OUTLAW JACK;
OR,
THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.
BY HARRY HAZARD.
AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
39.—Heart-Eater.
43.—The White Outlaw.
54.—Arkansas Jack.
66.—Rattling Dick.
71.—Delaware Tom.
77.—Scarlet Shoulders.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
OUTLAW JACK;
OR,
THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.
CHAPTER I.
A BLOW IN THE DARK.
"Well, Burr, any change to-day?"
"Yes—a great one."
"For better or worse?"
"The road will be open for us to-morrow. She's dying."
"Dying! is it possible? And the poor creature seemed so much betterthis morning."
"Listen—there!"
A quavering, pitiful wail came to their ears, proceeding from a smallwhite tent, half-hidden beneath the low-hanging boughs of the grove.That cry told the two men, plainer than spoken words, the sad truth.It told of a household broken and dismembered; of a bereaved husbandand daughter, of a dearly-beloved wife and mother who had journeyedthus far from the home of her childhood, only to find a lone grave uponthe prairie, or beside the rock-bound rivulet that wound its noisy wayadown the valley.
The two young men stood in silence, gazing toward the tent of mourning.They did not speak, though not a little agitated. And yet one of thetwo caught himself secretly exulting in the thought that now thegreatest difficulty was removed from the path he had laid out to follow.
The little valley was studded here and there with diminutive tents,while white-tilted wagons stood grouped together in an oblong circle.These alone would have proclaimed the truth: a company of emigrantstenanted the valley.
Such sights were far from being uncommon in that year—1850. A yearbefore, the Californian "gold-fever" broke out. The first rush was madeby men—young and old. But then the fever spread. It infected all—theresult was but natural. Family followed family. Almost from ocean toocean an unbroken train of emigrants toiled wearily on—on towardthe glittering phantom that but too often vanished in thin air whenseemingly just within their grasp, leaving naught behind but wreckedhopes and ruined fortunes.
One link of the mighty human chain lies before our eyes. For nearly aweek this valley has sheltered them. While others pressed on in theroad for the yellow delusion, this party had been lying motionless,longing for yet dreading the summons to resume their pilgrimage.
A few hasty words will explain.
This party of emigrants, numbering nearly one hundred souls, was underthe command of Caleb Mitchell. He started from Eastern Ohio, in companywith several of his neighbors, heading for the Land of Gold, takingwith him his wife and daughter. Little by little the company grew tomore respectable proportions, as stragglers joined it on the way,until now, as they entered the Foothills, they felt little fear of thered-skinned Ishmaelites of whom they had heard so many frightful tales.
Nearly a week before our story opens, a sad accident occurred. A rifle,suspended by leather strings in Mitchell's wagon, by some means gotdischarged, its contents lodging in Mrs. Mitchell's breast.
Since then she had been hovering between life and death. To continuetheir journey would be her certain death, and the kind-heartedemigrants would not