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Keith of the Border

R >> Randall Parrish >> Keith of the Border




"Is--is Fred with you?" she questioned, doubtfully.

"No; he's with another party riding farther west," the man's eyes
surveying her with manifest approval. "You are certainly looking fine
to-night, my girl. It's difficult to understand how I ever managed to keep
away from you so long."

She flushed to the hair, her lips trembling at the open boldness of his
tone.

"I--I prefer you would not speak like that," she protested.

"And why not?" with a light laugh. "Come, Christie, such fine airs are a
trifle out of place. If I didn't know you were a concert hall artist, I
might be more deeply impressed. As it is, I reckon you've heard love words
before now."

"Mr. Hawley, I have trusted you as a gentleman. I never came here except
on your promise to bring me to my brother," and she stood erect before
him. "You have no right to even assume that I am Christie Maclaire."

"Sure not; I don't assume. I have seen that lady too often to be mistaken.
Don't try on that sort of thing with me--I don't take to it kindly.
Perhaps a kiss might put you in better humor."

He took a step forward, as though proposing to carry out his threat, but
the girl stopped him, her eyes burning with indignation.

"How dare you!" she exclaimed passionately, all fear leaving her in sudden
resentment. "You think me alone here and helpless; that you can insult me
at your pleasure. Don't go too far, Mr. Hawley. I know what you are now,
and it makes no difference what you may think of me, or call me; you 'll
find me perfectly able to defend myself."

"Oh, indeed!" sneeringly, "you are melodramatic; you should have been an
actress instead of a singer. But you waste your talent out here on me. Do
you imagine I fear either you, or your precious brother? Why, I could have
him hung to-morrow."

She was staring at him with wide open eyes, her face white.

"What--what do you mean? What has Fred done?"

He was cold and sarcastic.

"That makes no difference; it is what I could induce men to swear he had
done. It's easy enough to convict in this country, if you only know how. I
simply tell you this, so you won't press me too hard. Puritanism is out of
place west of the Missouri, especially among ladies of your profession.
Oh, come, now, Christie, don't try to put such airs on with me. I know who
you are, all right, and can guess why you are hunting after Fred
Willoughby. I pumped the boy, and got most of the truth out of him."

"You--you have seen him, then, since you left me," she faltered,
bewildered, "and didn't bring him here with you?"

"Why should I?" and the man stepped forward, his eyes on her, his hands
twitching with a desire to clasp her to him, yet restrained by some
undefinable power. "While I believed your brother story, I could have
played the good Samaritan most beautifully, but after I talked with
Willoughby I prefer him at a distance."

"My brother story! Do you mean to insinuate you doubt his being my
brother? He told you that?"

"He gave up the whole trick. You can't trust a kid like that, Christie. A
couple of drinks will loosen his tongue, and put you in wrong. Come, now,
I know it all; be reasonable."

Apparently the girl had lost her power of speech, staring blindly at the
face of the man before her, as a bird meets the slow approach of a snake.
Keith could see her lips move, but making no sound. Hawley evidently
interpreted her silence as hesitation, doubt as to his real meaning.

"You see where you are at now, Christie," he went on swiftly. "But you
don't need to be afraid. I'm going to be a friend to you, and you can be
mighty glad you got rid of Willoughby so easily. Why, I can buy you
diamonds where he couldn't give you a calico dress. Come on, let's stop
this foolishness. I took a liking to you back there in the stage, and the
more I've thought about you since the crazier I've got. When I succeeded
in pumping Willoughby dry, and discovered you wasn't his sister at all,
why that settled the matter. I came down here after you. I love you, do
you understand that? And, what's more, I intend to have you!"

He reached out, and actually grasped her, but, in some manner, she tore
loose, and sprang back around the end of the table, her cheeks flushed,
her eyes burning.

"Don't touch me! don't dare touch me!" she panted. "You lie; Fred
Willoughby never told you that. If you come one step nearer, I'll scream;
I'll call your men here; I'll tell them the kind of a cur you are."

He laughed, leaning over toward her, yet hesitating, his eyes full of
admiration. Her very fierceness appealed to him, urged him on.

"Oh, I wouldn't! In the first place they probably wouldn't hear, for they
are camped down in the corral. I suspected you might be something of a
tigress, and preferred to fight it out with you alone. Then, even if they
did hear, there would be no interference--I've got those fellows trained
too well for that. Come on, Christie; you're helpless here."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are."

He took a step toward her, his hands flung out. With one quick movement
she sprang aside and extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into instant
darkness. A few red coals glowed dully in the fireplace, but all else was
dense blackness. Keith heard the movements of Hawley, as he felt his way
uncertainly along the table, swearing as he failed to find the girl. Then,
like a shadow, he glided through the partly open door into the room.




Chapter XI

The Fight in the Dark



Had the room been filled with men Keith could have restrained himself no
longer. Whatever her past might be, this woman appealed to him strangely;
he could not believe evil of her; he would have died if need be in her
defence. But as it was, the ugly boast of Hawley gave confidence in the
final outcome of this struggle in the dark, even a possibility of escape
for them all. The gambler, assured of being confronted merely by a frail
and not over-scrupulous woman, had ventured there alone; had stationed his
men beyond sound; had doubtless instructed them to ignore any noise of
struggle which they might overhear within. It was these very arrangements
for evil which now afforded opportunity, and Keith crept forward, alert
and ready, his teeth clenched, his hands bare for contest. Even although
he surprised his antagonist, it was going to be a fight for life; he knew
"Black Bart," broad-shouldered, quick as a cat, accustomed to every form
of physical exercise, desperate and tricky, using either knife or gun
recklessly. Yet it was now or never for all of them, and the plainsman
felt no mercy, experienced no reluctance. He reached the table, and
straightened up, silent, expectant. For an instant there was no further
sound; no evidence of movement in the room. Hawley, puzzled by the
silence, was listening intently in an endeavor to thus locate the girl
through some rustling, some slight motion. A knife, knocked from the
table, perhaps, as she slipped softly past, fell clattering to the floor,
and the gambler leaped instantly forward. Keith's grip closed like iron on
his groping arm, while he shot one fist out toward where the man's head
should be. The blow glanced, yet drove the fellow backward, stumbling
against the table, and Keith closed in, grappling for the throat. The
other, startled by the unexpected attack, and scarcely realizing even yet
the nature of his antagonist, struggled blindly to escape the fingers
clawing at him, and flung one hand down to the knife in his belt. Warned
by the movement, the assailant drove his head into the gambler's chest,
sending him crashing to the floor, falling himself heavily upon the
prostrate body. Hawley gave utterance to one cry, half throttled in his
throat, and then the two grappled fiercely, so interlocked together as to
make weapons useless. Whoever the assailant might be, the gambler was
fully aware by now that he was being crushed in the grasp of a fighting
man, and exerted every wrestler's trick, every ounce of strength, to break
free. Twice he struggled to his knees, only to be crowded backward by
relentless power; once he hurled Keith sideways, but the plainsman's
muscles stiffened into steel, and he gradually regained his position.
Neither dared release a grip in order to strike a blow: neither had
sufficient breath left with which to utter a sound. They were fighting for
life, silently, desperately, like wild beasts, with no thought but to
injure the other. The gambler's teeth sank into Keith's arm, and the
latter in return jammed the man's head back onto the puncheon floor
viciously. Perspiration streamed from their bodies, their fingers
clutching, their limbs wrapped together, their muscles strained to the
utmost. Keith had forgotten the girl, the negro, everything, dominated by
the one passion to conquer. He was swept by a storm of hatred, a desire to
kill. In their fierce struggle the two had rolled close to the fireplace,
and in the dull glow of the dying embers, he could perceive a faint
outline of the man's face. The sight added flame to his mad passion, yet
he could do nothing except to cling to him, jabbing his fingers into the
straining throat.

The negro ended the affair in his own way, clawing blindly at the
combatants in the darkness, and finally, determining which was the enemy,
he struck the gambler with the stock of his gun, laying him out
unconscious. Keith, grasping the table, hauled himself to his feet,
gasping for breath, certain only that Hawley was no longer struggling. For
an instant all was blank, a mist of black vapor; then a realization of
their situation came back in sudden flood of remembrance. Even yet he
could see nothing, but felt the motionless figure at his feet.

"Quick," he urged, the instant he could make himself speak. "The fellow is
only stunned; we must tie and gag him. Is that you, Neb? Where is the
girl?"

"I am here, Captain Keith," and he heard the soft rustle of her dress
across the room. "What is it I may do?"

"A coil of rope, or some straps, with a piece of cloth; anything you can
lay hands on."

She was some moments at it, confused by the darkness, and Hawley moved
slightly, his labored breathing growing plainly perceptible. Keith heard
her groping toward him, and held out his hands. She started as he thus
unexpectedly touched her, yet made no effort to break away.

"You--you frightened me a little," she confessed. "This has all happened
so quickly I hardly realize yet just what has occurred."

"The action has only really begun," he assured her, still retaining his
hold upon her hand. "This was merely a preliminary skirmish, and you must
prepare to bear your part in what follows. We have settled Mr. Hawley for
the present, and now must deal with his gang."

"Oh, what would I have done if you had not been here?"

"Let us not think about that; we were here, and now have a busy night
before us if we get away safely. Give me the rope first. Good! Here, Neb,
you must know how to use this,--not too tight, but without leaving any
play to the arms; take the knife out of his belt. Now for the cloth, Miss
Maclaire."

"Please do not call me that!"

"But you said it didn't make any difference what I called you."

"I thought it didn't then, but it does now."

"Oh, I see; we are already on a new footing. Yet I must call you
something."

She hesitated just long enough for him to notice it. Either she had no
substitute ready at hand, or else doubted the advisability of confiding
her real name under present circumstances to one so nearly a stranger.

"You may call me Hope."

"A name certainly of good omen," he returned. "From this moment I shall
forget Christie Maclaire, and remember only Miss Hope. All right, Neb; now
turn over a chair, and sit your man up against it. He will rest all the
easier in that position until his gang arrive."

He thrust his head out of the door, peering cautiously forth into the
night, and listening. A single horse, probably the one Hawley had been
riding, was tied to a dwarfed cottonwood near the corner of the cabin.
Nothing else living was visible.

"I am going to round up our horses, and learn the condition of Hawley's
outfit," he announced in a low voice. "I may be gone for fifteen or twenty
minutes, and, meanwhile, Miss Hope, get ready for a long ride. Neb, stand
here close beside the door, and if any one tries to come in brain him with
your gun-stock. I'll rap three times when I return."

He slipped out into the silent night, and crept cautiously around the end
of the dark cabin. The distinct change in the girl's attitude of
friendship toward him, her very evident desire that he should think well
of her, together with the providential opportunity for escape, had left
him full of confidence. The gambler had played blindly into their hands,
and Keith was quick enough to accept the advantage. It was a risk to
himself, to be sure, thus turning again to the northward, yet the clear
duty he owed the girl left such a choice almost imperative. He certainly
could not drag her along with him on his flight into the wild Comanche
country extending beyond the Canadian. She must, at the very least, be
first returned to the protection of the semi-civilization along the
Arkansas. After that had been accomplished, he would consider his own
safety. He wondered if Hope really was her name, and whether it was the
family cognomen, or her given name. That she was Christie Maclaire he had
no question, yet that artistic embellishment was probably merely assumed
for the work of the concert hall. Both he and Hawley could scarcely be
mistaken as to her identity in this respect, and, indeed, she had never
openly denied the fact. Yet she did not at all seem to be that kind, and
Keith mentally contrasted her with numerous others whom he had somewhat
intimately known along the border circuit. It was difficult to associate
her with that class; she must have come originally from some excellent
family East, and been driven to the life by necessity; she was more to be
pitied than blamed. Keith held no puritanical views of life--his own
experiences had been too rough and democratic for that--yet he clung
tenaciously to an ideal of womanhood which could not be lowered. However
interested he might otherwise feel, no Christie Maclaire could ever find
entrance into the deeps of his heart, where dwelt alone the memory of his
mother.

He found the other horses turned into the corral, and was able, from their
restless movements, to decide they numbered eight. A fire, nearly
extinguished, glowed dully at the farther corner of the enclosure, and he
crawled close enough to distinguish the recumbent forms of men sleeping
about it on the ground. Apparently no guard had been set, the fellows
being worn out from their long ride, and confident of safety in this
isolated spot. Besides, Hawley had probably assumed that duty, and told
them to get whatever sleep they could. However, the gate of the corral
opened beside their fire, and Keith dare not venture upon roping any of
their ponies, or leading them out past where they slept. There might be
clippers in the cabin with which he could cut the wires, yet if one of the
gang awoke, and discovered the herd absent, it would result in an alarm,
and lead to early pursuit. It was far safer to use their own ponies. He
would lead Hawley's horse quietly through the water, and they could mount
on the other shore. This plan settled, he went at it swiftly, riding the
captured animal while rounding up the others, and fastening the three to
stunted trees on the opposite bank. Everything within the cabin remained
exactly as he had left it, and he briefly explained the situation,
examining Hawley's bonds again carefully while doing so.

"He'll remain there all right until his men find him," he declared,
positively, "and that ought to give us a good six hours' start. Come, Miss
Hope, every minute counts now."

He held her arm, not unconscious of its round shapeliness, as he helped
her down the rather steep bank through the dense gloom. Then the two men
joined hands, and carrying her easily between them, waded the shallow
stream. The horses, not yet sufficiently rested to be frisky, accepted
their burdens meekly enough, and, with scarcely a word spoken, the three
rode away silently into the gloom of the night.




Chapter XII

Through the Night Shadows



Keith had very little to guide him, as he could not determine whether this
mysterious cabin on the Salt Fork lay to east or west of the usual cattle
trail leading down to the Canadian. Yet he felt reasonably assured that
the general trend of the country lying between the smaller stream and the
valley of the Arkansas would be similar to that with which he was already
acquainted. It was merely a wild stretch of sandy desolation, across which
their horses would leave scarcely any trail, and even that little would be
quickly obliterated by the first puff of wind. As they drew in toward the
river valley this plain would change into sand dunes, baffling and
confusing, but no matter how hard they pressed forward, it must be
daylight long before they could hope to reach these, and this would give
him opportunity to spy out some familiar landmark which would guide them
to the ford. Meanwhile, he must head as directly north as possible,
trusting the horses to find footing.

It was plains instinct, or rather long training in the open, which enabled
him to retain any true sense of direction, for beyond the narrow fringe of
cotton-woods along the stream, nothing was visible, the eyes scarcely
able even to distinguish where earth and sky met. They advanced across a
bare level, without elevation or depression, yet the sand appeared
sufficiently solid, so that their horses were forced into a swinging lope,
and they seemed to fairly press aside the black curtain, which as
instantly swung shut once more, and closed them in. The pounding hoofs
made little noise, and they pressed steadily onward, closely bunched
together, so as not to lose each other, dim, spectral shadows flitting
through the night, a very part of that grim desolation surrounding them.
No one of the three felt like speaking; the gloomy, brooding desert
oppressed them, their vagrant thoughts assuming the tinge of their
surroundings; their hope centred on escape. Keith rode, grasping the rein
of the woman's horse in his left hand, and bending low in vain effort at
picking a path. He had nothing to aim toward, yet sturdy confidence in his
expert plainscraft yielded him sufficient sense of direction. He had noted
the bark of the cottonwoods, the direction of the wind, and steered a
course accordingly straight northward, alert to avert any variation.

The girl rode easily, although in a man's saddle, the stirrups much too
long. Keith glanced aside with swift approval at the erectness with which
she sat, the loosened rein in her hand, the slight swaying of her form. He
could appreciate horsemanship, and the easy manner in which she rode
relieved him of one anxiety. It even caused him to break the silence.

"You are evidently accustomed to riding, Miss Hope."

She glanced across at him through the darkness, as though suddenly
surprised from thought, her words not coming quickly.

"I cannot remember when I first mounted a horse; in earliest childhood,
surely, although I have not ridden much of late. This one is like a
rocking chair."

"He belonged to your friend, Mr. Hawley."

She drew a quick breath, her face again turned forward.

"Who--who is that man? Do you know?"

"I possess a passing acquaintance," he answered, uncertain yet how much to
tell her, but tempted to reveal all in test of her real character. "Few do
not who live along the Kansas border."

"Do you mean he is a notoriously bad character?"

"I have never heard of his being held up as a model to the young, Miss
Hope," he returned more soberly, convinced that she truly possessed no
real knowledge regarding the man, and was not merely pretending innocence.
"I had never heard him called Hawley before, and, therefore, failed to
recognize him under that respectable name. But I knew his voice the moment
he entered the cabin, and realized that some devilment was afoot. Every
town along this frontier has his record, and I've met him maybe a dozen
times in the past three years. He is known as 'Black Bart'; is a gambler
by profession, a desperado by reputation, and a cur by nature. Just now I
suspect him of being even deeper in the mire than this."

He could tell by the quick clasping of her hands on the pommel of the
saddle the effect of his words, but waited until the silence compelled her
to speak.

"Oh, I didn't know! You do not believe that I ever suspected such a thing?
That I ever met him there understanding who he was?"

"No, I do not," he answered. "What I overheard between you convinced me
you were the victim of deceit. But your going to that place alone was a
most reckless act."

She lifted her hand to her eyes, her head drooping forward.

"Wasn't it what he told me--the out-station of a ranch?"

"No; I have ridden this country for years, and there is no ranch pasturing
cattle along the Salt Fork. Miss Hope, I want you to comprehend what it is
you have escaped from; what you are now fleeing from. Within the last two
years an apparently organized body of outlaws have been operating
throughout this entire region. Oftentimes disguised as Indians, they have
terrorized the Santa Fé trail for two hundred miles, killing travellers in
small parties, and driving off stock. There are few ranches as far west as
this, but these have all suffered from raids. These fellows have done more
to precipitate the present Indian war than any act of the savages. They
have endeavored to make the authorities believe that Indians were guilty
of their deeds of murder and robbery. Both troops and volunteers have
tried to hold the gang up, but they scatter and disappear, as though
swallowed by the desert. I have been out twice, hard on their trail, only
to come back baffled. Now, I think accident has given me the clue."

She straightened up; glancing questioningly at him through the darkness.

"That is what I mean, Miss Hope. I suspect that cabin to be the rendezvous
of those fellows, and I half believe Hawley to be their leader."

"Then you will report all this to the authorities?"

He smiled grimly, his lips compressed.

"I hardly think so; at least, not for the present. I am not blood-thirsty,
or enamored of man-hunting, but I happen to have a personal interest in
this particular affair which I should prefer to settle alone." He paused,
swiftly reviewing the circumstances of their short acquaintance, and as
suddenly determining to trust her discretion. Deep down in his heart he
rather wanted her to know. "The fact of the matter is, that Neb and I here
were the ones that particular posse were trailing."

"You!" her voice faltered. "He said those men were under arrest for
murder, and had broken jail."

"He also said it was easy to convict men in this country if you only knew
how. It is true we broke jail, but only in order to save our lives; it was
the only way. Technically, we are outlaws, and now run the risk of
immediate re-arrest by returning north of the Arkansas. We came to you
fugitives; I was charged with murder, the negro with assault. So, you see,
Miss Hope, the desperate class of men you are now associating with."

The slight bitterness in his tone stung the girl into resentment. She was
looking straight at him, but in the gloom he could not discern the
expression of her eyes.

"I don't believe it," she exclaimed decisively, "you--you do not look
like that!"

"My appearance may be sufficient to convince you," he returned, rather
dryly, "but would weigh little before a Western court. Unfortunately, the
evidence was strong against me; or would have been had the case ever come
to a trial. The strange thing about it was that both warrants were sworn
out by the same complainant, and apparently for a similar purpose--'Black
Bart' Hawley."

"What purpose?"

"To keep us from telling what we knew regarding a certain crime, in which
either he, or some of his intimate friends, were deeply interested."

"But it would all come out at the trial, wouldn't it?"

"There was to be no trial; Judge Lynch settles the majority of such cases
out here at present. It is extremely simple. Listen, and I will tell you
the story."

He reviewed briefly those occurrences leading directly up to his arrest,
saying little regarding the horrors of that scene witnessed near the
Cimmaron Crossing, but making sufficiently clear his very slight
connection with it, and the reason those who were guilty of the crime were
so anxious to get him out of the way. She listened intently, asking few
questions, until he ended. Then they both looked up, conscious that dawn
was becoming gray in the east. Keith's first thought was one of relief--
the brightening sky showed him they were riding straight north.




Chapter XIII

The Ford of the Arkansas



They were still in the midst of the yellow featureless plain, but the
weary horses had slowed down to a walk, the heavy sand retarding progress.
It was a gloomy, depressing scene in the spectral gray light, a wide
circle of intense loneliness, unbroken by either dwarfed shrub or bunch of
grass, a barren expanse stretching to the sky. Vague cloud shadows seemed
to flit across the level surface, assuming fantastic shapes, but all of
the same dull coloring, imperfect and unfinished. Nothing seemed tangible
or real, but rather some grotesque picture of delirium, ever merging into
another yet more hideous. The very silence of those surrounding wastes
seemed burdensome, adding immeasurably to the horror. They were but specks
crawling underneath the sky--the only living, moving objects in all that
immense circle of desolation and death.

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