Madly out of Deadwood gulch, the abode of thousands of lurking
shadows, dashes a horseman.

Straight through the main street of the noisy metropolis he spurs,
with hat off, and hair blowing backward in a jetty cloud.

On, on, followed by the eyes of scores curious to know the meaning of
his haste--on, and at last he halts in front of a large board shanty,
over whose doorway is the illuminated canvas sign: "Metropolitan
Saloon, by Tom Young."

Evidently his approach is heard, for instantly out of the
"Metropolitan" there swarms a crowd of miners, gamblers and bummers to
see "what the row is."

"Is there a man among you, gentlemen, who bears the name of Hugh
Vansevere?" asks the rider, who from his midnight dress we may judge
is no other than Deadwood Dick.

"That is my handle, pilgrim!" and a tall, rough-looking customer of
the Minnesotian order steps forward. "What mought yer lay be ag'in
me?"

"A _sure_ lay!" hisses the masked road-agent, sternly. "You are
advertising for one Deadwood Dick, and he has come to pay you his
respects!"

The next instant there is a flash, a pistol report, a fall and a
groan, the clattering of iron-shod hoofs; and then, ere anyone
scarcely dreams of it, _Deadwood Dick is gone!_