Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard OR, DAUNTLESS DELL’S DARING

BY

Colonel Prentiss Ingraham

Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories published in the Border Stories. For other titles see catalogue.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1908

By STREET & SMITH

Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL).

It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody, used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of the New York Weekly. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo Bill for Street & Smith.

Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than a wilderness.

When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border War,” young Bill assumed the difficult rôle of family breadwinner. During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the Seventh Kansas Cavalry.

During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis, Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6, 1866.

In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.”

In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody[2] served as scout and guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of the command.

After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of scouts.

Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.

Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his “Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of the Rough Riders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the Marquis of Lome, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales, now King of England.

At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National Guard.

Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10, 1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage, and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into the Great Beyond.

BUFFALO BILL’S GIRL PARD.

CHAPTER I. A DASTARDLY PLOT.

Nate Bernritter, or “Bern,” as he was usually called when not referred to as “the old man,” was in an unpleasant frame of mind.

He was superintendent in charge of the mining, milling and cyaniding at the Three-ply Gold-mine, but the cares of his official position could not wholly have accounted for the perplexed frown on his brow, the hunted look in his eyes, or the fierce, spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his big, brown hands.

Pacing the narrow confines of his office and chewing savagely on an unlighted cigar, he muttered to himself, over and over again, his voice a husky and hopeless whisper:

“We’re at the end of our rope; McGowan has taken the one step that will put the kibosh on us. Had we better duck out of here between two days and get across the Mexican border, or stay and try and brazen the matter out?”

He stopped before a window. Leaning against the wall, he looked out dejectedly.

The “plant” of the Three-ply lay below him, in the bottom of the scarred and blistered valley.

Off to the right was the bunk-house and chuck-shanty.[6] Several rods below the bunk-house was the ten-stamp mill, throbbing with the roar of the great stamps pounding out the gold. To the left of the mill were rows of big wooden tanks, where the mill “tailings” were treated with cyanid of potassium; and to the left of the tanks again, was the little adobe laboratory where the man—Jacobs by name—who had charge of the cyaniding, made his tests and did the assaying, refined mill, and cyanid bullion, and ran it into molds.

Teamsters were hauling ore to the mill, miners were coming and going between the shaft-house and the blacksmith-shop, Mexicans were hovering over the tops of the cyanid-tanks, dumping into them wheelbarrow-loads of “tailings,” and everywhere was a scene of the utmost activity.

Bernritter’s moody eyes took no account of all the bustle and energy which spelled success for the Three-ply plant and prosperity for its owner, Patrick McGowan. Bernritter’s unofficial affairs were in a tangle, and his everlasting ruin seemed imminent.

When men betray an employer’s trust and do evil and dishonest things, they must expect to have an uneasy conscience. But it was more than an uneasy conscience that troubled Bernritter: His fears told him that he was face to face with exposure and punishment, unless he made some move for his own safety.

As he stared absently through the window, a buxom girl of twenty strolled into his range of vision. Her sleeves were rolled up, she wore an apron, and her course was taking her from the laboratory by the tanks toward the chuck-shanty.

Her name was Frieda Schlagel. As might be suspected by the name, and further guessed from her appearance,[7] she was German. Frieda and her mother did the cooking for the camp.

It was not the girl, however, who claimed Bernritter’s attention, but a man—likewise a German—who was walking beside her and awkwardly playing the gallant.

The man was a comical specimen for a lover. He looked like a fall pippin balanced on a couple of toothpicks. An “Old Country” cap rested on the back of his head, there was a long pipe in his teeth, and he wore a California poppy in his buttonhole.

As he walked, he tried to take the girl’s hand, and more than once attempted to put his arm about her ample waist. The girl, laughing the while, slapped her suitor’s face and, finally, knocked the pipe out of his mouth.

There was humor in the situation, had Bernritter been in a mood to see it. But he was not. From the herr and the fraulein the super’s eyes wandered to the laboratory, near which was secured a horse, saddled, bridled, and with saddle-bags in place.

The horse was fresh from the corral. Bernritter knew it belonged to the Dutchman, and that the Dutchman was about to leave camp, and was taking his farewell of Frieda.

A glimmer shot into the super’s eye as a treacherous plan formed itself in his brain. Alert and resourceful at once, he stepped to the office door, called a passing Mexican, and told him to send Jacobs to the office immediately.

When Jacobs—a slender man with a hint of Jewish origin in his face—entered the office, a moment later, he found Bernritter smoking his cigar and sitting in front of his desk.

[8]

“You sent for me?” queried Jacobs, with an odd, furtive glance of the eyes.

“I did, Jacobs,” answered Bernritter. “Shut the door, pull a chair close up, and sit down.”

Jacobs, plainly nervous, obeyed the super’s orders.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You know, I suppose, that McGowan is determined to find out what becomes of the bullion he has been losing.”

“It is but natural,” returned Jacobs, drumming on the chair-arms with his fingers.

Significant glances passed between himself and Bernritter.

“You’re running out a bar of cyanid bullion this morning, aren’t you?” queried Bernritter.

“Yes,” answered Jacobs, wondering why the super had so abruptly mentioned the cyanid bullion.

“Is the bar out of the mold? Is it cool enough to handle?”

“It is. Why?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. Just now there is a bit of quick work for you to do. I am expecting McGowan back from Phœnix at any moment, and I am expecting that Dutchman, who has been in camp for the last few days, to pull out as soon as he can break away from Frieda. What I want you to do, Jacobs, is to take that bar of cyanid bullion and put it in the Dutchman’s saddle-bags!”

Jacobs sprang up excitedly.

“Why——” he began, but was impatiently interrupted by Bernritter.

“Put the bar of bullion in the saddle-bags, and don’t let any one see you. Then come back here and I’ll explain.”

[9]

Jacobs’ face was now reflecting some of the alarm and fear which had been shown in the super’s. He hesitated a moment, then turned, left the office, and hastened back to the laboratory.

He was back in less than five minutes.

“It is done, Bern,” he announced, in a low voice.

Bernritter looked toward the chuck-shanty. The Dutchman, all unsuspicious of the treachery just done him, was still talking with Frieda at the chuck-shanty door.

Bernritter drew a long breath of relief.

“Do you know why McGowan went to Phœnix, Jacobs?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, the man called Buffalo Bill is in Phœnix. Buffalo Bill is an Indian-fighter. McGowan suspects that an organized gang of Apaches, in some manner, is looting the Three-ply of its bullion. He is going to ask Buffalo Bill to help him locate the red thieves, and capture them.”

“But this Buffalo Bill is employed by the government,” said Jacobs, his brown face growing pale. “He would not leave his government work to help McGowan on a job that manifestly belongs to the sheriff of the county.”

“You can’t tell, any more than I can, what Buffalo Bill will do!” said Bernritter sharply. “The governor is a friend of McGowan’s, and Buffalo Bill is a friend of the governor’s. If the governor asks Buffalo Bill to do this for McGowan, the chances are that Buffalo Bill will get on the job. If he does——”

Bernritter ground his teeth.

“What—if he does?” came from Jacobs.

[10]

“It’s all day with you and me, Jacobs,” finished Bernritter; “we should have to make a getaway at once, and get over into Sonora. I don’t want to leave here until we make our big clean-up. Then we can clear out with plenty of gold.”

Jacobs fell back in his chair and breathed hard.

“What about the Dutchman?” he asked.

“His name is Schnitzenhauser, isn’t it?”

“Something like that.”

Bernritter took another look through the window. The Dutchman, whistling blithely, had left the chuck-shanty. Every once in a while he would turn around to wave his cap and throw a kiss to the plump-faced Frieda, who stood in the door.

Bernritter watched until Schnitzenhauser reached his horse, untied the animal from the post, and climbed into the saddle. Frieda, by that time, had vanished from the door.

“There he goes,” muttered Bernritter. “Jacobs, we must plan to get the Dutchman suspected! That will carry suspicions away from us—at least, until the redskins help us make our big clean-up. Then we’ll pull out with all the gold our horses can carry.”

“A good plan,” returned Jacobs, casting a wary, guilty glance around the office. “But how is it to be done?”

“Listen,” said Bernritter, leaning close to his confederate and sinking his voice to a whisper.

With their heads together, the two scoundrels plotted together for several minutes; then, hearing a heavy step on the walk outside the door, they drew apart suddenly.

The door opened, and a tall, thin man with a gray[11] mustache, booted, spurred, and covered with the dust of a long ride, pushed into the office.

“How are ye, lads?” cried the newcomer heartily, dropping into a chair. “Just in from Phœnix, and just sent my horse to the corral. How’s everything been going at the mine since I left?”

“All right, McGowan,” answered Bernritter. “Jacobs just came to report that he has a five-pound bar from the cyanid clean-up.”

“Well, for Heaven’s sake, Jacobs, take care of it,” said McGowan.

“I’ll try to, sir,” smiled Jacobs, masking as well as he could the evil in his heart.

He left immediately.

“What luck in Phœnix, McGowan?” asked the super, with great show of interest.

“No luck at all, at all,” grumbled McGowan. “Buffalo Bill won’t help us. He says it’s a job for the sheriff, and that he has other fish to fry.”

Although secretly delighted, Bernritter’s face contrived to express disappointment.

“Did you go to the sheriff?” he asked.

“Fiend take the sheriff!” growled McGowan. “Hasn’t he been out here and tried? What did he accomplish? Not a thing! The sheriff’s no good. If he attempts——”

The door was abruptly hurled open, and Jacobs showed himself. He looked wild and excited.

“The bullion!” he gasped; “the bar——” He could hardly talk, and gripped at the edge of the super’s desk to hold himself upright.

Bernritter, apparently astounded, rose to his feet.[12] McGowan leaped at Jacobs and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” demanded the super.

“Speak out!” cried McGowan. “This ain’t a time to hang fire. What’s the matter with the bullion?”

“It’s gone!” groaned Jacobs, dropping down in a chair beside the desk.

The superintendent and the cyanid expert were playing a game and playing it well.

“Gone!” shouted McGowan. “You don’t mean to tell me that some more of my good bullion has been lifted?”

“It—it was in the laboratory,” answered Jacobs, “and—and it isn’t there now.”

“By the powers! Bernritter, what do you think of this?”

McGowan whirled on the super.

“Why didn’t you take care of that bullion, Jacobs?” demanded Bernritter.

“I did take care of it. I had just turned the bar out of the mold when you sent for me. I cooled it off and put it in the safe. When I went back to the laboratory, just now, the safe was open and the bar had disappeared.”

“It must have been some of the greasers who are filling the tanks,” hazarded McGowan.

“It couldn’t have been,” protested Jacobs. “The foreman told me, not more than a minute ago, that not one of them had left the work. They were all under his eyes.”

“It may have been the foreman himself,” suggested Bernritter.

“What!” scoffed McGowan; “Andy O’Connell? Not on your life! I’d stake all I’ve got on Andy, Jacobs,”[13] and McGowan’s eyes glittered as he wheeled on the cyanid expert, “it’s up to you to explain this.”

“Do you think for a minute,” cried Jacobs, “that I’d——”

“I said it is up to you to explain. What I think hasn’t anything to do with it. Did you turn off the combination of the safe when you left the laboratory?”

“I—I think not,” was the hesitating response.

“Fact is, McGowan,” put in Bernritter, “I sent for Jacobs in a hurry. I was figuring out the returns of the cyanid-plant, and I needed the weight and fineness of that bar to complete my figures.”

“That’s no excuse,” stormed McGowan. “Jacobs should have turned the knob on that bar before ever he left the office.”

“By George!”

Bernritter gave a jump, as though an idea had just flickered through his brain.

“Well?” demanded McGowan.

“That Dutchman! He had hitched his horse down by the laboratory, and he was up at the kitchen with Frieda when Jacobs came here. While Jacobs and I were talking, he went down to the laboratory and rode away. Perhaps——”

“That Dutchman seemed honest enough to me,” demurred McGowan. “He has been hanging out here for several days, but we began to miss gold long before he came.”

“At the mill, yes,” said Bernritter, “but this is the first bullion that has gotten away from the cyanid-plant.”

“Well, I don’t believe that Dutchman had anything to do with it.”

“His horse was hitched by the laboratory,” persisted[14] Bernritter. “It would have been possible for him to go into the office and take advantage of Jacobs’ absence to lift the bar.”

“He was snooping around the laboratory all day yesterday,” spoke up Jacobs.

“Getting the lay of things, I’ll bet something handsome,” averred Bernritter. “Did he ask you anything about the cyanid clean-up, Jacobs?”

“Come to think of it,” answered Jacobs, “I believe he did.”

“I thought he was too much interested in Frieda to pay attention to any one, or anything, else around this camp,” remarked McGowan.

“More than likely,” suggested the super, “his fancy for Frieda was only a blind. It’s possible that he has had an eye on the cyanid bullion ever since he struck the Three-ply.”

“Faith,” said McGowan, “I can size a man up pretty well, and if that Dutchman is crooked I’ll be a mightily surprised man.”

“You say, Mr. McGowan,” said Jacobs, “that it is up to me to explain. Well, if that Dutchman doesn’t know anything about the bar, I can’t explain. In justice to me, sir, you ought to overhaul him on the trail, and find out whether he knows anything about the gold.”

McGowan was thoughtful for a moment.

“There’s reason in that, Jacobs,” he answered. “I’ll wrong no man, if I can help it, with unjust suspicions; but, as between you and the Dutchman, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Go to the corral and get three horses.”

A gleam of triumph darted into Bernritter’s eye, and was telegraphed to Jacobs, as the latter left the office.

[15]

McGowan stepped to the door and made a trumpet of his hands.

“Frieda!” he shouted.

The girl appeared in the door of the chuck-shanty, and McGowan motioned for her to come to the office.

An order from the “boss” was to be obeyed instantly, at all times, and Frieda hurried across the intervening stretch and came breathlessly into the room where the two men were sitting.

“Vat id iss, Misder McGowan?” asked Frieda.

“I’d like to have you tell me what you know about the Dutchman, Schnitzenhauser, who seems to have been tied to your apron-strings during the last few days?”

“Ach, he iss a fine chentleman, I bed you!” declared Frieda.

“I presume so,” said McGowan dryly. “Bedad, it looks like he’d made something of an impression on you.”

“Impression, iss id? Vell, meppy; only I don’d tell him dot.”

Frieda blushed, and snickered, and then grew very much confused, dropped her eyes, and pulled the edge of her apron through her plump fingers.

“Where did he come from?” asked McGowan.

“He say dot he come from Yuma,” was the stifled response.