re!" he ejaculated, his voice betraying his
surprise.

"Yes," replied the elder Filmore, coldly--"here to shoot you, you
dastardly dog," and quickly raising a pistol, he took rapid and deadly
aim, and fired.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote B: A fact.]

CHAPTER VIII.

NOT YET!

With a groan Deadwood Dick fell to the ground, blood spurting from a
wound in his breast. The bullet of the elder Filmore had indeed struck
home.

Loud then were the cries of rage and vengeance, as a score of masked
men poured out from the thickets, and surrounded the stage.

"Shoot the accursed nigger!" cried one. "He's killed our leader, an'
by all the saints in ther calendur he shall pay the penalty!"

"No! no!" yelled another, "well do no such a thing. He shall swing in
mid-air!"

"Hey!" cried a third, rising from the side of the prostrate
load-agent, "don' ye be so fast, boys. The capt'in still lives. He is
not seriously wounded even!"

A loud huzza went up from the score of throats, that caused a thousand
echoing reverberations along the mountain side.

"Better let ther capt'in say what we shall do wi' yon cuss o'
creashun!" suggested one who was apparently a leading spirit; "it's
_his_ funeral, ain't it?"

"Yas, yas, it's his funeral!"

"Then let him do ther undertakin'."

Robber Dick was accordingly supported to a sitting posture, and the
blood that flowed freely from his wound was stanched. In the operation
his mask became loosened and slipped to the ground, but so quickly did
he snatch it up and replace it, that no one caught even a glimpse of
his face.

In the meantime Clarence Filmore had discharged every load in his two
six-shooters into the air. He had an object in doing this; he thought
that the reports of fire-arms would reach Deadwood (which was only a
short mile distant, around the bend), and arouse the military, who
would come to his rescue.

Dick's wound dressed, he stood once more upon his feet, and glared up
at the two men on the box. They were plainly revealed in the ghostly
moonlight, and their features easily studied.

"Alexander Filmore!" the young road-agent said, a terrible depth of
meaning in his voice, that the cowering wretch could but understand.

"Alexander Filmore, you have at last come out and shown your true
colors. What a treacherous, double-dyed villain you are! Better so;
better that you should take the matter into your own hands and face
the music, than to employ _tools_, as you ha