Tom Terror, the Outlaw

Tom Terror, as he was fitly named, had already made a name which will never be erased from the annals of danger and death that a thousand pens have traced in crimson ink.

He had ridden from Custer City, five months prior to the date of our story, with a rope about his neck, and in the midst of a score of the most determined men that ever hung an outlaw.

But the bird in the hand on that occasion did not prove worth two in the bush.

The Vigilantes of Custer had made one mistake. Tom Terror had been permitted to ride his own horse to the spot chosen for his exit.

A word to his horse had been sufficient.

A wild snort, a leap forward like a startled stag, a dozen pistol-shots, a lot of charging men, told the story of how the bird in the hand got back to the bush.

And now Tom Terror had returned to the canyon through which he had galloped with a rope around his neck.

An Indian, keen-eyed and acute, might have passed him and never have seen man or horse.

“I war right. The boys are on the old stampin’-ground!” he ejaculated.

Presently the outlines of six or seven mounted figures came in sight.

Tom seemed to experience the pleasure that fills the heart of an exiled chief when he finds himself once more with his men.

The Indians were lightly attired. Not one of the party possessed a gun, but each of them carried a weapon of death more horrible than the singing bullet.

They came on until they were almost directly in front of the watcher. Their faces were plainly visible in the moonlight. As Tom Terror looked he counted them.

“Is it possible that they’ve been reduced to six? By the jumpin’ jingo! somebody’s been here since I’ve been gone! What would they say war I to step out an’ say--‘Wal, boys, I’m back?’ Gosh all varmints! how they’d jump! And mebbe I’d get the string before they’d recognised their old cap’n!”

At that moment the Indians started, and looked into each other’s faces.

Tom looked toward the north.

“I hear it, too,” he said. “By Jove! the boys ar’ gittin’ the strings ready.”

The Indians had drawn a dark cord from their breasts. As it swung loose a little ball dangled from one end.

Down the canyon came the galloping of two horses.

When the game was in sight, Tom Terror shrunk instinctively against the wall of the canyon, and uttered a cry which he tried very hard to suppress.

Instead of two men, he saw a brace of youthful figures.

Although both were dressed in masculine apparel, the quick eye of the Gulch Tiger detected the dissimilarity of their features, and decided that one belonged to the gentler sex.

The hat worn by the person could not conceal a lot of rich auburn hair, and the garments, revealing a figure whose symmetry was faultless, served to confirm the tiger’s suspicions.

This individual’s companion was doubtless a boy.

He was strongly built, athletic, and youthfully handsome; there was spirit in his sloe-black eyes, energy and determination lurked at the corners of his mouth. He did not appear armed, but Tom could not see his right hand--there was something deadly in that.

A coil of black rope, like a lasso, hung at the left-hand side of his saddle.

“Thunder an’ shot! I’ve struck all ov ’em--the string boys an’ the chap I came back hyar to find. But, whar did he pick thet angel up? an’ who is she, anyhow?”

“Great heavens! I want the boy,” he cried. “If they give ’em the string I’ll get nothin’. Now I must prevent that. I--”

The watcher was interrupted by a half-smothered cry that came from the throat of the boy’s companion, as she,--if girl she really was--went backward.

Before Tom Terror could reach the spot the boy had checked the revolving ball, and the victim of the cord lay in his arms.

“Fiends, you shall pay for this!” he cried. “Ha! you would finish me, too!”

He threw up his right arm as he spoke, and the strange missiles that came from the shadows began to encircle it.

It was the cord of the Thug!

“Ha! ha!” rung out a fearless laugh as the arm was held up in the moonlight for a brief minute. “What a pitiful rope you use! Mine is twice as strong, and I use it, too. Why don’t your devilish leader come back, and give me a chance to use it on him?”

“He hez come back!” roared Tom at that moment. “I’m hyar, you little imp! I’ve got a warrant for you--the kind that we sometimes sarve on a knife.”

The boy turned upon the speaker.

“Tom Terror himself, by the Land of Nod!” he exclaimed. “But you will not serve your warrant here. Back! back!” he held a pistol in his hand. “You can find me almost any day in Cut-throat Canyon. I’ve been holding court at Satan’s Tree. Go down and look at the culprits. I’m glad you’ve come back. We will make this gap our battle-ground. I try, condemn, and execute. I’ve a kind of travelling court that sits constantly. I’m judge, jury, prosecuting attorney, and sheriff. Have a care, Tiger Tom! We need no introduction, but here’s my card, anyhow.”

As the boy ceased, he snatched something from a pocket above his belt, and tossed it at the Gulch Tiger.

It struck him in the face, and fell upon his horse’s neck, where it stopped.

“Good-night. Follow if you want to, but I hold court in the saddle as often as anywhere. Come, Myra, we must go.”