Keith of the Border by Randall Parrish

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"A bit av a cup av coffee fer ye, honey," she explained, crossing to the
bed. "Shure an' there's nuthin' loike it when ye first wake up. Howly
Mither, but it's toird 'nough ye do be lookin' yet."

"I haven't slept very well," the girl confessed, bringing her hand out
from beneath the coverlet, the locket still tightly clasped in her
fingers. "See, I found this on the floor last night after you had gone
down stairs."

"Ye did!" setting the coffee on a convenient chair, and reaching out for
the trinket. "Let's have a look at it once. Angels av Hiven, if it isn't
the same the ol' Gineral was showin' me in the parly."

The other sat up suddenly, her white shoulders and rounded throat
gleaming.

"The old General, you said? What General? When was he here?"

"Shure now, be aisy, honey, an' Oi 'll tell ye all there is to it. It's
not his name Oi know; maybe Oi niver heard till av it, but 'twas the
'Gineral' they called him, all right. He was here maybe three days
outfittin'--a noice spoken ol' gintlemin, wid a gray beard, an' onc't he
showed me the locket--be the powers, if it do be his, there's an openin'
to it, an' a picter inside."

The girl touched the spring, revealing the face within, but her eyes were
blinded with tears. The landlady looked at her in alarm.

"What is it, honey? What is it? Did you know him?"

The slender form swayed forward, shaken with sobs.

"He was my father, and--and this is my mother's picture which he always
carried."

"Then what is your name?"

"Hope Waite."

Kate Murphy looked, at the face half hidden in the bed-clothes. That was
not the name which Keith had given her, but she had lived on the border
too long to be inquisitive. The other lifted her head, flinging back her
loosened hair with one hand.

"Mr. Keith dropped it," she exclaimed. "Where do you suppose he got it?"
Then she gave a quick, startled cry, her eyes opening wide in horror. "The
Cimmaron Crossing, the murder at the Cimmaron Crossing! He--he told me
about that; but he never showed me this--this. Do you--do you think--"

Her voice failed, but Kate Murphy gathered her into her arms.

"Cry here, honey," she said, as if to a child. "Shure an' Oi don't know
who it was got kilt out yonder, but Oi'm tellin' ye it niver was Jack
Keith what did it--murther ain't his stoyle."

Chapter XVI

Introducing Doctor Fairbain

Headed as they were, and having no other special objective point in view,
it was only natural for the two fugitives to drift into Sheridan. This was
at that time the human cesspool of the plains country, a seething, boiling
maelstrom of all that was rough, evil, and brazen along the entire
frontier. Customarily quiet enough during the hours of daylight, the town
became a mad saturnalia with the approach of darkness, its ceaseless
orgies being noisily continued until dawn. But at this period all track
work on the Kansas Pacific being temporarily suspended by Indian
outbreaks, the graders made both night and day alike hideous, and the
single dirty street which composed Sheridan, lined with shacks, crowded
with saloons, the dull dead prairie stretching away on every side to the
horizon, was congested with humanity during every hour of the twenty-four.

It was a grim picture of depravity and desolation, the environment dull,
gloomy, forlorn; all that was worthy the eye or thought being the pulsing
human element. All about extended the barren plains, except where on one
side a ravine cut through an overhanging ridge. From the seething street
one could look up to the summit, and see there the graves of the many who
had died deaths of violence, and been borne thither in "their boots." Amid
all this surrounding desolation was Sheridan--the child of a few brief
months of existence, and destined to perish almost as quickly--the centre
of the grim picture, a mere cluster of rude, unpainted houses, poorly
erected shacks, grimy tents flapping in the never ceasing wind swirling
across the treeless waste, the ugly red station, the rough cow-pens filled
with lowing cattle, the huge, ungainly stores, their false fronts
decorated by amateur wielders of the paint brush, and the garish dens of
vice tucked in everywhere. The pendulum of life never ceased swinging.
Society was mixed; no man cared who his neighbor was, or dared to
question. Of women worthy the name there were few, yet there were flitting
female forms in plenty, the saloon lights revealing powdered cheeks and
painted eyebrows. It was a strange, restless populace, the majority here
to-day, disappearing to-morrow--cowboys, half-breeds, trackmen, graders,
desperadoes, gamblers, saloon-keepers, merchants, generally Jewish, petty
officials, and a riff-raff no one could account for, mere floating debris.
The town was an eddy catching odd bits of driftwood such as only the
frontier ever knew. Queer characters were everywhere, wrecks of
dissipation, derelicts of the East, seeking nothing save oblivion.

Everything was primitive--passion and pleasure ruled. To spend easily made
money noisily, brazenly, was the ideal. From dawn to dawn the search after
joy continued. The bagnios and dance halls were ablaze; the bar-rooms
crowded with hilarious or quarrelsome humanity, the gambling tables alive
with excitement. Men swaggered along the streets looking for trouble, and
generally finding it; cowboys rode into open saloon doors and drank in the
saddle; troops of congenial spirits, frenzied with liquor, spurred
recklessly through the street firing into the air, or the crowd, as their
whim led; bands played popular airs on balconies, and innumerable
"barkers" added their honeyed invitations to the perpetual din. From end
to end it was a saturnalia of vice, a babel of sound, a glimpse of the
inferno. Money flowed like water; every man was his own law, and the gun
the arbiter of destiny. The town marshal, with a few cool-headed deputies,
moved here and there amid the chaos, patient, tireless, undaunted, seeking
merely to exercise some slight restraint. This was Sheridan.

Into the one long street just at dusk rode Keith and Neb, the third horse
trailing behind. Already lights were beginning to gleam in the crowded
saloons, and they were obliged to proceed slowly. Leaving the negro at the
corral to find some purchaser for the animals, and such accommodations for
himself as he could achieve, Keith shouldered his way on foot through the
heterogeneous mass toward the only hotel, a long two-storied wooden
structure, unpainted, fronting the glitter of the Pioneer Dance Hall
opposite. A noisy band was splitting the air with discordant notes, a
loud-voiced "barker" yelling through the uproar, but Keith, accustomed to
similar scenes and sounds elsewhere, strode through the open door of the
hotel, and guided by the noisy, continuous clatter of dishes, easily found
his way to the dining-room. It was crowded with men, a few women scattered
here and there, most of the former in shirt-sleeves, all eating silently.
A few smaller tables at the back of the room were distinguished from the
others by white coverings in place of oil-cloth, evidently reserved for
the more distinguished guests. Disdaining ceremony, the newcomer wormed
his way through, finally discovering a vacant seat where his back would be
to the wall, thus enabling him to survey the entire apartment.

It was not of great interest, save for its constant change and the
primitive manner in which the majority attacked their food supply, which
was piled helter-skelter upon the long tables, yet he ran his eyes
searchingly over the numerous faces, seeking impartially for either friend
or enemy. No countenance present, as revealed in the dim light of the few
swinging lamps, appeared familiar, and satisfied that he remained unknown,
Keith began devoting his attention to the dishes before him, mentally
expressing his opinion as to their attractiveness. Chancing finally to
again lift his eyes, he met the gaze of a man sitting directly opposite, a
man who somehow did not seem exactly in harmony with his surroundings. He
was short and stockily built, with round rosy face, and a perfect shock of
wiry hair brushed back from a broad forehead; his nose wide but stubby,
and chin massive. Apparently he was between forty and fifty years of age,
exceedingly well dressed, his gray eyes shrewd and full of a grim humor.
Keith observed all this in a glance, becoming aware at the same time that
his neighbor was apparently studying him also. The latter broke silence
with a quick, jerky utterance, which seemed to peculiarly fit his personal
appearance.

"Damn it all--know you, sir--sure I do--but for life of me can't tell
where."

Keith stared across at him more searchingly, and replied, rather
indifferently:

"Probably a mistake then, as I have no recollection of your face."

"Never make a mistake, sir--never forget a face," the other snapped with
some show of indignation, his hands now clasped on the table, one stubby
forefinger pointed, as he leaned forward. "Don't tell me--I've seen you
somewhere--no, not a word--don't even tell me your name--I'm going to
think of it."

Keith smiled, not unwilling to humor the man's eccentricity, and returned
to his meal, with only an occasional inquiring glance across the table.
The other sat and stared at him, his heavy eyebrows wrinkled, as he
struggled to awaken memory. The younger man had begun on his pie when the
face opposite suddenly cleared.

"Damn me, I've got it--hell, yes; hospital tent--Shenandoah--bullet
imbedded under third rib--ordinary case--that's why I forgot--clear as mud
now--get the name in a minute--Captain--Captain Keith--that's it--shake
hands."

Puzzled at the unexpected recognition, yet realizing the friendliness of
the man, Keith grasped the pudgy fingers extended with some cordiality.

"Don't remember me I s'pose--don't think you ever saw me--delirious when I
came--hate to tell you what you was talking about--gave you hypodermic
first thing--behaved well enough though when I dug out the lead--Minie
bullet, badly blunted hitting the rib--thought you might die with blood
poison--couldn't stay to see--too damn much to do--evidently didn't
though--remember me now?"

"No, only from what you say. You must have been at General Waite's
headquarters."

"That's it--charge of Stonewall's field hospital--just happened to ride
into Waite's camp that night--damn lucky for you I did--young snip there
wanted to saw the bone--I stopped that--liked your face--imagined you
might be worth saving--ain't so sure of it now, or you wouldn't be out in
this God forsaken country, eating such grub--my name's Fairbain--Joseph
Wright Fairbain, M.D.--contract surgeon for the railroad--working on the
line?"

Keith shook his head, feeling awakening interest in his peculiar
companion.

"No; just drifted in here from down on the Arkansas," he explained,
briefly. "Did you know General Waite was dead?"

The doctor's ruddy face whitened.

"Dead?--Willis Waite dead?" he repeated. "What do you mean, sir? Are you
sure? When?"

"I ought to be sure; I buried him just this side the Cimmaron Crossing out
on the Santa Fe trail."

"But do you know it was General Waite?" the man's insistent tone full of
doubt.

"I have no question about it," returned Keith, conclusively. "The man was
Waite's size and general appearance, with gray beard, similar to the one I
remember he wore during the war. He had been scalped, and his face beaten
beyond recognition, but papers in his pockets were sufficient to prove his
identity. Besides, he and his companion--a young fellow named Sibley--were
known to have pulled out two days before from Carson City."

"When was this?"

"Ten days ago."

Fairbain's lips smiled, the ruddy coloring sweeping back into his cheeks.

"Damn me, Keith, you came near giving me a shock," he said, jerkily.
"Shouldn't be so careless--not sure my heart's just right--tendency to
apoplexy, too--got to be guarded against. Now, let me tell you something--
maybe you buried some poor devil out at Cimmaron Crossing--but it wasn't
Willis Waite. How do I know? Because I saw him, and talked with him
yesterday--damn me, if I didn't, right here in this town."

Chapter XVII

In the Next Room

Keith, his eyes filled with undisguised doubt, studied the face of the man
opposite, almost convinced that he was, in some way, connected with the
puzzling mystery. But the honesty of the rugged face only added to his
perplexity.

"Are you certain you are not mistaken?"

"Of course I am, Keith. I've known Waite for fifteen years a bit
intimately--have met him frequently since the war--and I certainly talked
with him. He told me enough to partially confirm your story. He said he
had started for Santa Fe light, because he couldn't get enough men to run
a caravan--afraid of Indians, you know. So, he determined to take money--
buy Mexican goods--and risk it himself. Old fighting cock wouldn't turn
back for all the Indians on the plains once he got an idea in his head--he
was that kind--Lord, you ought to seen the fight he put up at
Spottsylvania! He got to Carson City with two wagons, a driver and a cook
--had eight thousand dollars with him, too, the damn fool. Cook got into
row, gambling, cut a man, and was jugged. Old Waite wouldn't leave even a
nigger in that sort of fix--natural fighter--likes any kind of row. So, he
hung on there at Carson, but had sense enough--Lord knows where he got it
--to put all but a few hundred dollars in Ben Levy's safe. Then, he went
out one night to play poker with his driver and a friend--had a drink or
two--doped, probably, and never woke up for forty-eight hours--lost
clothes, money, papers, and whole outfit--was just naturally cleaned out--
couldn't get a trace worth following after. You ought to have heard him
cuss when he told me--it seemed to be the papers that bothered him most--
them, and the mules."

"You say there was no trace?"

"Nothing to travel on after forty-eight hours--a posse started out next
morning, soon as they found him--when they got back they reported having
run the fellows as far as Cimmaron Crossing--there they got across into
the sand hills, and escaped."

"Who led the posse?"

"A man called Black, I think," he said.

"Black Bart?"

"Yes, that's the name; so, I reckon you didn't bury Willis Waite this
time, Captain. You wouldn't have thought he was a dead one if you had
heard him swear while he was telling the story--it did him proud; never
heard him do better since the second day at Gettysburg--had his ear shot
off then, and I had to fix him up--Lord, but he called me a few things."

Keith sat silent, fully convinced now that the doctor was telling the
truth, yet more puzzled than ever over the peculiar situation in which he
found himself involved.

"What brought the General up here?" he questioned, finally.

"I haven't much idea," was the reply. "I don't think I asked him directly.
I wasn't much interested. There was a hint dropped, however, now you speak
about it. He's keen after those papers, and doesn't feel satisfied
regarding the report of the posse. It's my opinion he's trailing after
Black Bart."

The dining-room was thinning out, and they were about the only ones left
at the tables. Keith stretched himself, looking around.

"Well, Doctor, I am very glad to have met you again, and to learn Waite is
actually alive. This is a rather queer affair, but will have to work
itself out. Anyway, I am too dead tired to-night to hunt after clues in
midst of this babel. I've been in the saddle most of the time for a week,
and have got to find a bed."

"I reckon you won't discover such a thing here," dryly. "Got seven in a
room upstairs, and others corded along the hall. Better share my cell--
only thing to do."

"That would be asking too much--I can turn in at the corral with Neb; I've
slept in worse places."

"Couldn't think of it, Keith," and the doctor got up. "Besides, you sleep
at night, don't you?"

"Usually, yes," the other admitted.

"Then you won't bother me any--no doctor sleeps at night in Sheridan;
that's our harvest time. Come on, and I'll show you the way. When morning
comes I'll rout you out and take my turn."

Keith had enjoyed considerable experience in frontier hotels, but nothing
before had ever quite equalled this, the pride of Sheridan. The product of
a mushroom town, which merely existed by grace of the temporary railway
terminus, it had been hastily and flimsily constructed, so it could be
transported elsewhere at a moment's notice. Every creak of a bed echoed
from wall to wall. The thin partitions often failed to reach the ceiling
by a foot or two, and the slightest noise aroused the entire floor. And
there was noise of every conceivable kind, in plenty, from the blare of a
band at the Pioneer Dance Hall opposite, to the energetic cursing of the
cook in the rear. A discordant din of voices surged up from the street
below--laughter, shouts, the shrieks of women, a rattle of dice, an
occasional pistol shot, and the continuous yelling of industrious
"barkers." There was no safety anywhere. An exploding revolver in No. 47
was quite likely to disturb the peaceful slumbers of the innocent occupant
of No. 15, and every sound of quarrel in the thronged bar-room below
caused the lodger to curl up in momentary expectation of a stray bullet
coursing toward him through the floor. With this to trouble him, he could
lie there and hear everything that occurred within and without. Every
creak, stamp, and snore was faithfully reported; every curse, blow, snarl
reechoed to his ears. Inside was hell; outside was Sheridan.

Wearied, and half dead, as Keith was, sleep was simply impossible. He
heard heavy feet tramping up and down the hall; once a drunken man
endeavored vainly to open his door; not far away there was a scuffle, and
the sound of a body falling down stairs. In some distant apartment a
fellow was struggling to draw off his tight boots, skipping about on one
foot amid much profanity. That the boot conquered was evident when the man
crawled into the creaking bed, announcing defiantly, "If the landlord
wants them boots off, let him come an' pull 'em off." Across the hall was
a rattle of chips, and the voices of several men, occasionally raised in
anger. Now and then they would stamp on the floor as an order for liquid
refreshments from below. From somewhere beyond, the long-drawn melancholy
howl of a distressed dog greeted the rising moon.

Out from all this pandemonium Keith began to unconsciously detect the
sound of voices talking in the room to his left. In the lull of
obstructing sound a few words reached him through the slight open space
between wall and ceiling.

"Hell, Bill, what's the use goin' out again when we haven't the price?"

"Oh, we might find Bart somewhere, and he'd stake us. I guess I know
enough to make him loosen up. Come on; I'm goin'."

"Not me; this town is too near Fort Hays; I'm liable to run into some of
the fellows."

A chair scraped across the floor as Bill arose to his feet; evidently from
the noise he had been drinking, but Keith heard him lift the latch of the
door.

"All right, Willoughby," he said, thickly, "I'll try my luck, an' if I see
Bart I'll tell him yer here. So long."

He shuffled along the hall and went, half sliding, down stairs, and Keith
distinguished the click of glass and bottle in the next room. He was
sitting up in bed now, wide awake, obsessed with a desire to investigate.
The reference overheard must have been to Hawley, and if so, this
Willoughby, who was afraid of meeting soldiers from the fort, would be the
deserter Miss Hope was seeking. There could be no harm in making sure, and
he slipped into his clothes, and as silently as possible, unlatched his
door. There was a noisy crowd at the farther end of the hall, and the
sound of some one laboriously mounting the stairs. Not desiring to be
seen, Keith slipped swiftly toward the door of the other room, and tried
the latch. It was unfastened, and he stepped quietly within, closing it
behind him.

A small lamp was on the washstand, a half-emptied bottle and two glasses
beside it, while a pack of cards lay scattered on the floor. Fully
dressed, except for a coat, the sole occupant lay on the bed, but started
up at Keith's unceremonious entrance, reaching for his revolver, which had
slipped to the wrong side of his belt.

"What the hell!" he exclaimed, startled and confused.

The intruder took one glance at him through the dingy light--a boy of
eighteen, dark hair, dark eyes, his face, already exhibiting signs of
dissipation, yet manly enough in chin and mouth--and smiled.

"I could draw while you were thinking about it," he said, easily, "but I
am not here on the fight. Are you Fred Willoughby?"

The lad stared at him, his uncertain hand now closed on the butt of his
revolver, yet held inactive by the other's quiet assurance.

"What do you want to know for?"

"Curiosity largely; thought I'd like to ask you a question or two."

"You--you're not from the fort?"

"Nothing to do with the army; this is a private affair."

The boy was sullen from drink, his eyes heavy.

"Then who the devil are you? I never saw you before."

"That's very true, and my name wouldn't help any. Nevertheless, you're
perfectly welcome to it. I am Jack Keith." No expression of recognition
came into the face of the other, and Keith added curtly, "Shall we talk?"

There was a moment's silence, and then Willoughby swung his feet over the
edge of the bed onto the floor.

"Fire away," he said shortly, "until I see what the game is about."

Chapter XVIII

Interviewing Willoughby

Cooly, yet without in the least comprehending how best to proceed, Keith
drew toward him the only chair in the room, and sat down. Miss Hope--more
widely known as Christie Maclaire--had claimed this drunken lad as her
brother, but, according to Hawley, he had vehemently denied any such
relationship. Yet there must be some previous association between the two,
and what this was the plainsman proposed to discover. The problem was how
best to cause the fellow to talk frankly--could he be reached more easily
by reference to the girl or the gambler? Keith studying the sullen,
obstinate face confronting him, with instinctive antagonism over his
intrusion, swiftly determined on the girl.

"It was not very nice of me to come in on you this way," he began,
apologetically, "but you see I happen to know your sister."

"My sister? Oh, I guess not!"

"Yes, but I do," throwing a confidence into his tone he was far from
feeling, "Miss Hope and I are friends."

The boy sprang to his feet, his face flushed.

"Oh, you mean Hope? Do you know her? Say, I thought you were giving me
that old gag about Christie Maclaire."

"Certainly not; who is she?"

"That's more than I know; fellow came to me at Carson, and said he'd met
my sister on a stage west of Topeka. I knew he was lyin', because she's
home over in Missouri. Finally, I got it out of him that she claimed to be
my sister, but her name was Maclaire. Why, I don't even know her, and what
do you suppose she ever picked me out for her brother for?"

He was plainly puzzled, and perfectly convinced it was all a mistake. That
his sister might have left home since he did, and drifted West under an
assumed name, apparently never occurred to him as possible. To Keith this
was the explanation, and nothing could be more natural, considering her
work, yet he did not feel like shattering the lad's loyalty. Faith in the
sister might yet save him.

"Perhaps the fellow who told you," he hazarded blindly, speaking the first
thought which came to his mind, "had some reason to desire to make you
think this Maclaire girl was your sister."

The suggestion caused him to laugh at first; then his face suddenly
sobered, as though a new thought had occurred to him.

"Damn me, no, it couldn't be that," he exclaimed, one hand pressing his
head. "He couldn't be workin' no trick of that kind on me."

"Whom do you mean?"

"A fellow named Hawley," evasively. "The man who claimed to have met my
sister."

"'Black Bart' Hawley?"

The boy lifted his head again, his eyes filled with suspicion.

"Yes, if you must know; he's a gambler all right, but he's stuck to me
when I was down and out. You know him?"

"Just a little," carelessly; "but what sort of a trick could he be working
trying to make you acknowledge Christie Maclaire as your sister?"

Willoughby did not answer, shifting uneasily about on the bed. Keith
waited, and at last the boy blurted out:

"Oh, it wasn't nothing much. I told him something when I was drunk once,
that I thought maybe might have stuck to him. Odd he should make that
mistake, too, for I showed him Hope's picture. Bart's a schemer, and I
didn't know but what he might have figured out a trick, though I don't see
how he could. It wasn't no more than a pipe dream, I reckon. Where did you
meet Hope? Back in Missouri?"

One thing was clearly evident--the boy's faith in his sister. If he was to
be rightly influenced, and led back to her, he must have no suspicion
aroused that her life was any different from what it had been before he
left home. Besides if Keith hoped to gain any inkling of what Hawley's
purpose could be, he must win the confidence of Willoughby. This could not
be done by telling him of Hope's present life. These considerations
flashed through his mind, and as swiftly determined his answer.

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