onducive to fear, mute wonder, admiration.

"_Halt!_"

High above all other sounds now rings this cry, borne toward the
advancing stage from the impenetrable space of gloom ahead, brought
down in clear commanding tone whereto there is neither fear nor
hesitation.

That one word has marvelous effect. It brings a gripe of iron into the
hands of Jehu, and he jerks his snorting steeds back upon their
haunches; it is instrumental in stopping the stage. (Who ever knew a
Black Hills driver to offer to press on when challenged to halt to a
wild dismal place?)

It sends a thrill of lonely horror through the vein of those to whose
ears the cry is borne; it causes hands to fly to the butts of weapons,
and hearts to beat faster.

"Halt!" Again the cry rings forth, reverberating in a hundred
dissimilar echoes up the rugged mountain side.

The horses quiet down: Jehu sits like a carved statue on his box; the
silence becomes painful to those within the stage--those who are
trembling in a fever of excitement, and peering from the open windows
with revolvers cocked for instant use.

The moon suddenly thrusts her golden head over the pinnacle of a hoary
peak a thousand feet above and lights up the gorge with a ghastly
distinctness that enables the watchers to behold a black horseman
blocking the path a few rods ahead.

"Silence! Listen!" Two words this time, in the same clear, commanding
voice. A pause of a moment, then the stillness is broken by the
ominous click! click! of a score of rifles; this alone announces that
the stage is "covered."

Then the lone horseman rides leisurely down toward the stage, and Jehu
recognizes him. It is Deadwood Dick, Prince of the Road!

Mounted upon his midnight steed, and clad in his weird suit of black,
he makes an imposing spectacle, as he comes fearlessly up. Well may
he be bold and fearless, for no one dares to raise a hand against him,
when the glistening barrels of twelve rifles protruding from each
thicket that fringes the road threaten those within and without the
stage.

Close up to the side of the coach rides the daring young outlaw, his
piercing orbs peering out from the eye-holes in his black mask, one
hand clasping the bridle-reins the other a nickel-plated seven-shooter
drawn back at full cock.

"You do well to stop, Bill McGucken!" the road-agent, observes,
reining in his steed. "I expected you hours ago, on time."

"Twarn't my fault, yer honor!" replies Jehu, meek as a