Deadwood Dicks Doom | Page 8

in crime and ruffianism all their lives, and had lost all sense of manliness or feeling, further than for their own gratification.
"Hyar' ther stage, mum!" Shakespeare said, indicating the bar counter. "Shall I help ye up?"
"You need not trouble yourself," Virgie replied, stepping upon a chair, thence upon a table, and then to the bar, where three chairs had been placed.
Nicodemus followed, and likewise the bullwhacker Shakespeare, who had evidently assumed the self-appointed position of master of ceremonies, for he arose when the two singers were seated, and glanced his audience over, with an important "ahem!" as if to call attention to the fact that he was the central figure of the forthcoming entertainment.
"Feller citerzens," he began, "this is an awe-inspiring and sublime occasion, when with swelling bosom of pride, I am enabled to present for your approval ther stars of two countries, Europe and Africa, consolerdated inter one stupendous aggravation. Et does me proud, my noble pack o' guzzlers, ter represent this great phalanx o' talent, and in commemoration o' this great occasion my poetical brain hat conceived a versical offering, which I beg leave ter precipitate at ye, as a prelude o' ther cat-wattling immediately ter foller. Et is entitled 'Ther B'iled Shirt,' an' was founded on true incerdents."
Then clearing big threat, the bullwhacker laid one hand dramatically across his breast and began
"Et war six years ago ter-day
When Deadwood, furst, thar struck,
A tender-fut from Jarsey Cit',
Togged out in spotless duck.
Oh! ye bet he war a gallus pill!
But ov money, run a-muck!
He waltzed inter ther' Flush,' ker-slap-
Ther Flask 'war squar' fer deal,
Tho' that war sum who sed that Pete
War up ter sundry steal.
But I could never quite believe,
Thet Pete would stoop ter 'feel.'
Down by their board ther 'tender' sat;
I see'd 'twer desprit in his eye,
As on his snow-flake kids he spat
An' sed -- Wi' me it's rocks or -- die!'
An' tho' no pig-tail cuss war he
I thort o' poor Bill Nye.
Sez he ter Pete -- his words war low
Old Pards, I'm broke -- I hev no "dirt;"
But I'm so dry-give me a show
Jest, go a V. agin' my shirt
Et's b'iled an' clean, so don't be mean;
Ter lose et, would my feelin's hurt.'
The keerds was split upon ther 'put'
An' dealt-the tender he war low,
Fer Pete he held an orful hand,
An' scooped his jags o' ev'ry show,
He raked a trick
Fer every throw.
We laid the tender-fut ter rest;
O' arsenic he'd tuck a bowl;
He lost ther b'iled shirt from his breast,
An' then hed sought another goal.
We did ther 'white,' ye see, at best-
We chucked him in a 'prospect hole!'"
A tremendous cheer greeted the conclusion of the bullwhacker's recitation, for the sentiment of the rude effusion hit the rough audience in a tender spot. Any man guilty of wearing a b'iled shirt had no sympathy from them, no matter what his troubles.
"Now we'll hear from the nigger!" Shakespeare said, jumping down from his counter, among the crowd. "After ther nigger, the gal."
"I'se no niggah, sah!" Nicodemus retorted, arising and glaring down at his audience. "I'se Nicodemus Johnsing a cullud gentleman."
This elicited a roar of laughter, but when the darky took hold of the banjo and began to pound it in a wonderfully scientific manner, accompanying the music with burlesque songs, he held his audience spellbound.
No such banjo playing had they ever heard or seen, for he would toss the homely instrument and catch it again without interrupting the current of his playing, and besides his songs were laughable and original absurdities, well rendered.
Encore after encore greeted his artistic efforts, and each time he responded with something a little better.
It was during the darky's playing that the door opened and a now- comer strode into the room.
A murmur of "The Captain" and "Piute Dave" passed among those who noticed his entrance, and several nodded to him, and then toward Miss Vernon, who sat beside her sable companion with a pale face, and eyes that flashed with indignation at being thus forced to serve as a staring-block for a crowd of ruffians, who had neither pity nor respect for womankind.
Piute Dave was fully on a part with his townsmen, as far as being villainous-looking was concerned. He was a tall, heavy-set man of some five-and thirty years, and looked like one who it would be hard to handle, in a struggle.
In race he was dark, bloated and sinister, with shaggy brows, cold gray eyes of evil expression, a sensual mouth shaded by a bristling black mustache, and a thick neck and chin, the latter ornamented with a slight goatee.
He was attired in knee-boots, light-colored trowsers, red shirt open at the throat, corduroy jacket, and wide-rimmed hat, while a belt about his waist contained a brace of handsomely trimmed revolvers.
He paused not far from the door, and with his hands thrust in his pockets, fixed his gaze