A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Keith of the Border

R >> Randall Parrish >> Keith of the Border




Sheridan was seemingly dead, the long street silent, gloomy, black, except
for those streams of saloon light shining across pools of water. He
stumbled over the irregular ground, occasionally striking patches of
wooden sidewalk or a strip of cinders. Here and there a tent flapped in
the wind, which drove the drizzle into his face; somewhere ahead a
swinging sign moaned as if in agony. A few wanderers ploughed through the
muck, dim uncertain shapes appearing and vanishing in the gloom. He had
gone a block and over, the struggle against the elements leaving him
forgetful of all else, when a man reeled out of some dimly lit shack to
his right, and staggered drunkenly forward a few feet in advance. He could
barely distinguish the fellow's outlines, giving little thought to the
occurrence, for the way was unusually black along there, the saloon
opposite having shades drawn. Suddenly a flash of red fire spurted into
the night, with a sharp report. It was so close at hand it blinded him,
and he flung up one arm over his eyes, and yet, in that single instant, he
perceived the whole picture as revealed by the red flame. He saw the man
in front go down in a heap, the projection of the building from behind
which the shot came, the end of a wagon sticking forth into the street
which had concealed the assassin. The blinding flash, the shock of that
sudden discharge, for a moment held him motionless; then he leaped
forward, revolver in hand, sprang around the end of the wagon, and rushed
down the dark alley between two buildings. He could see nothing, but
someone was running recklessly ahead of him, and he fired in the direction
of the sound, the leaping spurt of flame yielding a dim outline of the
fugitive. Three times he pressed the trigger; then there was nothing to
shoot at--the fellow had faded away into the black void of prairie. Keith
stood there baffled, staring about into the gloom, the smoking revolver in
his hand. The sound of men's voices behind was all that reached him, and
feeling the uselessness of further pursuit, he retraced his way back
through the narrow passage.

A group was gathered about the body in the rain, a single lantern
glimmering. Two or three men had started down the passageway, and Keith
met them, revolvers drawn and suspicious.

"Who are you?" snapped one sharply. "Were you doing all that shooting
yonder?"

Keith recognized the voice, thankful that he did so.

"I fired at the fellow, but he got away onto the prairie. I reckon you
couldn't have done any better, Bill."

"Jack Keith!" and Hickock's voice had a new tone, his hand dropping on the
other's shoulder. "Never was gladder to meet a fellow in my life. Boys,
this is an old deputy of mine down in Dodge. When he gives up chasin' a
murderer there isn't much use our tryin'. Let's go back, and find out how
bad the fellow is hurt. While we're feelin' our way, Jack, you might tell
us what you know about this affair."

"It was just the flash of a gun, and the man dropped," Keith explained,
briefly. "I was ten or a dozen feet behind, and the fellow fired from
under the wagon there. He must have been laying for some one--I reckon,
maybe, it was me."

"You? Then it's likely you have some notion who he was?"

"Well, if I have, Bill," and Keith's lips were set tight, "I'm not liable
to tell you. If it's the lad I think likely, I'll attend to the case
myself. You understand--this is my personal affair."

Hickock nodded, his hand again pressing the other's shoulder

"Sure, Jack, if you feel that way. There's enough in Sheridan to keep a
marshal reasonably busy, without dippin' into private matters. I rather
reckon you can take care of yourself, but if you need me, old boy I'm
always right here on the job. You know that."

"I do, Bill, and appreciate it."

The group about the motionless body fell away, and made room for the
marshal, the last man to rise saying soberly:

"He's dead all right, Hickock. I guess he never knew what hit him. Good
shootin', too, dark as it is here."

"Had the range fixed, likely," returned the marshal. "That's what makes it
look like it was arranged for."

He bent down, striving to distinguish the dead man's features turned up to
the drizzle, but the night revealed the faintest outline.

"Anybody know him?" There was no response, only a shuffling of feet in the
mud. "Here you man with the lantern, hold it over where I can see. There,
that is better. Now, you fellows take a look, and see if some of you can't
name the poor devil."

They glanced down, one after the other, over Bill's shoulder, shading
their eyes from the rain so as to see clearer. The light of the flickering
lantern streamed full on the ghastly face, but each man shook his head,
and passed on. Keith hung back, hoping some one would identify the body,
and not make it necessary for him to take part in the grewsome task. It
was not likely to be any one he knew, and besides, he felt the man had
died in his stead, and he dreaded to look upon the stricken face. When the
last of the group had drifted back out of the radius of light, Hickock
looked up, and saw him.

"Here, Jack," he said, gravely, "you better try--you might know him."

Keith bent over, and looked down. As he did so his heart seemed to rise
choking into his throat, and a blur obscured his sight. He swept a hand
over his eyes and dropped on his knees into the mud beside the body,
staring speechless into the white face, the sightless eyes. Hickock
watching him closely, and gripped his arm.

"What is it? Do you know him?"

"My God, yes; Fred Willoughby!"




Chapter XXV

A Reappearance of the General



Keith did not inform Hope of her brother's death until the following
morning, but had the body properly prepared for burial, and devoted the
remainder of the night to searching for General Waite and, incidentally,
for both Hawley and Scott. Both Hickock and Fairbain assisted in this
effort to learn the whereabouts of the dead boy's father, but without the
slightest result, nor did Keith's investigations reveal the gambler at any
of his accustomed resorts, while Scott had apparently made a complete get-
away. These disappearances merely served to convince him as to the truth
of his first suspicions; Scott might have departed for good, but Hawley
would certainly reappear just so soon as assured his name had not been
mentioned in connection with the tragedy. To Neb alone did the plainsman
candidly confide his belief in the guilt of these two, and when other
duties called him elsewhere, he left the negro scouring the town for any
possible reappearance of either.

Heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, heavy-hearted with his message, yet fully
decided as to what advice he should offer, Keith returned to the hotel,
and requested an interview with Hope. Although still comparatively early,
some premonition of evil had awakened the girl, and in a very few moments
she was prepared to receive her visitor. A questioning glance into his
face was sufficient to assure her of unpleasant news, but, with one quick
breath, she grasped his arm as though his very presence afforded her
strength.

"How tired you look! Something has occurred to keep you out all night--
and--and I know you have brought me bad news. Don't be afraid to tell me;
I can bear anything better than suspense. Is it about father?"

"No, Hope," and he took her hand, and led her to a chair. Bending above
her he gave her the whole story of the night, and she scarcely interrupted
with a question, sitting there dry-eyed, with only an occasional sob
shaking her slender form. As he ended, she looked up into his face, and
now he could see a mist of unshed tears in her eyes.

"What shall I do, Captain Keith? I am all alone with this, except for
you."

"I have considered that, Hope," he answered, gravely, "and it seems to me
your present duty is more to the living than the dead. You should remain
here until we learn something definite regarding your father, and discover
the truth of this conspiracy formed against him. If Fred could know the
trouble his chance words have caused, he would wish you to do this. With
him gone, we are going to find the unravelling harder than ever. It is my
judgment, Hope, your brother should be buried here."

She shuddered, her hands pressed to her eyes.

"Oh, on that horrible 'Boots Hill'?"

"Only temporarily, little girl," his voice full of deepest sympathy. "In a
few weeks, perhaps, it could be removed East."

She was silent for what seemed to him a long while; then she looked up
into his face, clinging to his arm.

"Yes," she said, "that will be best."

That same afternoon, the sun low in the west, they placed the dead boy in
his shallow grave on "Boots Hill." It was a strange funeral, in a strange
environment--all about the barren, deserted plains; far away to the east
and west, the darker line marking the railroad grade, and just below,
nestled close in against the foot of the hill, the squalid town of tents
and shacks. There were not many to stand beside the open grave, for few in
Sheridan knew the lad, and funerals were not uncommon--some cronies, half-
drunk and maudlin, awed somewhat by the presence of the marshal, Doctor
Fairbain, Keith, and Hope. That was all excepting the post chaplain from
Fort Hays, who, inspired by a glimpse of the girl's unveiled face, spoke
simple words of comfort. It was all over with quickly, and with the red
sun still lingering on the horizon, the little party slowly wended their
way back, down the steep trail into the one long street of Sheridan.

At the hotel Neb was waiting, the whites of his eyes shining with
excitement, his pantomime indicating important news. As soon as he could
leave Hope, Keith hurried down to interview his dusky satellite, who
appeared about to burst with restrained information. As soon as uncorked
that individual began to flow volubly:

"I sho' done seed 'em, Massa Jack; I done seed 'em both."

"Both? Both who?"

"Massa Waite, sah, an' dat black debble dat we was huntin' fo'. It was a
mos' surprisin' circumstance, sah--a mos' surprisin' circumstance."

"Well, go on; where did you see them? Do you mean they were together?"

The negro took a long breath, evidently overcome by the importance of his
message, and unable to conjure up words wholly satisfactory to his ideas.

"It sho' am de strangest t'ing, Massa Jack, ebber I prognosticated. I was
jest comin' roun' de corner ob Sheeny Joe's shebang, back dar by de
blacksmith shop, when--de Lawd save me!--yere come ol' Massa Waite, a
ridin' 'long on a cream colo'd pinto just as much alibe as ebber he was.
Yas, sah; he's whiskers was blowin' round, an' I could eben yeah him
cussin' de hoss, when he done shy at a man what got up sudden like from a
cart-wheel he was settin' on. I done took one look at dat secon' fellar,
and seed it was dat black debble from down Carson way. Den I ducked inter
de blacksmith shop out 'er sight. I sho' didn't want Mister Hawley to git
no chance at dis nigger--I sho' didn't."

"Did they speak to one another?" Keith asked, anxiously. "Did you hear
what was said?"

"Sho' dey talked, Massa Jack. I sorter reckon dey was dar for dat special
purpose. Sutt'nly, sah, dey went right at talkin' like dey hed som't'ing
on dey minds. Ol' Massa Waite was a sittin' straight up on de hoss, an'
dat black debble was a standin' dar in front ob him. Ol' Massa Waite he
was mad from de first jump off, an' I could heah most eberyt'ing he said,
but Mr. Hawley he grin de same way he do when he deal faro, an' speaks
kinder low. De ol' man he swear fine at him, he call him eberyt'ing--a
damn liar, a damn scoundrel--but Mr. Hawley he jest grin, and say ober de
same ting."

"What was that, Neb?"

"Som't'ing 'bout a gal, Massa Jack--an' a law suit--an' how de ol' man
better settle up widout no fightin'. I jest didn't git de whole ob it, he
talked so low like."

"What did Waite say?"

"Well, mostly he jest cussed. He sho' told dat black debble 'bout what he
thought ob him, but he didn't nebber once call him Hawley--no, sah, not
once; he done call him Bartlett, or somet'ing or odder like dat. But he
sutt'nly read dat man's pedigree from way back to de time ob de flood, I
reck'n. An' he done swore he'd fight for whatebber it was, papers or no
papers. Den Hawley, he got plumb tired ob de ol' man swearin' at him, an'
he grabbed a picter out ob he's pocket, an' says, 'Damn you; look at dat!
What kind ob a fight can yo' make against dat face?' De ol' man stared at
it a while, sorter chokin' up; den he say softer like: 'It's Hope; where
did yo' ebber get dat?' and de black debble he laughed, an' shoved de
picter back into he's pocket. 'Hope, hell!' he say, 'it's Phyllis, an'
I'll put her before any jury yo're mind to get--oh, I've got yo' nailed,
Waite, dis time.'"

"Was that all?"

"De ol' gin'ral he didn't seem ter know what ter say; he done set dar
lookin' off ober de prairie like he was clar flumegasted. He sho' did look
like dat black debble hed hit him mighty hard. Den he says slow like,
turnin' his hoss 'round: 'Bartlett, yo' am puttin' up a good bluff, but,
by Gawd, I'm goin' ter call yo'. Yo' don't get a cent ob dat money 'less
yo' put up de proof. I'll meet yo' whar yo' say, but ef I can git hol' ob
some papers dat's missin' I'll take dat grin off yo' face.' De odder one
laughed, an' de ol' gin'ral started fo' ter ride away, den he pull up he's
hoss, an' look back. 'Yo' sorter herd wid dat kind ob cattle, Bartlett,'
he say, sharp like, 'maybe yo' know a gambler roun' yere called Hawley?'
De black debble nebber eben lose he's grin. 'Do yo' mean Black Bart
Hawley?' 'Dat's the man, where is he?' 'Dealin' faro fo' Mike Kenna in
Topeka a week ago--friend ob yours?' 'Dat's none ob yo' damned business,'
snorted de ol' gin'ral, givin' his hoss de spur. Sho', Massa Jack, he
nebber knowed he was talkin' ter dat same Hawley, an' dat black debble
jest laughed as he rode off."

"When was all this, Neb?"

"'Bout de time yo' all went up on de hill, I reck'n. I done come right
yere, and waited."

Keith walked across the room, selected a cigar, and came back, his mind
busy with the problem. Hawley had in some manner, then, got into
communication with Waite, and was threatening him. But Waite evidently
knew the man under another name--his given name--and the gambler had sent
him off on a false trail. The lost papers apparently contained the
solution to all this mystery. Waite believed Hawley possessed them, but
did not suspect that Bartlett and Hawley were the same person. What would
he most naturally do now? Seek Hawley in Topeka probably; seize the first
opportunity of getting there. Keith turned impatiently to the clerk.

"Any train running east?"

"Well, they generally start one out every day,", with a glance toward the
clock, "'long 'bout this time. Maybe it's gone, and maybe it hasn't."

It was already nearly dark outside as the two men hastened toward the
depot. They arrived there barely in time to see the red lights on the last
car disappear. No inquiries made of those lounging about brought results--
they had been interested in a lot of drunken graders loaded on the flat
cars by force, and sent out under guard--and not one could tell whether
any man answering Waite's description was in the single passenger coach.
Convinced, however, that the General would waste no time in prosecuting
his search, Keith believed him already on his way east, and after
dismissing Neb, with instructions to watch out closely for Hawley, he made
his own way back to the hotel.

It seemed strange enough how completely he was blocked each time, just as
he thought the whole baffling mystery was about to be made clear. Hawley
was playing in rare luck, all the cards running easily to his hand, thus,
at least, gaining time, and strengthening his position. There could no
longer be any doubt that the gambler possessed some knowledge which made
him a formidable adversary. From Waite's statement it was the loss of the
papers which left him helpless to openly resist the claim being made upon
him on behalf of the mysterious Phyllis. His only hope, therefore, lay in
recovering these; but, with time limited, he had been sent back on a wild
goose chase, while Keith alone knew, with any degree of positiveness,
where those documents really were. Hawley certainly had them in his
possession the day before, for he had taken them to Miss Maclaire to thus
convince her as to the truth of his statements. And Hawley was still in
Sheridan. However, it was not likely the man would risk carrying documents
of such value, and documents connecting him so closely with that murder on
the Santa Fé Trail, about upon his person. At best, life was cheap in that
community, and Black Bart must possess enemies in plenty. Yet if not on
his person--where? Scott was only a tool, a mere ignorant desperado, not
to be trusted to such a degree--yet apparently he was the only one working
with the gambler in this deal, the only one cognizant as to his plans.
Christie--Keith came to a stop in the street at the recurrence of the
woman's name. Why not? If she had been convinced, if she really believed
that these papers proved her right to both property and parentage, then
she would guard them as a tigress does her young. And Hawley would know
that, and must realize they would be far safer in her hands than in his
pocket. She could not use them without his aid and guidance, and yet,
whatever happened to him, they would still be safely beyond reach. True,
this might not have been done; the gambler might not yet have felt that he
had sufficient hold upon the woman to trust her thus far, but it was, at
least, a possibility to be considered, and acted upon.

Still wrestling with the intricate problem, Keith entered the dining-room,
and weaved his way, as usual, through the miscellaneous crowd, toward the
more exclusive tables at the rear. A woman sat alone at one of these, her
back toward the door. His first thought was that it must be Hope, and he
advanced toward her, his heart throbbing. She glanced up, a slight frown
wrinkling her forehead, and he bowed, recognizing Christie Maclaire.




Chapter XXVI

A Chance Conversation



The opportunity thus so unexpectedly afforded was not one to be wasted,
and Keith accepted it with swift determination. The expression in the
woman's face was scarcely one of welcome, yet his purpose was sufficiently
serious to cause him to ignore this with easy confidence in himself.

"I am, indeed, most fortunate to discover you alone, Miss Maclaire," he
said, avoiding her eyes by a swift glance over the table, "and evidently
at a time when you are only beginning your meal. May I join you?"

She hesitated for an instant, debating with herself, and as quickly
deciding on disagreeable tactics.

"I presume this is a public table, and I consequently have little choice
in the matter, if you insist," she replied, her voice more civil than her
words. "Still, Mr. Keith, I am not accustomed to associating with
criminals."

He smiled, holding his temper in check, more than ever determined to win.

"Then, possibly, you may rather welcome a new diversion. I can assure you
our criminals out here are the most interesting portion of our population.
I wish I might have your permission."

Standing there before her, bare-headed, his slightly tanned face strong
and manly, his gray eyes filled with humor, Miss Maclaire recognized again
that he was not of the common herd, and the innate coquetry of her nature
obtained mastery. What harm could it do for her to chat with him for half
an hour? It was better than eating a lonely meal, and, besides, she might
learn something of value to report to Hawley. Her own eyes brightened, the
slight frown disappearing.

"You are certainly an illustration of your theory," she said pleasantly.
"I shall have to say yes, but, really, I did not suppose you would enjoy
being ranked among that class."

He drew out a chair, and sat down facing her, leaning slightly forward
upon the intervening table.

"Nor would I, only I recognize you do not comprehend. The source of your
information is a bit polluted, Miss Maclaire. There are those whose good
opinion I do not seek, and you should not form your decisions on the
unsupported testimony of a personal enemy."

"Oh, indeed," rather resenting the words, and already regretful of her
compliance. "Surely I have as much reason to trust my informant as I have
you. He, at least, has proven himself a friend."

"I wish I could feel as fully assured of that as you do," he returned
honestly. "I would then have every temptation to meddle further taken away
from me. Do you realize that my interest is very largely upon your
account?"

"Oh, no," laughing, "I couldn't believe that. I--I have heard it whispered
it might be because of the other girl."

"The other girl!" in complete surprise at this swift return.

"Yes, sir," conscious of having attained the upper hand. "Miss Hope
Waite."

"Some more of Mr. Hawley's fancies," he retorted, perplexed that so much
should be suspected. "Have you seen her?"

"Why, of course. I am a woman, Mr. Keith, with all the natural curiosity
of my sex. In this case I had special reason to be interested. One does
not meet her counterpart every day."

"The resemblance between you is certainly most striking."

"Sufficiently so," she said slowly, her eyes on his face, "to abundantly
confirm in my mind the truth of all that has been told me."

The waiter approached with the orders, and the two remained in silence
until he had deposited his load upon the table, and departed. She was
watching the face opposite through lowered lashes that veiled her eyes,
but Keith was first to break the stillness.

"I wish I might be told what that was."

"To what do you refer?" apparently forgetful as to where their
conversation had been broken.

"To Hawley's proposition."

"No doubt," her lips smiling, "but you have come to the wrong market, Mr.
Jack Keith."

"Yet," he insisted earnestly, "if this is all straight, with no fraud
concealed anywhere, if you have the proofs in your hands, why are you
afraid to talk openly? The very manner in which Hawley works should
convince you he is himself afraid to face the truth."

"No, you are wrong. There are perfectly satisfactory reasons why we should
for the present keep our plans secret. There are details yet to be decided
upon, and Mr. Hawley's present objection to publicity is only ordinary
prudence."

She leaned toward him, her fingers playing nervously with a knife.

"Mr. Keith, I cannot help but like you, and I also feel most kindly
disposed toward Mr. Hawley. I wish in this I was no longer compelled to
consider you an enemy to us both. There is no reason why I should, except
for your blind prejudice against this other man who is my friend. I know
you have some cause, for he has told me the entire story, yet I am sure he
did no more than his actual duty. He let me realize how very sorry he was
that the marshal at Carson City had called upon him for assistance."

"Who? Hawley?" Keith questioned, hardly trusting his own ears.

"Yes; indeed he is a very different man from what you have been led to
believe. I know he is a gambler, and all that, but really it is not
altogether his fault. He told me about his life, and it was very sad. He
was driven from home when only a boy, and naturally drifted into evil
company. His one ambition is, to break away, and redeem himself. I am so
anxious to help him, and wish you could realize his purpose, as I do, and
become his friend. Won't you, for my sake? Why, even in this affair he has
not the slightest mercenary purpose--he has only thought of what was
rightfully mine."

Keith listened, feeling to the full the woman's earnestness, the
impossibility of changing her fixed conviction. Hawley had planted his
seed deep and well in fruitful soil.

"You make a strong and charming advocate, Miss Maclaire," he returned,
feeling the necessity of saying something. "I should like to have you
equally earnest on my side. Yet it will be hard to convince me that 'Black
Bart' is the paragon of virtue you describe. I wish I might believe for
your sake. Did he also explain how he came into possession of these
papers?"

"Oh, yes, indeed; there is no secret about that. They were entrusted to
him by an old man whom he discovered sick in Independence, and who died in
his rooms three years ago. Mr. Hawley has been searching ever since for
the old man's grand-daughter. It is remarkable how he was finally
convinced that I was the one."

"A photograph, was it not?"

A gleam of sudden suspicion appeared in the brown eyes, a slight change in
facial expression.

"That was a clue, yes, but far from being all. But why should I tell you
this?--you believe nothing I say."

"I believe that you believe; that you are fully convinced of the justice
of your claim. Perhaps it is just, but I am suspicious of anything which
Bart Hawley has a hand in. Miss Christie, you really make me wish to
retain your friendship, but I cannot do so if the cost includes faith in
Hawley. Do you know that is not even his name--that he lives under an
alias?"

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