Keith of the Border by Randall Parrish

R >> Randall Parrish >> Keith of the Border

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

"Oh, I've known her some time. Not long ago I did her a service for which
she is grateful. Did you know she was out in this country searching for
you?"

"Out here? In Kansas?"

"Sure; that isn't much of a trip for a spirited girl. She got it in her
head from your letters that you were in trouble, and set out to find you
and bring you home. She didn't tell me this, but that is the way I heard
it. It was for her sake I came in here. Why not go to her, Willoughby, and
then both of you return to Missouri?"

The sullenness had gone out of the boy's face: he looked tired,
discouraged.

"Where is Hope?" he asked.

"Fort Larned, I suppose. She went to Carson City first."

"Well, that settles it," shaking his head. "You don't suppose I could go
browsin' 'round Larned, and not get snapped up, do you? They don't chase
deserters very far out here, but that's the post I skipped from, and
they'd jug me all right. Besides, I'm damned if I'll go back until I get a
stake. I want to see a fellow first."

"What fellow?"

"Well, it's Hawley, if you want to know so bad. He said if I would come
here and wait for him he'd put me on to a good thing."

The boy fidgetted along the edge of the bed, evidently half ashamed of
himself, yet obstinate and unyielding. Keith sat watching his face, unable
to evolve any means of changing his decision. Hawley's influence just at
present was greater than Hope's, because the lad naturally felt ashamed to
go slinking home penniless and defeated. His pride held him to Hawley, and
his faith that the man would redeem his promise. Keith understood all this
readily enough, and comprehended also that if "Black Bart" had any use for
the boy it would be for some criminal purpose. What was it? Was there a
deeply laid plot back of all these preparations involving both Willoughby
and his sister? What was it Hawley was scheming about so carefully,
holding this boy deserter in one hand, while he reached out the other
after Christie Maclaire? Surely, the man was not working blindly; he must
have a purpose in view. Willoughby had acknowledged he had told the fellow
something once when he was drunk--about his family history, no doubt, for
he had shown him Hope's picture. What that family secret was Keith had no
means of guessing, but Hawley, the moment he saw the face on the
cardboard, had evidently recognized Christie Maclaire--had thought of some
way in which what he now knew could be turned to advantage. The few
scattered facts which Keith had collected all seemed to point to such a
conclusion--Hawley had sent the boy to Sheridan, where he would be out of
sight, with orders to wait for him there, and the promise of a "stake" to
keep him quiet. Then he had gone to Independence and Topeka seeking after
Christie Maclaire. Evidently he meant to keep the two apart until he had
gained from each whatever it was he sought. But what could that be? What
family secret could Willoughby have blurted out in his cups, which had so
stimulated the gambler's wits?

Two things combined to cause Keith to determine he would uncover this
rascality,--his desire to repay Hawley, and his interest in the girl
rescued on the Salt Fork. This gossamer web of intrigue into which he had
stumbled unwittingly was nothing to him personally; had it not involved
both Hawley and Miss Hope, he would have left it unsolved without another
thought. But under the circumstances it became his own battle. There was a
crime here--hidden as yet, and probably not consummated--involving wrong,
perhaps disgrace, to the young girl. He had rescued her once from out the
clutches of this man, and he had no intention of deserting her now.
Whatever her life might be, she was certainly an innocent victim in this
case, deserving his protection. The memory came to him of her face
upturned toward him in that little room of the Occidental, her eyes
tear-dimmed, her lips asking him to come back to her again. He could not
believe her a bad woman, and his lips compressed, his eyes darkened, with
fixed determination. He would dig into this until he uncovered the truth;
he would find out what dirty trick "Black Bart" was up to.

As he thought this out, not swiftly as recorded, but slowly, deliberately,
piecing the bits together within his mind, blindly feeling his way to a
final conclusion, the boy had sunk back upon the bed, overcome with
liquor, and fallen asleep. Keith stepped over, and looked down upon him in
the dim light. He could recognize something of her features in the
upturned face, and his eyes softened. There was no use seeking again to
arouse him; even had he been sober, he would not have talked freely. Keith
lifted the dangling feet into a more comfortable position, turned the lamp
lower, went out, and latched the door. Two men were tramping heavily up
the stairs, and they turned into the hall at the very moment he
disappeared within his own room. He still retained his grasp upon the
latch, when a voice outside asked:

"What number did you say, Bill--29?"

Keith straightened up as though suddenly pricked by a knife; he could
never forget that voice--it was Hawley's.

Chapter XIX

A Glimpse at Conspiracy

Leaning against the inside of his own door, startled by the rapid sequence
of events, Keith was able, from different sounds reaching him, to mentally
picture most of what occurred in the next room. He heard Bill sink down
into the convenient chair, and drink from the bottle, while the gambler
apparently advanced toward the bed, where he stood looking down on its
unconscious occupant.

"The fool is dead drunk," he declared disgustedly. "We can't do anything
with him to-night."

"I say--throw bucket water over him," hiccoughed the other genially,
"allers sobers me off."

Hawley made no response, evidently finding a seat on one end of the
washstand.

"Hardly worth while, Scott," he returned finally. "Perhaps I better have
some understanding with Christie, anyhow, before I pump the boy any
further. If we can once get her working with us, Willoughby won't have
much hand in the play--we shan't need him. Thought I told you to keep
sober?"

"Am sober," solemnly, "ain't had but six drinks; just nat'rly tired out."

"Oh, indeed; well, such a room as this would drive any man to drink. Did
you get what I sent you here after?"

"I sure did, Bart," and Keith heard the fellow get to his feet unsteadily.
"Here's the picture, an' some letters. I didn't take only what he had in
the grip."

Hawley shuffled the letters over in his hands, apparently hastily reading
them with some difficulty in the dim light.

"Nothing there to give us any help," he acknowledged reluctantly, "mostly
advice as far as I can see. Damn the light; a glow worm would be better."
There was a pause; then he slapped his leg. "However, it's clear they live
in Springfield, Missouri, and this photograph is a peach. Just look here,
Bill! What did I tell you? Ain't Christie a dead ringer for this girl?"

"You bet she is, Bart," admitted the other in maudlin admiration, "only, I
reckon, maybe some older."

"Well, she ought to be accordin' to Willoughby's story, an' them papers
bear him out all right, so I reckon he's told it straight--this Phyllis
would be twenty-six now, and that's just about what Christie is. It
wouldn't have fit better if we had made it on purpose. If the girl will
only play up to the part we won't need any other evidence--her face would
be enough."

Keith could hear the beating of his own heart in the silence that
followed. Here was a new thought, a new understanding, a complete new turn
to affairs. Christie Maclaire, then, was not Willoughby's sister Hope. The
girl he rescued on the desert--the girl with the pleading brown eyes, and
the soft blur of the South on her lips--was not the music hall singer. He
could hardly grasp the truth at first, it antagonized so sharply with all
he had previously believed. Yet, if this were true his own duty became
clearer than ever; aye, and would be more willingly performed. But what
did Hawley know? Did he already realize that the girl he had first met on
the stage coach, and later inveigled into the desert, was Hope, and not
the music hall artist? He, of course, fully believed her to be Christie
Maclaire at that time, but something might have occurred since to change
that belief. Anyhow, the man was not now seeking Hope, but the other.
Apparently the latter was either already here in Sheridan or expected
soon. And exactly what was it the gambler desired this Maclaire woman to
do? This was the important matter, and for its solution Keith possessed
merely a few hints, a few vague suggestions. She was expected to represent
herself as Phyllis--Phyllis who? Some Phyllis surely whose physical
resemblance to Hope must be sufficiently marked to be at once noticeable.
Willoughby had evidently revealed to Hawley some hidden family secret,
having money involved, no doubt, and in which the discovery of this
mysterious Phyllis figured. She might, perhaps, be a sister, or half-
sister, who had disappeared, and remained ignorant as to any inheritance.
Hope's picture shown by the boy, and reminding Hawley at once of Christie
Maclaire, had been the basis of the whole plot. Exactly what the details
of that plot might be Keith could not figure out, but one thing was
reasonably certain--it was proposed to defraud Hope. And who in the very
truth was Hope? It suddenly occurred to him as a remarkably strange fact
that he possessed not the slightest inkling as to the girl's name. Her
brother had assumed to be called Willoughby when he enlisted in the army,
and his companions continued to call him this. If he could interview the
girl now for only five minutes he should be able probably to straighten
out the whole intricate tangle. But where was she? Would she have remained
until this time at Fort Larned with Kate Murphy?

There was a noise of movement in the next room. Apparently as Hawley arose
carelessly from his edge of the washstand he had dislodged the glass,
which fell shivering on the floor. Scott swore audibly at the loss.

"Shut up, Bill," snapped the gambler, irritated, "you've got the bottle
left. I'm going; there's nothing for any of us to do now, until after I
see Christie. You remain here! Do you understand?--remain here. Damn me,
if that drunken fool isn't waking up." There was a rattling of the rickety
bed, and then the sound of Willoughby's voice, thick from liquor.

"Almighty glad see you, Bart--am, indeed. Want money--Bill an' I both want
money--can't drink without money--can't eat without money--shay, when you
goin' stake us?"

"I'll see you again in the morning, Fred," returned the other briefly. "Go
on back to sleep."

"Will when I git good an' ready--go sleep, stay wake, just as I please--
don't care damn what yer do--got new frien' now."

"A new friend? Who?" Hawley spoke with aroused interest.

"Oh, he's all right--he's mighty fine fellow--come in wisout in--
invitation--ol' friend my sister--called--called her Hope--you fool, Bart
Hawley, think my sister Christie--Christie--damfino the name--my sister,
Hope--don't want yer money--my--my new friend, he 'll stake me--he knows
my sister--Hope."

The gambler grasped the speaker, shaking him into some slight semblance of
sobriety.

"Now, look here, Willoughby, I want the truth, and mean to have it," he
insisted. "Has some one been in here while Scott was gone?"

"Sure--didn't I just tell yer?--friend o' Hope's."

"Who was he? Speak up! I want the name!"

There was a faint gurgling sound, as though the gambler's vise-like
fingers were at the boy's throat; a slight struggle, and then the choked
voice gasped out:

"Let up! damn yer! He called himself Jack Keith."

The dead silence which ensued was broken only by heavy breathing. Then
Scott swore, bringing his fist down with a crash on the washstand.

"That rather stumps yer, don't it, Bart? Well, it don't me. I tell yer
it's just as I said from the first. It was Keith an' that nigger what
jumped ye in the cabin. They was hidin' there when we rode in. He just
nat'rly pumped the gal, an' now he's up here trailin' you. Blame it all,
it makes me laugh."

"I don't see what you see to laugh at. This Keith isn't an easy man to
play with, let me tell you. He may have got on to our game."

"Oh, hell, Bart, don't lose your nerve. He can't do anything, because
we've got the under holt. He's a fugitive; all we got to do is locate him,
an' have him flung back inter jail--there's murder an' hoss-stealing agin
him."

Hawley seemed to be thinking swiftly, while his companion took another
drink.

"Well, pard, ain't that so?"

"No, that trick won't work, Scott. We could do it easily enough if we were
down in Carson, where the boys would help us out. The trouble up here is
that 'Wild Bill' Hickock is Marshal of Sheridan, and he and I never did
hitch. Besides, Keith was one of his deputies down at Dodge two years ago
--you remember when Dutch Charlie's place was cleaned out? Well, Hickock
and Keith did that job all alone, and 'Wild Bill' isn't going back on that
kind of a pal, is he? I tell you we've got to fight this affair alone, and
on the quiet. Maybe the fellow don't know much yet, but he's sure on the
trail, or else he wouldn't have been in here talking to Willoughby. We've
got to get him, Scott, somehow. Lord, man, there's a clean million dollars
waiting for us in this deal, and I'm ready to fight for it. But I'm damned
sleepy, and I'm going to bed. You locate Keith to-morrow, and then, when
you're sober, we'll figure out how we can get to him best; I've got to set
Christie right. Good-night, Bill."

He went out into the hall and down the creaking stairs, the man he wanted
so badly listening to his descending footsteps, half tempted to follow.
Scott did not move, perhaps had already fallen drunkenly asleep on his
chair, and finally Keith crossed his own room, and lay down. The din
outside continued unabated, but the man's intense weariness overcame it
all, and he fell asleep, his last conscious thought a memory of Hope.

Chapter XX

Hope Goes to Sheridan

The discovery of the locket which had fallen from about Keith's neck made
it impossible for Hope to remain quietly for very long in the hotel at
Fort Larned. The more carefully she thought over the story of that murder
at the Cimmaron Crossing, and Keith's tale of how he had discovered and
buried the mutilated bodies, the more assured she became that that was
where this locket came from, and that the slain freighter must have been
her own father. She never once questioned the truth of Keith's report;
there was that about the man which would not permit of her doubting him.
He had simply failed to mention what he removed from the bodies, supposing
this would be of no special interest.

Mrs. Murphy, hoping thus to quiet the apprehensions of her charge, set
herself diligently at work to discover the facts. As her house was filled
with transients, including occasional visitors from Carson City, and was
also lounging headquarters for many of the officers from the near-by fort,
she experienced no difficulty in picking up all the floating rumors. Out
of these, with Irish shrewdness, she soon managed to patch together a
consistent fabric of fact.

"Shure, honey, it's not so bad the way they tell it now," she explained,
consolingly. "Nobody belaves now it was yer father that got kilt. It was
two fellers what stole his outfit, clothes an' all, an' was drivin' off
wid 'em inter the sand hills. Divil a wan does know who kilt 'em, but
there's some ugly stories travellin' about. Some says Injuns; some says
the posse run 'em down; an' Black Bart an' his dirthy outfit, they swear
it was Keith. Oi've got me own notion. Annyhow, there's 'bout three
hundred dollars, some mules, an' a lot o' valyble papers missin'."

"But if it wasn't father, where is he now?"

"That's what Oi've been tryin' ter foind out. First off he went out to the
Cimmaron Crossing, gyarded by a squad o' cavalry from the fort here. Tommy
Caine wint along, an' told me all about it. They dug up the bodies, but
niver a thing did they find on 'em--not a paper, nor a dollar. They'd bin
robbed all roight. The owld Gineral swore loike a wild mon all the way
back, Tommy said, an' the first thing he did at Carson City was to start
huntin' fer 'Black Bart.' He was two days gittin' on the trail av him;
then he heard the feller was gone away trapsing after a singin' or dancin'
gyurl called Christie Maclaire. She was supposed to be ayther at Topeky or
Sheridan. A freighter told the owld man she was at Sheridan, an' so he
started there overland, hopin' ter head off 'Black Bart.' Oi reckon we
could a towld mor 'n that."

"What do you mean?"

"Why shure, honey, what's the use tryin' ter decave me? Didn't Jack Keith,
wid his own lips, tell me ye was Christie Maclaire?"

"But I'm not! I'm not, Mrs. Murphy. I don't even know the woman. It is
such a strange thing; I cannot account for it--both those men mistook me
for her, and--and I let them. I didn't care who the man Hawley supposed me
to be, but I intended to have told Mr. Keith he was mistaken. I don't know
why I didn't, only I supposed he finally understood. But I want you to
believe, Mrs. Murphy--I am Hope Waite, and not Christie Maclaire."

"It's little the loss to ye not ter be her, an' Oi'm thinkin' loikely Jack
Keith will be moighty well plased ter know the truth. What's 'Black Bart'
so ayger ter git hold av this Maclaire gyurl fer?"

"I do not in the least know. He must have induced me to go to that place
in the desert believing me to be the other woman. Yet he said nothing of
any purpose; indeed, he found no opportunity."

Mrs. Murphy shook her head disparagingly.

"It was shure some divilment," she asserted, stoutly. "He'll be up to some
thrick wid the poor gyurl; Oi know the loikes av him. Shure, the two av
yez must look as much aloike as two payes in a pod. Loikely now, it's a
twin sister ye've got?"

Hope smiled, although her eyes were misty.

"Oh, no; Fred and I were the only children; but what shall I do? What
ought I to do?"

The Irish mouth of Kate Murphy set firmly, her blue eyes burning.

"It's not sthrong Oi am on advisin'," she said, shortly, "but if it was me
Oi'd be fer foindin' out what all this mix-up was about. There's somethin'
moighty quare in it. It's my notion that Hawley's got hold av thim papers
av yer father's. The owld gint thinks so, too, an' that's why he's so hot
afther catchin' him. May the divil admoire me av Oi know where this
Maclaire gyurl comes in, but Oi'll bet the black divil has get her marked
fer some part in the play. What would Oi do? Be goory, Oi'd go to
Sheridan, an' foind the Gineral, an' till him all I knew. Maybe he could
piece it together, an' guess what Hawley was up ter."

Hope was already upon her feet, her puzzled face brightening.

"Oh, that is what I wanted to do, but I was not sure it would be best. How
can I get there from here?"

"Ye'd have ter take the stage back to Topeky; loikely they'd be runnin'
thrains out from there on the new road. It'll be aisy fer me ter foind out
from some av the lads down below."

The only equipment operating into Sheridan was a construction train, with
an old battered passenger coach coupled to the rear. A squad of heavily
armed infantrymen rode along, as protection against possible Indian
raiders, but there was no crowd aboard on this special trip, as all
construction work had been suspended on the line indefinitely, and most of
the travel, therefore, had changed to the eastward. The coach used had a
partition run through it, and, as soon as the busy trainmen discovered
ladies on board, they unceremoniously drove the more bibulous passengers,
protesting, into the forward compartment. This left Hope in comparative
peace, her remaining neighbors quiet, taciturn men, whom she looked at
through the folds of her veil during the long, slow, exasperating journey,
mentally guessing at their various occupations. It was an exceedingly
tedious, monotonous trip, the train slackening up, and jerking forward,
apparently without slightest reason; then occasionally achieving a full
stop, while men, always under guard, went ahead to fix up some bit of
damaged track, across which the engineer dared not advance. At each bridge
spanning the numerous small streams, trainmen examined the structure
before venturing forward, and at each stop the wearied passengers grew
more impatient and sarcastic, a perfect stream of fluent profanity being
wafted back whenever the door between the two sections chanced to be left
ajar.

Hope was not the only woman on board, yet a glance at the others was
sufficient to decide their status, even had their freedom of manner and
loud talking not made it equally obvious. Fearful lest she might be
mistaken for one of the same class, she remained in silence, her veil
merely lifted enough to enable her to peer out through the grimy window at
the barren view slipping slowly past. This consisted of the bare prairie,
brown and desolate, occasionally intersected by some small watercourse,
the low hills rising and falling like waves to the far horizon. Few
incidents broke the dead monotony; occasionally a herd of antelope
appeared in the distance silhouetted against the sky-line, and once they
fairly crept for an hour through a mass of buffalo, grazing so close that
a fusillade of guns sounded from the front end of the train. A little
farther along she caught a glimpse of a troop of wild horses dashing
recklessly down into a sheltering ravine. Yet principally all that met her
straining eyes was sterile desolation. Here and there a great ugly water
tank reared its hideous shape beside the track, the engine always pausing
for a fresh supply. Beside it was invariably a pile of coal, a few
construction cars, a hut half buried under earth, loop-holed and
barricaded, with several rough men loafing about, heavily armed and
inquisitive. A few of these points had once been terminal, the surrounding
scenery evidencing past glories by piles of tin cans, and all manner of
debris, with occasionally a vacant shack, left deserted and forlorn.

Wearied and heartsick, Hope turned away from this outside dreariness to
contemplate more closely her neighbors on board, but found them scarcely
more interesting. Several were playing cards, others moodily staring out
of the windows, while a few wefe laughing and talking with the girls,
their conversation inane and punctuated with profanity. One man was
figuring on a scratch pad, and Hope decided he must be an engineer
employed on the line; others she classed as small merchants, saloon-
keepers, and frontier riff-raff. They would glance curiously at her as
they marched up and down the narrow aisle, but her veil, and averted face,
prevented even the boldest from speaking, Once she addressed the
conductor, and the man who was figuring turned and looked back at her,
evidently attracted by the soft note of her voice. But he made no effort
at advances, returning immediately to his pad, oblivious to all else.

It was growing dusk, the outside world, now consisting of level plains,
fading into darkness, with a few great stars burning overhead. Trainsmen
lit the few smoking oil lamps screwed against the sides of the car, and
its occupants became little more than dim shadows. All by this time were
fatigued into silence, and several were asleep, finding such small comfort
as was possible on the cramped seats. Hope glanced toward the heretofore
noisy group at the rear--the girl nearest her rested with unconscious head
pillowed upon the shoulder of her man friend, and both were sleeping. How
haggard and ghastly the woman's powdered face looked, with the light just
above it, and all semblance of joy gone. It was as though a mask had been
taken off. Out in the darkness the engine whistled sharply and then came
to a bumping stop at some desert station. Through the black window a few
lanterns could be seen flickering about, and there arose the sound of
gruff voices speaking. The sleepers inside, aroused by the sharp stop,
rolled over and swore, seeking easier postures. Then the front door
opened, and slammed shut, and a new passenger entered. He came down the
aisle, glancing carelessly at the upturned faces, and finally sank into
the seat directly opposite Hope. He was a broad shouldered man, his coat
buttoned to the throat, with strong face showing clearly beneath the broad
hat brim and lighted up with a pair of shrewd, kindly eyes. The conductor
came through, nodded at him, and passed on. Hope thought he must be some
official of the road, and ventured to break the prolonged silence with a
question:

"Could you tell me how long it will be before we reach Sheridan?"

She had partially pushed aside her veil in order to speak more clearly,
and the man, turning at sound of her voice, took off his hat, his
searching eyes quizzical.

"Well, no, I can't, madam," the words coming with a jerk. "For I'm not at
all sure we'll keep the track. Ought to make it in an hour, however, if
everything goes right. Live in Sheridan?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17