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




She shook her head, uncertain how frankly to answer.

"No loss to you--worst place to live in on earth--no exceptions--I know--
been there myself three months--got friends there likely?"

"I hardly know," she acknowledged doubtfully. "I think so, but I shall
have to hunt some place in which to stay to-night. Can you tell me of
some--some respectable hotel, or boarding house?"

The man wheeled about, until he could look at her more clearly.

"That's a pretty hard commission, Miss," he returned uneasily: "There may
be such a place in Sheridan, but I have never found it. Old Mother
Shattuck keeps roomers, but she won't have a woman in the house. I reckon
you 'll have to try it at the hotel--I'll get you in there if I have to
mesmerize the clerk--you'll find it a bit noisy though."

"Oh, I thank you so much. I don't mind the noise, so it is respectable."

He laughed, good humoredly.

"Well I don't propose to vouch for that--the proprietor ain't out there
for his health--but, I reckon, you won't have no serious trouble--the boys
mostly know a good woman when they see one--which isn't often--anyhow,
they're liable to be decent enough as long as I vouch for you."

"But you know nothing of me."

"Don't need to--your face is enough--I'll get you the room all right."

She hesitated, then asked:

"Are you--are you connected with the railroad??'

"In a way, yes--I'm the contract surgeon--had to dig a bullet out of a
water-tank tender back yonder--fellow howled as though I was killing him
--no nerve--mighty poor stuff most of the riff-raff out here--ball wasn't
in much below the skin--Indian must have plugged him from the top of the
bluff--blame good shot too--ragged looking slug--like to see it?"

She shook her head energetically.

"Don't blame you--nothing very uncommon--get a dozen cases like it a day
sometimes--stay in Sheridan, show you something worth while--very pretty
surgical operation to-morrow--come round and get you if you care to see
it--got to open the stomach--don't know what I'll find--like to go?"

"Oh, no! I'm sure you mean it all kindly, but--but I would rather not."

"Hardly supposed you would--only knew one woman who cared for that sort of
thing much--she was nursing for me during the war--had a hare lip and an
eye like a dagger--good nurse though--rather have your kind round me--ever
nurse any? Could get you a dozen jobs in Sheridan--new prospects every
night--fifty dollars a week--what do you say?"

"But I'm not seeking work, Doctor," smiling in spite of her bewilderment.
"I have money enough with me."

"Well, I didn't know--thought maybe you wanted a job, and didn't like to
ask for it--have known 'em like that--no harm done--if you ever do want
anything like that, just come to me--my name's Fairbain--everybody knows
me here--operated on most of 'em--rest expect to be--Damn that engineer. I
don't believe he knows whether he's going ahead or backing up." He peered
out of the window, pressing his face hard against the glass. "I reckon
that's Sheridan he's whistling for now--don't be nervous--I'll see you
make the hotel all right."




Chapter XXI

The Marshal of Sheridan



It was called a depot merely through courtesy, consisting of a layer of
cinders, scattered promiscuously so as to partially conceal the underlying
mud, and a dismantled box car, in which presided ticket agent and
telegrapher. A hundred yards below was the big shack where the railroad
officials lodged. Across the tracks blazed invitingly the "First Chance"
saloon. All intervening space was crowded with men, surging aimlessly
about in the glare of a locomotive head light, and greeting the alighting
passengers with free and easy badinage. Stranger or acquaintance made no
difference, the welcome to Sheridan was noisily extended, while rough play
and hoarse laughter characterized the mass.

Hope paused on the step, even as Dr. Fairbain grasped her hand, dinned by
the medley of discordant sounds, and confused by the vociferous jam of
humanity. A band came tooting down the street in a hack, a fellow, with a
voice like a fog horn, howling on the front seat. The fellows at the side
of the car surged aside to get a glimpse of this new attraction, and
Fairbain, taking quick advantage of the opportunity thus presented, swung
his charge to the cinders below. Bending before her, and butting his great
shoulders into the surging crowd, he succeeded in pushing a passage
through, thus finally bringing her forth to the edge of the street.

"Hey, there," he said shortly, grabbing a shirt-sleeved individual by the
arm. "Where's Charlie?"

The fellow looked at him wonderingly.

"Charlie? Oh, you mean the 'Kid'? Well, he ain't here ter-night; had a
weddin', an' is totin' the bridal couple 'round."

Fairbain swore discreetly under his breath, and cast an uncertain glance
at the slender figure shrinking beside him. The streets of Sheridan were
not over pleasant at night.

"Only hack in town is somewhere else, Miss," he explained briefly. "I
reckon you and I will have to hoof it."

He felt the grip of her fingers on his sleeve.

"The boys are a little noisy, but it's just their way--don't mean
anything--you hang on to me, an' keep the veil down--we 'll be there in
the shake of a dog's tail."

He helped her over the muddy crossing, and as they reached a stretch of
board walk, began expatiating on the various places lining the way.

"That's the 'Mammoth' over there,--dance hall back of it--biggest thing
west of the Missouri--three men killed there last week--what for? Oh, they
got too fresh--that's the 'Casino,' and the one beyond is 'Pony Joe's
Place'--cut his leg off since I've been here--fight over a girl. Ain't
there any stores?--sure; they're farther back--you see the saloons got in
first--that's 'Sheeny Mike's' gambling joint you're looking at--like to go
over and see 'em play? All right, just thought I'd ask you--it's early
anyhow, and things wouldn't be goin' very lively yet. Say, there, you red
head, what are you trying to do?"

The fellow had lurched out of the crowd in such a manner as to brush
partially aside the girl's veil, permitting the glare of "Sheeny Mike's"
lights to fall full upon her revealed face. It was accomplished so openly
as to appear planned, but before he could reel away again, Fairbain struck
out, and the man went down. With an oath he was on his feet, and Hope
cowered back against her protector. Each man had weapons drawn, the crowd
scurrying madly to keep out of the line of fire, when, with a stride, a
new figure stepped quietly in between them. Straight as an arrow, broad
shouldered, yet small waisted as a woman, his hair hanging low over his
coat-collar, his face smooth shaven except for a long moustache, and
emotionless, the revolvers in his belt untouched, he simply looked at the
two, and then struck the revolver out of the drunken man's hand. It fell
harmless to the ground.

"And don't you pick it up until I tell you, Scott," he said quietly. "If
you do you've got to fight me."

Without apparently giving the fellow another thought, he wheeled and faced
the others.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Doctor? The drunken fool won't make any more
trouble. Where were you taking the lady?"

"To the hotel, Bill."

"I'll walk along with you. I reckon the boys will give us plenty of room."
He glanced over the crowd, and then more directly at Scott.

"Pick up your gun!" the brief words snapping out. "This is the second time
I've caught you hunting trouble. The next time you are going to find it. I
saw you run into the lady--what did you do it for?"

"I only wanted to see who she was, Bill."

"You needn't call me Bill. I don't trot in your class. My name is Hickock
to you. Was it any of your affair who she was?"

"I reckoned I know'd her, and I did."

The marshal turned his eyes toward Hope, and then back upon Scott,
evidently slightly interested.

"So? Recognized an old friend, I suppose?"

The slight sneer in "Wild Bill's" soft voice caused Scott to flame up in
sudden passion.

"No, I didn't! but I called the turn just the same--she's Christie
Maclaire."

The marshal smiled.

"All right, little boy," he said soberly. "Now you trot straight along to
bed. Don't let me catch you on the street again to-night, and I'd advise
you not to pull another gun--you're too slow on the trigger for this town.
Come along, Doctor, and we'll get Miss Maclaire to her hotel."

He shouldered his way through the collected crowd, the others following.
Hope endeavored to speak, to explain to Fairbain who she actually was,
realizing then, for the first time, that she had not previously given him
her name. Amidst the incessant noise and confusion, the blaring of brass,
and the jangle of voices, she found it impossible to make the man
comprehend. She pressed closer to him, holding more tightly to his arm,
stunned and confused by the fierce uproar. The stranger steadily pushing
ahead of them, and opening a path for their passage, fascinated her, and
her eyes watched him curiously. His name was an oddly familiar one,
associated in vague memory with some of the most desperate deeds ever
witnessed in the West, yet always found on the side of law and order; it
was difficult to conceive that this quiet-spoken, mild-eyed, gently
smiling man could indeed be the most famous gun fighter on the border,
hated, feared, yet thoroughly respected, by every desperado between the
Platte and the Canadian. Beyond the glare and glitter of the Metropolitan
Dance Hall the noisy crowd thinned away somewhat, and the marshal ventured
to drop back beside Fairbain, yet vigilantly watched every approaching
face.

"Town appears unusually lively to-night, Bill," observed the latter
gravely, "and the boys have got an early start."

"West end graders just paid off," was the reply. "They have been whoopin'
it up ever since noon, and are beginning to get ugly. Now the rest of the
outfit are showing up, and there will probably be something interesting
happening before morning. Wouldn't mind it so much if I had a single
deputy worth his salt."

"What's the matter with Bain?"

"Nothing, while he was on the job, but 'Red' Haggerty got him in 'Pony
Joe's' shebang two hours ago; shot him in the back across the bar. Ned
never even pulled his gun."

"I'm sorry to hear that; what became of Haggerty?"

The marshal let his eyes rest questioningly on the doctor's face for an
instant.

"Well, I happened to be just behind Ned when he went in," he said gently,
"and 'Red' will be buried on 'Boots Hill' to-morrow. I'm afraid I don't
give you much chance to show your skill, Doc," with a smile.

"If they all shot like you do, my profession would be useless. What's the
matter with your other deputies?"

"Lack of nerve, principally, I reckon; ain't one of 'em worth the powder
to blow him up. I'd give something just now for a fellow I had down at
Dodge--he was a man. Never had to tell him when to go in; good judgment
too; wasn't out hunting for trouble, but always ready enough to take his
share. Old soldier in our army, Captain I heard, though he never talked
much about himself; maybe you knew him--Jack Keith."

"Well, I reckon," in quick surprise, "and what's more to the point, he's
here--slept in my room last night."

"Keith here? In Sheridan? And hasn't even hunted me up yet? That's like
him, all right, but I honestly want to see the boy. Here's your hotel.
Shall you need me any longer?"

"Better step in with us, Bill," the doctor advised, "your moral influence
might aid in procuring the lady a decent room."

"I reckon it might."

They passed together up the three rickety steps leading into the front
hall, which latter opened directly into the cramped office; to the left
was the wide-open barroom, clamorous and throbbing with life. A narrow
bench stood against the wall, with a couple of half drunken men lounging
upon it. The marshal routed them out with a single, expressive gesture.

"Wait here with the lady, Fairbain," he said shortly, "and I'll arrange
for the room."

They watched him glance in at the bar, vigilant and cautious, and then
move directly across to the desk.

"Tommy," he said genially to the clerk. "I've just escorted a lady here
from the train--Miss Maclaire--and want you to give her the very best room
in your old shebang."

The other looked at him doubtfully.

"Hell, Bill, I don't know how I'm goin' to do that," acknowledged. "She
wrote in here to the boss for a room; said she'd be along yesterday. Well,
she didn't show up, an' so to-night we let a fellow have it. He's up there
now."

"Well, he'll have to vamose--who is he?"

"Englishman--'Walter Spotteswood Montgomery,'" consulting his book. "Hell
of a pompous duck; the boys call him 'Juke Montgomery.'"

"All right; send some one up to rout his lordship out lively."

Tommy shuffled his feet, and looked again at the marshal; he had received
positive orders about that room, and was fully convinced that Montgomery
would not take kindly to eviction. But Hickock's quiet gray eyes were
insistent.

"Here, 'Red,'" he finally called to the burly porter, "hustle up to '15,'
an' tell that fellow Montgomery he's got to get out; tell him we want the
room for a lady."

Hickock watched the man disappear up the stairs, helped himself carefully
to a cigar out of the stand, tossing a coin to the clerk and then
deliberately lighting up.

"Think Montgomery will be pleased?" he asked shortly.

"No; he'll probably throw 'Red' down stairs."

The marshal smiled, his glance turning expectantly in that direction.

"Then perhaps I had better remain, Tommy." And he strolled nonchalantly
over to the open window, and stood there looking quietly out, a spiral of
blue smoke rising from his cigar.

They could distinctly hear the pounding on the door above, and
occasionally the sound of the porter's voice, but the straight, erect
figure at the window remained motionless. Finally "Red" came down, nursing
his knuckles.

"Says he'll be damned if he will--says he's gone to bed, an' that there
ain't a cussed female in this blasted country he'd git up for," he
reported circumstantially to the clerk. "He told me to tell you to go
plumb to hell, an' that if any one else come poundin' 'round thar
to-night, he'd take a pot shot at 'em through the door. 'Fifteen' seemed a
bit peevish, sir, an' I reckoned if he was riled up much more, he might
git rambunctious; his language was sure fierce."

"Wild Bill" turned slowly around, still calmly smoking, his eyes
exhibiting mild amusement.

"Did you clearly inform Mr.--ah--Montgomery that we desired the room for
the use of a lady?" he questioned gently, apparently both pained and
shocked.

"I did, sir."

"It surprises me to find one in our city with so little regard for the
ordinary courtesies of life, Tommy. Perhaps I can persuade the gentleman."

He disappeared up the stairs, taking them deliberately step by step, the
cigar still smoking between his lips. "Red" called after him.

"Keep away from in front of the door, Bill; he'll shoot sure, for he
cocked his gun when I was up there."

Hickock glanced back, and waved his hand.

"Don't worry--the room occupied by Mr.--ah--Montgomery was '15,' I believe
you said?"

Whatever occurred above, it was over with very shortly. Those listening at
the foot of the stairs heard the first gentle rap on the door, an outburst
of profanity, followed almost instantly by a sharp snap, as if a lock had
given way, then brief scuffling mingled with the loud creaking of a bed.
Scarcely a minute later the marshal appeared on the landing above, one
hand firmly gripped in the neck-band of an undershirt, thus securely
holding the writhing, helpless figure of a man, who swore violently every
time he could catch his breath.

"Any other room you could conveniently assign Mr.--ah--Montgomery to,
Tommy?" he asked pleasantly. "If he doesn't like it in the morning, he
could be changed, you know."

"Give--give him '47.'"

"All right. I'm the bell-boy temporarily, Montgomery; easy now, my man,
easy, or I'll be compelled to use both hands. 'Red,' carry the gentleman's
luggage to '47'--he has kindly consented to give up his old room to a
lady--come along, Montgomery."

It was possibly five minutes later when he came down, still smoking, his
face not even flushed.

"Montgomery is feeling so badly we were obliged to lock him in," he
reported to the clerk. "Seems to be of a somewhat nervous disposition.
Well, good-night, Doctor," he lifted his hat. "And to you, Miss, pleasant
dreams."

Hope watched him as he stepped outside, pausing a moment in the shadows to
glance keenly up and down the long street before venturing down the steps.
This quiet man had enemies, hundreds of them, desperate and reckless;
ceaseless vigilance alone protected him. Yet her eyes only, and not her
thoughts, were riveted on the disappearing marshal. She turned to
Fairbain, who had risen to his feet.

"I wish I might see him, also," she said, as though continuing an
interrupted conversation.

"See him? Who?"

"Mr. Keith. I--I knew him once, and--and, Doctor, won't you tell him I
should like to have him come and see me just--just as soon as he can."




Chapter XXII

An Interrupted Interview



Miss Christie Maclaire, attired in a soft lounging robe, her luxuriant
hair wound simply about her head, forming a decidedly attractive picture,
gazed with manifest dissatisfaction on the bare walls of her room, and
then out through the open window into the comparatively quiet street
below. The bar-tender at the "Palace," directly opposite, business being
slack, was leaning negligently in the doorway. His roving eyes caught the
fair face framed in the window, and he waved his hand encouragingly. Miss
Christie's big brown eyes stared across at him in silent disgust, and then
wandered again about the room, her foot tapping nervously on the rag
carpet.

"It's my very last trip to this town," she said decisively, her red lips
pressed tightly together.

Miss Maclaire had indeed ample reason to feel aggrieved over her
reception. She had written to have the best apartment in the house
reserved for her, and then, merely because she had later been invited out
to Fort Hays, and was consequently a day behind in arrival, had discovered
that another woman--a base imposter, actually masquerading under her name
--had been duly installed in the coveted apartment. Driving in from the
fort that morning, accompanied by two of the more susceptible junior
officers, conscious that she had performed most artistic work the evening
before in the spacious mess-hall, and feeling confident of comfortable
quarters awaiting her, it had been something of a shock to be informed by
the perturbed clerk that "15" was already occupied by another. "A lady
what come in last night, and I naturally supposed it was you."

In vain Miss Maclaire protested, ably backed by the worshipful officers
who still gallantly attended her; the management was obdurate. Then she
would go up herself, and throw the hussy out. Indeed, too angry for
bantering further words, Christie had actually started for the stairs,
intending to execute her threat, when the perspiring Tommy succeeded in
stopping her, by plainly blurting out the exact truth.

"Don't you ever do it," he insisted. "The marshal brought her in here, and
fired a fellow out o' the room so as to give it to her. He'd clean out
this house if we ran in a cold deck on a friend o' his."

"What do I care for what your marshal does?"

"But he's Bill Hickock, Miss, 'Wild Bill.'"

Miss Maclaire leaned back against the stair-rail, her eyes turning from
Tommy to her speechless supporters. Slowly the truth seemed to penetrate
her brain.

"Oh," she gasped at last. "Then--then what else can you give me?"

The officers had long since departed, promising, however, to remain over
in town and hear her again that night at the Trocadero, with hints as to a
late supper; she had received a call from the manager of that most popular
resort, and had rendered his life miserable by numerous demands; had
passed half an hour practising with the leader of the orchestra; but now
was at last alone, tired, decidedly irritable, and still tempted to invade
"15," and give that other woman a piece of her mind. Then someone rapped
on the door. There was a decided accent of vexation in the voice which
bade the one outside enter, but the lady's mood changed swiftly as her
brown eyes perceived standing in the doorway the erect form of Keith, the
light from the window revealing clearly his strong face. The man stood hat
in hand, bowing slightly, unable to comprehend why he should have been
sent for, yet marvelling again at the remarkable resemblance between this
woman and that other whom he had left at Fort Larned. As Miss Maclaire
stood with back toward the window, she presented the same youthful
appearance, the same slenderness of figure, the same contour of face.

"Miss Christie Maclaire?" he asked, as though in doubt.

"Yes," graciously, won instantly by the man's appearance and manner, "you
wished to see me? Will you be seated?"

He crossed the narrow room to the stiff-backed chair indicated, and the
lady sank negligently down into her own, resting her head against a
pillow, and regarding him expectantly. He could view her now much more
distinctly, observing the slight difference in age, the fuller lips, the
darker shade of the hair, and the varied expression of the eyes. It was as
if a different soul looked forth from the same face. He had never before
realized how little, apparently trifling, details marked the human
countenance, and, embarrassed by her own scrutiny, his glance swept about
the room. Misunderstanding this shifting of eyes, Miss Christie sought to
place the man more at ease.

"The room is a perfect fright," she observed briskly, "but what can one
expect in these mushroom towns? Really I had never been here before, or I
shouldn't have come. They pay good money though for talent, and we all
have to live, you know. Are--are you in professional work?"

He shook his head, smiling, somewhat perplexed at his reception.

"Really I didn't suppose you were," she went on, "you don't look it. But
there are so many who come to me to help them, that I have grown
suspicious of every stranger. May I ask why you desired to see me?"

Another suspicion had taken possession of her mind, for the men of that
section were never backward in exhibiting admiration, yet somehow this man
did not seem exactly of that kind.

"I came merely because I was sent for, Miss Maclaire," he replied, his
gray eyes once again upon her face. "Doctor Fairbain gave me your message;
I am Jack Keith."

She looked the complete astonishment she felt, sitting up in the chair,
her eyes filled with questioning doubt.

"Doctor Fairbain! My message! Surely you are mistaken? I know no one of
that name, and have sent no message."

"You did not express a desire to see me?"

She laughed, exhibiting a row of white teeth.

"Certainly not; not until this moment was I even of the existence of Mr.
Jack Keith."

His own eyes smiled in response to the challenge of hers.

"I can assure you the surprise was mine also," he hastened to inform her,
now more at ease, as he grasped the situation. "I could not understand how
I had become known to you, yet I pledge you my word the message was
actually brought. Of course you may suspicion otherwise, for I have seen
you on the stage, and being a normal man, have wished that I could devise
some excuse for meeting you."

"Indeed!" her eye-brows slightly uplifted.

"Yes, I make that confession frankly, yet this call comes from no such
desire. I had no question when I came, but what I had been sent for--you
will believe this?"

"I suppose I must, yet it seems very peculiar," she replied, feeling
convinced that he was a gentleman, and troubled as to what she had best
do. "Yet now that you have discovered your mistake--"

"I hope to take advantage of the opportunity," he broke in firmly, leaning
slightly forward. "May I ask you a question?"

"I could hardly prevent it, and really I do not know that I have anything
to conceal."

"Then I will risk the effort--do you know a man named Hawley?--Bartlett
Hawley?"

Her eyes did not falter, although a red spot shot into her cheeks, and her
lips pressed together.

"No; that is I have never met him," she acknowledged, just a trifle
confused. "But I have received two letters signed by that name, and rather
expected the gentleman would call upon me here in Sheridan during my
engagement. Is that your mission? Were you sent by him? or are you Mr.
Hawley?"

"I disclaim all relation, Miss Maclaire, even friendship. You, of course,
know who this individual is?"

"No," the short monosyllable was not encouraging. "His messages were of a
business character."

"So I presumed, yet one likes to know something even of the person he does
business with. I have been acquainted with Hawley for several years, and
have never been aware of any honorable business he has ever engaged in. He
is a professional gambler, known on the frontier as 'Black Bart'; last
night he was running a faro game across there in the 'Palace.' I cannot
help wondering what kind of business such a fellow could possibly have
with you, Miss Maclaire."

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.