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




His heart leaping with exultation, Keith put his lips close to the crack.

"Hope," he exclaimed as loudly as he dared. "This is Keith; open the
door."

He could hear a little smothered cry break from her lips, and then the
sound of a bar being hastily removed. An instant, and the door opened
silently, just wide enough to permit her slender figure to slip through.
She grasped him with her hands, turning his face to the light of the
stars, and he could feel her form tremble.

"Oh, I knew you would come! I knew you would come!" she sobbed, the words
barely audible.

The man's lips set firmly, yet he held her close to him, begging her not
to break down now.

"It's all right, little girl," he said pleadingly, "we've got you safe,
but there is a fight to be attended to. Come with me; I must ask you a
question or two."

He drew her back into the fringe of bushes, placing her safely behind the
stack of saddles. She was not crying any more, just clinging to him, as
though she could never again bear to let him go.

"Oh, Jack, it is so good just to feel you near again."

"Yes, dear," soothingly, "and it is good to hear you say Jack, but tell me
one thing--is any one else in the cabin? Is Hawley here?"

"No, no! He left us early the first morning. I haven't either seen or
heard of him since. The men have left me alone since we got here; I have
had the cabin all to myself until to-night. I have not suffered, only
mentally--from dread of what they intended doing with me--until to-night.
Three men rode in here just before sundown--two Mexicans and an Indian.
One of them was an awful looking old man, with a scar on his cheek, and a
face that made me shudder. He didn't see me, but I saw him through the
window, and he had such strange eyes. All the men acted as though they
were afraid of him, and I heard him say he didn't care what Hawley's
orders were, he was going to sleep inside; if the girl didn't like it she
could take the other room. I didn't know what to do--oh, I was so afraid
of him; but what he said gave me an idea, and I went into the back room,
and put up a bar across the door. When he came in he tried the door; then
he spoke through it, but I never answered; and finally he lay down and
went to sleep. I sat there in the dark so long, and when I heard you--I--I
thought it must be some of the others."

He stroked her hair, whispering words of encouragement.

"That is all done with now, Hope, and we'll have those fellows at our
mercy in another half-hour. But I must go now to the boys; lie down here
behind these saddles, and don't move until I come for you. I can trust you
to remain right here?"

"Yes." He was bending over, and her eyes were upon his face. Suddenly,
obeying an irresistible impulse, he clasped her to him, and their lips
met.

"Sweetheart," he whispered softly.

He could not hear her answer, but her arms were about his neck.




Chapter XXXV

The Cabin Taken



His heart beating with new happiness, yet conscious of the stern duty
still confronting him, Keith joined the others, giving them, in a whisper,
a hurried account of Hope's release from the cabin, and of what she had to
report.

"It's old Juan Sanchez in the front room, boys," he added soberly, "and
there is ten thousand dollars reward out for him, dead or alive."

Joe of the "Bar X" drew in his breath sharply.

"It'll sure be dead then," he muttered, "that cuss will never be got no
other way."

They went at it in the grim silent manner of the West, wasting little
time, feeling no mercy. One by one the unconscious sleepers were aroused,
each waking to find a steel barrel pressing against his forehead, and to
hear a stern voice say ominously, "Not a move, Johnny; yes, that's a gun;
now get up quietly, and step out here." Resistance was useless, and the
five, rendered weaponless, were herded back toward the corral. They all
belonged to Hawley's outfit; one, a black-whiskered surly brute Bristoe
remembered having seen in Sheridan. There was no time to deal with them
then, and a "Bar X" man was placed on guard, with orders to shoot at the
slightest suspicious movement.

The Indian, then, would be guarding the front of the house, and Sanchez
sleeping inside. Well, the former could be left alone; his chance of
escape would be small enough with Fairbain and Neb on the opposite bank.
Old Sanchez was the villain they wanted--dead or alive. With this in view,
and anxious to make a quick job of it, the three entered the back room,
and, revolvers in hand, groped their way across to the connecting door. As
Hope had described, this had been securely fastened by a stout wooden bar.
Bristoe forced it from the sockets, not without some slight noise, and
Keith, crouching down at one side, lifted the latch. "Keep down low,
boys," he cautioned, "where he can't hit you."

With one quick push he flung the door wide open, and a red flash lit the
room. There were two sharp reports, the bullets crashing into the wall
behind them, the sudden blaze of flame revealing the front door open, and
within it the black outline of a man's figure. Two of the men fired in
instant response, leaping recklessly forward, but were as quickly left
blind in the darkness, the outer door slammed in their faces. Outside
there was a snarl of rage, another shot, a fierce curse in Spanish; then
Keith flung the door wide open, and leaped down the step. As he did so he
struck a body, and fell forward, his revolver knocked from his hand.
Rising to his knees, the dim light of the stars revealed a man already
half across the stream. Suddenly two sparks of fire leaped forth from the
blackness of the opposite bank; the man flung up his hand, staggered, then
went stumbling up the stream, knee deep in water. He made a dozen yards,
reeling as though drunk, and fell forward, face down across a spit of
sand. Keith stared out at the black, motionless shape, felt along the
ground for his lost gun, and arose to his feet. Bristoe had turned over
the dead body at the foot of the steps, and was peering down into the
upturned face.

"It's the Indian," he said grimly, "Sanchez must 'a' mistook him fer one
of us, and shot the poor devil."

"And Sanchez himself is out yonder on that sand-spit," and Keith pointed;
then lifted his voice to make it carry across the stream. "Come on over,
Doctor, you and Neb. We've got the gang. Bring that body out there along
with you."

The "Bar X" man waded out to help, and the three together laid the dead
Mexican outlaw on the bank beside the Indian he had shot down in his
effort to escape. Keith stood for a moment bending low to look curiously
into the dead face--wrinkled, scarred, still featuring cruelty, the thin
lips drawn back in a snarl. What scenes of horror those eyes had gazed
upon during fifty years of crime; what suffering of men, women, children;
what deeds of rapine; what examples or merciless hate. Juan Sanchez!--the
very sound of the name made the blood run cold. "Dead or alive!" Well,
they had him at last--dead; and the plainsman shuddered, as he turned
away.

Taking Fairbain with him, and hastily reviewing late occurrences to him,
Keith crossed over to the corral, realizing that their work--his work--was
not wholly done until Hawley had been located. With this quest in mind he
strode straight to the black-bearded giant who had guarded Hope from
Sheridan.

"What is your name?" he asked sharply.

The man looked up scowling.

"Hatchett," he answered gruffly.

"Well, Hatchett, I am going to ask you a question or two, and advise you
to reply just about as straight as you know how. I am in no mood to-night
for any foolishness. Where is 'Black Bart' Hawley?"

"How in hell should I know?"

"You do know, just the same. Perhaps not to an inch, or a mile, but you
know near enough where he is, and where he has been since you left
Sheridan."

"If I do, I'm damned if I'll tell you."

"No? Well now, Hatchett, listen to me," and Keith's voice had in it the
click of a steel trap. "You'll either answer, and answer straight, or
we'll hang you to that cottonwood in about five minutes. If you want a
chance for your miserable life you answer me. We have our way of treating
your kind out in this country. Sit up, you brute! Now where did Hawley go
after he left you?"

"To Fort Larned."

"After those fresh horses?"

"Yes."

"He didn't bring them to you; I know that. Where has he been since?"

"Topeky and Leavenworth."

"How do you know?"

"He writ me a note the boss herder brought."

"Hand it over."

Keith took the dirty slip of paper the man reluctantly extracted from his
belt, and Fairbain lit matches while he ran his eyes hastily over the
lines. As he ended he crushed the paper between his fingers, and walked
away to the end of the corral. He wanted to be alone, to think, to decide
definitely upon what he ought to do. Hawley, according to the schedule
just read, must have left Larned alone early the day before; this night he
would be camped at the water-hole; with daybreak he expected to resume his
lonely journey across the desert to the Salt Fork. For years Keith had
lived a primitive life, and in some ways his thought had grown primitive.
His code of honor was that of the border, tinged by that of the South
before the war. The antagonism existing between him and this gambler was
personal, private, deadly--not an affair for any others--outsiders--to
meddle with. He could wait here, and permit Hawley to be made captive;
could watch him ride unsuspectingly into the power of these armed men, and
then turn him over to the law to be dealt with. The very thought nauseated
him. That would be a coward's act, leaving a stain never to be eradicated.
No, he must meet this as became a man, and now, now before Hope so much as
dreamed of his purpose--aye, and before he spoke another word of love to
Hope. He wheeled about fully decided on his course, his duty, and met
Fairbain face to face.

"Jack," the latter said earnestly, "I read the note over your shoulder,
and of course I know what you mean to do. A Southern gentleman could not
choose otherwise. But I've come here to beg you to let me have the
chance."

"You?" surprised and curious. "What greater claim on that fellow's life
have you than I?"

The pudgy hands of the doctor grasped the plainsman's shoulders.

"It's for Christie," he explained brokenly. "She was the one he tried to
run away with. You--you know how I feel."

"Sure, I know," shaking the other off, yet not roughly. "But it happened
to be Miss Waite he took, and so this is my job, Fairbain. Besides, I've
got another score to settle with him."

He wasted little time upon preparations,--a few brief words of instruction
to Bristoe; a request to the doctor not to leave Hope alone; the
extracting of a promise from the two "Bar X" men to return to Larned with
the prisoners. Then he roped the best horse in the corral, saddled and
bridled him, and went into the cabin. She had a light burning, and met him
at the door.

"I thought you would never come, but they told me you were unhurt."

"Not a scratch, little girl; we have been a lucky bunch. But I have had a
great deal to look after. Now I shall be obliged to ride ahead as far as
the water-hole, and let you come on with the others a little later, after
you get breakfast. You can spare me a few hours, can't you?"

His tone was full of good humor, and his lips smiling, yet somehow she
felt her heart sink, an inexplicable fear finding expression in her eyes.

"But--but why do you need to go? Couldn't some of the others?"

"There is a reason which I will explain later," he said, more gravely.
"Surely you can trust me, Hope, and feel that I am only doing what it
seems absolutely necessary for me to do?" He bent down, and kissed her.
"It will be only for a few hours, and no cause for worry. Good-bye now,
until we meet to-night at the water-hole."

The east was gray with coming daylight as he rode plashing across the
stream and up the opposite bank. She watched hint, rubbing the blinding
mist from her eyes, until horse and man became a mere dark speck, finally
fading away completely into the dull plain of the desert.




Chapter XXXVI

The Duel in the Desert



Keith rode straight forward into the sandy desolation, spurring his horse
into a swift trot. After one glance backward as they clambered up the
steep bank, a glance which revealed Hope's slender form in the cabin door,
his eyes never turned again that way. He had a man's stern work to do out
yonder, and his purpose could not be swerved, his firmness of hand and
keenness of eye affected, by any thought of her. His lips compressed, his
fingers gripping the rein, he drove all regretful memory from his mind,
until every nerve within him throbbed in unison with his present purpose.
He was right; he knew he was right. It was not hate, not even revenge,
which had sent him forth, leaving love behind, but honor--the honor of the
South, and of the frontier, of his ancestry and his training--honor that
drove him now to meet Hawley face to face, man to man, to settle the feud
between them for all time. And he rode smiling, gladly, as to a tryst, now
that he was at last alone, free in the desert.

The hours passed, the sun rising higher in the blazing blue of the sky;
the horse, wearied by the constant pull of the sand, had long since slowed
down to a walk; the last dim blur of the cottonwoods along the Fork had
disappeared; and the rider swayed in the saddle, the dead lifelessness of
sky and desert dulling his brain. Yet he had not forgotten his errand--
rousing constantly from lethargy to sweep his shaded eyes about the
rounded horizon, keenly marking the slightest shadow across the sands,
taking advantage of every drift to give him wider viewpoint, rising in his
stirrups to scan the leagues of desolation ahead. Twice he drew his
revolver from out its sheath, tested it, and slipped in a fresh cartridge,
returning the weapon more lightly to its place, the flap of the holster
turned back and held open by his leg. The sun beat upon him like a ball of
fire, the hot sand flinging the blaze back into his face. He pushed back
the upper part of his shirt, and drank a swallow of tepid water from a
canteen strapped behind the saddle. His eyes ached with the glare, until
he saw fantastic red and yellow shapes dancing dizzily before him. The
weariness of the long night pressed upon his eye-balls; he felt the strain
of the past hours, the lack of food, the need of rest. His head nodded,
and he brought himself to life again with a jerk and a muttered word,
staring out into the dim, formless distance. Lord, if there was only
something moving; something he could concentrate his attention upon;
something to rest the straining eyes!

But there was nothing, absolutely nothing--just that seemingly endless
stretch of sand, circled by the blazing sky, the wind sweeping its surface
soundless, and hot, as though from the pits of hell; no stir, no motion,
no movement of anything animate or inanimate to break the awful monotony.
Death! it was death everywhere! his aching eyes rested on nothing but what
was typical of death. Even the heat waves seemed fantastic, grotesque,
assuming spectral forms, as though ghosts beckoned and danced in the haze,
luring him on to become one of themselves. Keith was not a dreamer, nor
one to yield easily to such brain fancies, but the mad delirium of
loneliness gripped him, and he had to struggle back to sanity, beating his
hands upon his breast to stir anew the sluggish circulation of his blood,
and talking to the horse in strange feverishness.

With every step of advance the brooding silence seemed more profound, more
deathlike. He got to marking the sand ridges, their slight variations
giving play to the brain. Way off to the left was the mirage of a lake,
apparently so real that he had to battle with himself to keep from turning
aside. He dropped forward in the saddle, his head hanging low, so blinded
by the incessant sun glare he could no longer bear the glitter of that
horrible ocean of sand. It was noon now--noon, and he had been riding
steadily seven hours. The thought brought his blurred eyes again to the
horizon. Where could he be, the man he sought in the heart of this
solitude? Surely he should be here by now, if he had left the water-hole
at dawn. Could he have gone the longer route, south to the Fork? The
possibility of such a thing seared through him like a hot iron, driving
the dulness from his brain, the lethargy from his limbs. God! no! Fate
could never play such a scurvy trick as that! The man must have been
delayed; had failed to leave camp early--somewhere ahead, yonder where the
blue haze marked the union of sand and sky, he was surely coming, riding
half dead, and drooping in the saddle.

Again Keith rose in his stirrups, rubbing the mist out of his eyes that he
might see clearer, and stared ahead. What was that away out yonder? a
shadow? a spot dancing before his tortured vision? or a moving, living
something which he actually saw? He could not tell, he could not be sure,
yet he straightened up expectantly, shading his eyes, and never losing
sight of the object. It moved, grew larger, darker, more real--yet how it
crawled, crawled, crawled toward him. It seemed as if the vague, shapeless
thing would, never take form, never stand out revealed against the sky so
he could determine the truth. He had forgotten all else--the silent
aesert, the blazing sun, the burning wind--all his soul concentrated on
that speck yonder. Suddenly it disappeared--a swale in the sand probably--
and, when it rose into view again, he uttered a cry of joy--it was a horse
and rider!

Little by little they drew nearer one another, two black specks in that
vast ocean of sand, the only moving, living things under the brazen circle
of the sky. Keith was ready now, his eyes bright, the cocked revolver
gripped hard in his hand. The space between them narrowed, and Hawley saw
him, caught a glimpse of the face under the broad hat brim, the burning
eyes surveying him. With an oath he stopped his horse, dragging at his
gun, surprised, dazed, yet instantly understanding. Keith also halted, and
across the intervening desert the eyes of the two men met in grim
defiance. The latter wet his dry lips, and spoke shortly: "I reckon you
know what this means, Hawley, and why I am here. We're Southerners both of
us, and we settle our own personal affairs. You've got to fight me now,
man to man."

The gambler glanced about him, and down at his horse. If he thought of
flight it was useless. His lip curled with contempt.

"Damn your talking, Keith," he returned savagely. "Let's have it over
with," and spurred his horse. The gun of the other came up.

"Wait!" and Hawley paused, dragging at his rein. "One of us most likely is
going to die here; perhaps both. But if either survives he'll need a horse
to get out of this alive. Dismount; I'll do the same; step away so the
horses are out of range, and then we'll fight it out--is that square?"

Without a word, his eyes gleaming with cunning hatred, the gambler swung
down from his saddle onto the sand, his horse interposed between him and
the other. Keith did the same, his eyes peering across the back of his
animal.

"Now," he said steadily, "when I count three drive your horse aside, and
let go--are you ready?"

"Damn you--yes!"

"Then look out--one! two! three!"

The plainsman struck his horse with the quirt in his left hand, and sprang
swiftly aside so as to clear the flank of the animal, his shooting arm
flung out. There was a flash of flame across Hawley's saddle, a sharp
report, and Keith reeled backward, dropping to his knees, one hand
clutching the sand. Again Hawley fired, but the horse, startled by the
double report, leaped aside, and the ball went wild. Keith wheeled about,
steadying himself with his outstretched hand, and let drive, pressing the
trigger, until, through the haze over his eyes, he saw Hawley go stumbling
down, shooting wildly as he fell. The man never moved, and Keith
endeavored to get up, his gun still held ready, the smoke circling about
them. He had been shot treacherously, as a cowardly cur might shoot, and
he could not clear his mind of the thought that this last act hid
treachery also. But he could not raise himself, could not stand; red and
black shadows danced before his eyes; he believed he saw the arm of the
other move. Like a snake he crept forward, holding himself up with one
hand, his head dizzily reeling, but his gun held steadily on that black,
shapeless object lying on the sand. Then the revolver hand began to
quiver, to shake, to make odd circles; he couldn't see; it was all black,
all nothingness. Suddenly he went down face first into the sand.

They both lay motionless, the thirsty sand drinking in their life blood,
Hawley huddled up upon his left side, his hat still shading the glazing
eyes, Keith lying flat, his face in the crook of an arm whose hand still
gripped a revolver. There was a grim smile on his lips, as if, even as he
pitched forward, he knew that, after he had been shot to death, he had
gotten his man. The riderless horses gazed at the two figures, and drifted
away, slowly, fearfully, still held in mute subjection to their dead
masters by dangling reins. The sun blazed down from directly overhead, the
heat waves rising and falling, the dead, desolate desert stretching to the
sky. An hour, two hours passed. The horses were now a hundred yards away,
nose to nose; all else was changeless. Then into the far northern sky
there rose a black speck, growing larger and larger; others came from east
and west, beating the air with widely outspread wings, great beaks
stretched forward. Out from their nests of foulness the desert scavengers
were coming for their spoil.




Chapter XXXVII

At the Water-Hole



Up from the far, dim southwest they rode slowly, silently, wearied still
by the exertions of the past night, and burned by the fierce rays of the
desert sun. No wind of sufficient force had blown since Keith passed that
way, and they could easily follow the hoof prints of his horse across the
sand waste. Bristoe was ahead, hat brim drawn low, scanning the horizon
line unceasingly. Somewhere out in the midst of that mystery was hidden
tragedy, and he dreaded the knowledge of its truth. Behind him Fairbain,
and Hope rode together, their lips long since grown silent, the man ever
glancing uneasily aside at her, the girl drooping slightly in the saddle,
with pale face and heavy eyes. Five prisoners, lashed together, the
binding ropes fastened to the pommels of the two "Bar X" men's saddles,
were bunched together, and behind all came Neb, his black face glistening
in the heat.

Suddenly Bristoe drew rein, and rose to his full length in the stirrups,
shading his eyes from the sun's glare, as he stared ahead. Two motionless
black specks were visible--yet were they motionless? or was it the heat
waves which seemed to yield them movement? He drove in his spurs, driving
his startled horse to the summit of a low sand ridge, and again halted,
gazing intently forward. He was not mistaken--they were horses. Knowing
instantly what it meant--those riderless animals drifting derelict in the
heart of the desert--his throat dry with fear, the scout wheeled, and
spurred back to his party, quickly resolving on a course of action. Hawley
and Keith had met; both had fallen, either dead or wounded. A moment's
delay now might cost a life; he would need Fairbain, but he must keep the
girl back, if possible. But could he? She straightened up in the saddle as
he came spurring toward them; her eyes wide open, one hand clutching at
her throat.

"Doctor," he called as soon as he was near enough, his horse circling,
"thar is somethin' showin' out yonder I'd like ter take a look at, an' I
reckon you better go 'long. The nigger kin com' up ahead yere with Miss
Waite."

She struck her horse, and he plunged forward, bringing her face to face
with Bristoe.

"What is it? Tell me, what is it?"

"Nothin' but a loose hoss, Miss."

"A horse! here on the desert?" looking about, her eyes dark with horror.
"But how could that be? Could--could it be Captain Keith's?"

Bristoe cast an appealing glance at Fairbain, mopping his face vigorously,
not knowing what to say, and the other attempted to turn the tide.

"Not likely--not likely at all--no reason why it should be--probably just
a stray horse--you stay back here, Miss Hope--Ben and I will find out, and
let you know."

She looked at the two faces, realizing intuitively that they were
concealing something.

"No, I'm going," she cried, stifling a sob in her throat. "It would kill
me to wait here."

She was off before either might raise hand or voice in protest, and they
could only urge their horses in effort to overtake her, the three racing
forward fetlock deep in sand. Mounted upon a swifter animal Fairbain
forged ahead; he could see the two horses now plainly, their heads
uplifted, their reins dangling. Without perceiving more he knew already
what was waiting them there on the sand, and swore fiercely, spurring his
horse mercilessly, forgetful of all else, even the girl, in his intense
desire to reach and touch the bodies. He had begged to do this himself, to
be privileged to seek this man Hawley, to kill him--but now he was the
physician, with no other thought except a hope to save. Before his horse
had even stopped he flung himself from the saddle, ran forward and dropped
on his knees beside Keith, bending his ear to the chest, grasping the
wrist in his fingers. As the others approached, he glanced up, no
conception now of aught save his own professional work.

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