Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road

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Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road
by Edward L. Wheeler This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Deadwood Dick, The Prince of the Road or, The Black Rider of the Black Hills
Author: Edward L. Wheeler
Release Date: February 4, 2005 [EBook #14902]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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[Illustration]
BEADLE'S HALF DIME LIBRARY
1877, BEADLE AND ADAMS.
Vol. I. Single BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, Price, No. 1 Number. No. 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK. 5 cents

=Deadwood Dick,= THE PRINCE OF THE ROAD; OR, THE BLACK RIDER of the BLACK HILLS.
BY EDWARD L. WHEELER.

CHAPTER I.
FEARLESS FRANK TO THE RESCUE.
On the plains, midway between Cheyenne and the Black Hills, a train had halted for a noonday feed. Not a railway train, mind you, but a line of those white-covered vehicles drawn by strong-limbed mules, which are most properly styled "prairie schooners."
There were four wagons of this type, and they had been drawn in a circle about a camp-fire, over which was roasting a savory haunch of venison. Around the camp-fire were grouped half a score of men, all rough, bearded, and grizzled, with one exception. This being a youth whose age one could have safely put at twenty, so perfectly developed of physique and intelligent of facial appearance was he. There was something about him that was not handsome, and yet you would have been puzzled to tell what it was, for his countenance was strikingly handsome, and surely no form in the crowd was more noticeable for its grace, symmetry, and proportionate development. It would have taken a scholar to have studied out the secret.
He was of about medium stature, and as straight and square-shouldered as an athlete. His complexion was nut-brown, from long exposure to the sun; hair of hue of the raven's wing, and hanging in long, straight strands adown his back; eyes black and piercing as an eagle's; features well molded, with a firm, resolute mouth and prominent chin. He was an interesting specimen of young, healthy manhood, and, even though a youth in years, was one that could command respect, if not admiration, wheresoever he might choose to go.
One remarkable item about his personal appearance, apt to strike the beholder as being exceedingly strange and eccentric, was his costume--buck-skin throughout, and that dyed to the brightest scarlet hue.
On being asked the cause of his odd freak of dress, when he had joined the train a few miles out from Cheyenne, the youth had laughingly replied:
"Why, you see, it is to attract bufflers, if we should meet any, out on the plains 'twixt this and the Hills."
He gave his name as Fearless Frank, and said he was aiming for the Hills; that if the party in question would furnish him a place among them, he would extend to them his assistance as a hunter, guide, or whatever, until the destination was reached.
Seeing that he was well armed, and judging from external appearances that he would prove a valuable accessory, the miners were nothing loth in accepting his services.
Of the others grouped about the camp-fire only one is specially noticeable, for, as Mark Twain remarks, "the average of gold-diggers look alike." This person was a little, deformed old man; hump-backed, bow-legged, and white-haired, with cross eyes, a large mouth, a big head, set upon a slim, crane-like neck; blue eyes, and an immense brown beard, that flowed downward half-way to the belt about his waist, which contained a small arsenal of knives and revolvers. He hobbled about with a heavy crutch constantly under his left arm, and was certainly a pitiable sight to behold.
He too had joined the caravan after it had quitted Cheyenne, his advent taking place about an hour subsequent to that of Fearless Frank. His name he asserted was Nix--Geoffrey Walsingham Nix--and where he came from, and what he sought in the Black Hills, was simply a matter of conjecture among the miners, as he refused to talk on the subject of his past, present or future.
The train was under the command of an irascible old plainsman who had served out his apprenticeship in the Kansas border war, and whose name was Charity Joe, which, considering his avaricious disposition, was the wrong handle on the wrong man. Charity was the least of all old Joe's redeeming characteristics; charity was the very thing he did not recognize, yet some wag had facetiously branded him Charity Joe, and the appellation had clung to him ever since.