down to Deadwood and frighten three kind o’ ideas out of this Mr. Hugh Vansevere, whoever he may be.  Ha! ha! the fool that h’isted that notice didn’t know Deadwood Dick, or he would never have placed his life in jeopardy by performing an act so uninteresting to the party in question.  Hugh Vansevere; let me see—­I don’t think I’ve got that registered in my collection of appellatives.  Perhaps he is a new tool in the employ of the old mechanic.”

Darker and thicker grew the night shadows.  The after-harvest moon rose up to a sufficient hight to send a silvery bolt of powerful light down into the silent gulch; like an image carved out of the night the horse and rider stood before the placard, motionless, silent.

The head of Deadwood Dick was bent, and he was buried in a deep reverie.  A reverie that engrossed his whole attention for a long, long while; then the impatient pawing of his horse aroused him, and he sat once more erect in his saddle.

A last time his eyes wandered over the notice on the tree—­a last time his terrible laugh made the mountains ring, and he guided his horse back into the rough, uneven stage-road, and galloped off up the gulch.

“I will go and see what this Hugh Vansevere looks like!” he said, applying the spurs to his horse.  “I’ll be dashed if I want him to be so numerous with my name, especially with five hundred dollars affixed thereto, as a reward.”

* * * * *

Midnight.

Camp Crook, nestling down in one of the wildest gulch pockets of the Black Hills region—­basking and sleeping in the flood of moonlight that emanates from the glowing ball up afar in heaven’s blue vault, is suddenly and rudely aroused from her dreams.

There is a wild clatter of hoofs, a chorus of strange and varied voices swelling out in a wild mountain song, and up through the very heart of the diminutive city, where the gold-fever has dropped a few sanguine souls, dash a cavalcade of masked horsemen, attired in the picturesque garb of the mountaineer, and mounted on animals of superior speed and endurance.

At their head, looking weird and wonderful in his suit of black, rides he whom all have heard of—­he whom some have seen, and he whom no one dare raise a hand against, in single combat—­Deadwood Dick, Road-Agent Prince, and the one person whose name is in everybody’s mouth.

Straight on through the single northerly street of the infant village ride the dauntless band, making weirdly beautiful music with their rollicking song, some of the voices being cultivated, and clear as the clarion note.

A few miners, wakened from their repose, jump out of bed, come to the door, and stare at the receding cavalcade in a dazed sort of way.  Others, thinking that the noise is all resulting from an Indian attack, seize rifles or revolvers, as the case may be, and blaze away out of windows and loopholes at whatever may be in the way to receive their bullets.