Keith of the Border by Randall Parrish

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The woman's eyes flashed, hardening in their brown depths.

"What right have you to ask?" she began indigently. "I am capable of
deciding my own affairs. As I have told you I have never met Mr. Hawley,
but I am not to be influenced against him merely by the denunciation of an
avowed enemy. He has written me of something he has discovered which is of
deep personal interest to me, and has promised to tell me the details, as
well as place within my hands certain necessary papers."

"I appreciate your feelings," he said gently, as she paused, "but would
you mind telling me the nature of those papers?"

There was something in Keith's face which told of honesty, and inspired
confidence. Miss Maclaire's worldly experience had given her deep insight
into the character of men, and somehow, as she looked into the clear gray
eyes, she felt impelled to answer, a vague doubt of the unknown Hawley in
her mind.

"They--they were papers to establish identity. He had discovered them by
accident; they have to do with an inheritance. Really that is all I know,
for he wrote very briefly, stating it would be safer to confer with me
personally--only I imagine there is a large sum involved."

"From whose estate?"

"My grandfather's."

"And his name was?"

"Why--why, Mr. Keith, actually I do not know. It may seem strange, but--
but I cannot even tell the names of my parents; I cannot remember either
my father or mother. Oh, I do not know why I should tell you all this! Who
are you, really? Why do you ask me such questions?"

He leaned forward, touched by the woman's emotion. "Miss Maclaire," he
said gravely. "I am not prying into your life needlessly, but am
endeavoring to serve you as well as others. Hawley may indeed possess
papers of great value, but if so they were not found by accident, but
stolen from the body of a murdered man. These papers may possibly refer to
you, but if so Hawley himself does not believe it--he has simply chosen
you to impersonate the right party because of physical resemblance."

"Resemblance to whom?"

"To a young woman, a Miss Hope."

"But how do you know this? Why should you be interested? Are you a
detective?"

"No, I am not a detective, but I cannot explain to you my interest. I am
trying to serve you, to keep you from being drawn into a plot--"

"Rather to keep me from learning the truth, Mr. Jack Keith," she burst
forth, rising to her feet indignantly. "You are here trying to prejudice
me against Mr. Hawley. He is your enemy, and you have come to me stabbing
him in the back for revenge. That is your interest. Well, I am going to
see the man, and consider what he has to say. I don't care half so much
about the money as I do to find out who I am. If he can throw any light on
my early life, on my parentage, I shall be the happiest woman in the
world. I am sorry I told you anything--but I am going to see him just the
same. Perhaps he might tell me something about you."

They were both standing, the woman's eyes flashing angrily, defiantly, her
hands clinched. Keith, realizing the false position into which he had
drifted, hesitated to answer. He meant to tell her the whole story and
urge her to cooperate with him in learning the gambler's purpose. The
woman impressed him as honest at heart, in spite of her life and
environment; she was not one whom a swindler could easily dupe into
becoming a tool.

"Miss Maclaire," he began, determined on his course, "listen to me for
just a moment. I am--"

There was a rap at the door. The eyes of both turned that way, and then
Keith backed slowly into the darkened corner beyond the window, his right
hand thrust into the pocket of his coat. Miss Maclaire observed the
movement, her lips smiling, a red flush on either cheek. Then she stepped
across the root, and opened the door. Framed against the black background
of the hall, his dark, rather handsome face clearly revealed as he fronted
the window, his black, audacious eyes fixed appreciatingly upon the lady,
stood "Black Bart" Hawley. He saw no one but her, realized no other
presence, had no thought except to make a good impression. He was facing a
beautiful woman, whom he sought to use, and he bowed low, hat in hand.

"Miss Maclaire," he said, pleasantly, "I trust you will pardon all that
has occurred between us, and permit me to explain."

"I--I do not understand," she replied, puzzled by these unexpected words.
"There has nothing occurred between us, I am sure, which requires
explanation. Have we met before?"

The man smiled. Seeing the woman's face in the shadows he was still
convinced she was the same he had last parted with on the Salt Fork.
However, if she preferred to ignore all that, and begin their relations
anew, it was greatly to his liking. It gave him insight into her
character, and fresh confidence that he could gain her assistance. Anyhow,
he was ready enough to play her game.

"Let us assume not," just the slightest trace of mockery in the tone, "and
begin anew. At least, you will confess the receipt of my letters--I am
Bartlett Hawley."

She cast a half-frightened glance toward Keith, and the man, following the
direction of her eyes, perceived the presence of the other. His right leg
went backward, his hand dropping to the belt, his form stiffening erect.
Keith's voice, low but clear in the silence, seemed to cut the air.

"Not a motion, Hawley! I have you covered."

"Oh, gentlemen, please don't!"

"Have no fear, Miss Maclaire; this man and I will settle our differences
elsewhere, and not in your presence." He stepped forth into the middle of
the room, revolver drawn, but held low at the hip, his watchful eyes never
deserting the gambler's face.

"Back up against the wall, Hawley," he commanded. "I hardly need to tell
you how I shoot, for we, at least, have met before. Now, I'm going out,
and leave you to your interview with Miss Maclaire, and I wish you
happiness and success."

He moved across to the opening, keeping his face toward his adversary;
then backed out slowly, closed the door with a snap, and sprang aside to
avoid any possibility of a bullet crashing after him. No sound of movement
from within reached his ears, however, and he walked silently to the head
of the stairs.

Chapter XXIII

An Unexpected Meeting

Keith paused at the landing, looking down into the deserted office,
almost tempted to return and force Hawley into a confession of his
purpose. It was easy for him to conceive what would be the final result of
this interview between the artistic gambler and Miss Maclaire. In spite of
the vague suspicion of evil which the plainsman had implanted within the
woman's mind, the other possessed the advantage, and would certainly
improve it. All conditions were decidedly in his favor. He merely needed
to convince the girl that she was actually the party sought, and she would
go forward, playing the game he desired, believing herself right, totally
unconscious of any fraud. The very simplicity of it rendered the plot the
more dangerous, the more difficult to expose. Hawley had surely been
favored by fortune in discovering this singer who chanced to resemble Hope
so remarkably, and who, at the same time, was in such ignorance as to her
own parentage. She would be ready to grasp at a straw, and, once persuaded
as to her identity and legal rights, could henceforth be trusted
implicitly as an ally.

Realizing all this, and comprehending also how easily Hawley would win her
confidence and overcome his warning by denouncing him as a fugitive from
justice charged with murder, the temptation to return and fight it out
then and there became almost overpowering. He had no fear of Hawley;
indeed, physical fear had scarcely a place in his composition, but he was
not as yet sufficiently fortified with facts for the seeking of such an
encounter. He could merely guess at the truth, unable to produce any proof
with which to meet the gambler's certain denial.

A man came in through the office, and began climbing the stairs. He was
almost at the landing before Keith recognized him or the other glanced up.

"Ah--seen her, I suppose?"

"Yes," returned Keith, not thinking it worth while to mention the lady's
denial of having sent for him, "I have just come from there."

"Hum--thought you'd be through by this time--fine looking girl, ain't
she?--believe I'll run in and chat with her myself."

"I would advise you to select some other time, Doctor," said the younger,
drily, "as the lady has a visitor at present."

"A visitor?" his face rosy, his shrewd eyes darkening. "Ah, indeed! Of the
male sex?"

"I judge so--'Black Bart' Hawley."

"Good Lord!" so startled his voice broke. "Did he see you?"

"Rather; I backed him up against the wall with a gun while I made my
adieu."

"But what brought him there? Are they acquainted?"

"Don't ask conundrums, Doctor. He may be your rival with the fair lady for
all I know. If he is, my sympathies are all with you. Only I wouldn't try
to see Miss Christie just now; I'd wait for a clearer field. Hawley is
probably not in the best of humor."

Fairbain stared into the face of the speaker, uncertain whether or not he
was being laughed at.

"Reckon you're right," he acknowledged at last. "Tired, anyhow--been out
all night--thought I'd like to see her again, though--finest looking woman
I've met since I came West--remarkable eyes--well, I'll go along to bed--
see you again to-morrow, Jack."

Keith watched the sturdy figure stomp heavily down the hall-way, loose
boards creaking under his positive tread, and smiled to himself at the
thought that he might have, indeed, become truly interested in the music
hall singer. Somehow, the doctor did not harmonize with the conception of
love, or fit graciously into the picture. Still, stranger matings had
occurred, and Cupid does not ask permission before he plays pranks with
hearts. Keith turned again toward the stairs, only to observe a woman
slowly cross the office and commence the ascent. She was in the shadow,
her face even more deeply shaded by her hat, yet he stared at her in
amazement--surely, it was Miss Maclaire! Yet how could it be? He had left
that person scarcely five minutes before in "26," and this stairway was
the only exit. His hand grasped the rail, his heart throbbing strangely,
as a suspicion of the truth crossed his brain. Could this be Hope? Could
it be that she was here also? As her foot touched the landing, she saw
him, her eyes lighting up suddenly in recognition, a wave of color
flooding her cheeks.

"Why, Captain Keith," she exclaimed, extending her gloved hand frankly,
"you have been to my room, and were going away. I am so glad I came in
time."

"I hardly thought to meet you," he replied, retaining her fingers in his
grasp. "When did you reach Sheridan?"

"Only last night. I had no idea you were here, until Doctor Fairbain
chanced to mention your name. Then I at once begged him to tell you how
exceedingly anxious I was to see you. You see, I was sure you would come
if you only knew. I really thought you would be here this morning, and
remained in my room waiting, but there were some things I actually had to
have. I wasn't out ten minutes, so you mustn't think I sent you a message
and then forgot."

The nature of the mistake was becoming apparent, and Keith's gray eyes
smiled as they looked into the depths of the brown.

"Your message had rather an amusing result," he said, "as the doctor
informed me that Miss Christie Maclaire was the one who desired my
presence."

"Miss Maclaire!" her voice exhibiting startled surprise. "Why--why--oh, I
did forget; I never told him differently. Why, it was most ridiculous."
She laughed, white teeth gleaming between the parted red lips, yet not
altogether happily. "Let me explain, Captain Keith, for really I have not
been masquerading. Doctor Fairbain and I arrived upon the same train last
evening. He is such a funny man, but was very nice, and offered to escort
me to the hotel. I remember now that although he introduced himself, I
never once thought to mention to him my name. The town was very rough last
night--the company had paid off the graders I was told--and there was no
carriage, so we were compelled to walk. I--I never saw such a mob of
drunken men. One came reeling against me, and brushed aside my veil so as
to see my face. The doctor struck him, and then the marshal came up--you
know him, Bill Hickock--and the impudent fellow actually declared he knew
me, that I was Christie Maclaire. I tried to explain, but they hurried me
on through the crowd to the hotel, and I became confused, and forgot. Do
you suppose they registered me by that name?"

"Quite likely; at least Fairbain still believes it was the fair Christie
whom he so gallantly escorted last night."

"How provoking," her foot tapping the floor, a little wrinkle between her
eyes. "It seems as though I couldn't escape that woman--does she--does she
really look like me?"

"At a little distance, yes," he admitted, "her form and face resemble
yours very closely, but her hair is darker, her eyes have a different
expression, and she must be five or six years older."

"Do--do you know her well?"

"No, indeed; I have seen her several times on the stage, but never met her
until a few moments ago."

"A few moments ago! Do you mean she is here in this hotel?"

"Yes, Miss Hope, and that was what made the mistake in names so laughable.
Fairbain gave me your message, but as coming from Christie. I was, of
course, greatly surprised, yet responded. The lady very promptly denied
having sent for me, but as I was anxious to interview her myself, we
managed to drift into conversation, and I must have passed a half hour
there. I might have been there still, but for an interruption."

"Oh, indeed!" with rising inflection.

He glanced quickly about, reminded of the situation.

"Yes, Hawley came in, and I would prefer not to meet him here, or have him
discover you were in Sheridan. Could we not go to your room? I have much
to tell you."

Her questioning eyes left his face, and stared down over the rail. A
heavily built man, with red moustache, leaned against the clerk's desk,
his face toward them.

"Do you know that man?" she asked quickly. "He followed me all the time I
was shopping. I--I believe he is the same one who jostled me in the crowd
last night."

Keith leaned past her to get a better view, but the fellow turned, and
slouched away.

"I only had a glimpse, but have no recollection of ever seeing him before.
You heard no name?"

"'Wild Bill' called him either Scott, or Scotty--if this is the same man."

Keith's jaw set, the fighting light burning in his eyes. That was the name
of the fellow rooming with Willoughby, the one who seemed to be Hawley's
special assistant. Was he here as a spy? His hands clinched on the rail.
He was anxious to go down and wring the truth out of him, but instead, he
compelled his eyes to smile, turning back to the girl.

"A mere accident probably; but about my request? May I talk with you a few
moments alone?"

She bowed, apparently still dissatisfied regarding his lengthy
conversation with Christie, yet permitted him to follow down the hall. She
held open the door of "15," and he entered silently, not wholly
understanding the change in her manner. She stood before the dresser,
drawing off her gloves and removing her hat.

"Will you be seated, Captain; the arm-chair by the window is the more
comfortable." She turned toward him, almost shyly, yet with womanly
curiosity which would not be stilled. "Was your call upon Miss Maclaire
very interesting? Did you admire her very much?"

Keith's eyes lifted to her face, his ears quick to detect the undertone in
her voice.

"Interesting? yes, for I was seeking after information, and met with some
success. As to the other question, I am not sure whether I admire the lady
or not. She is bright, pretty, and companionable, and in spite of her
profession, at heart, I believe, a good woman. But really, Miss Hope, I
was too deeply immersed in my purpose to give her personality much
consideration. Among other things we spoke of you."

"Of me? Why?"

"I told her something of our adventures together; of how both Hawley and I
had been confused. She was anxious to learn who you were, but
unfortunately, I have never, even yet, heard your name."

"You have not?"

"No; I left you at Fort Larned believing you Christie Maclaire--supposing
it your stage name, of course--and was confirmed in this belief by finding
in the holster of the saddle you had been riding an envelope bearing that
address."

"I remember; it contained the note the man brought to me from Hawley; he
had written it that way." She crossed the room, sinking down into a chair
facing him. "And you have actually confused me with Christie Maclaire all
this while? Have never known who I was?"

He shook his head.

"I told you to call me Hope; that is my name--I am Hope Waite."

"Waite!" he leaned forward, startled by the possibility--"not--not--"

"Yes," she burst in, holding out her hands, clasping the locket, "and this
was my father's; where did you get it?"

He took the trinket from her, turning it over in his fingers. Little by
little the threads of mystery were being unravelled, yet, even now, he
could not see very far. He looked up from the locket into her questioning
face.

"Did I not tell you? No; then it was an oversight. This was about the
throat of one of the men I buried at Cimmaron Crossing, but--but, Hope, it
was not your father."

"I know," her voice choking slightly. "Mrs. Murphy found that out; that is
why I am here. I heard my father came to Sheridan, and I wanted you to
help me find him."

He was thinking, and did not answer at once, and she went on in some
alarm.

"Do you know anything about him, Captain Keith? Where is he? Why is he
here? Don't be afraid to tell me."

He pressed the locket back into her hand, retaining the latter,
unresisted, within his own.

"I have not seen your father, Hope, but he was certainly here a few days
ago, for Fairbain met him. They were together in the army. I am going to
tell you all I know--it seems to be a tangled web, but the ends must be
somewhere, although, I confess, I am all at sea."

He told it slowly and simply, bringing forth his earlier suspicion, and
how he had stumbled upon facts apparently confirming them. He related her
father's robbery, his loss of valuable papers, and the conversation
between Hawley and Scott which led to the suspicion that these same papers
had fallen into the hands of the former, and were the basis of his plot.
Hope listened, breathless with interest, her widely opened eyes filled
with wonder. As he concluded speaking she burst forth:

"But I don't understand in the least, Captain Keith. Why did this man
Hawley send me to the Salt Fork?"

"He thought he was dealing with Christie Maclaire. He had some reason for
getting her away; getting her where he could exercise influence over her."

"Yes--yes; but who is she?"

"That is what makes the matter so hard to unravel. She doesn't even know
herself. Hawley is going to take advantage of her ignorance in this
respect, and convince her that she is the person he wishes her to
represent--but who is the person? If we knew that we might block the
game."

Both sat silent, striving to figure out some reasonable explanation.

"Do you know of any special papers your father carried?" he asked.

"No; none outside his business agreements."

"Has anyone ever disappeared connected with your family? Did you have an
older sister?"

"Fred and I were the only children. Why should you ask that question?"

"Because something of that nature would seem to be the only rational
explanation. Your brother must have told Hawley something--some family
secret--which he felt could be utilized to his own advantage. Then he saw
your picture, and was immediately reminded of the remarkable resemblance
between you and Christie Maclaire. Evidently this discovery fitted into
his plan, and made it possible for him to proceed. He has been trying ever
since to get an interview with the woman, to sound her, and find out what
he can do with her. He has written letters, sufficiently explicit to make
it clear his scheme is based upon a will drawn, as he claims, by
Christie's grandfather. No doubt by this time he has fully convinced the
girl that she is the rightful heiress to property--as he stated to Scott--
valued at over a million dollars. That's a stake worth fighting for, and
these two will make a hard combination. He's got the papers, or claims to
have, and they must be the ones stolen from your father. I have been
trusting you might know something in your family history which would make
it all plain."

"But I do not," decisively. "You must believe me; not so much as a hint of
any secret has ever reached me. There are only the four of us, Father,
Mother, Fred, and I. I am sure there can be no secret; nothing which I
would not know. Perhaps, if I could see Miss Maclaire--"

"I am convinced that would be useless," he interrupted, rising, and pacing
across the floor. "If Hawley has convinced her of the justice of the
claim, he will also have pledged her to secrecy. He is working out of
sight like a mole, for he knows the fraud, and will never come to the
surface until everything is in readiness. I know a better way; I'll find
Fred, and bring him here. He would tell you whatever it was he told
Hawley, and that will give us the clue."

He picked up his hat from the table, but she rose to her feet, holding
forth her hands.

"I cannot thank you enough. Captain Keith," she exclaimed frankly. "You
are doing so much, and with no personal interest--"

"Oh, but I have."

The long lashes dropped over the brown eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"That I have a personal interest--in you, Hope."

She stood silent, her bosom rising and falling to rapid breathing.

"You don't mind my calling you Hope? I haven't got used to Miss Waite
yet."

Her eyes met his swiftly.

"Of course, not. Such ceremony would be foolish after all you have done
for me. Do--do you call her Christie?"

He laughed, clasping her hands closer.

"I assure you no--she is strictly Miss Maclaire, and," solemnly, "shall be
to the end of the chapter."

"Oh, well, I didn't care, only that was what you called her when you were
telling me what she said. Are you going?"

"Yes, to find Fred; the sooner we can get this straightened out, the
better."

Chapter XXIV

A Mistake in Assassination

Let his future be what it might, Jack Keith would never again forget the
girl who held the door open for his passage with one hand, her other
clasped in his. Interested before, yet forcing himself into indifference
now that he knew who she really was, the man made full surrender. It was a
struggle that kept him from clasping the slender figure in his arms, and
pouring forth the words of tenderness which he sternly choked back. This
was neither the time, nor the place, yet his eyes must have spoken, for
Hope's glance fell, and her cheeks grew crimson.

"I do not need to pledge you to return this time, do I?" she questioned,
her voice trembling.

"No," he answered, "nor any time again."

The hall was deserted, but a few men loitered in the office. Keith
recognized none of the faces, and did not stop to make any inquiries of
the clerk. It was growing dark, the lights already burning, and from the
plashing of drops on the window, it must be raining outside. Hawley would
surely have ended his call upon Miss Maclaire long before this, and left
the hotel. However interesting his communication might have proven, she
must fill her evening engagement at the Trocadero, and would require time
for supper and rest. As to the result of that interview there could be
little doubt. Providing the gambler possessed the proper papers he would
have small difficulty in convincing the girl that she was indeed the one
sought. Keith had probed sufficiently into her mind to feel assured that
her inclination was to side with Hawley. Under all the circumstances this
was natural enough, and he did not blame her.

He glanced into the bar-room as he passed, not in any anticipation, but
merely from the vigilance which becomes second nature upon the frontier.
Hawley stood leaning against the bar, where he could see anyone passing
through the hall. The eyes of the two men met, but the gambler never
moved, never changed his attitude, although Keith noted that his right
hand was hidden beneath the skirts of his long coat. The plainsman drew
back, facing his enemy, until he reached the outer door. There was a sneer
on Hawley's dark sinister face like an invitation, but a memory of the
girl he had just left, and her dependence upon him, caused Keith to avoid
an encounter. He would fight this affair out in a different way. As the
door opened and he slipped forth into the gloom, he brushed against a man
apparently just entering. The gleam of light fell for an instant upon the
face of the other--it was Scotty with the red moustache.

They had been watching for him then--what for? Hawley on the inside, and
this man Scott without, were waiting to determine when he left the hotel;
would probably dog his footsteps to discover where he went. Keith loosened
his revolver, so as to be assured he could draw quickly, and slipped back
into the shadow of the steps, his eyes on the door of the hotel. There was
a cold, drizzly rain falling, the streets almost deserted, appearing
sodden and miserable where the lights shone forth through saloon windows.
One or two men, seeking supper, coat collars turned up and hats drawn low
over their eyes, climbed the rickety steps and went in, but no one came
out. Perhaps he was mistaken as to the purpose of those fellows; they may
have desired merely to know when he left, or Scott's return just at that
moment might have been an accident. To be sure, the hotel possessed a back
exit, but he could not cover both ends of the building, and must take his
chances. It was too wet and disagreeable to remain crouched there, now
that it was evident there was no intention of following him. With hand on
the butt of his gun, suspicious and watchful, yet with scarcely a faster
beat to his heart, Keith straightened up, and began splashing his way
through the mud down the street. He knew where Willoughby would be most
likely found at this hour--with cronies at the "Tenderfoot"--and he meant
to discover the boy, and make him confess to Hope the truth. Matters had
now reached a point where longer delay was dangerous.

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