Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road | Page 6

the clarion note.

A few miners, wakened from their repose, jump out of bed, come to the door, and stare at
the receding cavalcade in a dazed sort of way. Others, thinking that the noise is all
resulting from an Indian attack, seize rifles or revolvers, as the case may be, and blaze
away out of windows and loopholes at whatever may be in the way to receive their
bullets.
But the road-agents only pause a moment in their song to send back a wild, sarcastic
laugh; then they resume it, and merrily dash along up the gulch, the ringing of iron-shod
hoofs beating a strange tatoo to the sound of the music.
Sleepily the miners crawl back to their respective couches; the moon smiles down on
mother earth, and nature once more fans itself to sleep with the breath of a fragrant
breeze.
* * * * *
Deadwood--magic city of the West!
Not dead, nor even sleeping, is this headquarters of the Black Hills population at
midnight, twenty-four hours subsequent to the rush of the daring road-agents through
Camp Crook.
Deadwood is just as lively and hilarious a place during the interval between sunset and
sunrise as during the day. Saloons, dance-houses, and gambling dens keep open all night,
and stores do not close until a late hour. At one, two and three o'clock in the morning the
streets present as lively an appearance as at any period earlier in the evening. Fighting,
shooting, stabbing and hideous swearing are features of the night; singing, drinking,
dancing and gambling another.
Nightly the majority of the miners come in from such claims as are within a radius of
from six to ten miles, and seldom is it that they go away without their "load." To be sure,
there are some men in Deadwood who do not drink, but they are so few and scattering as
to seem almost entirely a nonentity.
It was midnight, and Deadwood lay basking in a flood of mellow moonlight that cast long
shadows from the pine forest on the peaks, and glinted upon the rapid, muddy waters of
Whitewood creek, which rumbles noisily by the infant metropolis on its wild journey
toward the south.
All the saloons and dance-houses are in full blast; shouts and maudlin yells rend the air.
In front of one insignificant board, "ten-by-twenty," an old wretch is singing out lustily:
"Right this way ye cum, pilgrims, ter ther great Black Hills Thee'ter; only costs ye four
bits ter go in an' see ther tender sex, already a-kickin' in their striped stockin's; only four
bits, recollect, ter see ther greatest show on earth, so heer's yer straight chance!"
But, why the use of yelling? Already the shanty is packed, and judging from the
thundering screeches and clapping of hands, the entertainment is such as suits the

depraved tastes of the ruffianly "bums" who have paid their "four bits," and gone in.
But look!
Madly out of Deadwood gulch, the abode of thousands of lurking shadows, dashes a
horseman.
Straight through the main street of the noisy metropolis he spurs, with hat off, and hair
blowing backward in a jetty cloud.
On, on, followed by the eyes of scores curious to know the meaning of his haste--on, and
at last he halts in front of a large board shanty, over whose doorway is the illuminated
canvas sign: "Metropolitan Saloon, by Tom Young."
Evidently his approach is heard, for instantly out of the "Metropolitan" there swarms a
crowd of miners, gamblers and bummers to see "what the row is."
"Is there a man among you, gentlemen, who bears the name of Hugh Vansevere?" asks
the rider, who from his midnight dress we may judge is no other than Deadwood Dick.
"That is my handle, pilgrim!" and a tall, rough-looking customer of the Minnesotian
order steps forward. "What mought yer lay be ag'in me?"
"A sure lay!" hisses the masked road-agent, sternly. "You are advertising for one
Deadwood Dick, and he has come to pay you his respects!"
The next instant there is a flash, a pistol report, a fall and a groan, the clattering of
iron-shod hoofs; and then, ere anyone scarcely dreams of it, Deadwood Dick is gone!

CHAPTER III.
THE "CATTYMOUNT"--A QUARREL AND ITS RESULTS.
The "Metropolitan" saloon in Deadwood, one week subsequent to the events last narrated,
was the scene of a larger "jamboree" than for many weeks before.
It was Saturday night, and up from the mines of Gold Run, Bobtail, Poor Man's Pocket,
and Spearfish, and down from the Deadwood in miniature, Crook City, poured a swarm
of rugged, grisly gold-diggers, the blear-eyed, used-up-looking "pilgrim," and the
inevitable wary sharp, ever on the alert for a new buck to fleece.
The "Metropolitan" was then, as now, the headquarters of the