Rainbolt, the Ranger: The Aerial Demon of the Mountain

In fifteen minutes the emigrant train on the Union Pacific railroad was to leave the depot at Omaha, going west.

Two men, evidently waiting for the train, might have been seen pacing to and fro upon the station platform in close conversation.

The eldest of the two was apparently forty years of age. He was of medium hight and build, with steel-gray eyes, sharp and brilliant. His hair, which was cut closely to a well-shaped head, was of a dark brown, as was also his heavy mustache and whiskers. He was dressed in light gray clothes, after the prevailing fashion of the day (1869).

The other individual was a man of some thirty years. He was much taller than his companion, but not so compactly built. His hair was black as the raven’s wing, and hung about his shoulders long and straight. His eyes were black, but small and evil-like. His face was smoothly shaven, and bore the unmistakable evidence of a dissipated character. He was dressed in a suit of dark clothes that fitted him stiffly and made him appear ill at ease.

No one in Omaha knew these two individuals, yet their names were spoken daily in connection with their crimes, for the former was Duval Dungarvon, the notorious robber-captain of the Black Hills, and the latter Blufe Brandon, the renegade Cheyenne chief known as Black Bear.

Having glanced about them to see that no one was near, the robber-chief asked, in a low tone:

“Well, Brandon, have you made up your mind about that matter?”

“Not exactly,” added Brandon, “for, since I have considered that you have oceans of gold stowed away in the ‘Hills,’ I think you can afford to say ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand furies!” replied the robber-captain; “what would such a notorious cutthroat as you are do with ten thousand dollars? You couldn’t spend it among your accursed Indians, and you dare not attempt to spend it among white people. But, however, I suppose I must submit, as the game is in your own hands. But, mind you, the girl has got to be placed in my hands at the Devil’s Tarn, forty miles south of Cheyenne, and if one hair of her head is injured I will not give you one cent!” and the eyes of the robber-captain glowed like living coals of fire.