Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road | Page 9

you to aim straight and rid your country of an A No. 1 dead-beat and
swindler!"
"Oh! no!" gasped Redburn, horrified at the thought of taking the life of a
fellow-creature--"I cannot, I cannot!"
"You can!" said Harris, sternly; "go on--_you must salt that card-sharp, or I'll certainly

salt you!_"
A deathlike silence followed.
"One!" said Harris, after a moment.
Redburn grew very pale, but not paler was he than the card-sharp just opposite. Redburn
was no coward; neither was he accustomed to the desperate character of the population of
the Hills. Should he shoot the tricky wretch before him, he knew he should be always
calling himself a murderer. On the contrary, in the natural laws of Deadwood, such a
murder would be classed justice.
"Two!" said Ned Harris, drawing his pistol-hammer back to full cock. "Come, pilgrim,
are you going to shoot?"
Another silence; only the low breathing of the spectators could be heard.
"Three!"
Redburn raised his pistol and fired--blindly and carelessly, not knowing or caring whither
went the compulsory death-dealing bullet.
There was a heavy fall, a groan of pain, as the gambler dropped over on the floor; then
for the space of a few seconds all was the wildest confusion throughout the mammoth
saloon.
Revolvers were in every hand, knives flashed in the glare of the lamplight, curses and
threats were in scores of mouths, while some of the vast surging crowd cheered lustily.
At the table Harry Redburn still sat, as motionless as a statue, the revolver still held in his
hand, his face white, his eyes staring.
There he remained, the center of general attraction, with a hundred pair of blazing eyes
leveled at him from every side.
"Come!" said Ned Harris, in a low tone, tapping him on the shoulder--"come, pardner;
let's git out of this, for times will be brisk soon. You've wounded one of the biggest
card-devils in the Hills, and he'll be rearin' pretty quick. Look! d'ye see that feller comin'
yonder, who was preachin' from on top of the barrel, a bit ago? Well, that is Catamount
Cass, an' he's a pard of Chet Diamond, the feller you salted, an' them fellers behind him
are his gang. Come! follow me, Henry, and I'll nose our way out of here."
Redburn signified his readiness, and with a cocked six-shooter in either hand Ned Harris
led the way.

CHAPTER IV.

SAD ANITA--THE MINE LOCATER--TROUBLE
Straight toward the door of the saloon he marched, the muzzles of the grim sixes clearing
a path to him; for Ned Harris had become notorious in Deadwood for his coolness,
courage and audacity. It had been said of him that he would "just es lief shute a man as
ter look at 'im," and perhaps the speaker was not far from right.
Anyway, he led off through the savage-faced audience with a composure that was
remarkable, and, strange to say, not a hand was raised to stop him until he came face to
face with Catamount Cass and his gang; here was where the youth had expected
molestation and hindrance, if anywhere.
Catamount Cass was a rough, illiterate "tough" of the mountain species, and possessed
more brute courage than the general run of his type of men, and a bull-dog determination
that made him all the more dangerous as an enemy.
Harry Redburn kept close at Ned Harris' heels, a cocked "six" in either hand ready for
any emergency.
It took but a few moments before the two parties met, the "Cattymount" throwing out his
foot to block the path.
"Hello!" roared the "tough," folding his huge knotty arms across his partially bared breast;
"ho! ho! whoa up thar, pilgrims! Don' ye go ter bein' so fast. Fo'kes harn't so much in a
hurry now-'days as they uster war. Ter be sure ther Lord manyfactered this futstool in
seven days; sum times I think he did, an' then, ag'in, my geological ijees convince me he
didn't."
"What has that to do with us?" demanded Ned, sternly. "I opine ye'd better spread, some
of you, if you don't want me to run a canyon through your midst. Preach to some other
pilgrim than me; I'm in a hurry!"
"Haw! haw! Yas, I obsarve ye be; but if ye're my meat, an' I think prob'ble ye be, I ain't
a-goin' fer ter let yer off so nice and easy. P'arps ye kin tell who fired the popgun, a
minnit ago, w'at basted my ole pard?"
"I shall not take trouble to tell!" replied Ned, fingering the trigger of his left six uneasily.
"Ef you want to know who salted Chet Diamond, the worst blackleg, trickster and
card-player in Dakota, all you've got to do is to go and ask him!"
"Hold!" cried Harry Redburn, stepping out from behind