fortune just as she comes
to you. There is more gold to be won!"
"Certainly," answered Hal, with a merry laugh. "We've found
a rich gold mine. Let us work it."
Fifty dollars against fifty dollars. Again Hall is the
winner. His blood is rising. I see the flush on his cheek,
and know that the excitement which ever attends gaming is
thrilling his nerves.
"Cover my hundred -- eh?" he demanded.
"Of course," was the reply.
Another quick game. Astounding luck! Hal sweeps the
board.
"Blarst ye!" growled Tom Landers, getting up, and
displaying his mammoth proportions. "This hyar's got ter be
stopped."
Then the two monte-dealers held a short consulta- tion;
they were both getting nervous. Two hundred dollars lost in
twenty minutes!
The crowd gradually increased; they knew these two bankers
to be a precious pair of knaves -- knaves who fleece their
victims by the dozen hourly. They are seldom beaten; yet
the youth scarcely out of his teens is winning their gold
rapidly.
There is sport ahead, reasons the crowd.
"Cover my two hundred?" asked Hal, lighting a fresh cigar
as he spoke.
Senor Guaymas and Tom Landers were still con- sulting. Two
hundred dollars was all they had left. They hesitated to
accept the risk. If they should lose, the bank was broken;
if they declined to play, they stood no chance to recover
what had already been lost. They answered: "We cover the
two hundred." The excitement grew as the game progressed. A
yell from the crowd announced the result. "The bank is
broken!"
The crowd spoke the truth, for my chum was the possessor of
four hundred in gold. There was not a quarter eagle left
upon the table. I was amazed. The two gamblers looked at
each other. Tom Landers's face was in a tempest of passion,
and his eyes shot broadsides of fury over the chintz table.
The Mexican was mad as a hornet, but too politic to show
it.
"Cover my four hundred?"
How tantalizingly Hal asked that! It stung Senor Guaymas to
the quick, for I saw his lip quiver and his eye snap. It
was the last hair that broke the camel's back. He whirled
suddenly about, with an expression of malice upon his thin,
sallow features, that I never saw equaled.
I regretted now that Hal had pushed matters so far -- these
Mexicans are so passionate and so vindictive. A street
fight was by no means desirable, especially with with such
characters as these gamblers. It does not take much on the
frontier to bring blows and blood.
Suddenly Senor Guaymas decided: he thrust his hand into an
inner breast pocket. I had seen such motions before: the
wretch was about to draw a pistol upon my chum; so I placed
my revolver in such a position that I could use it on the
instant, and watched the Mexican.
My suspicions were at fault. I did the rascal injustice. He
drew out his hand, and placed a diamond studded brooch upon
the table. It was superb: a splendid lady's pin, the like
of which is seldom seen.
"That brooch is worth double your pile," said the Mexican,
glancing warily over the crowd. "Will you cover it? I
warrant it genuine."
"More jewelry," laughed Hal. "Certainly I'll cover
it."
The game went on, and, terrible fatality! the banker lost,
and the diamond brooch was my friend's.
"El demonio! what accursed luck!" hissed the Mexican
between his tightly compressed lips, as his face grew
livid.
"Cover the whole pile now -- gold, watch, ring, and
brooch?" continued Hal, with frigid coolness.
"No, curse you!" roared the banker, no longer able to
control his feelings. "I've nothing left. You've ruined
me!"
My chum bit off the end of his cigar, and threw it away.
Then I saw a peculiar twinkle in his eye. He learned over
the table and said, "I'll tell you what I'll do."
"What?"
"Play for scalps."
The Mexican started back aghast. Then his black eyes
gleamed balefully and in a frenzied tone he said, "Done, by
all the saints!"
"No, no!" I interposed, laying my hand on my chum's
shoulder. "For Heaven's sake, stop! this has gone far
enough already. Don't carry it farther."
I was horrified at the proposition, and dreaded the bloody
scene that was certain to follow. Hal was in no mood to
listen to my objections, but pushed away my hand rather
unceremoniously, and replied, "Humph! we must finish the
contest in good style. If the scoundrel wants my scalp,
he's welcome to get it. I'm sure I can lift his with
marvelous grace. Down with the cards, old
yellow-belly."
The excitement was at a white heat; the crowd, which had
increased to a full score, jostled and swayed to and fro in
a tremor of expectation. Senor Guaymas was livid and
ghastly; he threw down the cards, which were hastily cut,
and the game proceeded. All held their breaths and strained
their eyes.
"Carajo! lost, lost!" groaned the unfortunate Mexican,
striving to steady himself at the table as the crowd yelled
and jeered at his terrible luck. "Satanas take you and your
tricks! You are in league with the Evil One. I am undone;
take the stakes."
"No, by hokey! nothin' o' that sort hyar," roared Tom
Landers, in a voice like a bull. "My partner hain't a goin'
ter be scalped by no sech leetle whiffet as you puppy. I
allus stands by my friends, an' I'm not goin' ter play
false to 'em now."
The bully pushed forward and drew his mammoth proportions
up to their full height; his face was red with anger and
strong whisky. The crowd drew back a little, apparently
awed somewhat by the deflant and formidable aspect of the
furious desperado.
Hal leaped square upon the table and glanced over the
crowd. He saw a score of excited faces upturned; he saw the
gleam of forty flashing eyes; he heard the mutterings of
passion.
"Say, men!" he cried, in a clear, calm voice. "You have
watched this game. Did I win it fairly?"
"Yes, yes!" yelled the crowd.
"Is the Mexican's scalp fairly mine?"
"Yours, yours!" roared a score of throats.
"Then, by St. Paul, I'll have it!" said my chum, drawing
his formidable bowie. "Down with your head on this table,
old Guaymas."
The Mexican grew pale, and his knees smote together; he
presented an aspect of mute terror that was appalling; he
stood rooted to the ground.
Click! came the cocking of a revolver. Tom Landers had
drawn his six-shooter and thrust it toward Hal. Hal did not
flinch a particle, but held his knife in his right hand,
and eyed the bully. I leaped upon the table, holding my
Colt ready, with finger on the trigger, and stood by my
chum's side.
"Shoot if you dare, you cowardly cut-throat!" I said, with
as much coolness as I could command. "It will be your last
shot."
There was a rustle in the crowd, and the next instant a
tall, slab-sided trapper, carrying in his hands an enormous
rifle, emerged from the crowd, and confronted the glowering
Tom Landers. The trapper threw his rifle to a level, and
drew a bead upon the bully. "Tom Landers," said he, in a
gruff voice, "if ye don't put up that leetle shootin-iron,
I'll put the contents o' old Black Bess through yer noddle
quicker 'n greased lightnin' 'd kill a b'ar. The boy has
won the scalp; an if thar's any virtue in my muscle, he'll
hev it too."
The balance of this exciting story is continued in No.
14 of the Fireside Companion, issued on Friday of this week
(Jan. 24), and is for sale by all News Dealers in the
United States and Canada, and mailed from the office of
GEORGE MUNRO & CO., 137 William Street, New York.
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