



Produced by Demian Katz, E. M. Sanchez-Saavedra, Joseph
Rainone and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









  The Slave of the Mine; Or, Jack Harkaway in 'Frisco.

  By BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG.


[Illustration: "THE BULLET STRUCK NAPPA BILL ABOUT THE MIDDLE OF THE
WRIST, AND, WITH A FEARFUL OATH, HE ALLOWED HIS KNIFE TO DROP ON THE
FLOOR."]




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I. THE GAMBLING-HOUSE.
  CHAPTER II. A SURPRISE.
  CHAPTER III. MALTRAVERS'S PLOT.
  CHAPTER IV. THE BOX AT THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE.
  CHAPTER V. VASQUEZ, THE BANDIT.
  CHAPTER VI. THE SLAVE OF THE DIAMOND MINES.
  CHAPTER VII. MISS VANHOOSEN TRAVELS.
  CHAPTER VIII. THE ESCAPE FROM THE MINES.
  CHAPTER IX. THE ATTACK ON THE STAGE.




CHAPTER I.

THE GAMBLING-HOUSE.


"I rather like this game!"

"Well, I should smile if you didn't. Luck's dead sot in for you now,
you can bet."

"Perhaps," said the first speaker; "but I don't propose to follow it
up."

"What?"

The second speaker sprang from his chair in amazement.

"No. I flatter myself I know when to stop. I have played at Baden and
Monaco, in the clubs of London and the hells of Paris, as well as the
gambling saloons of the West, and I'm not to be picked up for a flat."

"That's sure; but look at here; as sure as my name is Dan Markham, and
I'm known as a profesh at gambling from here to Cheyenne and Virginia
City, and lettin' alone Omaha, you're wrong."

"Why?"

"When you've got a run of luck, play it for all it is worth."

"You think so?"

"My friend, fortune is within your grasp. Play on the ace and copper
the jack, I tell you," replied Dan Markham.

"Thank you. I don't want any one to dictate to me."

With this quiet answer the first speaker piled up his checks and
received an equally large pile of gold twenty-dollar pieces, which he
placed in an inside pocket of his coat. Then he laughed harshly.

"I don't know why I do this sort of thing," he remarked. "It isn't
because I want the money."

"I'll tell you," replied the gambler.

The lucky player rose from his seat and the game went on, there being a
dozen or more men present who were intent upon it.

The game was faro.

Slowly and solemnly the dealer took the cards out of the box, and with
equal solemnity the players moved their checks as their fancy dictated.

The first speaker was a man of a decided English cast of countenance,
and the profusion of side whiskers which he wore strengthened his
Britannic look.

He was well dressed, handsome, though somewhat haggard, as if he
suffered from want of sleep, or had some cankering care gnawing at his
heart.

A gold ring, set with turquoise and diamonds, sparkled on his finger,
and his watch chain was heavy and massive. The gambler was probably
forty years of age, which was ten or twelve more than his companion,
and his face bore traces of drink and dissipation; but there was a
shrewd, good-natured twinkle in his eye which showed that he was not a
bad-natured man in the main. In reality, Dan Markham was known all over
the Pacific <DW72> as a good fellow.

Retiring to the lower end of the room, the first speaker accepted a
glass of wine which was handed him by a <DW64> waiter who attended on
the supper-table.

"You were saying, Mr.--er--Mr.----" he began.

"Markham," replied that individual.

"Ah, yes! Thank you! Well, you were observing----"

"Just this: I know why a man plays, even though he's well fixed and has
got heaps of shug."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Mr.--er--Mr." continued Markham, imitating his companion's tone
in rather a mocking manner.

"Smith. Call me Smith."

"All right, Smith; you play because you want the excitement. That's the
secret of it. You've got no home."

"That's true."

"No wife?"

"No."

"Exactly. If a man's got a home, and the comforts, and the young
ones, and in fact all that the word implies, he don't want to go to a
gambling-saloon. No, sir. It's fellows like you and me that buck the
tiger."

The person who had designated himself as Mr. Smith smiled.

"You are an observer of human nature?" he said.

"Well, I guess so. Pete!"

"Yes, sah!" replied the <DW64>.

"Give me some of that wine. Darn your black skin, what do I keep you
for?"

"You don't keep me, sah!" replied the <DW64>.

"Don't I, by gosh? It's me, and fellows like me, that keep this saloon
a-going, and that keeps you."

Pete made no reply, but opened a new bottle and handed the gambler a
glass of the sparkling wine.

"Going to play some more, stranger?" asked Dan.

"I may and I may not. As I feel at present I shall look on," replied
Mr. Smith.

"How long have you been in this country?" continued Dan.

"All my life."

"Hy?"

"I was born here."

"Whereabouts?"

"In Maine."

"Oh, come now; you can't play that on me. You're a Britisher."

Mr. Smith  a little and looked rather vexed.

"Doesn't it strike you, my friend," he said, "that you are a trifle
inquisitive?"

"It's my way."

"Then all I have to say is that it is a mighty unpleasant way, and I
don't like it for a cent."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Then you can lump it," replied Dan Markham, lighting a cigar and
staring him in the face.

Mr. Smith evidently did not want to have a quarrel, for he walked away
and strolled through the rooms, of which there were four.

These rooms were elegantly furnished, provided with sofas and
easy-chairs. On the tables were all the best periodicals and magazines,
so that frequenters of the gambling-house could while away their time
without actually playing.

But the tables possessed a fascination which Smith, as he called
himself, could not resist.

He strolled back to the faro game and watched the play, which kept on
incessantly.

When one player fell out, another took his place, and so it went on,
all night long, till the garish streaks of the gray dawn stole in
through the shades of the windows, and the men who turned night into
day thought it prudent to go home.

A young and handsome man attracted Mr. Smith's attention. He was
well dressed, and had an air of refinement about him. His eyes were
bloodshot and his face haggard. His hands clutched the chips nervously,
and he was restless, feverish and excited.

He pushed the clustering chestnut locks from his fair brow, and watched
the cards as they came out with an eagerness that showed he took more
than an ordinary interest in the game.

His luck was villainous.

He lost almost every time, and when he tried to make a "pot" to recoup
himself, it was all the same--the wrong card came out.

At length he put his hand in his pocket and found no more money there.

With a sigh he rose from the table, and with bowed head and bent back,
his eyes lowered and his face wearing an expression which was the
embodiment of despair, he walked away.

Mr. Smith followed him.

This was a type of character and a situation he evidently liked to
study.

"Ruined! Ruined!" he muttered.

At this juncture he encountered Dan Markham, who had been paying his
respects to some boned turkey, and making a very respectable supper.

The professional gambler can always eat and drink, the fluctuations of
the game having very little effect on his appetite.

"Hello! Baby," he exclaimed; "you here again to-night?"

"As you see," replied the young man, whose feminine cast of countenance
justified the epithet of "Baby" which the gambler had bestowed upon him.

"I thought I told you to keep out of here."

"I know it."

"Then why didn't you follow my orders?"

"Because I couldn't. It was here that I took the first downward step,
and to-night I have taken the last."

The gambler regarded him curiously.

"Clarence Holt," he said, "have you been drinking?"

"Not a drop; but it is time I did. My lips are parched and dry. I am on
fire, brain and body. Is this a foretaste of the hereafter in store for
me?"

"Weak-minded fool!" cried Dan.

"Yes, I was weak-minded to trust you. I was a fool to listen to your
rose- stories about fortunes made at a faro-bank."

"Come, come! no kicking."

During this conversation Mr. Smith was leaning against the wall, half
concealed in the shadow, and smoking a cigar, while he was ostensibly
engaged in jotting down some memoranda with a pencil on a scrap of
paper, yet not a word was lost upon him.

"You can bully me as much as you please, Dan Markham!" exclaimed
Clarence Holt. "But I warn you that I am getting tired of it."

"Tired, eh?"

"Yes, sir; there is a limit to human endurance."

"Is there? Since when did you find that out?" sneered Dan.

"To-night. I have lost a whole month's salary."

"What of that? I'll lend you money."

"Yes, on the terms you did before," replied Clarence Holt, bitterly.
"You have made me forge the name of the manager of the bank in which I
am employed to the extent of three thousand dollars."

"That isn't much."

"I can never pay it."

Dan Markham lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"Yes, you can," he said.

"How?"

"Steal it. You have every opportunity."

"And become a thief?"

"Yes."

"Never!"

"Why not? Are you not already a forger? I hold three notes of Mr.
Simpson, the manager of the Bank of California, which he never signed,
though you did it for him; and if those notes are presented for payment
you will go right up to the State Prison at Stockton quicker than
railroading."

Clarence Holt groaned deeply.

He was, indeed, in the power of this man, and, struggle as he could, he
was unable to extricate himself.

Mr. Smith gathered from this conversation that Dan Markham had got the
young man in his power with some object in view.

Clarence Holt was a clerk in the Bank of California, and had forged
the name of Mr. Simpson, the manager, to the extent of three thousand
dollars, Markham holding the forged notes.

That evening Clarence had risked his whole mouth's salary at faro, and
lost.

Hence his despair and agitation were fully accounted for.

"What do you want of me?" asked Clarence.

"My money."

"What will you take for the notes?"

"Double their face-value, and then I'll hand them over to anybody."

Mr. Smith stepped forward and bowed politely.

"Pardon me," said he. "Did I understand you to say that you are anxious
to sell some notes?"

"Oh! it's you, Mr. Smith," replied Markham. "If you've got six thousand
dollars to throw away on security which is only worth three, we can
deal. I want to go to Sacramento to-morrow, and I'll sell out."

"I have overheard the entire conversation," said Mr. Smith, "and I
sincerely commiserate this young man, who has fallen into the hands of
a sharper!"

"Throwing bricks, eh?"

"Never you mind, my friend. Hand over the notes and I will give you the
money."

Markham produced a wallet which was filled with papers and bills,
among which he searched until he found the documents of which he was in
want.

"Here you are," he exclaimed. "I'd like to find a fool like you every
day in the week."

"Would you?"

"If I did, I'd die rich."

Laughing heartily at his own joke, Markham handed over the notes and
received the six thousand dollars in exchange.

"Thank you," he added, and extending his hand to Clarence Holt, he
said: "Good-by. Take my advice. It's straight. Never bet on a card
again."

Nodding carelessly to Mr. Smith, he knocked the ash off his cigar and
left the room.

When he was gone, Clarence Holt grasped Mr. Smith's hand.

"How can I thank you?" he exclaimed.

"My dear fellow," replied Mr. Smith, "you have nothing to thank me for."

"Nothing!"

"No, indeed."

"But you have saved me," said Clarence. "You are a whole-souled,
generous-hearted man. Give me the forged notes, that I may tear them
up, begin again, and, leading a new life, bless you for ever."

A cynical smile curled the lip of Mr. Smith.

"Not so fast, my young friend," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that I am not your friend, and that I have not done anything of
a particularly generous nature."

"How?"

Clarence Holt's countenance fell again as he ejaculated this
monosyllable.

"You have only exchanged one master for another," replied Mr. Smith.

"Really, sir," said Clarence, "I am at a loss to understand you. I took
you for a gentleman who, having by accident overheard a conversation
which was not intended for his ears, endeavored to atone for his
conduct by doing what lay in his power to help----"

"Don't catechise me, if you please," interrupted Mr. Smith.

"I have no wish to be offensive."

"If you had I would not allow you to gratify your inclination. Mr.
Markham has handed you over to me, and I have bought you."

"Bought me?"

"Why, certainly."

"May I ask your reason for acting in such an eccentric manner?"

"Yes; I like to buy men. It is a fancy of mine. I find them useful
occasionally."

Clarence Holt bit his lip.

"Where do you live?"

A card containing an address in Mission Street was handed to him, and,
glancing carelessly at it, he put it in his pocket.

"When I want you," he said, "I shall know where to find you."

A rebellious fire burnt in Clarence's eye.

"Suppose I refuse to do your bidding?" he asked.

"Oh! well, in that case I should go to the bank and show the
authorities the notes I have bought. I presume they would see that you
were punished, and taken care of for a year or two."

Clarence pressed his hands together violently.

"Oh! have I come to this?" he cried. "Would to God I had taken my dear
wife's advice and never gambled!"

Mr. Smith looked at him.

"Married, eh?" he remarked.

"Yes, sir."

"Pretty wife?"

"The most divine creature you ever saw. I suppose I am a partial judge,
and that my opinion is not to be relied on; but I assure you, sir, that
no artist or poet ever conceived so lovely a specimen of womanhood as
my darling Elise."

"Humph! How long have you been married?"

"Three years."

"And in love still?"

"Yes, indeed; more than ever."

"Odd way of showing your love, coming to a gambling-house. Any
children?"

"One little girl. But allow me to explain. I came here with my month's
salary to try and make money enough to pay off Markham, who has been my
ruin. Now I have not a dollar to go home with, and how we are to live I
do not know."

Mr. Smith took a dozen twenty-dollar gold pieces out of his purse.

"Take these," he said.

"You will lend them to me?" cried Clarence, delightedly.

"I give them to you. What is the use of lending money to a pauper? I
give this to you just as I would give an alms to a beggar."

"Your words are very bitter," said the young man, as he shivered
visibly.

"There is no necessity for me to be silver-tongued with you," was the
reply. "Go home to your wife. I will call and see you soon."

Mr. Smith threw himself into a chair, and appeared to take no further
notice of Clarence, but he was seated in a manner which permitted him
to have a good view of the gambling-table.

At first Clarence Holt hurried toward the door, as if full of virtuous
resolution to return home.

Then he paused, and turned off toward the lunch table, where he ate a
little salad and drank some wine.

The gold pieces were burning a hole in his pocket.

They were amply sufficient to live upon for a month; but if he could
only double them!

Surely his bad luck could not stick to him all the evening.

He would try again.

"What time is it?"--he looked up at the clock--"only eleven!" Elise,
his little wife, has got the baby to sleep by this time and is probably
reading, while eagerly expecting his return home. Another hour will
make no great difference.

He goes to the table and buys some checks, with which he begins to
speculate.

Mr. Smith laughs with the air of Mephisto, and says to himself:

"I knew it. Score one to me again for having some knowledge of
character. He is a weak man and easily led. So much the better for me."

Presently a lady, thickly vailed, entered the saloon and looked timidly
around her.

Evidently she was searching for some one.

Seldom, indeed, was a lady seen in the saloon, for it is not the custom
for the fair sex to gamble in America, whatever they may do in Europe.

The <DW64> in charge of the lunch-table advanced toward her.

"What you want heah, ma'am?" he asked.

"I am looking for a gentleman," she replied, in a nervous tone.

"Plenty ob gen'elmen come and go all night. It's as hard as de debble
to find any one in dese ar rooms."

"He is my husband. Perhaps you know him. His name is Clarence Holt,"
continued the lady.

"Oh! yes, for suah. I know him."

"Then I implore you to tell me if he is here. Where is the room in
which they play?"

"No place for ladies, dat; besides, Marse Holt him been gone an hour or
more with Marse Markham."

"Is he with that bad man? Ah, me! what future have I and my child now?"

She pressed her hands to her face and sobbed, while the <DW64> held the
door open.

Suddenly there was a loud cry from the inner room, in which the game
was progressing.

"By heaven. I win! Give it me. It is all mine. All--all," shouted a man.

Mrs. Holt uttered a scream.

"'Tis he!" she cried. "Wretch, you have deceived me. Stand on one side.
I heard my husband's voice, and I will see him."

She pushed past the <DW64>, who would fain have stopped her had he been
able to do so, but her movements were too quick for him to intercept
her.

"This is becoming decidedly interesting," observed Mr. Smith; "Elise
has come after Clarence. By Jove!" he added, as she raised her vail,
"she justifies his description of her. A prettier creature I never saw!"

The luck had changed, and Clarence had been fortunate enough to win
largely, as a pile of gold by his side fully testified.

The young wife tapped him on the shoulder.

"Clarence," she whispered.

"You here?" he cried, while a flush of annoyance crossed his face.

"Oh, yes; forgive me. Come home, will you not?"

"How dare you follow me here?"

"I was so lonely. I found a note from Markham appointing a meeting
here, and I knew you had your salary with you. We have no food in the
house, and----"

"Confound you!" he interrupted, almost fiercely. "Do you want every man
here to know our private affairs?"

"What are these men to you, Clarence?"

"Go home. I will come when I am ready. You distract me. Go!" he
exclaimed.

Sadly she turned away. Her tears flowed fast, and so broken-hearted was
she that she did not bestow one glance at the feverish and excited face
of her erring and misguided husband.

At the door she was confronted by Mr. Smith, who bowed politely.

"Madame," he exclaimed, "permit me to have the honor of escorting you
to your carriage."

Elise Holt looked up in surprise.

"I have no carriage, sir," she answered.

"Then I will get you one."

"But I have no money to pay for one."

"My purse is at your service."

"Oh, sir," she exclaimed, blushing, "it would not be right for me to
accept a favor from a perfect stranger."

"Pardon me, I am a friend of your husband."

"Is that so? Well, if you know Clarence, will you not persuade him to
come home?"

She looked pleadingly at Mr. Smith.

"I will do more than that," he rejoined.

"How?"

"I will see to it that he does come to you in half an hour. Come, take
my arm."

Elise did not hesitate any longer, but timidly placed her little
delicately-gloved hand on the arm of the handsome stranger, who was so
kind and generous.

"Ah!" she thought, "if I had married him instead of Clarence!"

They descended the stairs together, and her tears ceased to flow.




CHAPTER II.

A SURPRISE.


In the street they saw a carriage, which Mr. Smith hailed, and when it
drove up he placed Mrs. Holt inside.

"Drive this lady to No. 113 Mission Street," he exclaimed.

Elise opened her eyes wide with astonishment.

"You know where we live!" she ejaculated.

"Certainly I do. Good-evening. Clarence shall be home in half an hour."

He handed the driver two dollars, and Elise was taken to her apartments
in a luxurious style which was entirely new to her.

Mr. Smith returned to the gambling-saloon, much impressed with the
modesty and beauty of Elise.

"Decidedly, she is too good for Clarence," he muttered.

Once again in the gilded saloon of vice he looked in vain for Clarence
among the players.

"Where is the young man who was winning?" he asked of the dealer.

"He has dropped out," was the answer.

"A loser?"

"Yes. He staked his pile on one card, and somehow it didn't come up as
he expected."

"Fool!" remarked Mr. Smith.

He walked through the suite of handsomely-furnished rooms to see where
Clarence was, because he could not have left the place, or he would
have been met on the stairs.

In an inner apartment he saw a sight which startled, though it did not
surprise him.

Mr. Smith was a man of the world, whom it was difficult to surprise, as
it was part of his education and temperament not to exhibit emotion at
anything.

Kneeling before a large mirror, his face pale and haggard beyond
expression, was Clarence Holt.

In his right hand he held a pistol, and in his left a photograph of
Elise, which he was kissing passionately.

It was a sad picture, and showed to what desperate straits drink and
gambling can reduce their votaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly he dropped the picture and placed the muzzle of the pistol to
his temple.

"God forgive me," he prayed, "and help the widow and the orphan. Elise,
my darling, my life, my all, farewell."

Mr. Smith rushed forward and knocked up his arm, so that at this most
critical moment in the young man's career the weapon went off without
injuring him, and the ball lodged in the ceiling.

It was a narrow escape.

"Idiot," cried Smith, "what are you thinking of?"

Clarence Holt looked repentant and abashed.

"I have spent your money," he replied. "I repulsed my wife. I am a
wretch, unworthy to live."

"Get up and go home."

"Alas! I have no home now. My money is gone and----"

Mr. Smith interrupted him by allowing to flutter down at his side a one
hundred-dollar bill, giving it to him as carelessly as one casts a bone
to a dog.

"For me!" asked Clarence, eagerly snatching it.

"No, for Elise and your child," was the reply. "Give it to her. A
fellow like you deserves nothing but a good thrashing."

"That's what I say," answered Clarence, the old, despairing look coming
over him again. "Let me die."

Mr. Smith looked disgusted.

"If you don't leave off whining," he exclaimed, "I shall be strongly
tempted to kick you!"

Clarence did not move; he picked up his hat and left the pistol where
it had fallen.

"Be a man," continued Mr. Smith. "Don't be afraid of the world and the
world won't hurt you."

Humiliated, and with his head in a whirl, Clarence quitted the room,
and Mr. Smith re-entered the gambling-saloon, in which was a noisy
party of miners who, having come into town with plenty of money, could
not resist the fascinations of faro.

All at once Mr. Smith was confronted by a man, who exclaimed:

"So we have met sooner than I expected!"

"Harkaway," repeated the person who called himself Smith.

"At your service, my lord," was the reply.

Jack had met Lord Maltravers.

This gentleman was an English nobleman of high rank and great wealth.

They had met in New York, and both had fallen in love with a young lady
named Lena Vanhoosen.

Lena's brother Alfred wished her to marry Jack, but her mother, Mrs.
Vanhoosen, wished her to espouse the rich nobleman.

Jack and Lord Maltravers had quarreled about Lena.

The quarrel took place in a well-known up-town resort, and Maltravers
had fired a pistol at Jack.

The shot missed its mark, but the cowardly nobleman had to fly to avoid
arrest.

He retreated to San Francisco, and Jack, learning where he had gone,
followed him.

They met in the gambling-saloon.

His lordship was perfectly collected after the first shock of surprise
had passed away, and he did not attempt to escape.

"So you have followed me?" he observed.

"That is an unnecessary question to ask," replied Jack. "You see I am
here."

"Not at all. You might have been making a tour of California, but since
you have declared that you followed me, may I ask your reason?"

"To bring you to justice for attempting my life, after which I shall
marry Miss Vanhoosen."

"So you have gone into the detective business, Mr. Harkaway? I
congratulate you," said his lordship, sarcastically.

"It was time for me to do something."

"Well, you have found me. What next?"

"I shall arrest you."

"Here?"

"Certainly, my lord. I shall be my own police officer, and not give you
a chance to run away."

Lord Maltravers laughed harshly.

"My dear fellow," he replied, "what do you take me for?"

"Precisely for that which I know you to be."

"And that is----"

"An unmitigated scoundrel."

"Thank you; personality seems to be your forte," said Maltravers. "And
now let me tell you one thing: I am no child to be arrested by you."

"We shall see," answered Jack.

The room, as we have said, was full of rough characters, who were
noisy, and inclined to be riotous; wine was flowing freely.

"Boys!" cried Maltravers, in a stentorian voice.

Instantly he was the centre of attraction.

"Do any of you want to make a stake of a hundred dollars?"

"Yes, yes!" replied a dozen men.

"Then put a head on this man for me."

He held out five twenty-dollar gold-pieces in one hand and pointed to
Harkaway with the other.

A big man, over six feet high, apparently strong as a horse, with a
well-developed biceps muscle, stepped forward.

He had several scars on his face, and had lost one eye, which gave him
a ghastly appearance.

"That money's mine," he exclaimed.

"You can have it if you are my man."

"Hand it over."

Lord Maltravers gave him the gold, and at the same time Jack took a
step in advance.

"You shall not escape me in that way," he said.

"Hold on there," cried the volunteer.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of you," cried Jack.

"I'm Nappa Bill," said the man, "and if I can't make you squeal, I want
to go home."

"Listen to me," said Harkaway. "This fellow is a notorious murderer,
and is wanted in New York."

"New York be darned!" said Nappa Bill. "If he has killed his man, there
are lots of us in this room who has done the same thing, and his money
is as good to me as any other chap's. Let him go, and then you an' me's
got to talk."

Seeing that it would be useless to attempt to arrest his lordship after
the turn affairs had taken, Jack relinquished his idea.

"Gentlemen, I will leave you to amuse yourselves," exclaimed Maltravers.

Jack was furiously indignant, and burned with rage as he saw his enemy
make for the door.

"Stop!" he cried.

"To oblige you? Oh, dear, no. I rather think not. I shall be glad to
meet you at Foster's Cliff House to-morrow at two, if you will promise
to come unattended."

"I will be there."

"On my terms?"

"Yes."

"Very well; we can then discuss the situation; for the present, it will
be enough to say good-night."

Always a polished villain, Maltravers bowed and took his departure.

Jack was baffled, and was about to sit down to consider what he should
do, when Nappa Bill made a furious lunge at him with a knife.

Seeing the movement, he stepped on one side and escaped being killed by
almost a miracle.

Being armed, he drew a pistol.

"Keep off," he said, "or I'll shoot."

"That's good enough. I like to see a man heeled. I'll have more
pleasure in cutting you now," answered Nappa Bill.

"What do you want to fight me at all for?"

"Wasn't I paid for it? Why, look at here, I'd scorn to take the man's
money and do nothing for it."

"Come on, then. The sooner this thing is settled the better."

Nappa Bill did not want to be asked twice; he accepted the invitation
and threw himself upon Jack, who received a slight flesh-wound in his
shoulder.

Drawing himself quickly back, he fired a snap-shot at the ruffian, not
having time to take aim.

The bullet struck Nappa Bill about the middle of the wrist, and with a
fearful oath he allowed his knife to drop on the floor.

"Curse you!" he cried. "You've broken my wrist."

"It's all your own fault," replied Jack, coolly. "I did not provoke
this contest, as all the gentlemen here present, I am sure, will
testify. You have made a little money by your conduct, but I guess it
will all go in doctor's bills."

At this there was a laugh.

Nappa Bill bound up his injured hand with a napkin, which he snatched
from the arm of the <DW64> waiter.

Looking earnestly at Jack, he said:

"I'm cornered this time, and I'll own up that you got the best of me,
but by thunder, I'll get square with you, colonel, if it takes me all
my life."

"Ah, pshaw! fellows like you can't harm me."

"Are you betting money on that?"

"I never bet with your class," replied Jack.

"What's my class?" inquired Nappa Bill.

"Loafers, frauds and beats."

"You're kind of high-toned, aren't you?" sneered Nappa Bill. "They're
all gentlemen where you come from, I should imagine; don't have to work
and look around for a living."

"It matters very little who or what I am," replied Jack, "but if you
pick me up for a fool you'll find that you never made a greater mistake
in your life."

"That's all right, but remember that Nappa Bill is your open enemy."

Jack put his pistol back in his pocket, and with a careless laugh
quitted the room.

There were several men standing in his way, but they quickly made space
for him.

Nappa Bill did not attempt to injure him further. He contented himself
with using some strong adjectives, which would not look well in print.

Harkaway had won the first move in the game.




CHAPTER III.

MALTRAVERS'S PLOT.


Early on the following day Maltravers presented himself at Clarence
Holt's lodgings, on Mission Street.

He found the husband and wife at breakfast.

They both rose and welcomed him, though it was apparent that