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







Chapter III

An Arrest



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I reckon yer don't know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What evidence is there?"

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

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

"Who swore out that warrant?"

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

"Who are you?"

"I'm mostly called 'Black Bart.'"

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

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

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

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




Chapter IV

An Old Acquaintance



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But what caused your arrest?"

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

"What became of the men you were working for?"

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




Chapter V

The One Way



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

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

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

"Yes."

"An' how far out was it?"

"About sixty miles."

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

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

Neb nodded, overcome by the discovery.

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

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

"But what was he so anxious to get away for?"

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

"The General? Whom do you mean? Not Waite?"

"John Sibley done called him dat."

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

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