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Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains

by Randall Parrish · English · Gutenberg #7510 · 435,062 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains

Author: Randall Parrish


        
Release date: February 1, 2005 [eBook #7510]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7510

Credits: Produced by Curtis A. Weyant, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEITH OF THE BORDER: A TALE OF THE PLAINS ***




Produced by Curtis A. Weyant





KEITH OF THE BORDER

A TALE OF THE PLAINS


By Randall Parrish

Author of “My Lady of the North,” “My Lady of the South.” “When
Wilderness Was King,” etc.



CONTENTS



          I  The Plainsman
         II  The Scene of Tragedy
        III  An Arrest
         IV  An Old Acquaintance
          V  The One Way
         VI  The Escape
        VII  In the Sand Desert
       VIII  The Wilderness Cabin
         IX  The Girl of the Cabin
          X  Mr. Hawley Reveals Himself
         XI  The Fight in the Dark
        XII  Through the Night Shadows
       XIII  The Ford of the Arkansas
        XIV  The Landlady of the Occidental
         XV  Again Christie Maclaire
        XVI  Introducing Doctor Fairbain
       XVII  In the Next Room
      XVIII  Interviewing Willoughby
        XIX  A Glimpse at Conspiracy
         XX  Hope Goes to Sheridan
        XXI  The Marshal of Sheridan
       XXII  An Interrupted Interview
      XXIII  An Unexpected Meeting
       XXIV  A Mistake in Assassination
        XXV  A Reappearance of the General
       XXVI  A Chance Conversation
      XXVII  Miss Hope Suggests
     XXVIII  The Stage Door of the Trocadero
       XXIX  By Force of Arms
        XXX  In Christie's Room
       XXXI  The Search for the Missing
      XXXII  Fairbain and Christie
     XXXIII  Following the Trail
      XXXIV  Again at the Cabin
       XXXV  The Cabin Taken
      XXXVI  The Duel in the Desert
     XXXVII  At the Water-Hole




KEITH OF THE BORDER

A TALE OF THE PLAINS



Chapter I. The Plainsman



The man was riding just below the summit of the ridge, occasionally
uplifting his head so as to gaze across the crest, shading his eyes with
one hand to thus better concentrate his vision. Both horse and rider
plainly exhibited signs of weariness, but every movement of the latter
showed ceaseless vigilance, his glance roaming the barren ridges, a
brown Winchester lying cocked across the saddle pommel, his left hand
taut on the rein. Yet the horse he bestrode scarcely required restraint,
advancing slowly, with head hanging low, and only occasionally breaking
into a brief trot under the impetus of the spur.

The rider was a man approaching thirty, somewhat slender and long
of limb, but possessing broad, squared shoulders above a deep chest,
sitting the saddle easily in plainsman fashion, yet with an erectness of
carriage which suggested military training. The face under the wide
brim of the weather-worn slouch hat was clean-shaven, browned by sun and
wind, and strongly marked, the chin slightly prominent, the mouth firm,
the gray eyes full of character and daring. His dress was that of rough
service, plain leather “chaps,” showing marks of hard usage, a gray
woolen shirt turned low at the neck, with a kerchief knotted loosely
about the sinewy bronzed throat. At one hip dangled the holster of a
“forty-five,” on the other hung a canvas-covered canteen. His was figure
and face to be noted anywhere, a man from whom you would expect both
thought and action, and one who seemed to exactly fit into his wild
environment.

Where he rode was the very western extreme of the prairie country,
billowed like the sea, and from off the crest of its higher ridges, the
wide level sweep of the plains was visible, extending like a vast
brown ocean to the foothills of the far-away mountains. Yet the actual
commencement of that drear, barren expanse was fully ten miles distant,
while all about where he rode the conformation was irregular, comprising
narrow valleys and swelling mounds, with here and there a sharp ravine,
riven from the rock, and invisible until one drew up startled at its
very brink. The general trend of depression was undoubtedly southward,
leading toward the valley of the Arkansas, yet irregular ridges
occasionally cut across, adding to the confusion. The entire surrounding
landscape presented the same aspect, with no special object upon which
the eye could rest for guidance--no tree, no upheaval of rock, no
peculiarity of summit, no snake-like trail,--all about extended the same
dull, dead monotony of brown, sun-baked hills, with slightly greener
depressions lying between, interspersed by patches of sand or the white
gleam of alkali. It was a dreary, deserted land, parched under the hot
summer sun, brightened by no vegetation, excepting sparse bunches of
buffalo grass or an occasional stunted sage bush, and disclosing nowhere
slightest sign of human habitation.

The rising sun reddened the crest of the hills, and the rider, halting
his willing horse, sat motionless, gazing steadily into the southwest.
Apparently he perceived nothing there unusual, for he slowly turned his
body about in the saddle, sweeping his eyes, inch by inch, along the
line of the horizon, until the entire circuit had been completed. Then
his compressed lips smiled slightly, his hand unconsciously patting the
horse's neck.

“I reckon we're still alone, old girl,” he said quietly, a bit of
Southern drawl in the voice. “We'll try for the trail, and take it
easy.”

He swung stiffly out of the saddle, and with reins dangling over his
shoulder, began the slower advance on foot, the exhausted horse trailing
behind. His was not a situation in which one could feel certain of
safety, for any ridge might conceal the wary foemen he sought to avoid,
yet he proceeded now with renewed confidence. It was the Summer of 1868,
and the place the very heart of the Indian country, with every separate
tribe ranging between the Yellowstone and the Brazos, either restless
or openly on the war-path. Rumors of atrocities were being retold the
length and breadth of the border, and every report drifting in to either
fort or settlement only added to the alarm. For once at least the Plains
Indians had discovered a common cause, tribal differences had been
adjusted in war against the white invader, and Kiowas, Comanches,
Arapahoes, Cheyennes, and Sioux, had become welded together in savage
brotherhood. To oppose them were the scattered and unorganized settlers
lining the more eastern streams, guarded by small detachments of regular
troops posted here and there amid that broad wilderness, scarcely within
touch of each other.

Everywhere beyond these lines of patrol wandered roaming war parties,
attacking travellers on the trails, raiding exposed settlements, and
occasionally venturing to try open battle with the small squads of armed
men. In this stress of sudden emergency--every available soldier on
active duty--civilians had been pressed into service, and hastily
despatched to warn exposed settlers, guide wagon trains, or carry
despatches between outposts. And thus our rider, Jack Keith, who knew
every foot of the plains lying between the Republican and the Canadian
Rivers, was one of these thus suddenly requisitioned, merely because
he chanced to be discovered unemployed by the harassed commander of
a cantonment just without the environs of Carson City. Twenty minutes
later he was riding swiftly into the northwest, bearing important news
to General Sheridan, commander of the Department, who happened at that
moment to be at Fort Cairnes. To Keith this had been merely another page
in a career of adventure; for him to take his life in his hands had
long ago become an old story. He had quietly performed the special duty
allotted him, watched a squadron of troopers trot forth down the valley
of the Republican, received the hasty thanks of the peppery little
general, and then, having nothing better to do, traded his horse in
at the government corral for a fresh mount and started back again for
Carson City. For the greater portion of two nights and a day he had been
in the saddle, but he was accustomed to this, for he had driven more
than one bunch of longhorns up the Texas trail; and as he had slept
three hours at Cairnes, and as his nerves were like steel, the thought
of danger gave him slight concern. He was thoroughly tired, and it
rested him to get out of the saddle, while the freshness of the morning
air was a tonic, the very breath of which made him forgetful of fatigue.

After all, this was indeed the very sort of experience which appealed to
him, and always had--this life of peril in the open, under the stars and
the sky. He had constantly experienced it for so long now, eight years,
as to make it seem merely natural. While he ploughed steadily forward
through the shifting sand of the coulee, his thought drifted idly back
over those years, and sometimes he smiled, and occasionally frowned, as
various incidents returned to memory. It had been a rough life, yet
one not unusual to those of his generation. Born of excellent family in
tidewater Virginia, his father a successful planter, his mother had died
while he was still in early boyhood, and he had grown up cut off from
all womanly influence. He had barely attained his majority, a senior at
William and Mary's College, when the Civil War came; and one month
after Virginia cast in her lot with the South, he became a sergeant in
a cavalry regiment commanded by his father. He had enjoyed that life
and won his spurs, yet it had cost. There was much not over pleasant
to remember, and those strenuous years of almost ceaseless fighting,
of long night marches, of swift, merciless raiding, of lonely scouting
within the enemy's lines, of severe wounds, hardship, and suffering,
had left their marks on both body and soul. His father had fallen on the
field at Antietam, and left him utterly alone in the world, but he had
fought on grimly to the end, until the last flag of the Confederacy had
been furled. By that time, upon the collar of his tattered gray jacket
appeared the tarnished insignia of a captain. The quick tears dimmed
his eyes even now as he recalled anew that final parting following
Appomattox, the battle-worn faces of his men, and his own painful
journey homeward, defeated, wounded, and penniless. It was no home
when he got there, only a heap of ashes and a few weed-grown acres. No
familiar face greeted him; not even a slave was left.

He had honestly endeavored to remain there, to face the future and work
it out alone; he persuaded himself to feel that this was his paramount
duty to the State, to the memory of the dead. But those very years
of army life made such a task impossible; the dull, dead monotony of
routine, the loneliness, the slowness of results, became intolerable. As
it came to thousands of his comrades, the call of the West came to him,
and at last he yielded, and drifted toward the frontier. The life there
fascinated him, drawing him deeper and deeper into its swirling vortex.
He became freighter, mail carrier, hunter, government scout, cowboy
foreman. Once he had drifted into the mountains, and took a chance in
the mines, but the wide plains called him back once more to their desert
loneliness. What an utter waste it all seemed, now that he looked back
upon it. Eight years of fighting, hardship, and rough living, and what
had they brought him? The reputation of a hard rider, a daring player
at cards, a quick shot, a scorner of danger, and a bad man to fool
with--that was the whole of a record hardly won. The man's eyes
hardened, his lips set firmly, as this truth came crushing home. A
pretty life story surely, one to be proud of, and with probably no
better ending than an Indian bullet, or the flash of a revolver in some
barroom fight.

The narrow valley along which he was travelling suddenly changed its
direction, compelling him to climb the rise of the ridge. Slightly below
the summit he halted. In front extended the wide expanse of the Arkansas
valley, a scene of splendor under the golden rays of the sun, with vivid
contrast of colors, the gray of rocks, the yellow of sand, the brown
of distant hills, the green of vegetation, and the silver sheen of the
stream half hidden behind the fringe of cottonwoods lining its
banks. This was a sight Keith had often looked upon, but always with
appreciation, and for the moment his eyes swept across from bluff to
bluff without thought except for its wild beauty. Then he perceived
something which instantly startled him into attention--yonder, close
beside the river, just beyond that ragged bunch of cottonwoods, slender
spirals of blue smoke were visible. That would hardly be a camp of
freighters at this hour of the day, and besides, the Santa Fé trail
along here ran close in against the bluff, coming down to the river
at the ford two miles further west. No party of plainsmen would ever
venture to build a fire in so exposed a spot, and no small company would
take the chances of the trail. But surely that appeared to be the flap
of a canvas wagon top a little to the right of the smoke, yet all was
so far away he could not be certain. He stared in that direction a long
while, shading his eyes with both hands, unable to decide. There were
three or four moving black dots higher up the river, but so far away he
could not distinguish whether men or animals. Only as outlined against
the yellow sand dunes could he tell they were advancing westward toward
the ford.

Decidedly puzzled by all this, yet determined to solve the mystery and
unwilling to remain hidden there until night, Keith led his horse along
the slant of the ridge, until he attained a sharp break through the
bluff leading down into the valley. It was a rugged gash, nearly
impassable, but a half hour of toil won them the lower prairie, the
winding path preventing the slightest view of what might be meanwhile
transpiring below. Once safely out in the valley the river could no
longer be seen, while barely a hundred yards away, winding along like
a great serpent, ran the deeply rutted trail to Santa Fé. In neither
direction appeared any sign of human life. As near as he could determine
from those distant cottonwoods outlined against the sky, for the smoke
spirals were too thin by then to be observed, the spot sought must be
considerably to the right of where he had emerged. With this idea in
mind he advanced cautiously, his every sense alert, searching anxiously
for fresh signs of passage or evidence of a wagon train having deserted
the beaten track, and turned south. The trail itself, dustless and
packed hard, revealed nothing, but some five hundred yards beyond the
ravine he discovered what he sought--here two wagons had turned sharply
to the left, their wheels cutting deeply enough into the prairie sod to
show them heavily laden. With the experience of the border he was able
to determine that these wagons were drawn by mules, two span to each,
their small hoofs clearly defined on the turf, and that they were being
driven rapidly, on a sharp trot as they turned, and then, a hundred feet
further, at a slashing gallop. Just outside their trail appeared the
marks of a galloping horse. A few rods farther along Keith came to a
confused blur of pony tracks sweeping in from the east, and the whole
story of the chase was revealed as though he had witnessed it with his
own eyes. They must have been crazy, or else impelled by some grave
necessity, to venture along this trail in so small a party. And they
were travelling west--west! Keith drew a deep breath, and swore to
himself, “Of all the blame fools!”

He perceived the picture in all its grewsome details--the two mule-drawn
wagons moving slowly along the trail in the early morning; the band of
hostile Indians suddenly swooping out from some obscure hiding place
in the bluffs; the discovery of their presence; the desperate effort at
escape; the swerving from the open trail in vain hope of reaching the
river and finding protection underneath its banks; the frightened
mules galloping wildly, lashed into frenzy by the man on horseback; the
pounding of the ponies' hoofs, punctuated by the exultant yells of the
pursuers. Again he swore:

“Of all the blame fools!”




Chapter II. The Scene of Tragedy



Whatever might be the nature of the tragedy it would be over with long
before this, and those moving black spots away yonder to the west, that
he had discerned from the bluff, were undoubtedly the departing raiders.
There was nothing left for Keith to do except determine the fate of the
unfortunates, and give their bodies decent burial. That any had escaped,
or yet lived, was altogether unlikely, unless, perchance, women had been
in the party, in which case they would have been borne away prisoners.

Confident that no hostiles would be left behind to observe his
movements, Keith pressed steadily forward, leading his horse. He had
thus traversed fully half a mile before coming upon any evidence of a
fight--here the pursuers had apparently come up with the wagons, and
circled out upon either side. From their ponies' tracks there must have
been a dozen in the band. Perhaps a hundred yards further along lay
two dead ponies. Keith examined them closely--both had been ridden with
saddles, the marks of the cinches plainly visible. Evidently one of the
wagon mules had also dropped in the traces here, and had been dragged
along by his mates. Just beyond came a sudden depression in the prairie
down which the wagons had plunged so heavily as to break one of the
axles; the wheel lay a few yards away, and, somewhat to the right, there
lay the wreck of the wagon itself, two dead mules still in the traces,
the vehicle stripped of contents and charred by fire. A hundred feet
farther along was the other wagon, its tongue broken, the canvas top
ripped open, while between the two were scattered odds and ends of
wearing apparel and provisions, with a pile of boxes smoking grimly. The
remaining mules were gone, and no semblance of life remained anywhere.
Keith dropped his reins over his horse's head, and, with Winchester
cocked and ready, advanced cautiously.

Death from violence had long since become almost a commonplace
occurrence to Keith, yet now he shrank for an instant as his eyes
perceived the figure of a man lying motionless across the broken wagon
tongue. The grizzled hair and beard were streaked with blood, the face
almost unrecognizable, while the hands yet grasped a bent and shattered
rifle. Evidently the man had died fighting, beaten down by overwhelming
numbers after expending his last shot. Then those fiends had scalped
and left him where he fell. Fifty feet beyond, shot in the back, lay a
younger man, doubled up in a heap, also scalped and dead. That was all;
Keith scouted over a wide circle, even scanning the stretch of gravel
under the river bank, before he could fully satisfy himself there were
no others in the party. It seemed impossible that these two travelling
alone would have ventured upon such a trip in the face of known Indian
hostility. Yet they must have done so, and once again his lips muttered:

“Of all the blame fools!”

Suddenly he halted, staring about over the prairie, obsessed by a new
thought, an aroused suspicion. There had appeared merely the hoof-prints
of the one horse alongside of the fleeing wagons when they first turned
out from the trail, and that horse had been newly shod. But there were
two dead ponies lying back yonder; neither shod, yet both had borne
saddles. More than this, they had been spurred, the blood marks still
plainly visible, and one of them was branded; he remembered it now, a
star and arrow. What could all this portend? Was it possible this attack
was no Indian affair after all? Was the disfiguring of bodies, the
scalping, merely done to make it appear the act of savages? Driven
to investigation by this suspicion, he passed again over the trampled
ground, marking this time every separate indentation, every faintest
imprint of hoof or foot. There was no impression of a moccasin anywhere;
every mark remaining was of booted feet. The inference was sufficiently
plain--this had been the deed of white men, not of red; foul murder, and
not savage war.

The knowledge seemed to seer Keith's brain with fire, and he sprang to
his feet, hands clinched and eyes blazing. He could have believed this
of Indians, it was according to their nature, their method of warfare;
but the cowardliness of it, the atrocity of the act, as perpetrated
by men of his own race, instantly aroused within him a desire for
vengeance. He wanted to run the fellows down, to discover their
identity. Without thinking of personal danger, he ran forward on their
trail, which led directly westward, along the line of cottonwoods. These
served to conceal his own movements, yet for the moment, burning with
passion, he was utterly without caution, without slightest sense of
peril. He must know who was guilty of such a crime; he felt capable of
killing them even as he would venomous snakes. It was a perfectly plain
trail to follow, for the fugitives, apparently convinced of safety, and
confident their cowardly deed would be charged to Indian raiders, had
made no particular effort at concealment, but had ridden away at a
gallop, their horses' hoofs digging deeply into the soft turf. On this
retreat they had followed closely along the river bank, aiming for the
ford, and almost before he realized it Keith was himself at the water's
edge where the trail abruptly ended, staring vaguely across toward
the opposite shore. Even as he stood there, realizing the futility of
further pursuit amid the maze of sand dunes opposite, the sharp reports
of two rifles reached him, spurts of smoke rose from the farther bank,
and a bullet chugged into the ground at his feet, while another sang
shrilly overhead.

These shots, although neither came sufficiently near to be alarming,
served to send Keith to cover. Cool-headed and alert now, his first
mad rage dissipated, he scanned the opposite bank cautiously, but could
nowhere discover any evidence of life. Little by little he comprehended
the situation, and decided upon his own action. The fugitives were aware
of his presence, and would prevent his crossing the stream, yet they
were not at all liable to return to this side and thus reveal their
identity. To attempt any further advance would be madness, but he felt
perfectly secure from molestation so long as he remained quietly on the
north shore. Those shots were merely a warning to keep back; the very
fact that the men firing kept concealed was proof positive that they
simply wished to be left alone. They were not afraid of what he knew
now, only desirous of not being seen. Confident as to this, he retreated
openly, without making the slightest effort to conceal his movements,
until he had regained the scene of murder. In evidence of the truth of
his theory no further shots were fired, and although he watched that
opposite sand bank carefully, not the slightest movement revealed the
presence of others. That every motion he made was being observed by keen
eyes he had no doubt, but this knowledge did not disconcert him, now
that he felt convinced fear of revealment would keep his watchers at a
safe distance. Whoever they might be they were evidently more anxious to
escape discovery than he was fearful of attack, and possessed no desire
to take his life, unless it became necessary to prevent recognition.
They still had every reason to believe their attack on the wagons would
be credited to hostile Indians, and would consider it far safer to
remain concealed, and thus harbor this supposition. They could not
suspect that Keith had already stumbled upon the truth, and was
determined to verify it.

Secure in this conception of the situation, yet still keeping a wary eye
about to guard against any treachery, the plainsman, discovering a spade
in the nearest wagon, hastily dug a hole in the sand, wrapped the dead
bodies in blankets, and deposited them therein, piling above the mound
the charred remains of boxes as some slight protection against prowling
wolves. He searched the clothing of the men, but found little to reward
the effort, a few letters which were slipped into his pockets to be read
later, some ordinary trinkets hardly worth preserving except that they
might assist in identifying the victims, and, about the neck of the
elder man, a rather peculiar locket, containing a portrait painted
on ivory. Keith was a long time opening this, the spring being very
ingeniously concealed, but upon finally succeeding, he looked upon
the features of a woman of middle age, a strong mature face of marked
refinement, exceedingly attractive still, with smiling dark eyes, and
a perfect wealth of reddish brown hair. He held the locket open in his
hands for several minutes, wondering who she could be, and what possible
connection she could have held with the dead. Something about that face
smiling up into his own held peculiar fascination for him, gripping him
with a strange feeling of familiarity, touching some dim memory which
failed to respond. Surely he had never seen the original, for she was
not one to be easily forgotten, and yet eyes, hair, expression,
combined to remind him of some one whom he had seen but could not bring
definitely to mind. There were no names on the locket, no marks of
identification of any kind, yet realizing the sacredness of it, Keith
slipped the fragile gold chain about his neck, and securely hid the
trinket beneath his shirt.

It was noon by this time, the sun high overhead, and his horse, with
dangling rein, still nibbling daintily at the short grass. There was
no reason for his lingering longer. He swept his gaze the length and
breadth of the desolate valley, and across the river over the sand
hills. All alike appeared deserted, not a moving thing being visible
between the bluffs and the stream. Still he had the unpleasant feeling
of being watched, and it made him restless and eager to be away. The
earlier gust of anger, the spirit of revenge, had left him, but it had
merely changed into a dogged resolution to discover the perpetrators of
this outrage and bring them to justice for the crime. The face in the
locket seemed to ask it of him, and his nature urged response. But he
could hope to accomplish nothing more here, and the plainsman swung
himself into the saddle. He turned his horse's head eastward, and rode
away. From the deeply rutted trail he looked back to where the fire
still smoked in the midst of that desolate silence.




Chapter III. An Arrest



The Santa Fé trail was far too exposed to be safely travelled alone
and in broad daylight, but Keith considered it better to put sufficient
space between himself and those whom he felt confident were still
watching his movements from across the river. How much they might
already suspicion his discoveries he possessed no means of knowing, yet,
conscious of their own guilt, they might easily feel safer if he were
also put out of the way. He had no anticipation of open attack, but must
guard against treachery. As he rode, his eyes never left those far-away
sand dunes, although he perceived no movement, no black dot even which
he could conceive to be a possible enemy. Now that he possessed ample
time for thought, the situation became more puzzling. This tragedy which
he had accidentally stumbled upon must have had a cause other than blind
chance. It was the culmination of a plot, with some reason behind more
important than ordinary robbery. Apparently the wagons contained nothing
of value, merely the clothing, provisions, and ordinary utensils of an
emigrant party. Nor had the victims' pockets been carefully searched.
Only the mules had been taken by the raiders, and they would be small
booty for such a crime.

The trail, continually skirting the high bluff and bearing farther
away from the river, turned sharply into a narrow ravine. There was a
considerable break in the rocky barrier here, leading back for perhaps a
hundred yards, and the plainsman turned his horse that way, dismounting
when out of sight among the bowlders. He could rest here until night
with little danger of discovery. He lay down on the rocks, pillowing
his head on the saddle, but his brain was too active to permit sleeping.
Finally he drew the letters from out his pocket, and began examining
them. They yielded very little information, those taken from the older
man having no envelopes to show to whom they had been addressed. The
single document found in the pocket of the other was a memorandum of
account at the Pioneer Store at Topeka, charged to John Sibley, and
marked paid. This then must have been the younger man's name, as the
letters to the other began occasionally “Dear Will.” They were missives
such as a wife might write to a husband long absent, yet upon a mission
of deep interest to both. Keith could not fully determine what this
mission might be, as the persons evidently understood each other so
thoroughly that mere allusion took the place of detail. Twice the name
Phyllis was mentioned, and once a “Fred” was also referred to, but in
neither instance clearly enough to reveal the relationship, although the
latter appeared to be pleaded for. Certain references caused the belief
that these letters had been mailed from some small Missouri town, but no
name was mentioned. They were invariably signed “Mary.” The only other
paper Keith discovered was a brief itinerary of the Santa Fé trail
extending as far west as the Raton Mountains, giving the usual camping
spots and places where water was accessible. He slipped the papers back
into his pocket with a distinct feeling of disappointment, and lay back
staring up at the little strip of blue sky. The silence was profound,
even his horse standing motionless, and finally he fell asleep.

The sun had disappeared, and even the gray of twilight was fading out
of the sky, when Keith returned again to consciousness, aroused by his
horse rolling on the soft turf. He awoke thoroughly refreshed, and eager
to get away on his long night's ride. A cold lunch, hastily eaten, for a
fire would have been dangerous, and he saddled up and was off, trotting
out of the narrow ravine and into the broad trail, which could be
followed without difficulty under the dull gleam of the stars. Horse
and rider were soon at their best, the animal swinging unurged into the
long, easy lope of prairie travel, the fresh air fanning the man's face
as he leaned forward. Once they halted to drink from a narrow stream,
and then pushed on, hour after hour, through the deserted night. Keith
had little fear of Indian raiders in that darkness, and every stride of
his horse brought him closer to the settlements and further removed from
danger. Yet eyes and ears were alert to every shadow and sound. Once, it
must have been after midnight, he drew his pony sharply back into a rock
shadow at the noise of something approaching from the east. The stage
to Santa Fé rattled past, the four mules trotting swiftly, a squad of
troopers riding hard behind. It was merely a lumping shadow sweeping
swiftly past; he could perceive the dim outlines of driver and guard,
the soldiers swaying in their saddles, heard the pounding of hoofs, the
creak of axles, and then the apparition disappeared into the black void.
He had not called out--what was the use? Those people would never pause
to hunt down prairie outlaws, and their guard was sufficient to prevent
attack. They acknowledged but one duty--to get the mail through on time.

The dust of their passing still in the air, Keith rode on, the noise
dying away in his rear. As the hours passed, his horse wearied and had
to be spurred into the swifter stride, but the man seemed tireless. The
sun was an hour high when they climbed the long hill, and loped into
Carson City. The cantonment was to the right, but Keith, having no
report to make, rode directly ahead down the one long street to a livery
corral, leaving his horse there, and sought the nearest restaurant.

Exhausted by a night of high play and deep drinking the border town was
sleeping off its debauch, saloons and gambling dens silent, the streets
almost deserted. To Keith, whose former acquaintance with the place
had been entirely after nightfall, the view of it now was almost a
shock--the miserable shacks, the gaudy saloon fronts, the littered
streets, the dingy, unpainted hotel, the dirty flap of canvas, the
unoccupied road, the dull prairie sweeping away to the horizon, all
composed a hideous picture beneath the sun glare. He could scarcely find
a man to attend his horse, and at the restaurant a drowsy Chinaman had
to be shaken awake, and frightened into serving him. He sat down to the
miserable meal oppressed with disgust--never before had his life seemed
so mean, useless, utterly without excuse.

He possessed the appetite of the open, of the normal man in perfect
physical health, and he ate heartily his eyes wandering out of the open
window down the long, dismal street. A drunken man lay in front of the
“Red Light” Saloon sleeping undisturbed; two cur dogs were snarling at
each other just beyond over a bone; a movers' wagon was slowly coming in
across the open through a cloud of yellow dust. That was all within the
radius of vision. For the first time in years the East called him--the
old life of cleanliness and respectability. He swore to himself as
he tossed the Chinaman pay for his breakfast, and strode out onto the
steps. Two men were coming up the street together from the opposite
direction--one lean, dark-skinned, with black goatee, the other heavily
set with closely trimmed gray beard. Keith knew the latter, and waited,
leaning against the door, one hand on his hip.

“Hullo, Bob,” he said genially; “they must have routed you out pretty
early to-day.”

“They shore did, Jack,” was the response. He came up the steps somewhat
heavily, his companion stopping below. “The boys raise hell all night,
an' then come ter me ter straighten it out in the mawnin'. When did ye
git in?”

“An hour ago; had to wake the 'chink' up to get any chuck. Town looks
dead.”

“Tain't over lively at this time o' day,” permitting his blue eyes to
wander up the silent street, but instantly bringing them back to Keith's
face, “but I reckon it'll wake up later on.”

He stood squarely on both feet, and one hand rested on the butt of a
revolver. Keith noticed this, wondering vaguely.

“I reckon yer know, Jack, as how I ginerally git what I goes after,”
 said the slow, drawling voice, “an' that I draw 'bout as quick as any o'
the boys. They tell me yo're a gun-fighter, but it won't do ye no good
ter make a play yere, fer one o' us is sure to git yer--do yer sabe?”

“Get me?” Keith's voice and face expressed astonishment, but not a
muscle of his body moved. “What do you mean, Bob--are you fellows after
me?”

“Sure thing; got the warrant here,” and he tapped the breast of his
shirt with his left hand.

The color mounted into the cheeks of the other, his lips grew set and
white, and his gray eyes darkened.

“Let it all out, Marshal,” he said sternly, “you've got me roped and
tied. Now what's the charge?”

Neither man moved, but the one below swung about so as to face them, one
hand thrust out of sight beneath the tail of his long coat.

“Make him throw up his hands, Bob,” he said sharply.

“Oh, I reckon thar ain't goin' ter be no trouble,” returned the marshal
genially, yet with no relaxation of attention. “Keith knows me, an'
expects a fair deal. Still, maybe I better ask yer to unhitch yer belt,
Jack.”

A moment Keith seemed to hesitate, plainly puzzled by the situation
and endeavoring to see some way of escape; then his lips smiled, and he
silently unhooked the belt, handing it over.

“Sure, I know you're square, Hicks,” he said, coolly. “And now I've
unlimbered, kindly inform me what this is all about.”

“I reckon yer don't know.”

“No more than an unborn babe. I have been here but an hour.”

“That's it: if yer had been longer thar wouldn't be no trouble. Yo're
wanted for killin' a couple o' men out at Cimmaron Crossin' early
yesterday mornin'.”

Keith stared at him too completely astounded for the instant to even
speak. Then he gasped.

“For God's sake, Hicks, do you believe that?”

“I'm damned if I know,” returned the marshal, doubtfully. “Don't seem
like ye'd do it, but the evidence is straight 'nough, an' thar ain't
nothin' fer me ter do but take ye in. I ain't no jedge an' jury.”

“No, but you ought to have ordinary sense, an' you've known me for three
years.”

“Sure I have, Jack, but if yer've gone wrong, you won't be the first
good man I've seen do it. Anyhow, the evidence is dead agin you, an' I'd
arrest my own grand-dad if they give me a warrant agin him.”

“What evidence is there?”

“Five men swear they saw ye haulin' the bodies about, and lootin' the
pockets.”

Then Keith understood, his heart beating rapidly, his teeth clenched to
keep back an outburst of passion. So that was their game, was it?--some
act of his had awakened the cowardly suspicions of those watching him
across the river. They were afraid that he knew them as white men. And
they had found a way to safely muzzle him. They must have ridden hard
over those sand dunes to have reached Carson City and sworn out this
warrant. It was a good trick, likely enough to hang him, if the fellows
only stuck to their story. All this flashed through his brain, yet
somehow he could not clearly comprehend the full meaning, his mind
confused and dazed by this sudden realization of danger. His eyes
wandered from the steady gaze of the marshal, who had half drawn his gun
fearing resistance, to the man at the bottom of the steps. Suddenly it
dawned upon him where he had seen that dark-skinned face, with the black
goatee, before--at the faro table of the “Red Light.” He gripped his
hands together, instantly connecting that sneering, sinister face with
the plot.

“Who swore out that warrant?”

“I did, if you need to know,” a sarcastic smile revealing a gleam of
white teeth, “on the affidavit of others, friends of mine.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm mostly called 'Black Bart.'”

That was it; he had the name now--“Black Bart.” He straightened up so
quickly, his eyes blazing, that the marshal jerked his gun clear.

“See here, Jack,” shortly, “are yer goin' to raise a row, or come along
quiet?”

As though the words had aroused him from a bad dream, Keith turned to
front the stern, bearded face.

“There'll be no row, Bob,” he said, quietly. “I'll go with you.”




Chapter IV. An Old Acquaintance



The Carson City lock-up was an improvised affair, although a decidedly
popular resort. It was originally a two-room cabin with gable to the
street, the front apartment at one time a low groggery, the keeper
sleeping in the rear room. Whether sudden death, or financial reverses,
had been the cause, the community had in some manner become possessed
of the property, and had at once dedicated it to the commonweal. For the
purpose thus selected it was rather well adapted, being strongly built,
easily guarded, and on the outskirts of the town. With iron grating over
the windows, the back door heavily spiked, and the front secured by
iron bars, any prisoner once locked within could probably be found when
wanted. On the occasion of Keith's arrival, the portion abutting upon
the street was occupied by a rather miscellaneous assembly--the drunk
and disorderly element conspicuous--who were awaiting their several
calls to appear before a local justice and make answer for various
misdeeds. Some were pacing the floor, others sat moodily on benches
ranged against the wall, while a few were still peacefully slumbering
upon the floor. It was a frowsy, disreputable crowd, evincing but mild
curiosity at the arrival of a new prisoner. Keith had barely time to
glance about, recognizing no familiarity of face amid the mass peering
at him, as he was hustled briskly forward and thrust into the rear room,
the heavy door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock.

He was alone, with only the faintest murmur of voices coming to him
through the thick partition. It was a room some twelve feet square, open
to the roof, with bare walls, and containing no furniture except a rude
bench. Still dazed by the suddenness of his arrest, he sank down upon
the seat, leaned his head on his hands, and endeavored to think. It was
difficult to get the facts marshalled into any order or to comprehend
clearly the situation, yet little by little his brain grasped the main
details, and he awoke to a full realization of his condition, of the
forces he must war against. The actual murderers of those two men on the
trail had had their suspicions aroused by his actions; they believed
he guessed something of their foul deed, and had determined to clear
themselves by charging the crime directly against him. It was a shrewd
trick, and if they only stuck to their story, ought to succeed. He had
no evidence, other than his own word, and the marshal had already taken
from his pockets the papers belonging to the slain man. He had not found
the locket hidden under his shirt, yet a more thorough search would
doubtless reveal that also.

Even should the case come to trial, how would it be possible for him to
establish innocence, and--_would it ever come to trial?_ Keith knew the
character of the frontier, and of Carson City. The inclination of its
citizens in such cases was to act first, and reflect later. The law had
but slender hold, being respected only when backed by the strong hand,
and primitive instincts were always in the ascendency, requiring merely
a leader to break forth into open violence. And in this case would there
be any lack of leadership? Like a flash his mind reverted to “Black
Bart.” There was the man capable of inciting a mob. If, for some unknown
reason, he had sufficient interest to swear out the warrant and assist
in the arrest, he would have equal cause to serve those fellows behind
him in other ways. Naturally, they would dread a trial, with its
possibility of exposure, and eagerly grasp any opportunity for wiping
the slate clean. Their real security from discovery undoubtedly lay
in his death, and with the “Red Light” crowd behind them they would
experience no trouble in getting a following desperate enough for any
purpose.

The longer Keith thought the less he doubted the result. It was not
then a problem of defence, but of escape, for he believed now that no
opportunity to defend himself would ever be allowed. The arrest was
merely part of the plot intended to leave him helpless in the hands of
the mob. In this Hicks was in no way blamable--he had merely performed
his sworn duty, and would still die, if need be, in defence of his
prisoner. He was no tool, but only an instrument they had found means of
using.

Keith was essentially a man of action, a fighter by instinct, and so
long accustomed to danger that the excitement of it merely put new fire
into his veins. Now that he understood exactly what threatened, all
numbing feeling of hesitancy and doubt vanished, and he became instantly
alive. He would not lie there in that hole waiting for the formation of
a mob; nor would he trust in the ability of the marshal to defend him.

He had some friends without--not many, for he was but an occasional
visitor at Carson--who would rally to Hicks's assistance, but there
would not be enough on the side of law and order to overcome the “Red
Light” outfit, if once they scented blood. If he was to be saved
from their clutches, he must save himself; if his innocence was ever
established it would be by his own exertions--and he could accomplish
this only out yonder, free under the arch of sky.

He lifted his head, every nerve tingling with desperate determination.
The low growl of voices was audible through the partition, but there
was no other sound. Carson City was still resting, and there would be
no crowd nor excitement until much later. Not until nightfall would any
attack be attempted; he had six or eight hours yet in which to perfect
his plans. He ran his eyes about the room searching for some spot
of weakness. It was dark back of the bench, and he turned in that
direction. Leaning over, he looked down on the figure of a man curled
up, sound asleep on the floor. The fellow's limbs twitched as if in a
dream, otherwise he might have deemed him dead, as his face was buried
in his arms. A moment Keith hesitated; then he reached down and shook
the sleeper, until he aroused sufficiently to look up. It was the face
of a coal-black negro. An instant the fellow stared at the man towering
over him, his thick lips parted, his eyes full of sudden terror. Then he
sat up, with hands held before him as though warding off a blow.

“Fo' de Lawd's sake,” he managed to articulate finally, “am dis sho'
yo', Massa Jack?”

Keith, to whom all colored people were much alike, laughed at the
expression on the negro's face.

“I reckon yer guessed the name, all right, boy. Were you the cook of the
Diamond L?”

“No, sah, I nebber cooked no di'onds. I'se ol' Neb, sah.”

“What?”

“Yes, sah, I'se de boy dat libbed wid ol' Missus Caton durin' de wah. I
ain't seen yo', Massa Jack, sence de day we buried yo' daddy, ol' Massa
Keith. But I knowed yo' de berry minute I woke up. Sho', yo' 'members
Neb, sah?”

It came to Keith now in sudden rush of memory--the drizzling rain in the
little cemetery, the few neighbors standing about, a narrow fringe of
slaves back of them, the lowering of the coffin, and the hollow sound
of earth falling on the box; and Neb, his Aunt Caton's house servant, a
black imp of good humor, who begged so hard to be taken back with him to
the war. Why, the boy had held his stirrup the next morning when he rode
away. The sudden rush of recollection seemed to bridge the years, and
that black face became familiar, a memory of home.

“Of course, I remember, Neb,” he exclaimed, eagerly, “but that's all
years ago and I never expected to see you again. What brought you West
and got you into this hole?”

The negro hitched up onto the bench, the whites of his eyes conspicuous
as he stared uneasily about--he had a short, squatty figure, with
excessively broad shoulders, and a face of intense good humor.

“I reck'n dat am consider'ble ob a story, Massa Jack, de circumlocution
ob which would take a heap ob time tellin',” he began soberly. “But
it happened 'bout dis away. When de Yankees come snoopin' long de East
Sho'--I reck'n maybe it des a yeah after dat time when we done buried
de ol' Co'nel--dey burned Missus Caton's house clah to de groun'; de ol'
Missus was in Richmond den, an' de few niggers left jest natchally took
to de woods. I went into Richmond huntin' de ol' Missus, but, Lawd,
Massa Jack, I nebber foun' nuthin' ob her in dat crowd. Den an' officer
man done got me, an' put me diggin' in de trenches. Ef dat's what wah
am, I sho' don' want no mo' wah. Den after dat I jest natchally drifted.
I reckon I libbed 'bout eberywhar yo' ebber heard ob, fo' dar want no
use ob me goin' back to de East Sho'. Somebody said dat de West am de
right place fo' a nigger, an' so I done headed west.”

He dropped his face in his black hands, and was silent for some minutes,
but Keith said nothing, and finally the thick voice continued:

“I tell yo', Massa Jack, it was mighty lonely fo' Neb dem days. I didn't
know whar any ob yo' all was, an' it wan't no fun fo' dis nigger
bein' free dat away. I got out ter Independence, Missouri, an' was
roustaboutin' on de ribber, when a coupple ob men come along what wanted
a cook to trabbel wid 'em. I took de job, an' dat's what fetched me here
ter Carson City.”

“But what caused your arrest?”

“A conjunction ob circumstances, Massa Jack; yes, sah, a conjunction ob
circumstances. I got playin' pokah ober in dat 'Red Light,' an' I was
doin' fine. I reckon I'd cleaned up mo'n a hundred dollars when I got
sleepy, an' started fo' camp. I'd most got dar w'en a bunch ob low
white trash jumped me. It made me mad, it did fo' a fact, an' I reckon
I carved some ob 'em up befo' I got away. Ennyhow, de marshal come down,
took me out ob de tent, an' fetched me here, an' I ben here ebber sence.
I wan't goin' ter let no low down white trash git all dat money.”

“What became of the men you were working for?”

“I reckon dey went on, sah. Dey had 'portent business, an' wouldn't
likely wait 'roun' here jest ter help a nigger. Ain't ennybody ben here
ter see me, no-how, an' I 'spects I'se eradicated from dey mem'ry--I
'spects I is.”




Chapter V. The One Way



Keith said nothing for some moments, staring up at the light stealing in
through the window grating, his mind once again active. The eyes of the
black man had the patient look of a dog as they watched; evidently he
had cast aside all responsibility, now that this other had come. Finally
Keith spoke slowly:

“We are in much the same position, Neb, and the fate of one is liable to
be the fate of both. This is my story”--and briefly as possible, he
ran over the circumstances which had brought him there, putting the
situation clear enough for the negro's understanding, without wasting
any time upon detail. Neb followed his recital with bulging eyes, and an
occasional exclamation. At the end he burst forth:

“Yo' say dar was two ob dem white men murdered--one an ol' man wid a
gray beard, an' de odder 'bout thirty? Am dat it, Massa Jack, an' dey
had fo' span ob mules, an' a runnin' hoss?”

“Yes.”

“An' how far out was it?”

“About sixty miles.”

“Oh, de good Lawd!” and the negro threw up his hands dramatically. “Dat
sutt'nly am my outfit! Dat am Massa Waite an' John Sibley.”

“You mean the same men with whom you came here from Independence?”

Neb nodded, overcome by the discovery.

“But what caused them to run such a risk?” Keith insisted. “Didn't they
know the Indians were on the war path?”

“Sho'; I heard 'em talkin' 'bout dat, but Massa Waite was jest boun' foh
to git movin'. He didn't 'pear to be 'fraid ob no Injuns; reck'ned dey'd
nebber stop him, dat he knowed ebbery chief on de plains. I reck'n dat
he did, too.”

“But what was he so anxious to get away for?”

“I dunno, Massa, I done heerd 'em talk some 'bout dey plans, an' 'bout
some gal dey wanted ter fin', but I didn't git no right sense to it. De
Gin'ral, he was a mighty still man.”

“The General? Whom do you mean? Not Waite?”

“John Sibley done called him dat.”

Then Keith remembered--just a dim, misty thread at first, changing
slowly into a clear recollection. He was riding with despatches from
Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson, and had been shot through the side. The
first of Jackson's troops he reached was a brigade of North Carolinians,
commanded by General Waite--General Willis Waite. He had fallen from his
horse at the outposts, was brought helpless to the General's tent, and
another sent on with the papers. And Mrs. Waite had dressed and bandaged
his wound. That was where he had seen that woman's face before, with
its haunting familiarity. He drew the locket from beneath his shirt, and
gazed at the countenance revealed, with new intelligence. There could
be no doubt--it was the face of her who had cared for him so tenderly
in that tent at Manassas before the fever came and he had lost
consciousness. And that, then, was Willis Waite lying in that shallow
grave near the Cimmaron Crossing, and for whose death he had been
arrested. 'T was a strange world, and a small one. What a miserable
ending to a life like his--a division commander of the Army of Northern
Virginia, a Lieutenant-Governor of his State. What strange combination
of circumstances could ever have brought such a man to this place,
and sent him forth across those Indian-scouted plains? Surely nothing
ordinary. And why should those border desperadoes have followed, through
sixty miles of desolation, to trike him down? It was not robbery,
at least in the ordinary sense. What then? And how was “Black Bart”
 involved? Why should he be sufficiently interested to swear out a
warrant, and then assist in his arrest? There must be something to all
this not apparent upon the surface--some object, some purpose shrouded
in mystery. No mere quarrel, no ordinary feud, no accident of meeting,
no theory of commonplace robbery, would account for the deed, or for the
desperate efforts now being made to conceal it.

Some way, these questions, thus surging upon him, became a call to live,
to fight, to unravel their mystery. The memory of that sweet-faced woman
who had bent above him when the fever began its mastery, appealed to
him now with the opportunity of service. He might be able to clear this,
bring to her the truth, save her from despair, and hand over to justice
the murderers of her husband. It was up to him alone to accomplish
this--no one else knew what he knew, suspected what he suspected. And
there was but one way--through escape. To remain there in weak surrender
to fate could have but one ending, and that swift and sudden. He had no
doubt as to “Black Bart's” purpose, or of his ability to use the “Red
Light” outfit as desired. The whole plan was clearly evident, and there
would be no delay in execution--all they were waiting for was night, and
a lax guard. He glanced about at the walls of the room, his eyes grown
hard, his teeth clenched.

“Neb,” he said shortly, “I guess that was your outfit all right, but
they were not killed by Indians. They were run down by a gang from this
town--the same fellows who have put you and me in here. I don't know
what they were after--that's to be found out later,--but the fight you
put up at the camp spoiled their game for once, and led to your arrest.
They failed to get what was wanted in Carson, and so they trailed the
party to the Cimmaron Crossing. Then I got on their track, and fearing
the result, they've landed me also. Now they 'll get rid of us both as
best they can. These fellows won't want any trial--that would be liable
to give the whole trick away--but they have got to put us where we won't
talk. There is an easy way to do this, and that is by a lynching bee. Do
you get my drift, Neb?”

The whites of the negro's eyes were very much in evidence, his hands
gripping at the bench on which he sat.

“Fo' de Lawd, yes, Massa Jack, I sho' does. I corroborates de whole
thing.”

“Then you are willing to take a chance with me?”

“Willin'! Why, Massa Jack, I'se overjoyed; I ain't gwine leave yer no
mo'. I'se sho' gwine ter be yo' nigger. What yo' gwine ter do?”

Keith ran his eyes over the walls, carefully noting every peculiarity.

“We'll remain here quietly just as long as it is daylight, Neb,” he
replied finally, “but we'll try every board and every log to discover
some way out. Just the moment it grows dark enough to slip away without
being seen we've got to hit the prairie. Once south of the Arkansas
we're safe, but not until then. Have you made any effort to get out?”

The negro came over to him, and bent down.

“I was layin' on a board what I'd worked loose at one end,” he whispered
hoarsely, “back ob de bench, but I couldn't jerk it out wid'out
somethin' ter pry it up wid.”

“Where is it?”

“Right yere, Massa Jack.”

It was a heavy twelve-inch plank, part of the flooring, and the second
from the side-wall. Keith managed to get a grip next to the black
fingers, and the two pressed it up far enough for the white man to run
one arm through the opening up to his shoulder and grope about below.

“There's a two-foot space there,” he reported, as they let the board
settle silently down into position. “The back part of this building must
be set up on piles. I reckon we could pry that plank up with the bench,
Neb, but it's liable to make considerable racket. Let's hunt about first
for some other weak spot.”

They crept across the floor, testing each separate board, but without
discovering a place where they could exert a leverage. The thick
planks were tightly spiked down. Nor did the walls offer any better
encouragement. Keith lifted himself to the grated window, getting a
glimpse of the world without, but finding the iron immovable, the screws
solidly imbedded in the outside wood. He dropped to the floor, feeling
baffled and discouraged.

“It will have to be the plank back of the bench, Neb,” he announced
briefly, wiping the perspiration from his face. “Get down there, and
work it as loose as you can without making any noise, while I keep my
ear to the door and listen for any interruption.”

They took turns at this labor, discovering a loose nail which gave an
opening purchase at the crack, thus enabling the insertion of a small
wooden block, and insuring space for a good finger grip when the right
time came. A sleepy Mexican brought in their dinner, and set it down
on the bench without a word, but on his return with supper, the marshal
accompanied him, and remained while they ate, talking to Keith, and
staring about the room. Fortunately, the single window was to the west,
and the last rays of the sun struck the opposite wall, leaving the space
behind the bench in deep shadow. Whatever might be the plans of “Black
Bart” and his cronies, Keith was soon convinced they were unknown to
Hicks, who had evidently been deceived into thinking that this last
arrest had created no excitement.

“That's why we picked yer up so early,” he explained, genially. “Bart
said if we got to yer afore the boys woke up they'd never hear nuthin'
'bout it, an' so thar wouldn't be no row. He didn't even think thar'd
be enny need o' keepin' a special guard ter-night, but I reckon I won't
take no such chance as that, an' I'll have a couple o' deputies prowlin'
'round fer luck. When Carson does wake up, she's hell.”

He left them tobacco and pipes, and went away evidently convinced that
he had performed his full duty. The two prisoners, puffing smoke-rings
into the air, heard the heavy clang of the iron bar falling into place
across the door, and sat looking into one another's faces through the
deepening twilight. In the mind of both blaik and white reposed the same
thought. The negro was first to break the silence.

“'Pears ter me, Massa Jack, like dis yere Bart pusson am mighty anxious
ter hab no suspicions raised.”

“Anybody but Hicks would see that,” acknowledged the other, the rings
of smoke circling his head, “but he hasn't any brains. It was pure nerve
that got him the job. Well, this is one time that 'Bart pusson' is going
to find an empty coop. We'll get out, Neb, just as soon as it gets dark
enough. Hicks isn't likely to put on his extra guard for an hour
yet, and the 'Red Light' bunch won't be fit for business much before
midnight. By that time we'll be in the sand hills, heading south, able
to give them a run for their money--we'll have horses, too, if we can
find them.”

The negro's eyes shone white.

“Fo' de Lawd's sake, Massa,” he protested, “dat'd sho' be a hangin' job
if ebber dey cotched us.”

Keith laughed, knocking out the ashes from his pipe.

“With an hour's start that will be the least of my troubles,” he said,
quietly.



Chapter VI. The Escape



It was dark enough for their purpose in half an hour, the only gleam
of remaining color being the red glow of the negro's pipe, even the
openings in the iron grating being blotted from sight. Keith, staring
in that direction, failed to perceive any distant glimmer of star, and
decided the night must be cloudy, and that time for action had come.
Guided by Neb's pipe bowl, he touched the boy on the shoulder.

“Knock out your ashes, and shuffle about lively with your feet, while I
pry up the board.”

In spite of his slenderness, Keith possessed unusual strength, yet no
exertion on his part served to start the loosened plank sufficiently for
their purpose. Ripping a strip from the bench he managed to pry the
hole somewhat larger, arranging the bench itself so as to afford the
necessary leverage, but even then his entire weight failed to either
start the spikes, or crack the plank. Some altercation began in the
other room, the sound of angry voices and shuffling feet being plainly
audible. It was clear to Keith that they must take the chance of a
noise, and no better time than this could be chosen.

“Here, Neb, take hold with me, and bear down--put your whole weight on
it, boy.”

The two flung themselves upon the end of the bench leaping up and down
so as to add weight to power. Something had to give, either the stout
wood of their improvised lever or else the holding of the plank. For an
instant it seemed likely to be the former; then, with a shrill screech,
the long spikes yielded and the board suddenly gave. With shoulders
inserted beneath, the two men heaved it still higher, ramming the bench
below so as to leave the opening clear. This was now sufficiently ample
for the passage of a man's body, and Keith, lowering himself, discovered
the earth to be fully four feet below. The negro instantly joined him,
and they began creeping about in the darkness, seeking some way out. A
rudely laid foundation of limestone alone obstructed their path to the
open air. This had been laid in mortar, but of inferior quality, so that
little difficulty was experienced in detaching sufficient to obtain
hand hold. Working silently, not knowing what watchers might be already
stationed without, they succeeded in loosening enough of the rock to
allow them to crawl through, lying breathless in the open. Accustomed as
they were to the darkness, they could yet see little. They were upon the
opposite side from the town, with no gleam of lights visible, prairie
and sky blending together into spectral dimness, with no sound audible
but the continued quarrel in the front room of the jail. Keith crept
along to the end of the building from where he could perceive the lights
of the town twinkling dimly through the intense blackness. Evidently the
regular evening saturnalia had not yet begun, although there was already
semblance of life about the numerous saloons, and an occasional shout
punctuated the stillness. A dog howled in the distance, and the pounding
of swift hoofs along the trail told of fresh arrivals. An hour later and
the single street of Carson City would be alive with humanity, eager for
any excitement, ready for any wild orgy, if only once turned loose. That
it would be turned loose, and also directed, the man lying on his face
in the grass felt fully assured. He smiled grimly, wishing he might
behold “Black Bart's” face when he should discover the flight of his
intended victims. But there was no time to lose; every moment gained,
added to their chance of safety.

“Are those horses tied there by the blacksmith's shop?” he asked,
pointing.

The negro stared in the direction indicated, confused by the shadows
thrown by the dim lights.

“I reck'n dey am, Massa Jack; I done make out fo'.”

“Then two of them must belong to us; come on, boy.”

He ran forward, crouching behind every chance cover, and keeping well
back behind the line of shacks. A slight depression in the prairie
helped conceal their movements, and neither spoke until they were
crouching together beside the wall of the shop. Then Neb, teeth
chattering, managed to blurt forth:

“Fo' de Lawd's sake, yer don't actually mean ter steal dem hosses?”

Keith glanced about at the other's dim, black shadow.

“Sure not; just borrow 'em.”

“But dat's a hangin' job in dis yere country, Massa Jack.”

“Sure it is if they catch us. But we'd be strung up anyway, and we can't
be hung twice. Besides there is a chance for us with the ponies, and
none at all without. An hour's start in the saddle, Neb, and this bunch
back here will never even find our trail; I pledge you that. Come, boy,
stay close with me.”

It was the quiet, confident voice of assured command, of one satisfied
with his plans, and the obedient negro, breathing hard, never dreamed
of opposition; all instincts of slavery held him to the dominion of this
white master. Keith leaned forward, staring at the string of deserted
ponies tied to the rail. Success depended on his choice, and he could
judge very little in that darkness. Men were straggling in along the
street to their right, on foot and horseback, and the saloon on the
corner was being well patronized. A glow of light streamed forth from
its windows, and there was the sound of many voices. But this narrow
alley was deserted, and black. The fugitive stepped boldly forward,
afraid that otherwise he might startle the ponies and thus create an
alarm. Guided by a horseman's instinct he swiftly ran his hands over the
animals, and made quick selection.

“Here, Neb, take this fellow; lead him quietly down the bank,” and he
thrust the loosened rein into the black's hand.

An instant later he had chosen his own mount, and was silently moving
in the same direction, although the night there was so black that the
obedient negro had already entirely vanished. The slope of the land not
only helped cover their movements, but also rendered it easy for them to
find one another. Fully a hundred yards westward they met, where a
gully led directly down toward the river. There was no longer need for
remaining on foot, as they were a sufficient distance away from the
little town to feel no fear of being discovered, unless by some drunken
straggler. At Keith's command the negro climbed into his saddle. Both
ponies were restive, but not vicious, and after a plunge or two, to test
their new masters, came easily under control. Keith led the way, moving
straight down the gully, which gradually deepened, burying them in
its black heart, until it finally debouched onto the river sands. The
riotous noises of the drunken town died slowly away behind, the night
silent and dark. The two riders could scarcely distinguish one another
as they drew rein at the edge of the water. To the southward there
gleamed a cluster of lights, marking the position of the camp of
regulars. Keith drove his horse deeper into the stream, and headed
northward, the negro following like a shadow.

There was a ford directly opposite the cantonment, and another, more
dangerous, and known to only a few, three miles farther up stream.
Keeping well within the water's edge, so as to thus completely obscure
their trail, yet not daring to venture deep for fear of striking
quicksand, the plainsman sent his pony struggling forward, until the dim
outline of the bank at his right rendered him confident that they had
attained the proper point for crossing. He had been that way only once
before, and realized the danger of attempting passage in such darkness,
but urgent need drove him forward.

“Follow me just as close as you can, boy,” he said sternly, “and keep
both your feet out of the stirrups. If your horse goes down hang to is
tail, and let him swim out.”

There was little enough to guide by, merely a single faint star peering
out from a rift of the clouds, but Keith's remembrance was that the ford
led straight out to the centre of the stream, and then veered slightly
toward the right. He knew the sand ridge was only used by horsemen, not
being wide enough for the safe passage of wagons, but the depth of the
water on either side was entirely problematical. He was taking a big
chance, yet dare not wait for daylight. Summoning all his nerve and
alertness, he urged his horse slowly forward, the intelligent animal
seemingly comprehending the situation, and feeling carefully for
footing. The actions of the animal gave the rider greater confidence,
and he loosened his grip on the rein, leaving the pony's instinct
to control. The latter fairly crept forward, testing the sand before
resting any weight upon the hoof, the negro's mount following closely.
The water was unusually high, and as they advanced it bore down against
them in considerable volume; then, as they veered to the right, they
were compelled to push directly against its weight in struggling toward
shore. The men could see nothing but this solid sheet of water rushing
down toward them from out the black void, and then vanishing below. Once
Keith's horse half fell, plunging nose under, yet gaining foothold again
before the rider had deserted his saddle. A dim blackness ahead already
revealed the nearness of the southern bank, when Neb's pony went down
suddenly, swept fairly off its legs by some fierce eddy in the stream.
Keith heard the negro's guttural cry, and caught a glimpse of him as the
two were sent whirling down. The coiled rope of the lariat, grasped in
his right hand, was hurled forth like a shot, but came back empty. Not
another sound reached him; his own horse went steadily on, feeling his
way, until he was nose against the bank, with water merely rippling
about his ankles. Keith driving feet again into the stirrups headed him
down stream, wading close in toward the shore, leaning forward over the
pommel striving to see through the gloom.

He had no doubt about Neb's pony making land, unless struck by some
driftwood, or borne to the centre of the stream by the shifting force of
the current. But if Neb had failed to retain his grip he might have
been sucked under by the surge of waters. A hundred yards below he found
them, dripping and weak from the struggle, yet otherwise unhurt. There
were no words spoken, but black and white hands clasped silently, and
then Neb crept back into the saddle, shivering in his wet clothes as the
cool night wind swept against him. Keeping close in toward shore, yet
far enough out so that the water would hide their trail, the fugitives
toiled steadily up stream, guided only by the black outline of the low
bank upon their left.




Chapter VII. In the Sand Desert



Suddenly Keith halted, bringing his pony's head sharply about, so that
the two faced one another. The wind was rising, hurling clouds of sand
into their eyes, and the plainsman held one hand before his face.

“There's no need of keeping up a water trail any longer,” he said
quietly. “By all the signs we're in for a sand storm by daylight, and
that will cover our tracks so the devil himself couldn't follow them.
Got a water bag on your saddle?”

“I reck'n dis am one, sah.”

Keith felt of the object Neb held forth.

“Yes, and a big one, too; fill it and strap it on tight; we've got a
long, dry ride ahead.”

“Whar' yo' propose goin', Massa Jack?”

“To the 'Bar X' on the Canadian. I've worked with that outfit. They'll
give us whatever we need, and ask no questions; I don't know of anything
in between. It's going to be a hard ride, boy, and mighty little to eat
except what I saved from supper.”

“How far am it to dis yere 'Bar X'?”

“A hundred and fifty miles as the crow flies, and sand all the way,
except for the valley of Salt Fork. Come on now, and keep close, for
it's easy to get lost in these sand hills.”

Keith had ridden that hundred and fifty miles of sandy desolation
before, but had never been called upon to make such a journey as this
proved to be. He knew there was little to fear from human enemies, for
they were riding far enough east of the Santa Fé trail to be out of the
path of raiding parties, while this desert country was shunned by Indian
hunters. It consisted of sand hill after sand hill, a drear waterless
waste where nothing grew, and amid the dread sameness of which a
traveller could only find passage by the guidance of stars at night
or the blazing sun by day. To the eye mile after mile appeared
exactly alike, with nothing whatever to distinguish either distance or
direction--the same drifting ridges of sand stretching forth in
every direction, no summit higher than another, no semblance of green
shrubbery, or silver sheen of running water anywhere to break the dull
monotony--a vast sandy plain, devoid of life, extending to the horizon,
overhung by a barren sky.

They had covered ten miles of it by daybreak, their ponies travelling
heavily, fetlock deep, but could advance no further. With the first tint
of rose in the east the brooding storm burst upon them in wild desert
fury, the fierce wind buffeting them back, lashing their faces with
sharp grit until they were unable to bear the pain. The flying sand
smote them in clouds, driven with the speed of bullets. In vain they lay
flat, urging their ponies forward; the beasts, maddened and blinded by
the merciless lashing of the sand, refused to face the storm. Keith,
all sense of direction long since lost, rolled wearily from the saddle,
burrowed under the partial shelter of a sand dune, and called upon Neb
to follow him. With their hands and feet they made a slight wind-break,
dragging the struggling ponies into its protection, and burrowed
themselves there, the clouds of sand skurrying over them so thick as
to obscure the sky, and rapidly burying them altogether as though in a
grave. Within an hour they were compelled to dig themselves out, yet it
proved partial escape from the pitiless lashing. The wind howled like
unloosed demons, and the air grew cold, adding to the sting of the grit,
when some sudden eddy hurled it into their hiding place. To endeavor
further travel would mean certain death, for no one could have guided a
course for a hundred feet through the tempest, which seemed to suck the
very breath away. To the fugitives came this comfort--if they could not
advance, then no one else could follow, and the storm was completely
blotting out their trail.

It was three o'clock before it died sufficiently down for them to
venture out. Even then the air remained full of sand, while constantly
shifting ridges made travel difficult. Only grim necessity--the
suffering of the ponies for water, and their own need for soon reaching
the habitation of man and acquiring food--drove them to the early
venture. They must attain the valley of the Salt Fork that night,
or else perish in the desert--there remained no other choice. Tying
neckerchiefs over their horses' eyes, and lying flat themselves, they
succeeded in pressing slowly forward, winding in and out among the
shifting dunes, with only the wind to guide them. It was an awful trail,
the hoofs sinking deep in drifting sand, the struggling ponies becoming
so exhausted that their riders finally dismounted, and staggered forward
on foot, leading them stumbling blindly after. Once the negro's horse
dropped, and had to be lashed to its feet again; once Keith's pony
stumbled and fell on him, hurling him face down into the sand, and he
would have died there, lacking sufficient strength to lift the dead
weight, but for Neb's assistance. As it was he went staggering blindly
forward, bruised, and faint from hunger and fatigue. Neither man spoke;
they had no breath nor energy left to waste; every ounce of strength
needed to be conserved for the battle against nature. They were fighting
for life; fighting grimly, almost hopelessly, and alone.

About them night finally closed in, black and starless, yet fortunately
with a gradual dying away of the storm. For an hour past they had been
struggling on, doubting their direction, wondering dully if they were
not lost and merely drifting about in a circle. They had debated this
fiercely once, the ponies standing dejectedly, tails to the storm, Neb
arguing that the wind still blew from the south, and Keith contending
it had shifted into the westward. The white man won his way, and they
staggered on uncertain, the negro grasping the first pony's tail to keep
from being separated from his companion. Some instinct of the plains
must have guided them, for at last they dragged themselves out from the
desert, the crunching sand under foot changing into rock, and then to
short brittle grass, at which the ponies nibbled eagerly. The slope led
gradually downward, the animals scenting water, and struggling to break
away. Swaying in their saddles, the riders let them go, and they never
stopped until belly deep in the stream, their noses buried. The
men shivered in their saddles, until, at last satisfied, the ponies
consented to be forced back up the bank, where they nibbled at the short
tufts of herbage, but in a manner expressive of weariness. Keith flung
himself on the ground, every muscle of his body aching, his exposed
flesh still smarting from the hail of sand through which they had
passed.

He had not the slightest conception as to where they were, except
he knew this must be the Salt Fork. Utterly confused by the maze
of shifting dunes, through whose intricacies they had somehow found
passage, the blackness of the night yielded no clue as to their point
of emergence. The volume of water in the stream alone suggested that in
their wanderings they must have drifted to the eastward, and come out
much lower down than had been originally intended. If so, then they
might be almost directly south of Carson City, and in a section with
which he was totally unacquainted. One thing was, however, certain--they
would be compelled to wait for daylight to ascertain the truth, and
decide upon their future movements. There was another barren, sandy
stretch of desolation lying between this isolated valley and that of
the Canadian, and their horses would never stand to be pushed forward
without both rest and food. As to themselves--they had eaten their
last crumb long since, but this was not the first time both had known
starvation.

Keith arose reluctantly, and removed the saddles from the animals,
hobbling them so they could graze at will. Neb was propped up beneath
an out-cropping of the bank, which partly protected him from the wind, a
mere hulk of a shadow. Keith could not tell whether he slept or not, but
made no effort to disturb him. A moment he stared vacantly about into
the black silence, and then lay down, pillowing his head upon a saddle.
He found it impossible to sleep, the chill of the wind causing him to
turn and twist, in vain search after comfort, while unappeased hunger
gnawed incessantly. His eyes ranged about over the dull gloom of the
skies until they fell again to the earth level, and then he suddenly sat
up, half believing himself in a dream--down the stream, how far away
he could not judge, there gleamed a steady, yellowish light. It was no
flicker of a camp fire, yet remained stationary. Surely no star could be
so low and large; nor did he recall any with that peculiarity of color.
If such a miracle was possible in the heart of that sandy desert he
would have sworn it was a lamp shining through a window. But he had
never heard of any settler on the Salt Fork, and almost laughed at the
thought, believing for the instant his brain played him some elfish
trick. Yet that light was no illusion; he rubbed his eyes, only to see
it more clearly, convinced now of its reality. He strode hastily across,
and shook Neb into semi-consciousness, dragging him bodily up the bank
and pointing down stream.

“Do you see that?” he inquired anxiously. “There, straight ahead of
you?”

The negro stared, shaking with cold, and scarcely able to stand alone.

“Maybe it am de moon, Massa Jack,” he muttered thickly, “or a goblin's
lantern. Lawd, I don't jest like de looks ob dat ting.”

“Well, I do,” and Keith laughed uneasily at the negro's fears. “All I
wanted to know was if you saw what I saw. That's a lamp shining through
a window, Neb. What in heaven's name it can be doing here I am unable to
guess, but I'm going to find out. It means shelter and food, boy, even
if we have to fight for it. Come on, the horses are safe, and we'll
discover what is behind that light yonder.”




Chapter VIII. The Wilderness Cabin



The light was considerably farther away than they had at first supposed,
and as they advanced steadily toward it, the nature of the ground
rapidly changed, becoming irregular, and littered with low growing
shrubs. In the darkness they stumbled over outcroppings of rock,
and after a fall or two, were compelled to move forward with extreme
caution. But the mysterious yellow glow continually beckoned, and with
new hope animating the hearts of both men, they staggered on, nerving
themselves to the effort, and following closely along the bank of the
stream.

At last they arrived where they could perceive dimly something of the
nature of this unexpected desert oasis.

The light shone forth, piercing the night, through the uncurtained
window of a log cabin, which would otherwise have been completely
concealed from view by a group of low growing cottonwoods. This was all
the black, enshrouding night revealed, and even this was merely made
apparent by the yellow illumination of the window. The cabin stood upon
an island, a strip of sand, partially covered by water, separating it
from the north shore on which they stood. There was no sign of
life about the hut, other than the burning lamp, but that alone was
sufficient evidence of occupancy. In spite of hunger, and urgent need,
Keith hesitated, uncertain as to what they might be called upon to face.
Who could be living in this out-of-the-way spot, in the heart of this
inhospitable desert? It would be no cattle outpost surely, for there was
no surrounding grazing land, while surely no professional hunter would
choose such a barren spot for headquarters. Either a hermit, anxious to
escape all intercourse with humanity, or some outlaw hiding from arrest,
would be likely to select so isolated a place in which to live. To them
it would be ideal. Away from all trails, where not even widely roving
cattlemen would penetrate, in midst of a desert avoided by Indians
because of lack of game,--a man might hide here year after year without
danger of discovery. Yet such a one would not be likely to welcome their
coming, and they were without arms. But Keith was not a man to hesitate
long because of possible danger, and he stepped down into the shallow
water.

“Come on, Neb,” he commanded, “and we 'll find out who lives here.”

The window faced the west, and he came up the low bank to where the
door fronted the north in intense darkness. Under the shadow of the
cottonwoods he could see nothing, groping his way, with hands extended.
His foot struck a flat stone, and he plunged forward, striking the
unlatched door so heavily as to swing it open, and fell partially
forward into the room. As he struggled to his knees, Neb's black face
peering past him into the lighted interior, he seemed to perceive in one
swift, comprehensive glance, every revealed detail. A lamp burned on
a rudely constructed set of drawers near the window, and a wood fire
blazed redly in a stone fireplace opposite, the yellow and red lights
blending in a peculiar glow of color. Under this radiance were revealed
the rough log walls, plastered with yellow clay, and hung about with
the skins of wild animals, a roughly made table, bare except for a book
lying upon it, and a few ordinary appearing boxes, evidently utilized as
seats, together with a barrel cut so as to make a comfortable chair.
In the back wall was a door, partially open, apparently leading into a
second room. That was all, except the woman.

Keith must have perceived all these in that first hurried glance, for
they were ever after closely associated together in his mind, yet at the
moment he possessed no clear thought of anything except her. She stood
directly behind the table, where she must have sprung hastily at the
first sound of their approach, clutching at the rude mantel above the
fireplace, and staring toward him, her face white, her breath coming in
sobs. At first he thought the vision a dream, a delirium born from his
long struggle; he could not conceive the possibility of such a presence
in this lonely place, and staggering to his feet, gazed wildly, dumbly
at the slender, gray clad figure, the almost girlish face under the
shadowing dark hair, expecting the marvellous vision to vanish. Surely
this could not be real! A woman, and such a woman as this here, and
alone, of all places! He staggered from weakness, almost terror, and
grasped the table to hold himself erect. The rising wind came swirling
in through the open door, causing the fire to send forth spirals of
smoke, and he turned, dragging the dazed negro within, and snapping the
latch behind him. When he glanced around again he fully believed the
vision confronting him would have vanished. But no! there she yet
remained, those wide-open, frightened brown eyes, with long lashes half
hiding their depths, looking directly into his own; only now she had
slightly changed her posture, leaning toward him across the table. Like
a flash he comprehended that this was reality--flesh and blood--and,
with the swift instinct of a gentleman, his numbed, nerveless fingers
jerked off his hat, and he bowed bareheaded before her.

“Pardon me,” he said, finding his voice with difficulty. “I fell over
the step, but--but I didn't expect to find a woman here.”

He heard her quick breathing, marked a slight change in the expression
of the dark eyes, and caught the glitter of the firelight on a revolver
in her lowered hand.

“What did you expect to find?”

“I hardly knew,” he explained lamely; “we stumbled on this hut by
accident. I didn't know there was a cabin in all this valley.”

“Then you are not here for any purpose? to meet with any one?”

“No; we were lost, and had gone into camp up above, when we discovered
your light.”

“Where do you come from?”

Keith hesitated just an instant, yet falsehood was never easy for him,
and he saw no occasion for any deceit now.

“Carson City.”

“What brought you here?”

“We started for the 'Bar X' Ranch down below, on the Canadian; got
caught in a sand-storm, and then just drifted. I do not know within
twenty miles of where we are.”

She drew a deep breath of unconcealed relief.

“Are you alone?”

“The negro and I--yes; and you haven't the slightest reason to be afraid
of us--we're square.”

She looked at him searchingly, and something in Keith's clean-cut face
seemed to bring reassurance, confidence in the man.

“I am not afraid,” she answered, coming toward him around the short
table. “Only it is so lonely here, and you startled me, bursting in
without warning. But you look all right, and I am going to believe your
story. What is your name?”

“Keith--Jack Keith.”

“A cowman?”

“A little of everything, I reckon,” a touch of returning bitterness
in the tone. “A plainsman, who has punched cattle, but my last job was
government scout.”

“You look as though you might be more than that,” she said slowly.

The man flushed, his lips pressing tightly together. “Well, I--I may
have been,” he confessed unwillingly. “I started out all right, but
somehow I reckon I just went adrift. It's a habit in this country.”

Apparently those first words of comment had left her lips unthinkingly,
for she made no attempt to reply; merely stood there directly facing
him, her clear eyes gazing frankly into his own. He seemed to actually
see her now for the first time, fairly--a supple, slender figure, simply
dressed, with wonderfully excessive brown eyes, a perfect wealth of
dark hair, a clear complexion with slight olive tinge to it, a strong,
intelligent face, not strictly beautiful, yet strangely attractive, the
forehead low and broad, the nose straight, the lips full and inclined to
smile. Suddenly a vague remembrance brought recognition.

“Why, I know you now.”

“Indeed!” the single word a note of undisguised surprise.

“Yes; I thought you looked oddly familiar all the time, but couldn't for
the life of me connect up. You're Christie Maclaire.”

“Am I?” her eyes filled with curiosity.

“Of course you are. You needn't be afraid of me if you want it kept
secret, but I know you just the same. Saw you at the 'Gaiety' in
Independence, maybe two months ago. I went three times, mostly on your
account. You've got a great act, and you can sing too.”

She stood in silence, still looking fixedly at him, her bosom rising
and falling, her lips parted as if to speak. Apparently she did not know
what to do, how to act, and was thinking swiftly.

“Mr. Keith,” she said, at last in decision, “I am going to ask you to
blot that all out--to forget that you even suspect me of being Christie
Maclaire, of the Gaiety.”

“Why, certainly; but would you explain?”

“There is little enough to explain. It is sufficient that I am here
alone with you. Whether I wish to or not, I am compelled to trust myself
to your protection. You may call me Christie Maclaire, or anything else
you please; you may even think me unworthy respect, but you possess the
face of a gentleman, and as such I am going to trust you--I must trust
you. Will you accept my confidence on these terms?”

Keith did not smile, nor move. Weak from hunger and fatigue, he leaned
wearily against the wall. Nevertheless that simple, womanly appeal awoke
all that was strong and sacrificing within him, although her words were
so unexpected that, for the moment, he failed to realize their full
purport. Finally he straightened up.

“I--I accept any terms you desire,” he gasped weakly, “if--if you will
only give one return.”

“One return?--what?”

“Food; we have eaten nothing for sixty hours.” Her face, which had been
so white, flushed to the hair, her dark eyes softening.

“Why, of course; sit down. I ought to have known from your face. There
is plenty here--such as it is--only you must wait a moment.”




Chapter IX. The Girl of the Cabin



He saw Neb drop down before the blazing fireplace, and curl up like a
tired dog, and observed her take the lamp, open the door into the other
room a trifle, and slip silently out of sight. He remembered staring
vaguely about the little room, still illumined by the flames, only half
comprehending, and then the reaction from his desperate struggle with
the elements overcame all resolution, and he dropped his head forward
on the table, and lost consciousness. Her hand upon his shoulder aroused
him, startled into wakefulness, yet he scarcely realized the situation.

“I have placed food for the negro beside him,” she said quietly, and for
the first time Keith detected the soft blur in her speech.

“You are from the South!” he exclaimed, as though it was a discovery.

“Yes--and you?”

“My boyhood began in Virginia--the negro was an old-time slave in our
family.”

She glanced across at the black, now sitting up and eating voraciously.

“I thought he had once been a slave; one can easily tell that. I did
not ask him to sit here because, if you do not object, we will eat here
together. I have also been almost as long without food. It was so lonely
here, and--and I hardly understood my situation--and I simply could not
force myself to eat.”

He distinguished her words clearly enough, although she spoke low, as
if she preferred what was said between them should not reach the ears of
the negro, yet somehow, for the moment, they made no adequate impression
on him. Like a famished wolf he began on the coarse fare, and for ten
minutes hardly lifted his head. Then his eyes chanced to meet hers
across the narrow table, and instantly the gentleman within him reawoke
to life.

“I have been a perfect brute,” he acknowledged frankly, “with no thought
except for myself. Hunger was my master, and I ask your forgiveness,
Miss Maclaire.”

Her eyes smiled.

“I am so very glad to have any one here--any one--in whom I feel even a
little confidence--that nothing else greatly matters. Can you both eat,
and listen?”

Keith nodded, his eyes full of interest, searching her face.

“Whoever I may be, Mr. Keith, and really that seems only of small
importance, I came to Fort Larned seeking some trace of my only
brother, whom we last heard from there, where he had fallen into evil
companionship. On the stage trip I was fortunate enough to form an
acquaintance with a man who told me he knew where I could meet Fred,
but that the boy was hiding because of some trouble he had lately gotten
into, and that I should have to proceed very carefully so as not to lead
the officers to discover his whereabouts. This gentleman was engaged in
some business at Carson City, but he employed a man to bring me to this
place, and promised to get Fred, and meet me here the following day.
There must have been some failure in the plans, for I have been here
entirely alone now for three days. It has been very lonesome, and--and
I've been a little frightened. Perhaps I ought not to have come, and I
am not certain what kind of a place this is. I was so afraid when you
came, but I am not afraid now.”

“You have no need to be,” he said soberly, impressed by the innocent
candor of the girl, and feeling thankful that he was present to aid her.
“I could not wrong one of the South.”

“My father always told me I could trust a Southern gentleman under any
circumstance. Mr. Hawley was from my own State, and knew many of our old
friends. That was why I felt such unusual confidence in him, although he
was but a travelling acquaintance.”

“Mr. Hawley?”

“The gentleman whom I met on the stage.”

“Oh, yes; you said he was in business in Carson City, but I don't seem
to remember any one of that name.”

“He was not there permanently; only to complete some business deal.”

“And your brother? I may possibly have known him.”

She hesitated an instant, her eyes dropping, until completely shaded by
the long lashes.

“He--he was rather a wild boy, and ran away from home to enlist in the
army. But he got into a bad set, and--and deserted. That was part of
the trouble which caused him to hide. He enlisted under the name of Fred
Willoughby. Mr. Hawley told me this much, but I am afraid he did not
tell me all.”

“And he said you would meet him here?”

Keith gazed about on the bare surroundings wonderingly. What was this
place, hidden away in the midst of the desert, isolated in a spot where
not even Indians roamed. Could it be a secret rendezvous of crime, the
headquarters of desperadoes, of cattle-rustlers, of highwaymen of the
Santa Fé Trail--a point to which they could ride when hard pressed,
certain of hiding here in safety? He began to suspect this, but, if so,
who then was this Hawley, and with what object had he sent this girl
here? Every way he turned was to confront mystery, to face a new puzzle.
Whatever she might be--even the music hall singer he believed--she had
been inveigled here innocently enough. Even now she possessed only the
most vague suspicion that she had been deceived. The centre of the whole
plot, if there was a plot, must be Hawley.

“Yes,” she replied, “he said that this was one of the stations of a big
ranch on which Fred was employed, and that he would certainly be here
within a day or two.”

“You met Hawley on the stage coach? How did you become acquainted?”

“We were alone for nearly fifty miles,” her voice faltering slightly,
“and--and he called me what you did.”

“Christie Maclaire?”

“Yes; he--he seemed to think he knew me, and I needed help so much that
I let him believe so. I thought it could do no harm, and then, when I
found he actually knew Fred, I didn't think of anything else, only how
fortunate I was to thus meet him. Surely something serious must have
happened, or he would have been here before this. Do you--do you suppose
there is anything wrong?”

Keith did not smile nor change posture. The more he delved into the
matter, the more serious he felt the situation to be. He knew all those
ranches lying south on the Canadian, and was aware that this was no
out-station. No cattle ever came across that sandy desert unless driven
by rustlers, and no honest purpose could account for this isolated hut.
There had been frequent robberies along the trail, and he had overheard
tales of mysterious disappearances in both Larned and Carson City. Could
it be that he had now, accidentally, stumbled upon the rendezvous of the
gang? He was not a man easily startled, but this thought sent his heart
beating. He knew enough to realize what such a gang would naturally
consist of--deserters, outlaws, rustlers; both Indians and whites, no
doubt, combined under some desperate leadership. Gazing into the girl's
questioning eyes he could scarcely refrain from blurting out all he
suspected. Yet why should he? What good could it do? He could not hope
to bear her south to the “Bar X” Ranch, for the ponies were already too
thoroughly exhausted for such a journey; he dared not turn north with
her, for that would mean his own arrest, leaving her in worse condition
than ever. If he only knew who this man Hawley was, his purpose, and
plans! Yet what protection could he and Neb prove, alone here, and
without arms? All this flashed through his mind in an instant, leaving
him confused and uncertain.

“I hope not,” he managed to say in answer to her query. “But it is
rather a strange mix-up all around, and I confess I fail to comprehend
its full meaning. It is hardly likely your friends will show up
to-night, and by morning perhaps we can decide what is best to do. Let
me look around outside a moment.”

Her eyes followed him as he stepped through the door into the darkness;
then her head dropped into the support of her hands. There was silence
except for the crackling of the fire, until Neb moved uneasily. At the
sound the girl looked up, seeing clearly the good-natured face of the
negro.

“Yo' don't nebber need cry, Missus,” he said soberly, “so long as Massa
Jack done 'greed to look after yo'.”

“Have--have you known him long?”

“Has I knowed him long, honey? Ebber sence befo' de wah. Why I done
knowed Massa Jack when he wan't more'n dat high. Lawd, he sho' was a
lively youngster, but mighty good hearted to us niggers.”

She hesitated to question a servant, and yet felt she must uncover the
truth.

“Who is he? Is he all he claims to be--a Virginia gentleman?”

All the loyalty and pride of slavery days was in Neb. “He sho' am,
Missus; dar ain't nuthin' higher in ol' Virginia dan de Keiths. Dey
ain't got much money sence the Yankees come down dar, but dey's quality
folks jest de same. I was done born on de ol' Co'nel's plantation, and I
reck'n dar wan't no finer man ebber libed. He was done killed in de wah.
An' Massa Jack he was a captain; he rode on hossback, an' Lawdy, but he
did look scrumptuous when he first got his uniform. He done fought all
through de wah, an' dey say Ginral Lee done shook hands wid him, an'
said how proud he was ter know him. You kin sutt'nly tie to Massa Jack,
Missus.”

The negro's voice had scarcely ceased when Keith came in again, closing
the door securely behind him.

“All quiet outside,” he announced, speaking with new confidence.
“I wanted to get an understanding of the surroundings in case of
emergency,” he explained, as if in answer to the questioning of the
brown eyes gravely uplifted to his face. “I see there is quite a corral
at the lower end of this island, safely hidden behind the fringe of
cottonwoods. And a log stable back of the house. Is the creek fordable
both ways?”

“I think so; the man who brought me here rode away south.”

“And are you going to trust yourself to my care?”

She came around the table with hands extended. He took them into his
grasp, looking down into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said softly, “I am going to trust you, Captain Keith.”

He laughed.

“Captain, hey? You must have been talking with that black rascal there.”

The swift color flooded her face, but her hands remained imprisoned.

“I just done tol' her who de Keiths was down in ol' Virginia, sah,”
 burst in Neb indignantly. “I sho' don't want nobody to think I go
trapsin' 'round wid any low white trash.”

The gray eyes and the brown, gazing into one another, smiled with
understanding.

“Oh, well,” Keith acknowledged, genially, “I cannot say I am sorry you
know something of my past glories; if one can't have a future, it is
some source of pride to have a past to remember. But now about the
present. We're not much protection to any one, the way we're fixed, as
we are unarmed.”

“There is a big revolver hanging in a holster in the other room,” she
answered, “and a short, sawed-off gun of some kind, but I don't know
about ammunition.”

“May we investigate?”

“Most certainly,” and she threw open the intervening door. As the two
stepped into the other apartment she held the lamp in aid of their
search. “There is the revolver on the wall, and the gun is in the
opposite corner. Isn't it strange you should be out in this country
without arms?”

Keith glanced up, the revolver in his hands. The radiance of the light
was full upon her face, revealing the clearness of her skin, the dark
shadows of her lashes. There was the faintest tinge of suspicion to the
question, but he answered easily.

“We left Carson in something of a hurry. I'll tell you the story
to-morrow.”




Chapter X. Mr. Hawley Reveals Himself



A fragment of candle, stuck tightly into the neck of an empty bottle,
appeared on a low shelf, and Keith lighted it, the girl returning the
lamp to its former position on the front room table. Investigation
revealed a dozen cartridges fitting the revolver, but no ammunition
was discovered adapted to the sawed-off gun, which Neb had already
appropriated, and was dragging about with him, peering into each black
corner in anxious search. The two were still busily employed at this,
when to their ears, through the stillness of the night, there came the
unexpected noise of splashing in the water without, and then the sound
of a horse stumbling as he struck the bank. Quick as a flash Keith
closed the intervening door, extinguished the dim flame of the candle,
and grasping the startled negro's arm, hushed him into silence.

Crouching close behind the door, through a crack of which the light
streamed, yielding slight view of the interior, the plainsman anxiously
awaited developments. These arrivals must certainly be some of those
connected with the house; there could be little doubt as to that.
Nevertheless, they might prove the posse following them, who had chanced
to stumble accidentally on their retreat. In either case they could
merely wait, and learn. Some one swore without, and was sharply rebuked
by another voice, which added an order gruffly. Then the outer latch
clicked, and a single man stepped within, immediately closing the door.
Keith could not see the girl through the small aperture, but he heard
her quick exclamation, startled, yet full of relief.

“Oh, is it you? I am so glad!”

The man laughed lightly.

“It is nice to be welcomed, although, perhaps, after your time of
loneliness any arrival would prove a relief. Did you think I was never
coming, Christie?”

“I could not understand,” she replied, evidently with much less
enthusiasm, and to Keith's thinking, a shade resentful of the
familiarity, “but naturally supposed you must be unexpectedly delayed.”

“Well, I was,” and he apparently flung both coat and hat on a bench,
with the intention of remaining, “The marshal arrested a fellow for
a murder committed out on the Santa Fé Trail, and required me as a
witness. But the man got away before we had any chance to try him, and I
have been on his trail ever since.”

“A murder! Did you imagine he came this way?”

“Not very likely; fact of it is, the sand storm yesterday destroyed all
traces, and, as a result, we've lost him. So I headed a few of the boys
over in this direction, as I wanted to relieve you of anxiety.”

She was silent an instant, and the man crossed to the fireplace, where
Keith could gain a glimpse of him. Already suspicious from the familiar
sound of his voice, he was not surprised to recognize “Black Bart.” The
plainsman's fingers gripped the negro's arm, his eyes burning. So this
gambler and blackleg was the gentlemanly Mr. Hawley, was he; well, what
could be his little game? Why had he inveigled the girl into this lonely
spot? And what did he now propose doing with her? As he crouched there,
peering through that convenient crack in the door, Keith completely
forgot his own peril, intent only upon this new discovery. She came
slowly around the end of the table, and stood leaning against it, her
face clearly revealed in the light of the lamp. For the first time
Keith really perceived its beauty, its fresh charm. Could such as she
be singer and dancer in a frontier concert hall? And if so, what strange
conditions ever drove her into that sort of life?

“Is--is Fred with you?” she questioned, doubtfully.

“No; he's with another party riding farther west,” the man's eyes
surveying her with manifest approval. “You are certainly looking fine
to-night, my girl. It's difficult to understand how I ever managed to
keep away from you so long.”

She flushed to the hair, her lips trembling at the open boldness of his
tone.

“I--I prefer you would not speak like that,” she protested.

“And why not?” with a light laugh. “Come, Christie, such fine airs are a
trifle out of place. If I didn't know you were a concert hall artist,
I might be more deeply impressed. As it is, I reckon you've heard love
words before now.”

“Mr. Hawley, I have trusted you as a gentleman. I never came here except
on your promise to bring me to my brother,” and she stood erect before
him. “You have no right to even assume that I am Christie Maclaire.”

“Sure not; I don't assume. I have seen that lady too often to be
mistaken. Don't try on that sort of thing with me--I don't take to it
kindly. Perhaps a kiss might put you in better humor.”

He took a step forward, as though proposing to carry out his threat, but
the girl stopped him, her eyes burning with indignation.

“How dare you!” she exclaimed passionately, all fear leaving her in
sudden resentment. “You think me alone here and helpless; that you can
insult me at your pleasure. Don't go too far, Mr. Hawley. I know what
you are now, and it makes no difference what you may think of me, or
call me; you 'll find me perfectly able to defend myself.”

“Oh, indeed!” sneeringly, “you are melodramatic; you should have been an
actress instead of a singer. But you waste your talent out here on me.
Do you imagine I fear either you, or your precious brother? Why, I could
have him hung to-morrow.”

She was staring at him with wide open eyes, her face white.

“What--what do you mean? What has Fred done?”

He was cold and sarcastic.

“That makes no difference; it is what I could induce men to swear he had
done. It's easy enough to convict in this country, if you only know how.
I simply tell you this, so you won't press me too hard. Puritanism
is out of place west of the Missouri, especially among ladies of your
profession. Oh, come, now, Christie, don't try to put such airs on with
me. I know who you are, all right, and can guess why you are hunting
after Fred Willoughby. I pumped the boy, and got most of the truth out
of him.”

“You--you have seen him, then, since you left me,” she faltered,
bewildered, “and didn't bring him here with you?”

“Why should I?” and the man stepped forward, his eyes on her, his hands
twitching with a desire to clasp her to him, yet restrained by some
undefinable power. “While I believed your brother story, I could have
played the good Samaritan most beautifully, but after I talked with
Willoughby I prefer him at a distance.”

“My brother story! Do you mean to insinuate you doubt his being my
brother? He told you that?”

“He gave up the whole trick. You can't trust a kid like that, Christie.
A couple of drinks will loosen his tongue, and put you in wrong. Come,
now, I know it all; be reasonable.”

Apparently the girl had lost her power of speech, staring blindly at
the face of the man before her, as a bird meets the slow approach of
a snake. Keith could see her lips move, but making no sound. Hawley
evidently interpreted her silence as hesitation, doubt as to his real
meaning.

“You see where you are at now, Christie,” he went on swiftly. “But you
don't need to be afraid. I'm going to be a friend to you, and you can
be mighty glad you got rid of Willoughby so easily. Why, I can buy you
diamonds where he couldn't give you a calico dress. Come on, let's stop
this foolishness. I took a liking to you back there in the stage, and
the more I've thought about you since the crazier I've got. When I
succeeded in pumping Willoughby dry, and discovered you wasn't his
sister at all, why that settled the matter. I came down here after you.
I love you, do you understand that? And, what's more, I intend to have
you!”

He reached out, and actually grasped her, but, in some manner, she tore
loose, and sprang back around the end of the table, her cheeks flushed,
her eyes burning.

“Don't touch me! don't dare touch me!” she panted. “You lie; Fred
Willoughby never told you that. If you come one step nearer, I'll
scream; I'll call your men here; I'll tell them the kind of a cur you
are.”

He laughed, leaning over toward her, yet hesitating, his eyes full of
admiration. Her very fierceness appealed to him, urged him on.

“Oh, I wouldn't! In the first place they probably wouldn't hear, for
they are camped down in the corral. I suspected you might be something
of a tigress, and preferred to fight it out with you alone. Then, even
if they did hear, there would be no interference--I've got those fellows
trained too well for that. Come on, Christie; you're helpless here.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are.”

He took a step toward her, his hands flung out. With one quick movement
she sprang aside and extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into
instant darkness. A few red coals glowed dully in the fireplace, but
all else was dense blackness. Keith heard the movements of Hawley, as he
felt his way uncertainly along the table, swearing as he failed to find
the girl. Then, like a shadow, he glided through the partly open door
into the room.




Chapter XI. The Fight in the Dark



Had the room been filled with men Keith could have restrained himself
no longer. Whatever her past might be, this woman appealed to him
strangely; he could not believe evil of her; he would have died if
need be in her defence. But as it was, the ugly boast of Hawley gave
confidence in the final outcome of this struggle in the dark, even
a possibility of escape for them all. The gambler, assured of being
confronted merely by a frail and not over-scrupulous woman, had
ventured there alone; had stationed his men beyond sound; had doubtless
instructed them to ignore any noise of struggle which they might
overhear within. It was these very arrangements for evil which now
afforded opportunity, and Keith crept forward, alert and ready, his
teeth clenched, his hands bare for contest. Even although he surprised
his antagonist, it was going to be a fight for life; he knew “Black
Bart,” broad-shouldered, quick as a cat, accustomed to every form of
physical exercise, desperate and tricky, using either knife or gun
recklessly. Yet it was now or never for all of them, and the plainsman
felt no mercy, experienced no reluctance. He reached the table, and
straightened up, silent, expectant. For an instant there was no further
sound; no evidence of movement in the room. Hawley, puzzled by the
silence, was listening intently in an endeavor to thus locate the girl
through some rustling, some slight motion. A knife, knocked from the
table, perhaps, as she slipped softly past, fell clattering to the
floor, and the gambler leaped instantly forward. Keith's grip closed
like iron on his groping arm, while he shot one fist out toward where
the man's head should be. The blow glanced, yet drove the fellow
backward, stumbling against the table, and Keith closed in, grappling
for the throat. The other, startled by the unexpected attack, and
scarcely realizing even yet the nature of his antagonist, struggled
blindly to escape the fingers clawing at him, and flung one hand down to
the knife in his belt. Warned by the movement, the assailant drove
his head into the gambler's chest, sending him crashing to the floor,
falling himself heavily upon the prostrate body. Hawley gave utterance
to one cry, half throttled in his throat, and then the two grappled
fiercely, so interlocked together as to make weapons useless. Whoever
the assailant might be, the gambler was fully aware by now that he
was being crushed in the grasp of a fighting man, and exerted every
wrestler's trick, every ounce of strength, to break free. Twice he
struggled to his knees, only to be crowded backward by relentless power;
once he hurled Keith sideways, but the plainsman's muscles stiffened
into steel, and he gradually regained his position. Neither dared
release a grip in order to strike a blow: neither had sufficient breath
left with which to utter a sound. They were fighting for life, silently,
desperately, like wild beasts, with no thought but to injure the other.
The gambler's teeth sank into Keith's arm, and the latter in return
jammed the man's head back onto the puncheon floor viciously.
Perspiration streamed from their bodies, their fingers clutching, their
limbs wrapped together, their muscles strained to the utmost. Keith had
forgotten the girl, the negro, everything, dominated by the one passion
to conquer. He was swept by a storm of hatred, a desire to kill. In
their fierce struggle the two had rolled close to the fireplace, and in
the dull glow of the dying embers, he could perceive a faint outline of
the man's face. The sight added flame to his mad passion, yet he
could do nothing except to cling to him, jabbing his fingers into the
straining throat.

The negro ended the affair in his own way, clawing blindly at the
combatants in the darkness, and finally, determining which was the
enemy, he struck the gambler with the stock of his gun, laying him out
unconscious. Keith, grasping the table, hauled himself to his feet,
gasping for breath, certain only that Hawley was no longer struggling.
For an instant all was blank, a mist of black vapor; then a realization
of their situation came back in sudden flood of remembrance. Even yet he
could see nothing, but felt the motionless figure at his feet.

“Quick,” he urged, the instant he could make himself speak. “The fellow
is only stunned; we must tie and gag him. Is that you, Neb? Where is the
girl?”

“I am here, Captain Keith,” and he heard the soft rustle of her dress
across the room. “What is it I may do?”

“A coil of rope, or some straps, with a piece of cloth; anything you can
lay hands on.”

She was some moments at it, confused by the darkness, and Hawley moved
slightly, his labored breathing growing plainly perceptible. Keith heard
her groping toward him, and held out his hands. She started as he thus
unexpectedly touched her, yet made no effort to break away.

“You--you frightened me a little,” she confessed. “This has all happened
so quickly I hardly realize yet just what has occurred.”

“The action has only really begun,” he assured her, still retaining his
hold upon her hand. “This was merely a preliminary skirmish, and you
must prepare to bear your part in what follows. We have settled Mr.
Hawley for the present, and now must deal with his gang.”

“Oh, what would I have done if you had not been here?”

“Let us not think about that; we were here, and now have a busy night
before us if we get away safely. Give me the rope first. Good! Here,
Neb, you must know how to use this,--not too tight, but without leaving
any play to the arms; take the knife out of his belt. Now for the cloth,
Miss Maclaire.”

“Please do not call me that!”

“But you said it didn't make any difference what I called you.”

“I thought it didn't then, but it does now.”

“Oh, I see; we are already on a new footing. Yet I must call you
something.”

She hesitated just long enough for him to notice it. Either she had no
substitute ready at hand, or else doubted the advisability of confiding
her real name under present circumstances to one so nearly a stranger.

“You may call me Hope.”

“A name certainly of good omen,” he returned. “From this moment I shall
forget Christie Maclaire, and remember only Miss Hope. All right, Neb;
now turn over a chair, and sit your man up against it. He will rest all
the easier in that position until his gang arrive.”

He thrust his head out of the door, peering cautiously forth into the
night, and listening. A single horse, probably the one Hawley had been
riding, was tied to a dwarfed cottonwood near the corner of the cabin.
Nothing else living was visible.

“I am going to round up our horses, and learn the condition of Hawley's
outfit,” he announced in a low voice. “I may be gone for fifteen or
twenty minutes, and, meanwhile, Miss Hope, get ready for a long ride.
Neb, stand here close beside the door, and if any one tries to come in
brain him with your gun-stock. I'll rap three times when I return.”

He slipped out into the silent night, and crept cautiously around the
end of the dark cabin. The distinct change in the girl's attitude of
friendship toward him, her very evident desire that he should think well
of her, together with the providential opportunity for escape, had left
him full of confidence. The gambler had played blindly into their hands,
and Keith was quick enough to accept the advantage. It was a risk to
himself, to be sure, thus turning again to the northward, yet the clear
duty he owed the girl left such a choice almost imperative. He certainly
could not drag her along with him on his flight into the wild Comanche
country extending beyond the Canadian. She must, at the very least,
be first returned to the protection of the semi-civilization along the
Arkansas. After that had been accomplished, he would consider his own
safety. He wondered if Hope really was her name, and whether it was the
family cognomen, or her given name. That she was Christie Maclaire he
had no question, yet that artistic embellishment was probably merely
assumed for the work of the concert hall. Both he and Hawley could
scarcely be mistaken as to her identity in this respect, and, indeed,
she had never openly denied the fact. Yet she did not at all seem to be
that kind, and Keith mentally contrasted her with numerous others
whom he had somewhat intimately known along the border circuit. It
was difficult to associate her with that class; she must have come
originally from some excellent family East, and been driven to the
life by necessity; she was more to be pitied than blamed. Keith held no
puritanical views of life--his own experiences had been too rough and
democratic for that--yet he clung tenaciously to an ideal of womanhood
which could not be lowered. However interested he might otherwise feel,
no Christie Maclaire could ever find entrance into the deeps of his
heart, where dwelt alone the memory of his mother.

He found the other horses turned into the corral, and was able, from
their restless movements, to decide they numbered eight. A fire, nearly
extinguished, glowed dully at the farther corner of the enclosure,
and he crawled close enough to distinguish the recumbent forms of men
sleeping about it on the ground. Apparently no guard had been set, the
fellows being worn out from their long ride, and confident of safety in
this isolated spot. Besides, Hawley had probably assumed that duty, and
told them to get whatever sleep they could. However, the gate of the
corral opened beside their fire, and Keith dare not venture upon roping
any of their ponies, or leading them out past where they slept. There
might be clippers in the cabin with which he could cut the wires, yet if
one of the gang awoke, and discovered the herd absent, it would result
in an alarm, and lead to early pursuit. It was far safer to use their
own ponies. He would lead Hawley's horse quietly through the water, and
they could mount on the other shore. This plan settled, he went at it
swiftly, riding the captured animal while rounding up the others, and
fastening the three to stunted trees on the opposite bank. Everything
within the cabin remained exactly as he had left it, and he briefly
explained the situation, examining Hawley's bonds again carefully while
doing so.

“He'll remain there all right until his men find him,” he declared,
positively, “and that ought to give us a good six hours' start. Come,
Miss Hope, every minute counts now.”

He held her arm, not unconscious of its round shapeliness, as he helped
her down the rather steep bank through the dense gloom. Then the two men
joined hands, and carrying her easily between them, waded the shallow
stream. The horses, not yet sufficiently rested to be frisky, accepted
their burdens meekly enough, and, with scarcely a word spoken, the three
rode away silently into the gloom of the night.




Chapter XII. Through the Night Shadows



Keith had very little to guide him, as he could not determine whether
this mysterious cabin on the Salt Fork lay to east or west of the
usual cattle trail leading down to the Canadian. Yet he felt reasonably
assured that the general trend of the country lying between the smaller
stream and the valley of the Arkansas would be similar to that with
which he was already acquainted. It was merely a wild stretch of sandy
desolation, across which their horses would leave scarcely any trail,
and even that little would be quickly obliterated by the first puff of
wind. As they drew in toward the river valley this plain would change
into sand dunes, baffling and confusing, but no matter how hard they
pressed forward, it must be daylight long before they could hope
to reach these, and this would give him opportunity to spy out some
familiar landmark which would guide them to the ford. Meanwhile, he must
head as directly north as possible, trusting the horses to find footing.

It was plains instinct, or rather long training in the open, which
enabled him to retain any true sense of direction, for beyond the narrow
fringe of cotton-woods along the stream, nothing was visible, the eyes
scarcely able even to distinguish where earth and sky met. They advanced
across a bare level, without elevation or depression, yet the sand
appeared sufficiently solid, so that their horses were forced into a
swinging lope, and they seemed to fairly press aside the black curtain,
which as instantly swung shut once more, and closed them in. The
pounding hoofs made little noise, and they pressed steadily onward,
closely bunched together, so as not to lose each other, dim, spectral
shadows flitting through the night, a very part of that grim desolation
surrounding them. No one of the three felt like speaking; the gloomy,
brooding desert oppressed them, their vagrant thoughts assuming the
tinge of their surroundings; their hope centred on escape. Keith rode,
grasping the rein of the woman's horse in his left hand, and bending
low in vain effort at picking a path. He had nothing to aim toward, yet
sturdy confidence in his expert plainscraft yielded him sufficient sense
of direction. He had noted the bark of the cottonwoods, the direction of
the wind, and steered a course accordingly straight northward, alert to
avert any variation.

The girl rode easily, although in a man's saddle, the stirrups much
too long. Keith glanced aside with swift approval at the erectness with
which she sat, the loosened rein in her hand, the slight swaying of her
form. He could appreciate horsemanship, and the easy manner in which
she rode relieved him of one anxiety. It even caused him to break the
silence.

“You are evidently accustomed to riding, Miss Hope.”

She glanced across at him through the darkness, as though suddenly
surprised from thought, her words not coming quickly.

“I cannot remember when I first mounted a horse; in earliest childhood,
surely, although I have not ridden much of late. This one is like a
rocking chair.”

“He belonged to your friend, Mr. Hawley.”

She drew a quick breath, her face again turned forward.

“Who--who is that man? Do you know?”

“I possess a passing acquaintance,” he answered, uncertain yet how much
to tell her, but tempted to reveal all in test of her real character.
“Few do not who live along the Kansas border.”

“Do you mean he is a notoriously bad character?”

“I have never heard of his being held up as a model to the young, Miss
Hope,” he returned more soberly, convinced that she truly possessed
no real knowledge regarding the man, and was not merely pretending
innocence. “I had never heard him called Hawley before, and, therefore,
failed to recognize him under that respectable name. But I knew his
voice the moment he entered the cabin, and realized that some devilment
was afoot. Every town along this frontier has his record, and I've met
him maybe a dozen times in the past three years. He is known as 'Black
Bart'; is a gambler by profession, a desperado by reputation, and a cur
by nature. Just now I suspect him of being even deeper in the mire than
this.”

He could tell by the quick clasping of her hands on the pommel of the
saddle the effect of his words, but waited until the silence compelled
her to speak.

“Oh, I didn't know! You do not believe that I ever suspected such a
thing? That I ever met him there understanding who he was?”

“No, I do not,” he answered. “What I overheard between you convinced me
you were the victim of deceit. But your going to that place alone was a
most reckless act.”

She lifted her hand to her eyes, her head drooping forward.

“Wasn't it what he told me--the out-station of a ranch?”

“No; I have ridden this country for years, and there is no ranch
pasturing cattle along the Salt Fork. Miss Hope, I want you to
comprehend what it is you have escaped from; what you are now fleeing
from. Within the last two years an apparently organized body of outlaws
have been operating throughout this entire region. Oftentimes disguised
as Indians, they have terrorized the Santa Fé trail for two hundred
miles, killing travellers in small parties, and driving off stock. There
are few ranches as far west as this, but these have all suffered from
raids. These fellows have done more to precipitate the present Indian
war than any act of the savages. They have endeavored to make the
authorities believe that Indians were guilty of their deeds of murder
and robbery. Both troops and volunteers have tried to hold the gang up,
but they scatter and disappear, as though swallowed by the desert. I
have been out twice, hard on their trail, only to come back baffled.
Now, I think accident has given me the clue.”

She straightened up; glancing questioningly at him through the darkness.

“That is what I mean, Miss Hope. I suspect that cabin to be the
rendezvous of those fellows, and I half believe Hawley to be their
leader.”

“Then you will report all this to the authorities?”

He smiled grimly, his lips compressed.

“I hardly think so; at least, not for the present. I am not
blood-thirsty, or enamored of man-hunting, but I happen to have a
personal interest in this particular affair which I should prefer to
settle alone.” He paused, swiftly reviewing the circumstances of their
short acquaintance, and as suddenly determining to trust her discretion.
Deep down in his heart he rather wanted her to know. “The fact of the
matter is, that Neb and I here were the ones that particular posse were
trailing.”

“You!” her voice faltered. “He said those men were under arrest for
murder, and had broken jail.”

“He also said it was easy to convict men in this country if you only
knew how. It is true we broke jail, but only in order to save our lives;
it was the only way. Technically, we are outlaws, and now run the risk
of immediate re-arrest by returning north of the Arkansas. We came to
you fugitives; I was charged with murder, the negro with assault. So,
you see, Miss Hope, the desperate class of men you are now associating
with.”

The slight bitterness in his tone stung the girl into resentment. She
was looking straight at him, but in the gloom he could not discern the
expression of her eyes.

“I don't believe it,” she exclaimed decisively, “you--you do not look
like that!”

“My appearance may be sufficient to convince you,” he returned, rather
dryly, “but would weigh little before a Western court. Unfortunately,
the evidence was strong against me; or would have been had the case ever
come to a trial. The strange thing about it was that both warrants
were sworn out by the same complainant, and apparently for a similar
purpose--'Black Bart' Hawley.”

“What purpose?”

“To keep us from telling what we knew regarding a certain crime,
in which either he, or some of his intimate friends, were deeply
interested.”

“But it would all come out at the trial, wouldn't it?”

“There was to be no trial; Judge Lynch settles the majority of such
cases out here at present. It is extremely simple. Listen, and I will
tell you the story.”

He reviewed briefly those occurrences leading directly up to his arrest,
saying little regarding the horrors of that scene witnessed near
the Cimmaron Crossing, but making sufficiently clear his very slight
connection with it, and the reason those who were guilty of the crime
were so anxious to get him out of the way. She listened intently, asking
few questions, until he ended. Then they both looked up, conscious that
dawn was becoming gray in the east. Keith's first thought was one of
relief--the brightening sky showed him they were riding straight north.




Chapter XIII. The Ford of the Arkansas



They were still in the midst of the yellow featureless plain, but
the weary horses had slowed down to a walk, the heavy sand retarding
progress. It was a gloomy, depressing scene in the spectral gray light,
a wide circle of intense loneliness, unbroken by either dwarfed shrub
or bunch of grass, a barren expanse stretching to the sky. Vague cloud
shadows seemed to flit across the level surface, assuming fantastic
shapes, but all of the same dull coloring, imperfect and unfinished.
Nothing seemed tangible or real, but rather some grotesque picture of
delirium, ever merging into another yet more hideous. The very silence
of those surrounding wastes seemed burdensome, adding immeasurably to
the horror. They were but specks crawling underneath the sky--the only
living, moving objects in all that immense circle of desolation and
death.

Keith turned in the saddle, looking back past Neb--who swayed in his
seat, with head lolling on his breast as though asleep, his horse
plodding after the others--along the slight trail they had made across
the desert. So far as eye could reach nothing moved, nothing apparently
existed. Fronting again to the north he looked upon the same grim
barrenness, only that far off, against the lighter background of distant
sky, there was visible a faint blur, a bluish haze, which he believed to
be the distant sand dunes bordering the Arkansas. The intense dreariness
of it all left a feeling of depression. His eyes turned and regarded the
girl riding silently beside him. The same look of depression was visible
upon her face, and she was gazing off into the dull distance with
lack-lustre eyes, her slender form leaning forward, her hands clasped
across the pommel. The long weariness of the night had left traces on
her young face, robbing it of some of its freshness, yet Keith found it
more attractive in the growing daylight than amid the lamp shadows
of the evening before. He had not previously realized the peculiar
clearness of her complexion, the rose tint showing through the olive
skin, or the soft and silky fineness of her hair, which, disarranged,
was strangely becoming under the broad brim of the hat she wore,
drawn low until it shadowed her eyes. It was not a face to be easily
associated with frontier concert halls, or any surrender to evil; the
chin round and firm, the lips full, yet sufficiently compressed; the
whole expression that of pure and dignified womanhood. She puzzled him,
and he scarcely knew what to believe, or exactly how to act toward her.

“Our friends back yonder should be turning out from the corral by now,”
 he said finally, anxious to break the silence, for she had not spoken
since he ended his tale. “It will not be long until they discover
Hawley's predicament, and perhaps the welkin already rings with
profanity. That may even account for the blue haze out yonder.”

She turned her eyes toward him, and the slightest trace of a smile
appeared from out the depths of their weariness.

“If they would only remain satisfied with that. Will they follow us, do
you think? And are we far enough away by this time to be safe?”

“It is hardly likely they will let us escape without a chase,” he
answered slowly. “We possess too much information now that we have
their rendezvous located, and 'Black Bart' will have a private grudge to
revenge. I wonder if he suspects who attacked him! But don't worry, Miss
Hope; we have miles the start, and the wind has been strong enough to
cover our trail. Do you see that dark irregularity ahead?”

“Yes; is it a cloud?”

“No; the Arkansas sand dunes. I am going to try to keep the horses
moving until we arrive there. Then we will halt and eat whatever Neb has
packed behind him, and rest for an hour or two. You look very tired,
but I hope you can keep up for that distance. We shall be safely out of
sight then.”

“Indeed, I am tired; the strain of waiting alone in that cabin, and
all that happened last night, have tried me severely. But--but I can go
through.”

Her voice proved her weakness, although it was determined enough, and
Keith, yielding to sudden impulse, put out his hand, and permitted it to
rest upon hers, clasped across the pommel. Her eyes drooped, but there
was no change of posture.

“Your nerve is all right,” he said, admiringly, “you have shown yourself
a brave girl.”

“I could not be a coward, and be my father's daughter,” she replied,
with an odd accent of pride in her choking voice, “but I have been
afraid, and--and I am still.”

“Of what? Surely, not that those fellows will ever catch up with us?”

“No, I hardly know what, only there is a dread I cannot seem to shake
off, as if some evil impended, the coming of which I can feel, but not
see. Have you ever experienced any such premonition?”

He laughed, withdrawing his hand.

“I think not. I am far too prosaic a mortal to allow dreams to worry
me. So far I have discovered sufficient trouble in real life to keep my
brain active. Even now I cannot forget how hungry I am.”

She did not answer, comprehending how useless it would be to explain,
and a little ashamed of her own ill-defined fears, and thus they rode
on in silence. He did not notice that she glanced aside at him shyly,
marking the outline of his clear-cut features, silhouetted against the
far-off sky. It was a manly face, strong, alive, full of character, the
well-shaped head firmly poised, the broad shoulders squared in spite of
the long night of weary exertion. The depths of her eyes brightened with
appreciation.

“I believe your story, Mr. Keith,” she said at last softly.

“My story?” questioningly, and turning instantly toward her.

“Yes; all that you have told me about what happened.”

“Oh; I had almost forgotten having told it, but I never felt any doubt
but what you would believe. I don't think I could lie to you.”

It was no compliment, but spoken with such evident honesty that her eyes
met his with frankness.

“There could be no necessity; only I wanted you to know that I trust
you, and am grateful.”

She extended her hand this time, and he took it within his own, holding
it firmly, yet without knowing what to answer. There was strong impulse
within him to question her, to learn then and there her own life story.
Yet, somehow, the reticence of the girl restrained him; he could not
deliberately probe beneath the veil she kept lowered between them.
Until she chose to lift it herself voluntarily, he possessed no right
to intrude. The gentlemanly instincts of younger years held him silent,
realizing clearly that whatever secret might dominate her life, it was
hers to conceal just so long as she pleased. Out of this swift struggle
of repression he managed to say:

“I appreciate your confidence, and mean to prove worthy. Perhaps some
day I can bring you the proofs.”

“I need none other than your own word.”

“Oh, but possibly you are too easily convinced; you believed in Hawley.”

She looked at him searchingly, her eyes glowing, her cheeks flushed.

“Yes,” she said slowly, convincingly. “I know I did; I--I was so anxious
to be helped, but--but this is different.”

It was noon, the sun pitiless and hot above them, before they straggled
within the partial shelter of the sand dunes, and sank wearily down to
their meagre lunch. Their supply of water was limited, and the exhausted
ponies must wait until they reached the river to quench their thirst.
Yet this was not very far off now, and Keith had seen enough of their
surroundings to locate the position of the ford. Slow as they must
proceed, three hours more would surely bring them to the bank of the
stream. They discussed their plans briefly as the three sat together on
the warm sand, revived both by the food and the brief rest. There was
not a great deal to be determined, only where the girl should be left,
and how the two men had better proceed to escape observation.

Fort Larned was the nearest and safest place for their charge, none
of the party expressing any desire to adventure themselves within the
immediate neighborhood of Carson City. What her future plans might be
were not revealed, and Keith forebore any direct questioning. His
duty plainly ended with placing her in a safe environment, and he felt
convinced that Mrs. Murphy, of the Occidental Hotel, would furnish room,
and, if necessary, companionship. The sole problem remaining--after she
had rather listlessly agreed to such an arrangement--was to so plan the
details as to permit the negro and himself to slip through the small
town clustered about the post without attracting undue attention. No
doubt, the story of their escape had already reached there, embellished
by telling, and serious trouble might result from discovery. Keith was
surprised at the slight interest she exhibited in these arrangements,
merely signifying her acquiescence by a word, but he charged it to
physical weariness, and the reaction from her night of peril; yet he
took pains to explain fully his plan, and to gain her consent.

This finally settled, they mounted again and rode on through the lanes
traversing the sand dunes, keeping headed as straight as possible toward
the river. The ford sought was some miles down stream, but with the
horses' thirst mitigated, they made excellent progress, and arrived at
the spot early in the evening. Not in all the day had they encountered
a living object, or seen a moving thing amid the surrounding desolation.
Now, looking across to the north, a few gleaming lights told of Fort
Larned perched upon the opposite bluffs.




Chapter XIV. The Landlady of the Occidentals



Keith had crossed at this point so frequently with cattle that, once
having his bearings, the blackness of the night made very little
difference. Nevertheless, in fear lest her pony might stumble over some
irregularity, he gave his own rein to Neb, and went forward on foot,
grasping firmly the tired animal's bit. It was a long stretch of sand
and water extending from bank to bank, but the latter was shallow, the
only danger being that of straying off from the more solid bottom into
quicksand. With a towering cottonwood as guide, oddly misshapen and
standing out gauntly against the slightly lighter sky, the plainsman led
on unhesitatingly, until they began to climb the rather sharp uplift of
the north bank. Here there was a plain trail, pounded into smoothness by
the hoofs of cavalry horses ridden down to water, and at the summit they
emerged within fifty yards of the stables.

The few lights visible, some stationary, with others dancing about
like will-o'-the-wisps, revealed imperfectly the contour of various
buildings, but Keith turned sharply to the right, anxious to slip past
without being challenged by a sentry. Beyond the brow of the bluff other
lights now became visible, flickering here and there, marking where a
straggling town had sprung up under the protection of the post--a town
garish enough in the daylight, composed mostly of shacks and tents,
but now with its deficiencies mercifully concealed by the enveloping
darkness. The trail, easily followed, led directly along its single
street, but Keith circled the outskirts through a wilderness of tin-cans
and heaps of other debris, until he halted his charges beside the
black shadow of the only two-story edifice in the place. This was the
Occidental, the hospitality of which he had frequently tested.

A light streamed from out the front windows, but, uncertain who might be
harbored within, Keith tapped gently at the back door. It was not opened
immediately, and when it was finally shoved aside the merest crack, no
glow of light revealed the darkened interior. The voice which spoke,
however, was amply sufficient to identify its owner.

“Is that ye agin, Murphy, a playin' av yer dirthy thricks?”

“No, Mrs. Murphy,” he hastened to explain, “this is Keith--Jack Keith,
of the 'Bar X.'”

“The Lord deliver us!” was the instant exclamation, the door opening
wide. “They do be afther tellin' me to-night av the throuble ye was in
over at Carson, an' Oi t'ought maybe ye moight turn up this way. It was
a nate thrick ye played on the loikes av 'em, Jack, but this is a dom
poor place fer ye ter hide in. Bedad, there's a half-dozen in the parly
now talkin' about it, wid a couple av officers from the fort. Is the
nager wid ye?”

“Yes, but we have no intention of hiding here. I'd rather take my chance
in the open. The fact is, Kate, we started off for the 'Bar X.'”

“Av course, ye did; Oi was shure av it.”

“But down on the Salt Fork we ran across a young girl whom Black Bart
had inveigled down that way on a lie. We had a bit of a fight, and got
her away from him. This is what brought us back here--to put the girl
where she will be safe out of his clutches.”

The door was wide open now, and Mrs. Murphy outside, her interest at
fever heat.

“Ye had a foight wid Black Bart! Oh, ye divil! An' ye licked the dirthy
spalpane, an' got away wid his gyurl! Glory be! And would Oi take her?
Well, Oi would. Niver doubt that, me bye. She may be the quane av Shaba,
an' she may be a Digger Injun Squaw, but the loikes av him had betther
kape away from Kate Murphy. It's glad Oi am ter do it! Bring her in. Oi
don't want ter hear no more.”

“Just a word, Kate; I don't know whether she has any money or not, but I
'll pay her bill, as soon as it is safe for me to come back.”

“Oh, the divil take her bill. She'll have the best in the house,
annyhow, an' Oi'm only hopin' that fellow will turn up huntin' her. Oi'd
loike ter take one slap at the spalpane.”

Fully convinced as to Mrs. Murphy's good-will, Keith slipped back
into the darkness, and returned with the girl. Introductions were
superfluous, as the mistress of the Occidental cared little regarding
ceremony.

“An' is this you, my dear?” she burst out, endeavoring to curb her voice
to secretive softness. “Shure, Jack Keith has told me all about it, an'
it's safe it is yer goin' ter be here. Come on in; Oi'll give ye number
forty-two, thet's next behint me own room, an' we'll go up the back
sthairs. Hilp the young loidy, Jack, fer shure ye know the way.”

She disappeared, evidently with some hospitable purpose in view, and
Keith, clasping the girl's hand, undertook the delicate task of safely
escorting her through the dark kitchen, and up the dimly remembered
stairs. Only a word or two passed between them, but as they neared the
second story a light suddenly streamed out through the opened door of a
room at their left. Mrs. Murphy greeted them at the landing, and for the
first time saw the girl's weary white face, her eyes filled with appeal,
and the warm Irish heart responded instantly.

“Ye poor little lamb; it's the bid ye want, an' a dhrap o' whiskey. Jack
Keith, why didn't ye till me she was done up wid the hard ride? Here,
honey, sit down in the rocker till Oi get ye a wee dhrink. It'll bring
the roses back to the cheeks av ye.” She was gone, bustling down the
dark stairs, and the two were alone in the room, the girl looking up
into his face, her head resting against the cushioned back of the chair.
He thought he saw a glimmer of tears in the depths of her lash-shaded
eyes, and her round white throat seemed to choke.

“You will be perfectly secure here,” he said, soothingly, “and can
remain as long as you please. Mrs. Murphy will guard you as though you
were her own daughter. She is a bit rough, maybe, but a big-hearted
woman, and despises Hawley. She nursed me once through a touch of
typhoid--yes, by Jove,” glancing about in sudden recognition, “and in
this very room, too.”

The girl's glance wandered over the plain, neat furnishings, and the
rather pathetic attempts at decoration, yet with apparently no thought
for them.

“You--you have not told me where you were going.”

He laughed, a little uneasily, as though he preferred to make light of
the whole matter.

“Really, I have hardly decided, the world is so wide, and I had no
reason to suppose you interested.”

“But I am interested,” resenting his tone of assumed indifference. “I
would not want to feel that our acquaintance was to wholly end now.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Why should I not? You have been a real friend to me; I shall remember
you always with a gratitude beyond words. I want you to know this, and
that--that I shall ever wish to retain that friendship.”

Keith struggled with himself, doubtful of what he had best say, swayed
by unfamiliar emotions.

“You may be sure I shall never forget,” he blurted forth, desperately,
“and, if you really wish it, I'll certainly see you again.”

“I do,” earnestly.

“Then, I'll surely find a way. I don't know now which direction we will
ride, but I'm not going very far until I clear up that murder out yonder
on the trail; that is my particular job just now.”

Before she could answer, Mrs. Murphy reëntered, and forced her to drink
the concoction prepared, the girl accepting with smiling protest. The
landlady, empty glass in hand, swept her eyes about the room.

“Bedad, but the place looks betther than iver Oi'd belaved, wid the
gyurl Oi've got tindin' to it. She's that lazy she goes ter slape
swapin' the flure. Jack, would ye moind hilpin' me move the bid; shure,
it's rale mahogany, an' so heavy it breaks me back intoirely to push it
'round.”

He took hold willingly enough, and the two together ran the heavy
contrivance across the room to the position selected. Once a leg caught
in the rag carpet, and Keith lifted it out, bending low to get a firmer
grip. Then he held out his hand to the girl.

“It is not going to be good-bye then, Miss Hope; I'll find you.”

She smiled up into his eyes, much of the weariness gone from her face.

“I am going to believe that,” she answered, gladly, “because I want to.”

Mrs. Murphy lingered until his steps sounded on the stairs, as he slowly
felt his way down through the darkness.

“He do be a moighty foine bye, Jack Keith,” she said, apparently
addressing the side wall. “Oi wish Oi'd a knowed him whin Oi was a
gyurl; shure, it's not Murphy me noime'd be now, Oi'm t'inkin'.”

Left alone, the girl bowed her head on her hands, a hot tear stealing
down through her fingers. As she glanced up again, something that
glittered on the floor beside the bed caught her eyes. She stopped and
picked it up, holding the trinket to the light, staring at it as though
fascinated. It was the locket Keith had taken from the neck of the dead
man at Cimmaron Crossing. Her nerveless fingers pressed the spring, and
the painted face within looked up into her own, and still clasping it
within her hand, she sank upon her knees, burying her face on the bed.

“Where did he get that?” her lips kept repeating. “Where did he ever get
that?”



Chapter XV. Again Christie Maclaire



Keith possessed sufficient means for several months of idleness, and
even if he had not, his reputation as a plains scout would insure him
employment at any of the more important scattered army posts. Reliable
men for such service were in demand. The restlessness of the various
Indian tribes, made specially manifest by raids on the more advanced
settlements, and extending over a constantly widening territory,
required continuous interchange of communication between commanders of
detachments. Bold and reckless spirits had flocked to the frontier in
those days following the Civil War, yet all were not of the type
to encourage confidence in military authorities. Keith had already
frequently served in this capacity, and abundantly proved his worth
under rigorous demands of both endurance and intelligence, and he could
feel assured of permanent employment whenever desired. Not a few of
the more prominent officers he had met personally during the late
war--including Sheridan, to whom he had once borne a flag of truce,--yet
the spirit of the Confederacy still lingered in his heart: not in any
feeling of either hatred or revenge, but in an unwillingness to serve
the blue uniform, and a memory of antagonism which would not entirely
disappear. He had surrendered at Appomattox, conquered, yet he could not
quite adjust himself to becoming companion-in-arms with those against
whom he had fought valiantly for four years. Some of the wounds of that
conflict still smarted. A natural soldier, anxious to help the harassed
settlers, eager enough to be actively employed, he still held aloof from
army connections except as a volunteer in case of emergency.

Just now other considerations caused him to desire freedom. He had been
accused of murder, imprisoned for it, and in order to escape, had been
compelled to steal horses, the most heinous crime of the frontier. Not
only for his own protection and safety must the truth of that occurrence
at the Cimmaron Crossing be made clear, but he also had now a personal
affair with “Black Bart” Hawley to be permanently settled. They had
already clashed twice, and Keith intended they should meet again.

Memory of the girl was still in his mind as he and Neb rode silently
forth on the black prairie, leading the extra horse behind them.
He endeavored to drive the recollection from his mind, so he might
concentrate it upon plans for the future, but somehow she mysteriously
wove her own personality into those plans, and he was ever seeing the
pleading in her eyes, and listening to the soft Southern accent of her
voice. Of late years he had been unaccustomed to association with women
of high type, and there was that touch of the gentlewoman about this
girl which had awakened deep interest. Of course he knew that in her
case it was merely an inheritance of her past, and could not truly
represent the present Christie Maclaire of the music halls. However
fascinating she might be, she could not be worthy any serious
consideration. In spite of his rough life the social spirit of the old
South was implanted in his blood, and no woman of that class could hold
him captive. Yet, some way, she refused to be banished or left behind.
Even Neb must have been obsessed by a similar spirit, for he suddenly
observed:

“Dat am sutt'nly a mighty fine gal, Massa Jack. I ain't seen nothin' to
compare wid her since I quit ol' Virginia--'deed I ain't.”

Keith glanced back at his black satellite, barely able to distinguish
the fellow's dim outlines.

“You think her a lady, then?” he questioned, giving thoughtless
utterance to his own imagination.

“'Deed I does!” the thick voice somewhat indignant. “I reck'n I knows
de real quality when I sees it. I'se 'sociated wid quality white folks
befo'.”

“But, Neb, she's a singer in dance halls.”

“I don't believe it, Massa Jack.”

“Well, I wouldn't if I could help it. She don't seem like that kind, but
I recognized her as soon as I got her face in the light. She was at the
Gaiety in Independence, the last time I was there. Hawley knew her too,
and called her by name.”

Neb rubbed his eyes, and slapped his pony's flank, unable to answer, yet
still unconvinced.

“I reck'n both ob yer might be mistook,” he insisted doggedly.

“Not likely,” and Keith's brief laugh was not altogether devoid of
bitterness. “We both called her Christie Maclaire, and she didn't even
deny the name; she was evidently not proud of it, but there was no
denial that she was the girl.”

“Dat wasn't like no name dat you called her when we was ridin'.”

“No; she didn't approve of the other, and told me to call her Hope, but
I reckon she's Christie Maclaire all right.”

They rode on through the black, silent night as rapidly as their tired
horses would consent to travel. Keith led directly across the open
prairie, guiding his course by the stars, and purposely avoiding the
trails, where some suspicious eye might mark their passage. His first
object was to get safely away from the scattered settlements lying
east of Carson City. Beyond their radius he could safely dispose of the
horses they rode, disappear from view, and find time to develop future
plans. As to the girl--well, he would keep his word with her, of course,
and see her again sometime. There would be no difficulty about that, but
otherwise she should retain no influence over him. She belonged rather
to Hawley's class than his.

It was a lonely, tiresome ride, during which Neb made various efforts to
talk, but finding his white companion uncommunicative, at last relapsed
into rather sullen silence. The horses plodded on steadily, and when
daylight finally dawned, the two men found themselves in a depression
leading down to the Smoky River. Here they came to a water hole, where
they could safely hide themselves and their stock. With both Indians
and white men to be guarded against, they took all the necessary
precautions, picketing the horses closely under the rock shadows, and
not venturing upon building any fire. Neb threw himself on the turf and
was instantly asleep, but Keith climbed the steep side of the gully, and
made searching survey of the horizon. The wide arc to south, east, and
west revealed nothing to his searching eyes, except the dull brown of
the slightly rolling plains, with no life apparent save some distant
grazing antelope, but to the north extended more broken country with
a faint glimmer of water between the hills. Satisfied they were
unobserved, he slid back again into the depression. As he turned to
lie down he took hold of the saddle belonging to Hawley's horse. In the
unbuckled holster his eye observed the glimmer of a bit of white paper.
He drew it forth, and gazed at it unthinkingly. It was an envelope,
robbed of its contents, evidently not sent through the mails as it
had not been stamped, but across its face was plainly written, “Miss
Christie Maclaire.” He stared at it, his lips firm set, his gray eyes
darkening. If he possessed any doubts before as to her identity, they
were all thoroughly dissipated now.

       *       *       *       *       *

As he lay there, with head pillowed on the saddle, his body aching from
fatigue yet totally unable to sleep, staring open-eyed into the blue
of the sky, the girl they had left behind awoke from uneasy slumber,
aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Murphy. For an instant she failed to
comprehend her position, but the strong brogue of the energetic landlady
broke in sharply:

“A bit av a cup av coffee fer ye, honey,” she explained, crossing to the
bed. “Shure an' there's nuthin' loike it when ye first wake up. Howly
Mither, but it's toird 'nough ye do be lookin' yet.”

“I haven't slept very well,” the girl confessed, bringing her hand
out from beneath the coverlet, the locket still tightly clasped in her
fingers. “See, I found this on the floor last night after you had gone
down stairs.”

“Ye did!” setting the coffee on a convenient chair, and reaching out for
the trinket. “Let's have a look at it once. Angels av Hiven, if it isn't
the same the ol' Gineral was showin' me in the parly.”

The other sat up suddenly, her white shoulders and rounded throat
gleaming.

“The old General, you said? What General? When was he here?”

“Shure now, be aisy, honey, an' Oi 'll tell ye all there is to it. It's
not his name Oi know; maybe Oi niver heard till av it, but 'twas the
'Gineral' they called him, all right. He was here maybe three days
outfittin'--a noice spoken ol' gintlemin, wid a gray beard, an' onc't he
showed me the locket--be the powers, if it do be his, there's an openin'
to it, an' a picter inside.”

The girl touched the spring, revealing the face within, but her eyes
were blinded with tears. The landlady looked at her in alarm.

“What is it, honey? What is it? Did you know him?”

The slender form swayed forward, shaken with sobs.

“He was my father, and--and this is my mother's picture which he always
carried.”

“Then what is your name?”

“Hope Waite.”

Kate Murphy looked, at the face half hidden in the bed-clothes. That was
not the name which Keith had given her, but she had lived on the border
too long to be inquisitive. The other lifted her head, flinging back her
loosened hair with one hand.

“Mr. Keith dropped it,” she exclaimed. “Where do you suppose he got it?”
 Then she gave a quick, startled cry, her eyes opening wide in horror.
“The Cimmaron Crossing, the murder at the Cimmaron Crossing! He--he
told me about that; but he never showed me this--this. Do you--do you
think--”

Her voice failed, but Kate Murphy gathered her into her arms.

“Cry here, honey,” she said, as if to a child. “Shure an' Oi don't know
who it was got kilt out yonder, but Oi'm tellin' ye it niver was Jack
Keith what did it--murther ain't his stoyle.”




Chapter XVI. Introducing Doctor Fairbain



Headed as they were, and having no other special objective point in
view, it was only natural for the two fugitives to drift into Sheridan.
This was at that time the human cesspool of the plains country, a
seething, boiling maelstrom of all that was rough, evil, and brazen
along the entire frontier. Customarily quiet enough during the hours
of daylight, the town became a mad saturnalia with the approach of
darkness, its ceaseless orgies being noisily continued until dawn. But
at this period all track work on the Kansas Pacific being temporarily
suspended by Indian outbreaks, the graders made both night and day alike
hideous, and the single dirty street which composed Sheridan, lined with
shacks, crowded with saloons, the dull dead prairie stretching away on
every side to the horizon, was congested with humanity during every hour
of the twenty-four.

It was a grim picture of depravity and desolation, the environment
dull, gloomy, forlorn; all that was worthy the eye or thought being
the pulsing human element. All about extended the barren plains, except
where on one side a ravine cut through an overhanging ridge. From the
seething street one could look up to the summit, and see there the
graves of the many who had died deaths of violence, and been borne
thither in “their boots.” Amid all this surrounding desolation was
Sheridan--the child of a few brief months of existence, and destined to
perish almost as quickly--the centre of the grim picture, a mere cluster
of rude, unpainted houses, poorly erected shacks, grimy tents flapping
in the never ceasing wind swirling across the treeless waste, the ugly
red station, the rough cow-pens filled with lowing cattle, the huge,
ungainly stores, their false fronts decorated by amateur wielders of
the paint brush, and the garish dens of vice tucked in everywhere. The
pendulum of life never ceased swinging. Society was mixed; no man cared
who his neighbor was, or dared to question. Of women worthy the name
there were few, yet there were flitting female forms in plenty, the
saloon lights revealing powdered cheeks and painted eyebrows. It was
a strange, restless populace, the majority here to-day, disappearing
to-morrow--cowboys, half-breeds, trackmen, graders, desperadoes,
gamblers, saloon-keepers, merchants, generally Jewish, petty officials,
and a riff-raff no one could account for, mere floating debris. The town
was an eddy catching odd bits of driftwood such as only the frontier
ever knew. Queer characters were everywhere, wrecks of dissipation,
derelicts of the East, seeking nothing save oblivion.

Everything was primitive--passion and pleasure ruled. To spend easily
made money noisily, brazenly, was the ideal. From dawn to dawn the
search after joy continued. The bagnios and dance halls were ablaze; the
bar-rooms crowded with hilarious or quarrelsome humanity, the gambling
tables alive with excitement. Men swaggered along the streets looking
for trouble, and generally finding it; cowboys rode into open saloon
doors and drank in the saddle; troops of congenial spirits, frenzied
with liquor, spurred recklessly through the street firing into the air,
or the crowd, as their whim led; bands played popular airs on balconies,
and innumerable “barkers” added their honeyed invitations to the
perpetual din. From end to end it was a saturnalia of vice, a babel of
sound, a glimpse of the inferno. Money flowed like water; every man was
his own law, and the gun the arbiter of destiny. The town marshal,
with a few cool-headed deputies, moved here and there amid the chaos,
patient, tireless, undaunted, seeking merely to exercise some slight
restraint. This was Sheridan.

Into the one long street just at dusk rode Keith and Neb, the third
horse trailing behind. Already lights were beginning to gleam in the
crowded saloons, and they were obliged to proceed slowly. Leaving the
negro at the corral to find some purchaser for the animals, and such
accommodations for himself as he could achieve, Keith shouldered his
way on foot through the heterogeneous mass toward the only hotel, a long
two-storied wooden structure, unpainted, fronting the glitter of the
Pioneer Dance Hall opposite. A noisy band was splitting the air with
discordant notes, a loud-voiced “barker” yelling through the uproar, but
Keith, accustomed to similar scenes and sounds elsewhere, strode through
the open door of the hotel, and guided by the noisy, continuous clatter
of dishes, easily found his way to the dining-room. It was crowded
with men, a few women scattered here and there, most of the former in
shirt-sleeves, all eating silently. A few smaller tables at the back of
the room were distinguished from the others by white coverings in place
of oil-cloth, evidently reserved for the more distinguished guests.
Disdaining ceremony, the newcomer wormed his way through, finally
discovering a vacant seat where his back would be to the wall, thus
enabling him to survey the entire apartment.

It was not of great interest, save for its constant change and the
primitive manner in which the majority attacked their food supply,
which was piled helter-skelter upon the long tables, yet he ran his
eyes searchingly over the numerous faces, seeking impartially for either
friend or enemy. No countenance present, as revealed in the dim light
of the few swinging lamps, appeared familiar, and satisfied that he
remained unknown, Keith began devoting his attention to the dishes
before him, mentally expressing his opinion as to their attractiveness.
Chancing finally to again lift his eyes, he met the gaze of a man
sitting directly opposite, a man who somehow did not seem exactly in
harmony with his surroundings. He was short and stockily built, with
round rosy face, and a perfect shock of wiry hair brushed back from a
broad forehead; his nose wide but stubby, and chin massive. Apparently
he was between forty and fifty years of age, exceedingly well dressed,
his gray eyes shrewd and full of a grim humor. Keith observed all this
in a glance, becoming aware at the same time that his neighbor was
apparently studying him also. The latter broke silence with a quick,
jerky utterance, which seemed to peculiarly fit his personal appearance.

“Damn it all--know you, sir--sure I do--but for life of me can't tell
where.”

Keith stared across at him more searchingly, and replied, rather
indifferently:

“Probably a mistake then, as I have no recollection of your face.”

“Never make a mistake, sir--never forget a face,” the other snapped with
some show of indignation, his hands now clasped on the table, one stubby
forefinger pointed, as he leaned forward. “Don't tell me--I've seen you
somewhere--no, not a word--don't even tell me your name--I'm going to
think of it.”

Keith smiled, not unwilling to humor the man's eccentricity, and
returned to his meal, with only an occasional inquiring glance across
the table. The other sat and stared at him, his heavy eyebrows wrinkled,
as he struggled to awaken memory. The younger man had begun on his pie
when the face opposite suddenly cleared.

“Damn me, I've got it--hell, yes; hospital tent--Shenandoah--bullet
imbedded under third rib--ordinary case--that's why I forgot--clear
as mud now--get the name in a minute--Captain--Captain Keith--that's
it--shake hands.”

Puzzled at the unexpected recognition, yet realizing the friendliness of
the man, Keith grasped the pudgy fingers extended with some cordiality.

“Don't remember me I s'pose--don't think you ever saw me--delirious when
I came--hate to tell you what you was talking about--gave you hypodermic
first thing--behaved well enough though when I dug out the lead--Minié
bullet, badly blunted hitting the rib--thought you might die with blood
poison--couldn't stay to see--too damn much to do--evidently didn't
though--remember me now?”

“No, only from what you say. You must have been at General Waite's
headquarters.”

“That's it--charge of Stonewall's field hospital--just happened to ride
into Waite's camp that night--damn lucky for you I did--young snip there
wanted to saw the bone--I stopped that--liked your face--imagined you
might be worth saving--ain't so sure of it now, or you wouldn't be
out in this God forsaken country, eating such grub--my name's
Fairbain--Joseph Wright Fairbain, M.D.--contract surgeon for the
railroad--working on the line?”

Keith shook his head, feeling awakening interest in his peculiar
companion.

“No; just drifted in here from down on the Arkansas,” he explained,
briefly. “Did you know General Waite was dead?”

The doctor's ruddy face whitened.

“Dead?--Willis Waite dead?” he repeated. “What do you mean, sir? Are you
sure? When?”

“I ought to be sure; I buried him just this side the Cimmaron Crossing
out on the Santa Fé trail.”

“But do you know it was General Waite?” the man's insistent tone full of
doubt.

“I have no question about it,” returned Keith, conclusively. “The man
was Waite's size and general appearance, with gray beard, similar to the
one I remember he wore during the war. He had been scalped, and his face
beaten beyond recognition, but papers in his pockets were sufficient to
prove his identity. Besides, he and his companion--a young fellow named
Sibley--were known to have pulled out two days before from Carson City.”

“When was this?”

“Ten days ago.”

Fairbain's lips smiled, the ruddy coloring sweeping back into his
cheeks.

“Damn me, Keith, you came near giving me a shock,” he said, jerkily.
“Shouldn't be so careless--not sure my heart's just right--tendency
to apoplexy, too--got to be guarded against. Now, let me tell
you something--maybe you buried some poor devil out at Cimmaron
Crossing--but it wasn't Willis Waite. How do I know? Because I saw him,
and talked with him yesterday--damn me, if I didn't, right here in this
town.”




Chapter XVII. In the Next Room



Keith, his eyes filled with undisguised doubt, studied the face of the
man opposite, almost convinced that he was, in some way, connected with
the puzzling mystery. But the honesty of the rugged face only added to
his perplexity.

“Are you certain you are not mistaken?”

“Of course I am, Keith. I've known Waite for fifteen years a bit
intimately--have met him frequently since the war--and I certainly
talked with him. He told me enough to partially confirm your story. He
said he had started for Santa Fé light, because he couldn't get enough
men to run a caravan--afraid of Indians, you know. So, he determined to
take money--buy Mexican goods--and risk it himself. Old fighting cock
wouldn't turn back for all the Indians on the plains once he got an idea
in his head--he was that kind--Lord, you ought to seen the fight he put
up at Spottsylvania! He got to Carson City with two wagons, a driver and
a cook--had eight thousand dollars with him, too, the damn fool. Cook
got into row, gambling, cut a man, and was jugged. Old Waite wouldn't
leave even a nigger in that sort of fix--natural fighter--likes any kind
of row. So, he hung on there at Carson, but had sense enough--Lord knows
where he got it--to put all but a few hundred dollars in Ben Levy's
safe. Then, he went out one night to play poker with his driver and
a friend--had a drink or two--doped, probably, and never woke up for
forty-eight hours--lost clothes, money, papers, and whole outfit--was
just naturally cleaned out--couldn't get a trace worth following after.
You ought to have heard him cuss when he told me--it seemed to be the
papers that bothered him most--them, and the mules.”

“You say there was no trace?”

“Nothing to travel on after forty-eight hours--a posse started out next
morning, soon as they found him--when they got back they reported having
run the fellows as far as Cimmaron Crossing--there they got across into
the sand hills, and escaped.”

“Who led the posse?”

“A man called Black, I think,” he said.

“Black Bart?”

“Yes, that's the name; so, I reckon you didn't bury Willis Waite this
time, Captain. You wouldn't have thought he was a dead one if you had
heard him swear while he was telling the story--it did him proud; never
heard him do better since the second day at Gettysburg--had his ear shot
off then, and I had to fix him up--Lord, but he called me a few things.”

Keith sat silent, fully convinced now that the doctor was telling the
truth, yet more puzzled than ever over the peculiar situation in which
he found himself involved.

“What brought the General up here?” he questioned, finally.

“I haven't much idea,” was the reply. “I don't think I asked him
directly. I wasn't much interested. There was a hint dropped, however,
now you speak about it. He's keen after those papers, and doesn't
feel satisfied regarding the report of the posse. It's my opinion he's
trailing after Black Bart.”

The dining-room was thinning out, and they were about the only ones left
at the tables. Keith stretched himself, looking around.

“Well, Doctor, I am very glad to have met you again, and to learn Waite
is actually alive. This is a rather queer affair, but will have to work
itself out. Anyway, I am too dead tired to-night to hunt after clues
in midst of this babel. I've been in the saddle most of the time for a
week, and have got to find a bed.”

“I reckon you won't discover such a thing here,” dryly. “Got seven in
a room upstairs, and others corded along the hall. Better share my
cell--only thing to do.”

“That would be asking too much--I can turn in at the corral with Neb;
I've slept in worse places.”

“Couldn't think of it, Keith,” and the doctor got up. “Besides, you
sleep at night, don't you?”

“Usually, yes,” the other admitted.

“Then you won't bother me any--no doctor sleeps at night in Sheridan;
that's our harvest time. Come on, and I'll show you the way. When
morning comes I'll rout you out and take my turn.”

Keith had enjoyed considerable experience in frontier hotels, but
nothing before had ever quite equalled this, the pride of Sheridan.
The product of a mushroom town, which merely existed by grace of
the temporary railway terminus, it had been hastily and flimsily
constructed, so it could be transported elsewhere at a moment's notice.
Every creak of a bed echoed from wall to wall. The thin partitions often
failed to reach the ceiling by a foot or two, and the slightest noise
aroused the entire floor. And there was noise of every conceivable kind,
in plenty, from the blare of a band at the Pioneer Dance Hall opposite,
to the energetic cursing of the cook in the rear. A discordant din of
voices surged up from the street below--laughter, shouts, the shrieks of
women, a rattle of dice, an occasional pistol shot, and the continuous
yelling of industrious “barkers.” There was no safety anywhere. An
exploding revolver in No. 47 was quite likely to disturb the peaceful
slumbers of the innocent occupant of No. 15, and every sound of quarrel
in the thronged bar-room below caused the lodger to curl up in momentary
expectation of a stray bullet coursing toward him through the floor.
With this to trouble him, he could lie there and hear everything
that occurred within and without. Every creak, stamp, and snore was
faithfully reported; every curse, blow, snarl reechoed to his ears.
Inside was hell; outside was Sheridan.

Wearied, and half dead, as Keith was, sleep was simply impossible.
He heard heavy feet tramping up and down the hall; once a drunken man
endeavored vainly to open his door; not far away there was a scuffle,
and the sound of a body falling down stairs. In some distant apartment a
fellow was struggling to draw off his tight boots, skipping about on one
foot amid much profanity. That the boot conquered was evident when
the man crawled into the creaking bed, announcing defiantly, “If the
landlord wants them boots off, let him come an' pull 'em off.”
 Across the hall was a rattle of chips, and the voices of several men,
occasionally raised in anger. Now and then they would stamp on the floor
as an order for liquid refreshments from below. From somewhere beyond,
the long-drawn melancholy howl of a distressed dog greeted the rising
moon.

Out from all this pandemonium Keith began to unconsciously detect
the sound of voices talking in the room to his left. In the lull of
obstructing sound a few words reached him through the slight open space
between wall and ceiling.

“Hell, Bill, what's the use goin' out again when we haven't the price?”

“Oh, we might find Bart somewhere, and he'd stake us. I guess I know
enough to make him loosen up. Come on; I'm goin'.”

“Not me; this town is too near Fort Hays; I'm liable to run into some of
the fellows.”

A chair scraped across the floor as Bill arose to his feet; evidently
from the noise he had been drinking, but Keith heard him lift the latch
of the door.

“All right, Willoughby,” he said, thickly, “I'll try my luck, an' if I
see Bart I'll tell him yer here. So long.”

He shuffled along the hall and went, half sliding, down stairs, and
Keith distinguished the click of glass and bottle in the next room.
He was sitting up in bed now, wide awake, obsessed with a desire to
investigate. The reference overheard must have been to Hawley, and if
so, this Willoughby, who was afraid of meeting soldiers from the fort,
would be the deserter Miss Hope was seeking. There could be no harm
in making sure, and he slipped into his clothes, and as silently as
possible, unlatched his door. There was a noisy crowd at the farther end
of the hall, and the sound of some one laboriously mounting the stairs.
Not desiring to be seen, Keith slipped swiftly toward the door of the
other room, and tried the latch. It was unfastened, and he stepped
quietly within, closing it behind him.

A small lamp was on the washstand, a half-emptied bottle and two glasses
beside it, while a pack of cards lay scattered on the floor. Fully
dressed, except for a coat, the sole occupant lay on the bed, but
started up at Keith's unceremonious entrance, reaching for his revolver,
which had slipped to the wrong side of his belt.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed, startled and confused.

The intruder took one glance at him through the dingy light--a boy of
eighteen, dark hair, dark eyes, his face, already exhibiting signs of
dissipation, yet manly enough in chin and mouth--and smiled.

“I could draw while you were thinking about it,” he said, easily, “but I
am not here on the fight. Are you Fred Willoughby?”

The lad stared at him, his uncertain hand now closed on the butt of his
revolver, yet held inactive by the other's quiet assurance.

“What do you want to know for?”

“Curiosity largely; thought I'd like to ask you a question or two.”

“You--you're not from the fort?”

“Nothing to do with the army; this is a private affair.”

The boy was sullen from drink, his eyes heavy.

“Then who the devil are you? I never saw you before.”

“That's very true, and my name wouldn't help any. Nevertheless, you're
perfectly welcome to it. I am Jack Keith.” No expression of recognition
came into the face of the other, and Keith added curtly, “Shall we
talk?”

There was a moment's silence, and then Willoughby swung his feet over
the edge of the bed onto the floor.

“Fire away,” he said shortly, “until I see what the game is about.”




Chapter XVIII. Interviewing Willoughby



Cooly, yet without in the least comprehending how best to proceed,
Keith drew toward him the only chair in the room, and sat down. Miss
Hope--more widely known as Christie Maclaire--had claimed this drunken
lad as her brother, but, according to Hawley, he had vehemently denied
any such relationship. Yet there must be some previous association
between the two, and what this was the plainsman proposed to discover.
The problem was how best to cause the fellow to talk frankly--could he
be reached more easily by reference to the girl or the gambler? Keith
studying the sullen, obstinate face confronting him, with instinctive
antagonism over his intrusion, swiftly determined on the girl.

“It was not very nice of me to come in on you this way,” he began,
apologetically, “but you see I happen to know your sister.”

“My sister? Oh, I guess not!”

“Yes, but I do,” throwing a confidence into his tone he was far from
feeling, “Miss Hope and I are friends.”

The boy sprang to his feet, his face flushed.

“Oh, you mean Hope? Do you know her? Say, I thought you were giving me
that old gag about Christie Maclaire.”

“Certainly not; who is she?”

“That's more than I know; fellow came to me at Carson, and said he'd met
my sister on a stage west of Topeka. I knew he was lyin', because she's
home over in Missouri. Finally, I got it out of him that she claimed to
be my sister, but her name was Maclaire. Why, I don't even know her, and
what do you suppose she ever picked me out for her brother for?”

He was plainly puzzled, and perfectly convinced it was all a mistake.
That his sister might have left home since he did, and drifted West
under an assumed name, apparently never occurred to him as possible.
To Keith this was the explanation, and nothing could be more natural,
considering her work, yet he did not feel like shattering the lad's
loyalty. Faith in the sister might yet save him.

“Perhaps the fellow who told you,” he hazarded blindly, speaking the
first thought which came to his mind, “had some reason to desire to make
you think this Maclaire girl was your sister.”

The suggestion caused him to laugh at first; then his face suddenly
sobered, as though a new thought had occurred to him.

“Damn me, no, it couldn't be that,” he exclaimed, one hand pressing his
head. “He couldn't be workin' no trick of that kind on me.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“A fellow named Hawley,” evasively. “The man who claimed to have met my
sister.”

“'Black Bart' Hawley?”

The boy lifted his head again, his eyes filled with suspicion.

“Yes, if you must know; he's a gambler all right, but he's stuck to me
when I was down and out. You know him?”

“Just a little,” carelessly; “but what sort of a trick could he be
working trying to make you acknowledge Christie Maclaire as your
sister?”

Willoughby did not answer, shifting uneasily about on the bed. Keith
waited, and at last the boy blurted out:

“Oh, it wasn't nothing much. I told him something when I was drunk once,
that I thought maybe might have stuck to him. Odd he should make that
mistake, too, for I showed him Hope's picture. Bart's a schemer, and I
didn't know but what he might have figured out a trick, though I don't
see how he could. It wasn't no more than a pipe dream, I reckon. Where
did you meet Hope? Back in Missouri?”

One thing was clearly evident--the boy's faith in his sister. If he was
to be rightly influenced, and led back to her, he must have no suspicion
aroused that her life was any different from what it had been before he
left home. Besides if Keith hoped to gain any inkling of what Hawley's
purpose could be, he must win the confidence of Willoughby. This could
not be done by telling him of Hope's present life. These considerations
flashed through his mind, and as swiftly determined his answer.

“Oh, I've known her some time. Not long ago I did her a service
for which she is grateful. Did you know she was out in this country
searching for you?”

“Out here? In Kansas?”

“Sure; that isn't much of a trip for a spirited girl. She got it in her
head from your letters that you were in trouble, and set out to find you
and bring you home. She didn't tell me this, but that is the way I heard
it. It was for her sake I came in here. Why not go to her, Willoughby,
and then both of you return to Missouri?”

The sullenness had gone out of the boy's face: he looked tired,
discouraged.

“Where is Hope?” he asked.

“Fort Larned, I suppose. She went to Carson City first.”

“Well, that settles it,” shaking his head. “You don't suppose I could go
browsin' 'round Larned, and not get snapped up, do you? They don't chase
deserters very far out here, but that's the post I skipped from, and
they'd jug me all right. Besides, I'm damned if I'll go back until I get
a stake. I want to see a fellow first.”

“What fellow?”

“Well, it's Hawley, if you want to know so bad. He said if I would come
here and wait for him he'd put me on to a good thing.”

The boy fidgeted along the edge of the bed, evidently half ashamed
of himself, yet obstinate and unyielding. Keith sat watching his face,
unable to evolve any means of changing his decision. Hawley's influence
just at present was greater than Hope's, because the lad naturally felt
ashamed to go slinking home penniless and defeated. His pride held him
to Hawley, and his faith that the man would redeem his promise. Keith
understood all this readily enough, and comprehended also that if “Black
Bart” had any use for the boy it would be for some criminal purpose.
What was it? Was there a deeply laid plot back of all these preparations
involving both Willoughby and his sister? What was it Hawley was
scheming about so carefully, holding this boy deserter in one hand,
while he reached out the other after Christie Maclaire? Surely, the man
was not working blindly; he must have a purpose in view. Willoughby
had acknowledged he had told the fellow something once when he was
drunk--about his family history, no doubt, for he had shown him Hope's
picture. What that family secret was Keith had no means of guessing,
but Hawley, the moment he saw the face on the cardboard, had evidently
recognized Christie Maclaire--had thought of some way in which what he
now knew could be turned to advantage. The few scattered facts which
Keith had collected all seemed to point to such a conclusion--Hawley had
sent the boy to Sheridan, where he would be out of sight, with orders to
wait for him there, and the promise of a “stake” to keep him quiet. Then
he had gone to Independence and Topeka seeking after Christie Maclaire.
Evidently he meant to keep the two apart until he had gained from each
whatever it was he sought. But what could that be? What family secret
could Willoughby have blurted out in his cups, which had so stimulated
the gambler's wits?

Two things combined to cause Keith to determine he would uncover this
rascality,--his desire to repay Hawley, and his interest in the girl
rescued on the Salt Fork. This gossamer web of intrigue into which
he had stumbled unwittingly was nothing to him personally; had it not
involved both Hawley and Miss Hope, he would have left it unsolved
without another thought. But under the circumstances it became his
own battle. There was a crime here--hidden as yet, and probably not
consummated--involving wrong, perhaps disgrace, to the young girl. He
had rescued her once from out the clutches of this man, and he had no
intention of deserting her now. Whatever her life might be, she was
certainly an innocent victim in this case, deserving his protection. The
memory came to him of her face upturned toward him in that little room
of the Occidental, her eyes tear-dimmed, her lips asking him to come
back to her again. He could not believe her a bad woman, and his lips
compressed, his eyes darkened, with fixed determination. He would dig
into this until he uncovered the truth; he would find out what dirty
trick “Black Bart” was up to.

As he thought this out, not swiftly as recorded, but slowly,
deliberately, piecing the bits together within his mind, blindly feeling
his way to a final conclusion, the boy had sunk back upon the bed,
overcome with liquor, and fallen asleep. Keith stepped over, and looked
down upon him in the dim light. He could recognize something of her
features in the upturned face, and his eyes softened. There was no use
seeking again to arouse him; even had he been sober, he would not have
talked freely. Keith lifted the dangling feet into a more comfortable
position, turned the lamp lower, went out, and latched the door. Two men
were tramping heavily up the stairs, and they turned into the hall at
the very moment he disappeared within his own room. He still retained
his grasp upon the latch, when a voice outside asked:

“What number did you say, Bill--29?”

Keith straightened up as though suddenly pricked by a knife; he could
never forget that voice--it was Hawley's.




Chapter XIX. A Glimpse at Conspiracy



Leaning against the inside of his own door, startled by the rapid
sequence of events, Keith was able, from different sounds reaching him,
to mentally picture most of what occurred in the next room. He heard
Bill sink down into the convenient chair, and drink from the bottle,
while the gambler apparently advanced toward the bed, where he stood
looking down on its unconscious occupant.

“The fool is dead drunk,” he declared disgustedly. “We can't do anything
with him to-night.”

“I say--throw bucket water over him,” hiccoughed the other genially,
“allers sobers me off.”

Hawley made no response, evidently finding a seat on one end of the
washstand.

“Hardly worth while, Scott,” he returned finally. “Perhaps I better
have some understanding with Christie, anyhow, before I pump the boy any
further. If we can once get her working with us, Willoughby won't have
much hand in the play--we shan't need him. Thought I told you to keep
sober?”

“Am sober,” solemnly, “ain't had but six drinks; just nat'rly tired
out.”

“Oh, indeed; well, such a room as this would drive any man to drink. Did
you get what I sent you here after?”

“I sure did, Bart,” and Keith heard the fellow get to his feet
unsteadily. “Here's the picture, an' some letters. I didn't take only
what he had in the grip.”

Hawley shuffled the letters over in his hands, apparently hastily
reading them with some difficulty in the dim light.

“Nothing there to give us any help,” he acknowledged reluctantly,
“mostly advice as far as I can see. Damn the light; a glow worm would
be better.” There was a pause; then he slapped his leg. “However, it's
clear they live in Springfield, Missouri, and this photograph is a
peach. Just look here, Bill! What did I tell you? Ain't Christie a dead
ringer for this girl?”

“You bet she is, Bart,” admitted the other in maudlin admiration, “only,
I reckon, maybe some older.”

“Well, she ought to be accordin' to Willoughby's story, an' them papers
bear him out all right, so I reckon he's told it straight--this Phyllis
would be twenty-six now, and that's just about what Christie is. It
wouldn't have fit better if we had made it on purpose. If the girl will
only play up to the part we won't need any other evidence--her face
would be enough.”

Keith could hear the beating of his own heart in the silence that
followed. Here was a new thought, a new understanding, a complete new
turn to affairs. Christie Maclaire, then, was not Willoughby's sister
Hope. The girl he rescued on the desert--the girl with the pleading
brown eyes, and the soft blur of the South on her lips--was not
the music hall singer. He could hardly grasp the truth at first, it
antagonized so sharply with all he had previously believed. Yet, if this
were true his own duty became clearer than ever; aye, and would be more
willingly performed. But what did Hawley know? Did he already realize
that the girl he had first met on the stage coach, and later inveigled
into the desert, was Hope, and not the music hall artist? He, of course,
fully believed her to be Christie Maclaire at that time, but something
might have occurred since to change that belief. Anyhow, the man was
not now seeking Hope, but the other. Apparently the latter was either
already here in Sheridan or expected soon. And exactly what was it
the gambler desired this Maclaire woman to do? This was the important
matter, and for its solution Keith possessed merely a few hints, a
few vague suggestions. She was expected to represent herself as
Phyllis--Phyllis who? Some Phyllis surely whose physical resemblance to
Hope must be sufficiently marked to be at once noticeable. Willoughby
had evidently revealed to Hawley some hidden family secret, having
money involved, no doubt, and in which the discovery of this mysterious
Phyllis figured. She might, perhaps, be a sister, or half-sister, who
had disappeared, and remained ignorant as to any inheritance. Hope's
picture shown by the boy, and reminding Hawley at once of Christie
Maclaire, had been the basis of the whole plot. Exactly what the details
of that plot might be Keith could not figure out, but one thing was
reasonably certain--it was proposed to defraud Hope. And who in the very
truth was Hope? It suddenly occurred to him as a remarkably strange fact
that he possessed not the slightest inkling as to the girl's name. Her
brother had assumed to be called Willoughby when he enlisted in the
army, and his companions continued to call him this. If he could
interview the girl now for only five minutes he should be able probably
to straighten out the whole intricate tangle. But where was she? Would
she have remained until this time at Fort Larned with Kate Murphy?

There was a noise of movement in the next room. Apparently as Hawley
arose carelessly from his edge of the washstand he had dislodged the
glass, which fell shivering on the floor. Scott swore audibly at the
loss.

“Shut up, Bill,” snapped the gambler, irritated, “you've got the bottle
left. I'm going; there's nothing for any of us to do now, until after I
see Christie. You remain here! Do you understand?--remain here. Damn
me, if that drunken fool isn't waking up.” There was a rattling of
the rickety bed, and then the sound of Willoughby's voice, thick from
liquor.

“Almighty glad see you, Bart--am, indeed. Want money--Bill an' I both
want money--can't drink without money--can't eat without money--shay,
when you goin' stake us?”

“I'll see you again in the morning, Fred,” returned the other briefly.
“Go on back to sleep.”

“Will when I git good an' ready--go sleep, stay wake, just as I
please--don't care damn what yer do--got new frien' now.”

“A new friend? Who?” Hawley spoke with aroused interest.

“Oh, he's all right--he's mighty fine fellow--come in wisout
in--invitation--ol' friend my sister--called--called her Hope--you fool,
Bart Hawley, think my sister Christie--Christie--damfino the name--my
sister, Hope--don't want yer money--my--my new friend, he 'll stake
me--he knows my sister--Hope.”

The gambler grasped the speaker, shaking him into some slight semblance
of sobriety.

“Now, look here, Willoughby, I want the truth, and mean to have it,” he
insisted. “Has some one been in here while Scott was gone?”

“Sure--didn't I just tell yer?--friend o' Hope's.”

“Who was he? Speak up! I want the name!”

There was a faint gurgling sound, as though the gambler's vise-like
fingers were at the boy's throat; a slight struggle, and then the choked
voice gasped out:

“Let up! damn yer! He called himself Jack Keith.”

The dead silence which ensued was broken only by heavy breathing. Then
Scott swore, bringing his fist down with a crash on the washstand.

“That rather stumps yer, don't it, Bart? Well, it don't me. I tell yer
it's just as I said from the first. It was Keith an' that nigger what
jumped ye in the cabin. They was hidin' there when we rode in. He just
nat'rly pumped the gal, an' now he's up here trailin' you. Blame it all,
it makes me laugh.”

“I don't see what you see to laugh at. This Keith isn't an easy man to
play with, let me tell you. He may have got on to our game.”

“Oh, hell, Bart, don't lose your nerve. He can't do anything, because
we've got the under holt. He's a fugitive; all we got to do is
locate him, an' have him flung back inter jail--there's murder an'
hoss-stealing agin him.”

Hawley seemed to be thinking swiftly, while his companion took another
drink.

“Well, pard, ain't that so?”

“No, that trick won't work, Scott. We could do it easily enough if we
were down in Carson, where the boys would help us out. The trouble up
here is that 'Wild Bill' Hickock is Marshal of Sheridan, and he and I
never did hitch. Besides, Keith was one of his deputies down at Dodge
two years ago--you remember when Dutch Charlie's place was cleaned out?
Well, Hickock and Keith did that job all alone, and 'Wild Bill' isn't
going back on that kind of a pal, is he? I tell you we've got to fight
this affair alone, and on the quiet. Maybe the fellow don't know much
yet, but he's sure on the trail, or else he wouldn't have been in here
talking to Willoughby. We've got to get him, Scott, somehow. Lord, man,
there's a clean million dollars waiting for us in this deal, and I'm
ready to fight for it. But I'm damned sleepy, and I'm going to bed. You
locate Keith to-morrow, and then, when you're sober, we'll figure out
how we can get to him best; I've got to set Christie right. Good-night,
Bill.”

He went out into the hall and down the creaking stairs, the man he
wanted so badly listening to his descending footsteps, half tempted to
follow. Scott did not move, perhaps had already fallen drunkenly asleep
on his chair, and finally Keith crossed his own room, and lay down. The
din outside continued unabated, but the man's intense weariness overcame
it all, and he fell asleep, his last conscious thought a memory of Hope.




Chapter XX. Hope Goes to Sheridan



The discovery of the locket which had fallen from about Keith's neck
made it impossible for Hope to remain quietly for very long in the hotel
at Fort Larned. The more carefully she thought over the story of
that murder at the Cimmaron Crossing, and Keith's tale of how he had
discovered and buried the mutilated bodies, the more assured she became
that that was where this locket came from, and that the slain freighter
must have been her own father. She never once questioned the truth of
Keith's report; there was that about the man which would not permit of
her doubting him. He had simply failed to mention what he removed from
the bodies, supposing this would be of no special interest.

Mrs. Murphy, hoping thus to quiet the apprehensions of her charge,
set herself diligently at work to discover the facts. As her house was
filled with transients, including occasional visitors from Carson City,
and was also lounging headquarters for many of the officers from the
near-by fort, she experienced no difficulty in picking up all the
floating rumors. Out of these, with Irish shrewdness, she soon managed
to patch together a consistent fabric of fact.

“Shure, honey, it's not so bad the way they tell it now,” she explained,
consolingly. “Nobody belaves now it was yer father that got kilt. It was
two fellers what stole his outfit, clothes an' all, an' was drivin' off
wid 'em inter the sand hills. Divil a wan does know who kilt 'em, but
there's some ugly stories travellin' about. Some says Injuns; some says
the posse run 'em down; an' Black Bart an' his dirthy outfit, they swear
it was Keith. Oi've got me own notion. Annyhow, there's 'bout three
hundred dollars, some mules, an' a lot o' valyble papers missin'.”

“But if it wasn't father, where is he now?”

“That's what Oi've been tryin' ter foind out. First off he went out to
the Cimmaron Crossing, gyarded by a squad o' cavalry from the fort
here. Tommy Caine wint along, an' told me all about it. They dug up
the bodies, but niver a thing did they find on 'em--not a paper, nor
a dollar. They'd bin robbed all roight. The owld Gineral swore loike
a wild mon all the way back, Tommy said, an' the first thing he did
at Carson City was to start huntin' fer 'Black Bart.' He was two days
gittin' on the trail av him; then he heard the feller was gone away
trapsing after a singin' or dancin' gyurl called Christie Maclaire. She
was supposed to be ayther at Topeky or Sheridan. A freighter told the
owld man she was at Sheridan, an' so he started there overland, hopin'
ter head off 'Black Bart.' Oi reckon we could a towld mor 'n that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why shure, honey, what's the use tryin' ter decave me? Didn't Jack
Keith, wid his own lips, tell me ye was Christie Maclaire?”

“But I'm not! I'm not, Mrs. Murphy. I don't even know the woman. It is
such a strange thing; I cannot account for it--both those men mistook me
for her, and--and I let them. I didn't care who the man Hawley supposed
me to be, but I intended to have told Mr. Keith he was mistaken. I don't
know why I didn't, only I supposed he finally understood. But I want you
to believe, Mrs. Murphy--I am Hope Waite, and not Christie Maclaire.”

“It's little the loss to ye not ter be her, an' Oi'm thinkin' loikely
Jack Keith will be moighty well plased ter know the truth. What's 'Black
Bart' so ayger ter git hold av this Maclaire gyurl fer?”

“I do not in the least know. He must have induced me to go to that place
in the desert believing me to be the other woman. Yet he said nothing of
any purpose; indeed, he found no opportunity.”

Mrs. Murphy shook her head disparagingly.

“It was shure some divilment,” she asserted, stoutly. “He'll be up to
some thrick wid the poor gyurl; Oi know the loikes av him. Shure, the
two av yez must look as much aloike as two payes in a pod. Loikely now,
it's a twin sister ye've got?”

Hope smiled, although her eyes were misty.

“Oh, no; Fred and I were the only children; but what shall I do? What
ought I to do?”

The Irish mouth of Kate Murphy set firmly, her blue eyes burning.

“It's not sthrong Oi am on advisin',” she said, shortly, “but if it
was me Oi'd be fer foindin' out what all this mix-up was about. There's
somethin' moighty quare in it. It's my notion that Hawley's got hold av
thim papers av yer father's. The owld gint thinks so, too, an' that's
why he's so hot afther catchin' him. May the divil admoire me av Oi know
where this Maclaire gyurl comes in, but Oi'll bet the black divil has
get her marked fer some part in the play. What would Oi do? Be goory,
Oi'd go to Sheridan, an' foind the Gineral, an' till him all I knew.
Maybe he could piece it together, an' guess what Hawley was up ter.”

Hope was already upon her feet, her puzzled face brightening.

“Oh, that is what I wanted to do, but I was not sure it would be best.
How can I get there from here?”

“Ye'd

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