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Deadwood Dick Jr. Branded

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<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2> BANKER BROWN OF POWDER POCKET. Meantime, Captain Joaquin had gone straight to the cabin. He believed that Susana would go there to gather up some effects before trying to run away. Of course he knew, or believed, that the shot had been fired at him by her, and that only confirmed the suspicion he had formed against her. Had he caught her, a horrible fate would have been hers. Smarting under the wound she had given him—for the bullet had lodged in his shoulder—he was in the right mood to wreak vengeance. But he failed to find her. There was no sign of her at the cabin, no indication that she had been there—in fact, the servants declared that she had not been there. Back he started, and had gone but a little way when he met his men coming, and he scattered them all to look for the missing young woman, with orders to take her dead or alive. They went out by the various trails—rather possible avenues, for there were no trails proper there, but they failed to find her. And when Captain Joaquin and two of the men came out at the place where Dick had been hanged, they found his body swaying to and fro in the breeze. Nor was she found. And when, later on in the night, others of the band came in in haste with certain intelligence concerning the sheriff and his posse, Captain Joaquin deserted his cabin and took to the hills, and was not seen in that section again. On the following day the cabin was discovered and looted and burned, but the birds had flown. Meanwhile, Deadwood Dick, with Susana, was making his way to the south, keeping to the hills in order not to be discovered. Dick wanted it to appear that he was dead. He learned enough from Susana to give him a suspicion as to what Captain Joaquin would do, and he felt that he could afford to give him time. They crossed the border into Mexico, where Dick quietly rested for a season to recover his full measure of health and strength, and where Susana was his devoted slave and companion. Inquiry was being made in every direction for Deadwood Dick. It was known that the last case he had undertaken was the hunting down of Captain Joaquin, or the Red Rover, and it was feared that he had met his death at the hands of that cutthroat and this band. Dick remained in hiding, and thus Captain Joaquin, wherever he might be, would be lulled into the confirmation of his belief that Deadwood Dick was no longer to be feared. In fact, that worthy was chuckling to himself, whenever a newspaper item concerning Dick met his eye. He believed that he alone, and those of his men who had been in the secret, could solve the mystery. And so time passed on. <hr class="tb" /> Powder Pocket was a roaring camp. It was at the top notch of the biggest kind of a boom. It had been a paying camp from the first, with rich mines on every hand. New finds, too, were being reported almost daily, and people and money were flowing in as freely as water flowed down from the snow-capped peaks. The newest institution of which Powder Pocket could boast was a bank. It was a private concern, had been opened on a grand scale, and was being conducted on a paying basis. Money could be had in almost any amount, on big interest and bigger security. The head of this institution was one Sigmund Brown. He had come to Powder Pocket about six months prior to the time of this introduction of the camp. Settling down quietly, he had rented one of the best buildings in the place, refitted it in fine style, and one morning his sign was found adorning the front—S. Brown, Banker. He had a game in contemplation. He had money, the other fellows had the property. They could not do anything without money. His money was on call, as said, but every loan was vouched for by an iron-clad mortgage, and it was his boast that in five years he would own the town. The interest was high, the loan was not sufficient, in most cases, to develop beyond the mere beginnings, and on the day when the interest could not be met nor the principal paid, he would foreclose. He was there to double—to treble his pile, and he made no secret among his intimates of his means. One day a miner entered his private office in an excited state. The private office was always open to those who came on particular business, and this man had announced that his business was of the utmost importance. The clerks in the main room had seen his kind before, often, and he was readily admitted. He was, undoubtedly, a man who had struck it rich and was eager to mortgage and begin working the claim. He was a bearded fellow, roughly clad, and was begrimed from hat to boots with mud and clay. "You aire Mr. Brown?" he eagerly demanded. "Yes, sir, I am Mr. Brown. What can I do for you, sir?" "I have struck it rich—so all-fired rich that it has 'most turned my head. I want you to look at my find, which I have registered all correct, and lend me a loan on it so I kin open et up." "That so? I congratulate you. Where does it lie?" "Hardly out of gunshot from the camp, and it is the prince of 'em all, I'm bettin'." "It will be a pleasure to me to look at it, the first opportunity, and if it is what you think, there will be no trouble about your getting a loan, I guess." "No trouble at all, I'm bettin'. You will open yer eyes when ye see et." "What do you consider it worth?" "Seventy-five thousand, if a cent." "And how much of a loan would you want?" "Twenty-five thousand—" "Whew!" "What's the matter?" "That is steep. I have never gone over ten thousand into the best of them." "But I tell ye this is the best of the bunch. You will say so when ye see it, and you won't hesitate a minnit to fork et over, either." "I must see it first of all. In a day or two—" "Can't wait. I am in a fever. You must come with me to-day—right now!" "Impossible; I can't—" "I will pay ye, boss. Why, it opens up bigger'n that Castleville Bank shelled out a year ago, and I ain't hardly cracked the ground yet." The banker had become suddenly pale. He was a man with long hair, and wore a mustache and goatee, and was altogether a good-looking man. "What do you mean?" he asked, huskily, striving hard to remain composed. "Where is Castleville? What do you suppose I know about any bank business at Castleville?" "Castleville? Why, they closed the bank, you know, and set out to remove[Pg 14] the funds to 'Frisco, but Captain Joaquin got wind of it and held up the train and scooped the pile. Not only that, but it is believed that he murdered a detective about the same time." "A detective?" "Yes; a chap they called Deadwood Dick." The man's face had grown paler, and he was eyeing the caller sharply. "Well, all that is nothing to me," he declared. "I will go with you to-morrow morning, start at eight o'clock." "And then I'll show you the richest thing you ever saw in your life, if Captain Joaquin don't gobble it mean time and get away with et— Why, what's the matter?" The banker's face was deathly. "Nothing," he answered. "I am not exactly well to-day. Come in the morning, and I will be prepared to go with you. Then, when I have had the property passed upon by experts, your loan will be advanced. You must excuse me, but I am very busy to-day— Great heavens!" <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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