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?"