Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road | Page 7

Black Hills metropolis for
arriving trains and stages, and as a natural consequence received a goodly share of the
public patronage.
A well-stocked bar of liquors in Deadwood was non est yet the saloon in question

boasted the best to be had. Every bar has its clerk at a pair of tiny scales, and he is ever
kept more than busy weighing out the shining dust that the toiling miner has obtained by
the sweat of his brow. And if the deft-fingered clerk cannot put six ounces of dust in his
own pouch of a night, it clearly shows that he is not long in the business.
Saturday night!
The saloon is full to overflowing--full of brawny rough, and grisly men; full of ribald
songs and maudlin curses; full of foul atmospheres, impregnated with the fumes of vile
whisky, and worse tobacco, and full of sights and scenes, exciting and repulsive.
As we enter and work our way toward the center of the apartment, our attention is
attracted by a coarse, brutal "tough," evidently just fresh in from the diggings; who,
mounted on the summit of an empty whisky cask, is exhorting in rough language, and in
the tones of a bellowing bull, to an audience of admiring miners assembled at his feet,
which, by the way, are not of the most diminutive pattern imaginable. We will listen:
"Feller coots and liquidarians, behold before ye a real descendant uv Cain and Abel. Ye'll
reckolect, ef ye've ever bin ter camp-meetin', that Abel got knocked out o' time by his
cuzzin Cain, an becawse Abel war misproperly named, and warn't able when the crysis
arriv ter defen' himsel' in an able manner.
"Hed he bin 'heeled' wi' a shipment uv Black Hills sixes, thet would hev enabled him to
distinguish hisself fer superyer ability. Now, as I sed before, I'm a lineal descendant uv
ther notorious Ain and Cable, and I've lit down hyar among ye ter explain a few p'ints
'bout true blessedness and true cussedness.
"Oh! brethern, I tell ye I'm a snorter, I am, when I git a-goin'--a wild screechin'
cattymount, right down frum ther sublime spheres up Starkey--ar' a regular epizootic uv
religyun, sent down frum clouddum and scattered permiscously ter ther forty winds uv
ther earth."
We pass the "cattymount," and presently come to a table at which a young and handsome
"pilgrim," and a ferret-eyed sharp are engaged at cards. The first mentioned is a tall,
robust fellow, somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-three years of age, with
clear-cut features, dark lustrous eyes, and teeth of pearly whiteness. His hair is long and
curling, and a soft brown mustache, waxed at the ends, is almost perfection itself.
Evidently he is of quick temperament, for he handles the cards with a swift, nervous
dexterity that surprises even the professional sharp himself, who is a black,
swarthy-looking customer, with "villain" plainly written in every lineament of his
countenance; his eyes, hair, and a tremendous mustache that he occasionally strokes, are
of a jetty black; did you ever notice it?--dark hair and complexion predominate among
the gambling fraternity.
Perhaps this is owing to the condition of the souls of some of these characters.
The professional sharp in our case was no exception to the rule. He was attired in the

hight of fashion, and the diamond cluster, inevitably to be found there, was on his shirt
front; a jewel of wonderful size and brilliancy.
"Ah! curse the luck!" exclaimed the sharp, slapping down the cards; "you have won again,
pilgrim, and I am five hundred out. By the gods, your luck is something astonishing!"
"Luck!" laughed the other, coolly: "well, no. I do not call it luck, for I never have luck.
We'll call it chance!"
"Just as you say," growled the gambler, bringing forth a new pack. "Chance and luck are
then twin companions. Will you continue longer, Mr.----"
"Redburn," finished the pilgrim.
"Ah! yes--Mr. Redburn, will you continue?"
"I will play as long as there is anything to play for," again finished Mr. R., twisting the
waxed ends of his mustache calmly. "Maybe you have got your fill, eh?"
"No; I'll play all night to win back what I have lost."
A youth, attired in buck-skin, and apparently a couple of years younger than Redburn,
came sauntering along at this juncture, and seeing an unoccupied chair at one end of the
table (for Redburn and the gambler sat at the sides, facing each other), he took possession
of it forthwith.
"Hello!" and the sharp swore roundly. "Who told you to mix in your lip, pilgrim?"
"Nobody, as I know of. Thought I'd squat right here, and watch your sleeves!" was the
significant retort, and the youth laid a cocked six-shooter on the table in front of him.
"Go