“In time I organized the band of men you see around me, and took to the road.  Of this my sister knew nothing.  The Hills have been my haunt ever since, and during all this time yon scheming knaves”—­pointing to the prisoners—­“have been constantly sending out men to murder me.  The last tool, Hugh Vansevere by name, boldly posted up reward papers in the most frequented routes, and he went the same way as his predecessors.  Seeing that nothing could be accomplished through aids, my enemies have at last come out to superintend my butchery in person; and but for the timely interference of Calamity Jane and Justin McKenzie, a short time since, I should have ere this been numbered with the dead.  Now, I am inclined to be merciful to only those who have been merciful to me; therefore, I have decided that Alexander and Clarence Filmore shall pay the penalty of hanging, for their attempted crimes.  Boys, string ’em up!”

So saying, Deadwood Dick stepped without the cabin, and closed the door behind him.

Redburn also shut down and curtained the windows, to keep out the horrible sight and sounds.

But, for all this, those inside could not help but hear the pleading cries of the doomed wretches, the tramp of heavy feet, the hushed babble of voices, and at last the terrible shout of, “Heave ’o! up they go!” which signaled the commencement of the victims’ journey into mid-air.

Then there was a long blank pause; not a sound was heard, not a voice spoke, nor a foot moved.  This silence was speedily broken, however, by two heavy falls, followed almost immediately by the tramp of feet.

Not till all was again quiet did Redburn venture to open the door and look out.  All was dark and still.

The road-agents had gone, and left no sign of their work behind.

When morning dawned, they were seen to have re-camped on the eastern slope, where the smoke of their camp-fires rose in graceful white columns through the clear transparent atmosphere.

During the day Dick met Alice Terry, as she was gathering flowers, a short distance from the cabin.

“Alice—­Miss Terry,” he said, gravely, “I have come to ask you to be my wife.  I love you, and want you for my own darling.  Be mine, Alice, and I will mend my ways, and settle down to an honest, straightforward life.”

The beautiful girl looked up pityingly.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, her tone kind and respectful, “I cannot love you, and never can be your wife, Mr. Harris.”

“You love another?” he interrogated.

She did not answer, but the tell-tale blush that suffused her cheek did, for her.

“It is Redburn!” he said, positively.  “Very well; give him my congratulations.  See, Alice;” here the young road-agent took the crape mask from his bosom; “I now resume the wearing of this mask.  Your refusal has decided my future.  A merry road-agent I have been, and a merry road-agent I shall die.  Now, good-by forever.”