Keith of the Border by Randall ParrishA Tale of the Plains (page 2)

“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 Fe 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 reentered, 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–Minie 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 Fe 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 Fe 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 fidgetted 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 have ter take the stage back to Topeky; loikely they’d be runnin’ thrains out from there on the new road. It’ll be aisy fer me ter foind out from some av the lads down below.”

The only equipment operating into Sheridan was a construction train, with an old battered passenger coach coupled to the rear. A squad of heavily armed infantrymen rode along, as protection against possible Indian raiders, but there was no crowd aboard on this special trip, as all construction work had been suspended on the line indefinitely, and most of the travel, therefore, had changed to the eastward. The coach used had a partition run through it, and, as soon as the busy trainmen discovered ladies on board, they unceremoniously drove the more bibulous passengers, protesting, into the forward compartment. This left Hope in comparative peace, her remaining neighbors quiet, taciturn men, whom she looked at through the folds of her veil during the long, slow, exasperating journey, mentally guessing at their various occupations. It was an exceedingly tedious, monotonous trip, the train slackening up, and jerking forward, apparently without slightest reason; then occasionally achieving a full stop, while men, always under guard, went ahead to fix up some bit of damaged track, across which the engineer dared not advance. At each bridge spanning the numerous small streams, trainmen examined the structure before venturing forward, and at each stop the wearied passengers grew more impatient and sarcastic, a perfect stream of fluent profanity being wafted back whenever the door between the two sections chanced to be left ajar.

Hope was not the only woman on board, yet a glance at the others was sufficient to decide their status, even had their freedom of manner and loud talking not made it equally obvious. Fearful lest she might be mistaken for one of the same class, she remained in silence, her veil merely lifted enough to enable her to peer out through the grimy window at the barren view slipping slowly past. This consisted of the bare prairie, brown and desolate, occasionally intersected by some small watercourse, the low hills rising and falling like waves to the far horizon. Few incidents broke the dead monotony; occasionally a herd of antelope appeared in the distance silhouetted against the sky-line, and once they fairly crept for an hour through a mass of buffalo, grazing so close that a fusillade of guns sounded from the front end of the train. A little farther along she caught a glimpse of a troop of wild horses dashing recklessly down into a sheltering ravine. Yet principally all that met her straining eyes was sterile desolation. Here and there a great ugly water tank reared its hideous shape beside the track, the engine always pausing for a fresh supply. Beside it was invariably a pile of coal, a few construction cars, a hut half buried under earth, loop-holed and barricaded, with several rough men loafing about, heavily armed and inquisitive. A few of these points had once been terminal, the surrounding scenery evidencing past glories by piles of tin cans, and all manner of debris, with occasionally a vacant shack, left deserted and forlorn.

Wearied and heartsick, Hope turned away from this outside dreariness to contemplate more closely her neighbors on board, but found them scarcely more interesting. Several were playing cards, others moodily staring out of the windows, while a few wefe laughing and talking with the girls, their conversation inane and punctuated with profanity. One man was figuring on a scratch pad, and Hope decided he must be an engineer employed on the line; others she classed as small merchants, saloon- keepers, and frontier riff-raff. They would glance curiously at her as they marched up and down the narrow aisle, but her veil, and averted face, prevented even the boldest from speaking, Once she addressed the conductor, and the man who was figuring turned and looked back at her, evidently attracted by the soft note of her voice. But he made no effort at advances, returning immediately to his pad, oblivious to all else.

It was growing dusk, the outside world, now consisting of level plains, fading into darkness, with a few great stars burning overhead. Trainsmen lit the few smoking oil lamps screwed against the sides of the car, and its occupants became little more than dim shadows. All by this time were fatigued into silence, and several were asleep, finding such small comfort as was possible on the cramped seats. Hope glanced toward the heretofore noisy group at the rear–the girl nearest her rested with unconscious head pillowed upon the shoulder of her man friend, and both were sleeping. How haggard and ghastly the woman’s powdered face looked, with the light just above it, and all semblance of joy gone. It was as though a mask had been taken off. Out in the darkness the engine whistled sharply and then came to a bumping stop at some desert station. Through the black window a few lanterns could be seen flickering about, and there arose the sound of gruff voices speaking. The sleepers inside, aroused by the sharp stop, rolled over and swore, seeking easier postures. Then the front door opened, and slammed shut, and a new passenger entered. He came down the aisle, glancing carelessly at the upturned faces, and finally sank into the seat directly opposite Hope. He was a broad shouldered man, his coat buttoned to the throat, with strong face showing clearly beneath the broad hat brim and lighted up with a pair of shrewd, kindly eyes. The conductor came through, nodded at him, and passed on. Hope thought he must be some official of the road, and ventured to break the prolonged silence with a question:

“Could you tell me how long it will be before we reach Sheridan?”

She had partially pushed aside her veil in order to speak more clearly, and the man, turning at sound of her voice, took off his hat, his searching eyes quizzical.

“Well, no, I can’t, madam,” the words coming with a jerk. “For I’m not at all sure we’ll keep the track. Ought to make it in an hour, however, if everything goes right. Live in Sheridan?”

She shook her head, uncertain how frankly to answer.

“No loss to you–worst place to live in on earth–no exceptions–I know– been there myself three months–got friends there likely?”

“I hardly know,” she acknowledged doubtfully. “I think so, but I shall have to hunt some place in which to stay to-night. Can you tell me of some–some respectable hotel, or boarding house?”

The man wheeled about, until he could look at her more clearly.

“That’s a pretty hard commission, Miss,” he returned uneasily: “There may be such a place in Sheridan, but I have never found it. Old Mother Shattuck keeps roomers, but she won’t have a woman in the house. I reckon you ‘ll have to try it at the hotel–I’ll get you in there if I have to mesmerize the clerk–you’ll find it a bit noisy though.”

“Oh, I thank you so much. I don’t mind the noise, so it is respectable.”

He laughed, good humoredly.

“Well I don’t propose to vouch for that–the proprietor ain’t out there for his health–but, I reckon, you won’t have no serious trouble–the boys mostly know a good woman when they see one–which isn’t often–anyhow, they’re liable to be decent enough as long as I vouch for you.”

“But you know nothing of me.”

“Don’t need to–your face is enough–I’ll get you the room all right.”

She hesitated, then asked:

“Are you–are you connected with the railroad??’

“In a way, yes–I’m the contract surgeon–had to dig a bullet out of a water-tank tender back yonder–fellow howled as though I was killing him