Originally published: 1872
Genres: Western
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66227
Chapters: 12
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
AN ALTERCATION
Mid-afternoon of an oppressively hot and sultry day, in the year ’54.
We call the reader’s attention to a scene, that, if not romantic, is at least attractive and interesting; a wagon train of emigrants, as is attested by the quantity of driven stock—horses, cattle, and sheep. The presence of women and children is still further evidence.
It moved slowly and drearily along over the vast, almost barren stretch of level plain, as though the nearly spent day had been one of hard and unremitting toil. The horses or mules, their heads hanging down, with drooping ears and tails, their hides damp with sweat and covered with the fine sand cast upon the air by the trampling hoofs or the slowly revolving wheels, scarcely heed the stinging lash or the impatient exclamation of their drivers.
The loose stock move dejectedly along, cured of their morning propensity of running from the trail to snatch a mouthful of grass or nip the tops of a bush, while more than one of the boys, whose duty it is to keep them within proper limits, dozes in their hard saddles.
But there are three persons who appear full of life and free from the general weariness of mind and body. There: one of them a woman—a girl; the others men.
The first, who rode at several hundred yards in advance, if closely scrutinized, proves to be an old man, who has numbered his half-century, or perhaps nearly a decade more. A close scrutiny, we say, for his figure was as erect and vigorous, his motions as free and supple, the fire of his keen gray eye as clear and penetrating as a generation since.
His hair and long flowing beard were gray, although the thickly clinging dust effectually disguised this. From his position, his arms, and his actions, it was plain he acted as a guide to the wagon train.
The next figure, about halfway between this man and the foremost wagon, was also a man and merits a brief description at our hands for more than one reason.
In stature, he was about the mean height, of a rather slight figure, but with a muscular and active development, clothed in a plain and well-worn suit of gray. His dusky, olive complexion, black hair, and eyes like a sloe, had given him the sobriquet of “Dusky Dick,” a name that was already famous throughout the West.
Although not much, if any beyond his third decade, Richard Rouzee, or “Dusky Dick,” had followed the calling of a guide for a number of years, and gained the repute of being peculiarly unfortunate, having lost one-half the trains he had acted as pilot for, and rarely escaped without at least one fierce and desperate struggle.
More than one dark rumor had been put in circulation, and some more boldly declared that he was in league with the red-skins, and only acted as a guide, the more surely to compass his purpose. But this was only conjecture, and could not be substantiated by any valid proof.
The third person, who rode at some little distance to the right, so as to escape the annoying dust, was a young woman of more than common grace and beauty, although the latter quality was somewhat obscured by the long, weary day’s travel.
Rather above the medium height, of a superbly rounded and developed form, that was admirably displayed by her neatly fitting riding habit of black, she sat her horse with the ease and grace of an accomplished equestrienne, although he chafed and fretted at the restraint of a tightly-drawn rein, caracoling and prancing in proud strength and spirit.
It was a clear-cut profile and beautiful complexion that Dusky Dick beheld from the corner of his dark, sinister eye, that glared with a fire of unusual admiration. But this his slouched hat concealed, and his smooth, beardless face gave no outward sign of the dark and troubled thoughts that filled his brain.
Then he pricked his half-wild Mustang viciously with his spur and darted suddenly up beside the lady, who uttered a half-suppressed exclamation of annoyance and made no attempt to conceal the expression of dislike and impatience that clouded her usually sunny features.
“It has been a wearisome day, Miss Clara,” began the guide, speaking in a low and remarkably musical voice although his eyes flashed as he noticed her evident aversion. “But we are almost at the end of our day’s journey. See—that long dark line yonder, a little to the left, is our stopping place, beside a clear and beautiful stream. I know the spot, well.”
“So we camp there? Well, I am glad of it, for more than one reason,” replied the lady, in an impatient tone.
“And may I ask why so?”
“Do you wish to know the truth?” asked Clara, with a slight emphasis.
“Certainly; the truth will be doubly pleasant, coming from such winsome lips,” Dusky Dick returned, with a half-mocking bow and smile.
“Well then, the main reason is that once there, you will have other things to attend to, and will not have so much leisure to annoy others by impertinent and unwelcome attentions,” curtly replied Clara, urging her high-mettled horse ahead, as if desirous of escaping the company of the swarthy guide.
“And another reason is—that a certain baby-face, Buenos Ayres by name, will not be long in feeding his horses, and then, of course, will hasten to pay his respects to the belle of the wagon train,” sneered Dusky Dick, keeping close to Clara, whether she rode fast or slow.
“Mr. Rouzee,” at length exclaimed Clara, her eyes flashing angrily, and her cheeks flushing, “your place as a guide is yonder, along with Tom Maxwell, and not out here. If I appear rude, you force me to be so.”
“A guide’s place depends greatly upon circumstances, Miss Calhoun; and just now I prefer this position.”
“Then occupy it alone; I will go back to the wagon,” she added, reining in her horse.
“Stay, Miss Clara,” cried Rouzee, his black eyes glittering. “Keep your place, but mark me, the time will come—and soon too—when you will repent these haughty airs, and solicit as a favor, what you now affect to scorn. I tell you that the time is not far distant when you will crouch at my feet—when you will hang around me for a word—a smile; when you will call me master. Do you hear?”
“And I tell you, sir, that when we camp tonight, you will have to answer to the charge of being drunk while upon duty,” haughtily retorted Clara, her eyes flashing. “Will you go, sir, or must I appeal to my father?”
The guide did not reply, but plunging his long, cruel spurs into the flanks of his Mustang, he dashed rapidly up alongside the old borderer, Tom Maxwell, who received him with a cold, half-suspicious start. Evidently, there was little love lost between the two men.
Just before sunset, the long line of trees was reached, that bordered upon a small stream, and preparations were immediately begun for encamping, while Dusky Dick and Tom Maxwell galloped off to hunt for “sign.”
The mules and horses were ungeared and turned loose, after being hoppled, and the wagons were formed into a rude sort of corral, one line covering the joints in the other. All was bustle and apparent confusion, although each person knew his duty and busied himself about that alone.
Fires were built, and over them stooped the women, preparing supper for the different messes; while the children brought wood and water, or else rolled and tumbled over each other with merry shouts, in their play, little recking what the morrow might bring forth.
To one of these fires, a little apart from the remainder, we now turn. Over it was bending the form of an old black woman, whose wrinkled features and gorgeous red and orange headgear, looked weird and wild through the flame-tinted smoke.
A little to one side of this sat three persons, or rather half reclining against the moss-covered roots of the gigantic oak tree, idly watching the motions of “Aunt Medora,” as she turned the hissing bacon or the nice browning “hoe-cake.” One of these was Clara Calhoun; the others were men.
The eldest one—tall, portly, and of a soldierly bearing—was her father, the leader or captain of the wagon train. Of perhaps fifty years in age, his muscular frame gave no evidence of decay, and the fire of youth still seemed to shine in his large dark eyes. The heavy, grizzled mustache and beard, gave a somewhat stern cast to his features, that were massive and regular, and his voice, used to command, enhanced this idea; but at heart, he was kind and gentle.
The other was a young man, between his fifth and sixth lustrum, with a handsome, manly face and form; with a calm, steadfast look in his gray eye that instinctively commanded one’s respect, and told that he could be depended upon in any emergency, however dangerous or trying.
His garments were plain and almost poor, but there was an air of conscious independence and freedom in his bearing and demeanor, that attracted one, despite himself.
“Father, do you know that I think you made a great mistake in hiring this Dusky Dick, or whatever may be his name, to act as a guide?”
“Why so, Clara?” asked her parent, with an air of surprise.
“Well, you may laugh at me, or call me visionary, but I shudder whenever he comes near me. I believe he is a traitor, and that he has some deep purpose of his own that means danger to us all. If you ask my reasons, I can only say what I have; I only feel that he’s not what he seems, and I shall never rest easy until we are well rid of him.”
“I don’t like him overly well, myself,” slowly replied Calhoun, “but still, I think he is honest and trustworthy.”
“Then why does he not attend to his business, instead of intruding where he can’t help but see his presence is unwelcome?” warmly cried Clara.
“Why, daughter, what do you mean? What has he been doing?”
“Just this. I can’t stir a step from the wagons, but he is at my side, with his disagreeable smile and worse compliments. At first, I did not appear to mind them, but of late he has grown still more impudent, and the worse I rebuff him, the more he persists, until now, unless it is put a stop to, I will feel obliged to keep within the wagon all the time.”
“You never spoke of this before, Clara,” uttered Calhoun, slowly. “If he has troubled you so much, why not have told me?”
“Because I thought he would desist, and then there would be no trouble. But today he grossly insulted me.”
“Stay, Buenos,” commanded the major, placing a hand upon the young man’s arm, as he made a motion of anger—“let me settle this. He insulted you, Clara?”
“Yes. He told me that the time was not far distant when I would crouch at his feet, and be glad to call him master!” exclaimed the maiden, her eyes flashing.
“But what led to this?”
“I hardly remember, but I told him he had other duties to perform, that would become him better than forcing his company upon those to whom it was unwelcome. I had tried to leave him by riding faster, to one side, or by falling back; but he kept close beside me.”
Major Calhoun arose and glanced around at the animated scene. The two guides had returned and were awaiting supper, meanwhile smoking their pipes.
“Tom Maxwell, come here for a moment,” called the leader, and the tall guide sprung nimbly to his feet and approached the group, doffing the dirty felt hat, with an almost reverential bow to Clara.
“Maxwell, my man, I wish to ask your advice, and I trust you will be plain and candid, in your reply,” began Calhoun.
“Maje, I’m Tom Maxwell, an’ you’ve hearn tell o’ me afore now; but did you ever hear ’at I lied, or made a practyce o’ any sech a dirty, sneakin’ business? The truth is a mighty broad an’ plain trail, boss, to them, which is clear in the sight, an’ my ol’ mother l’arnt me to squint true ’long that trail, tellin’ me—‘Now, sonny, jest foller your nose, an’ go ahead!’ An’ ever sence then, I’ve did so, on’y, mayhap, steppin’ a lettle to one side in the matter o’ a red-skin, or sech like; but I al’ays tuck it up jest whar I left it. I’ll tell you the truth ef it bu’sts me—go on!”
Calhoun appeared used to the somewhat rambling style of the old guide and resumed:
“We were just talking about this Dusky Dick, as you call him; what is your opinion of him, Tom?”
“H-u-m! As a guide, or a man?”
“Well—both.”
“Ya—as,” drawled Maxwell, smoking rapidly. “Fust, as a guide. He’s quick an’ sharp-witted, knows a buffler-chip from a ant-hill; he is dead shore on a trail or fer sign; a bully shot, rider, an’ all that; kin tell you, or mark down like a printed map, every river, crick an’ waterhole that is atween here an’ Salt Lake. Or to sum it up, as the lawyers o’ St. Louey ’d say, he knows every feet o’ the trail, kin tell whar to ixpect Injuns, or not to ixpect ’em, ekil to anybody what lives an’ breathes.”
“You praise him up very highly, Tom,” remarked Buenos Ayres.
“Do I, then? That’s jest as folks thinks. But honest, I don’t know a single man ’at I’d ruther hev along ’th me, ’n this very Dusky Dick, pervidin’, mind ye, thet he hed some strong intrust in the train’s gittin’ through right side up, all hunky. But ef so be he hed a spite ag’inst anybody, then I’d ruther hev the devil hisself fer a chum,” he said, earnestly.
“Well, as a man,” added Major Calhoun.
“Wal, fust; he shoots off his mouth too durned much; he’d talk the ha’r off ’m a buffler bull’s hump, an’ not more’n hafe try. He’s wuss ’n old Daddy Lapyear, the preacher man which used to keep camp meetin’ nigh to whar I lived when a little shaver; an’ more’n that couldn’t be said. Look at his eyes—look at his face—look at his motion; look at him all over, well. The hull outfit sais snake, jest as plain as geese-goose; an’ the wust kind o’ sarpint, too—the ongainly, sneakin’ copperhead.
“Ef he tuck a dislike to a feller, would he come right out flatfooted an’ tell him so? Nary time—not muchly! He’d lay low an’ bite ’em in the heel. He’s pizon, I tell ye, pizon from head to toe, an’ sartin death. Ef he gives you a black look, jest putt your heel on his head an’ squash it. But look to your boots, fust. Gi’ me a match, youngster.”
Calhoun then repeated the threats of Dusky Dick, he had that day addressed to Clara, and then awaited Tom’s reply, in some anxiety of mind.
“An’ he said that—he did?” slowly returned Maxwell, his brow knitting, as he puffed furiously at his relighted pipe.
“Those words, or to the same effect.”
“Wal then, thar’s snags ahead, boss, you kin jest bet your high old ocean ware!” exclaimed Tom. “What’re you goin’ to do ’bout it?”
“I don’t know, just yet. That is what I asked your opinion for.”
“Wal then, ef he said them words, he meant somethin’. He ain’t the sort o’ feller to shoot his mouth off at nothin’, when he’s mad, jest fer the fun o’ hearin’ hisself talk. Look here—do you know ’at he’s lost four trains in the last two years? an’ that one more jest got through by stud-hoss luck, a’ter two days’ hard fightin’? I don’t say ’at he’s in cahoot ’th the reds, not a-tall; but ef I hed a spite ag’in’ this ’ere train, an’ wanted to git it wiped out, I’d jest go to Mister Dusky Dick, Esquire, an’ say—whar’s the brigynees, Dick?” significantly replied Tom, tapping one horny finger against the other palm.
“Then what do you advise, Maxwell?” somewhat anxiously asked Major Calhoun, deeply impressed by the earnest words of the veteran guide.
“What do I ’vise? Now thar you’ve got me, as Joe Nerr said to the whale when he sucked him in. What d’you think?”
“I thought some of discharging him,” was the thoughtful reply.
“The very wust thing you could do! ’Cause why. Ef he is a runnygade, thet is jest what he’d choose hisself, an’ then he’d hold high, low, jack in his hand, ’th a fa’r show o’ ketchin’ the game, to boot. No, sir! You must keep him, an’ say nothin’ to make him ’spicious, an’ then—watch ’im. You’ll watch—the young feller, he’ll watch, an’ I’ll watch, an’ it’s hard but what we kin manidge to keep him in trim.”
“’S—st!” cautioned Ayres, rising erect, with a hand upon his ready revolver. “So, Mr. Dusky Dick, this is a specimen of your manners, is it? Eavesdropping!” he added, as the form of the guide stepped out from behind the tree beneath which the party were sitting.
“Should the criminal be absent when he is being tried?” sneered Rouzee, with a slight emphasis on the word italicized. “I was passing by—I heard my name coupled with treachery—and so I paused.”
“Jest so—I was hungry—I saw a fat goose—I stole it, said the fox!” murmured Tom, carelessly hitching his belt around. “I told you he was a snake!”
“And what did you hear?” demanded Calhoun, arising.
“I heard myself accused of treachery—of being a renegade, and in collusion with the Indians. If not in so many words, at least plainly enough to be understood,” said Dusky Dick, deliberately.
“Well then—what is your answer?”
“What can it be! You are dissatisfied with me, and condemn me unheard. I will not serve any man who does not trust me fully. Tom Maxwell, yonder, knows the route quite as well as I do and is capable of acting alone. I will bid you goodbye, now.”
“You mean to leave us?”
“Yes.”
“If you heard so much, Mr. Rouzee, as you say, surely you heard Maxwell’s last words?” coldly added Major Calhoun. “We prefer not to part with you; at least, not until we have reached a safer portion of the country than this is.”
“True as preachin’!” softly interjected the old guide.
“Do you mean to detain me against my will?” said Dusky Dick, stepping back a pace.
“If necessary—yes.”
“By force?”
“By force, if you compel us to adopt harsh measures,” impatiently exclaimed the major.
“Now look here, Mr. Calhoun,” began Rouzee, in a firm tone. “I’m a free man, and not bound to you in any way. I have honestly performed my part of the contract, thus far, and if I choose to leave you now, all you can do is to retain my wages. Do this if you will, but I’ll not stay with you any longer.”
“Ef I hed a jass-ack what wouldn’t go, d’y’ think I’d wallop ’im?—bet your monkey-musek I would!” gently whistled Tom Maxwell, eying Dusky Dick with a benignant smile from beneath his battered slouch hat.
“You are but one—we are three—or if but one word is spoken aloud fifty.”
“And I am Dusky Dick!” cried the guide, in a defiant tone. “You have heard of me before now, but you will know me if you persist in this outrage. I tell you that I will go, and there is but one thing that can stop me—death!” as he spoke, he leaped back so as to place the trio in front of him, and drawing a brace of revolvers, he cocked them with a clear, significant click.
“That long-legged beauty yonder told you that I could shoot true, and for once he told the truth. You may keep me here, but it will not be while I can draw a trigger or sight along a barrel. Stop!” he added, sternly, as the three men made a motion toward advancing. “The first weapon drawn, or the first step toward me, will be the death warrant of Miss Clara yonder! Before God, I will shoot her, if I am molested!”
They saw that he was in terrible earnest, and instinctively shrunk back.
“Shell I take him, maje—shell I take him?” hoarsely whispered the old guide, his form crouching and trembling with anger, at the rebel’s audacity.
“No—no, don’t stir, Tom—for your life, don’t!” cried Calhoun, fearfully. “The devil will shoot her if you do! Go, then, if you wish it, but if you harm one of the party, I will hunt you down like a dog! Go, while you can,” he added, bitterly.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Dusky Dick, “you are very generous, Major Calhoun, and I congratulate you upon the facility with which you reverse your decision. I will go, but you may expect me again, very soon. I love Miss Clara too greatly to abandon her so abruptly, for good.”
“Shoot him, Father!” cried Clara, as she sprung up behind the huge tree trunk. “Never mind me—don’t let him brave you so!”
The three men abruptly turned around at this sudden interruption, and then as they saw that the maiden’s maneuver placed her in comparative safety, they quickly drew their weapons; but the guide had vanished, and his taunting laugh of defiance echoed back through the woods.
“After him, Tom—Buenos! and shoot him like a wolf, if you find him!” shouted Calhoun, as the three men dashed through the timber, in the direction from whence had come the insolent laugh.
But their efforts at Dusky Dick’s capture were all in vain, although the majority of the now fully aroused campers set out in pursuit of the fugitive; and one by one they returned to their now cold supper, silent and filled with a dim foreboding of impending peril.
“It’s a bad job, maje, a pesky bad job,” quoth Tom Maxwell, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of the rude but wholesome viands; “an’ I’m dub’ous that it hain’t all over yit. He never shed ’a’ got away—never! But who under the sun would ’a’ thunk he’d ’a’ p’inted them pistils at Miss Clary? The dratted sarpint! Burnin’s too good for sech as he is! Lord—Lord! what’s this world a-comin’ to, when sech pesky critters is made?”
Double guards were posted that night, and an unusually strict watch was kept, but the long night passed by without further event worthy of record, and as the sun arose, it shined down upon the party slowly trailing along their weary way.
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