Fearless Frank started a trifle, for he seemed to recognize the voice; but the next instant he bowed assent, and left the cabin.  When he was gone, Dick turned to Redburn.

“Have you a glass of water handy, Cap?  This jab in the gullet makes me somewhat thirsty,” he said.

Redburn nodded, and procured the drink; then a strange silence pervaded the cabin—­a silence that no one seemed willing to break.

At last the tramp of many feet was heard, and a moment later the road-agents, with Fearless Frank at their head, reached the doorway, where they halted.  The moment Deadwood Dick came forward, there was a wild, deafening cheer.

“Hurra! hurra!  Deadwood Dick, Prince of the Road, still lives.  Three long hearty cheers, lads, and a hummer!” cried Fearless Frank, and then the mountain echoes reverberated with a thousand discordant yells of hurrah.

The young road-agent responded with a nod, and then said: 

“The prisoners; have you them there?”

“Here they are, Cap!” cried a score of voices, and the two Filmores were trotted out to the front, with ropes already about their necks.  “Shall we h’ist ’em?”

“Not jest yet, boys:  I have a few words to say, first.”

Then turning half-about in the doorway, Deadwood Dick continued: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, a little tragedy is about to take place here soon, and it becomes necessary that I should say a few words explaining what cause I have for hanging these two wretches whom you see here.

“Therefore, I will tell you a short story, and you will see that my cause is just, as we look at these things here in this delectable country of the Black Hills.  To begin with: 

“My name is, to you, Edward Harris!” and here the road-agent flung aside the black mask, revealing the smiling face of the young card-sharp.  “I have another—­my family name—­but I do not use it, preferring Harris to it.  Anita, yonder; is my sister.

“Several years ago, when we were children, living in one of the Eastern States, we were made orphans by the death of our parents, who were drowned while driving upon a frozen lake in company with my uncle, Alexander Filmore, and his son, Clarence—­those are the parties yonder, and as God is my judge, I believe they are answerable for the death of our father and mother.

“Alexander Filmore was appointed guardian over us, and executor of our property, which amounted to somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars, my father having been for years extensively engaged in speculation, at which he was most always successful.

“From the day of their death we began to receive the most tyrannical treatment.  We were whipped, kicked about, and kept in a half-starved condition.  Twice when we were in bed, and, as he supposed, asleep, Alexander Filmore came to us and attempted to assassinate us, but my watchfulness was a match for his villainy, and we escaped death at his hands.