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Keith of the Border

R >> Randall Parrish >> Keith of the Border



Produced by Curtis A. Weyant




Keith of the Border

A Tale of the Plains

By Randall Parrish

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



CONTENTS



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



Keith of the Border

A Tale of the Plains



Chapter I

The Plainsman



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of all the blame fools!"




Chapter II

The Scene of Tragedy



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

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

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

"Of all the blame fools!"

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

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

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

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

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

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