Keith of the Border Part 21

"How tired you look! Something has occurred to keep you out all night--and--and I know you have brought me bad news. Don't be afraid to tell me; I can bear anything better than suspense. Is it about father?"

"No, Hope," and he took her hand, and led her to a chair. Bending above her he gave her the whole story of the night, and she scarcely interrupted with a question, sitting there dry-eyed, with only an occasional sob shaking her slender form. As he ended, she looked up into his face, and now he could see a mist of unshed tears in her eyes.

"What shall I do, Captain Keith? I am all alone with this, except for you."

"I have considered that, Hope," he answered, gravely, "and it seems to me your present duty is more to the living than the dead. You should remain here until we learn something definite regarding your father, and discover the truth of this conspiracy formed against him. If Fred could know the trouble his chance words have caused, he would wish you to do this. With him gone, we are going to find the unravelling harder than ever. It is my judgment, Hope, your brother should be buried here."

She shuddered, her hands pressed to her eyes.

"Oh, on that horrible 'Boots Hill'?"

"Only temporarily, little girl," his voice full of deepest sympathy. "In a few weeks, perhaps, it could be removed East."

She was silent for what seemed to him a long while; then she looked up into his face, clinging to his arm.

"Yes," she said, "that will be best."

That same afternoon, the sun low in the west, they placed the dead boy in his shallow grave on "Boots Hill." It was a strange funeral, in a strange environment--all about the barren, deserted plains; far away to the east and west, the darker line marking the railroad grade, and just below, nestled close in against the foot of the hill, the squalid town of tents and shacks. There were not many to stand beside the open grave, for few in Sheridan knew the lad, and funerals were not uncommon--some cronies, half-drunk and maudlin, awed somewhat by the presence of the marshal, Doctor Fairbain, Keith, and Hope. That was all excepting the post chaplain from Fort Hays, who, inspired by a glimpse of the girl's unveiled face, spoke simple words of comfort. It was all over with quickly, and with the red sun still lingering on the horizon, the little party slowly wended their way back, down the steep trail into the one long street of Sheridan.

At the hotel Neb was waiting, the whites of his eyes s.h.i.+ning with excitement, his pantomime indicating important news. As soon as he could leave Hope, Keith hurried down to interview his dusky satellite, who appeared about to burst with restrained information. As soon as uncorked that individual began to flow volubly:

"I sho' done seed 'em, Ma.s.sa Jack; I done seed 'em both."

"Both? Both who?"

"Ma.s.sa Waite, sah, an' dat black debble dat we was huntin' fo'. It was a mos' surprisin' circ.u.mstance, sah--a mos' surprisin' circ.u.mstance."

"Well, go on; where did you see them? Do you mean they were together?"

The negro took a long breath, evidently overcome by the importance of his message, and unable to conjure up words wholly satisfactory to his ideas.

"It sho' am de strangest t'ing, Ma.s.sa Jack, ebber I prognosticated. I was jest comin' roun' de corner ob Sheeny Joe's shebang, back dar by de blacksmith shop, when--de Lawd save me!--yere come ol' Ma.s.sa Waite, a ridin' 'long on a cream colo'd pinto just as much alibe as ebber he was.

Yas, sah; he's whiskers was blowin' round, an' I could eben yeah him cussin' de hoss, when he done shy at a man what got up sudden like from a cart-wheel he was settin' on. I done took one look at dat secon'

fellar, and seed it was dat black debble from down Carson way. Den I ducked inter de blacksmith shop out 'er sight. I sho' didn't want Mister Hawley to git no chance at dis n.i.g.g.e.r--I sho' didn't."

"Did they speak to one another?" Keith asked, anxiously. "Did you hear what was said?"

"Sho' dey talked, Ma.s.sa Jack. I sorter reckon dey was dar for dat special purpose. Sutt'nly, sah, dey went right at talkin' like dey hed som't'ing on dey minds. Ol' Ma.s.sa Waite was a sittin' straight up on de hoss, an' dat black debble was a standin' dar in front ob him. Ol'

Ma.s.sa Waite he was mad from de first jump off, an' I could heah most eberyt'ing he said, but Mr. Hawley he grin de same way he do when he deal faro, an' speaks kinder low. De ol' man he swear fine at him, he call him eberyt'ing--a d.a.m.n liar, a d.a.m.n scoundrel--but Mr. Hawley he jest grin, and say ober de same ting."

"What was that, Neb?"

"Som't'ing 'bout a gal, Ma.s.sa Jack--an' a law suit--an' how de ol' man better settle up widout no fightin'. I jest didn't git de whole ob it, he talked so low like."

"What did Waite say?"

"Well, mostly he jest cussed. He sho' told dat black debble 'bout what he thought ob him, but he didn't nebber once call him Hawley--no, sah, not once; he done call him Bartlett, or somet'ing or odder like dat.

But he sutt'nly read dat man's pedigree from way back to de time ob de flood, I reck'n. An' he done swore he'd fight for whatebber it was, papers or no papers. Den Hawley, he got plumb tired ob de ol' man swearin' at him, an' he grabbed a picter out ob he's pocket, an' says, 'd.a.m.n you; look at dat! What kind ob a fight can yo' make against dat face?' De ol' man stared at it a while, sorter chokin' up; den he say softer like: 'It's Hope; where did yo' ebber get dat?' and de black debble he laughed, an' shoved de picter back into he's pocket. 'Hope, h.e.l.l!' he say, 'it's Phyllis, an' I'll put her before any jury yo're mind to get--oh, I've got yo' nailed, Waite, dis time.'"

"Was that all?"

"De ol' gin'ral he didn't seem ter know what ter say; he done set dar lookin' off ober de prairie like he was clar flumegasted. He sho' did look like dat black debble hed hit him mighty hard. Den he says slow like, turnin' his hoss 'round: 'Bartlett, yo' am puttin' up a good bluff, but, by Gawd, I'm goin' ter call yo'. Yo' don't get a cent ob dat money 'less yo' put up de proof. I'll meet yo' whar yo' say, but ef I can git hol' ob some papers dat's missin' I'll take dat grin off yo'

face.' De odder one laughed, an' de ol' gin'ral started fo' ter ride away, den he pull up he's hoss, an' look back. 'Yo' sorter herd wid dat kind ob cattle, Bartlett,' he say, sharp like, 'maybe yo' know a gambler roun' yere called Hawley?' De black debble nebber eben lose he's grin.

'Do yo' mean Black Bart Hawley?' 'Dat's the man, where is he?' 'Dealin'

faro fo' Mike Kenna in Topeka a week ago--friend ob yours?' 'Dat's none ob yo' d.a.m.ned business,' snorted de ol' gin'ral, givin' his hoss de spur. Sho', Ma.s.sa Jack, he nebber knowed he was talkin' ter dat same Hawley, an' dat black debble jest laughed as he rode off."

"When was all this, Neb?"

"'Bout de time yo' all went up on de hill, I reck'n. I done come right yere, and waited."

Keith walked across the room, selected a cigar, and came back, his mind busy with the problem. Hawley had in some manner, then, got into communication with Waite, and was threatening him. But Waite evidently knew the man under another name--his given name--and the gambler had sent him off on a false trail. The lost papers apparently contained the solution to all this mystery. Waite believed Hawley possessed them, but did not suspect that Bartlett and Hawley were the same person. What would he most naturally do now? Seek Hawley in Topeka probably; seize the first opportunity of getting there. Keith turned impatiently to the clerk.

"Any train running east?"

"Well, they generally start one out every day,", with a glance toward the clock, "'long 'bout this time. Maybe it's gone, and maybe it hasn't."

It was already nearly dark outside as the two men hastened toward the depot. They arrived there barely in time to see the red lights on the last car disappear. No inquiries made of those lounging about brought results--they had been interested in a lot of drunken graders loaded on the flat cars by force, and sent out under guard--and not one could tell whether any man answering Waite's description was in the single pa.s.senger coach. Convinced, however, that the General would waste no time in prosecuting his search, Keith believed him already on his way east, and after dismissing Neb, with instructions to watch out closely for Hawley, he made his own way back to the hotel.

It seemed strange enough how completely he was blocked each time, just as he thought the whole baffling mystery was about to be made clear.

Hawley was playing in rare luck, all the cards running easily to his hand, thus, at least, gaining time, and strengthening his position.

There could no longer be any doubt that the gambler possessed some knowledge which made him a formidable adversary. From Waite's statement it was the loss of the papers which left him helpless to openly resist the claim being made upon him on behalf of the mysterious Phyllis. His only hope, therefore, lay in recovering these; but, with time limited, he had been sent back on a wild goose chase, while Keith alone knew, with any degree of positiveness, where those doc.u.ments really were.

Hawley certainly had them in his possession the day before, for he had taken them to Miss Maclaire to thus convince her as to the truth of his statements. And Hawley was still in Sheridan. However, it was not likely the man would risk carrying doc.u.ments of such value, and doc.u.ments connecting him so closely with that murder on the Santa Fe Trail, about upon his person. At best, life was cheap in that community, and Black Bart must possess enemies in plenty. Yet if not on his person--where?

Scott was only a tool, a mere ignorant desperado, not to be trusted to such a degree--yet apparently he was the only one working with the gambler in this deal, the only one cognizant as to his plans.

Christie--Keith came to a stop in the street at the recurrence of the woman's name. Why not? If she had been convinced, if she really believed that these papers proved her right to both property and parentage, then she would guard them as a tigress does her young. And Hawley would know that, and must realize they would be far safer in her hands than in his pocket. She could not use them without his aid and guidance, and yet, whatever happened to him, they would still be safely beyond reach. True, this might not have been done; the gambler might not yet have felt that he had sufficient hold upon the woman to trust her thus far, but it was, at least, a possibility to be considered, and acted upon.

Still wrestling with the intricate problem, Keith entered the dining-room, and weaved his way, as usual, through the miscellaneous crowd, toward the more exclusive tables at the rear. A woman sat alone at one of these, her back toward the door. His first thought was that it must be Hope, and he advanced toward her, his heart throbbing.

She glanced up, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead, and he bowed, recognizing Christie Maclaire.

Chapter XXVI. A Chance Conversation

The opportunity thus so unexpectedly afforded was not one to be wasted, and Keith accepted it with swift determination. The expression in the woman's face was scarcely one of welcome, yet his purpose was sufficiently serious to cause him to ignore this with easy confidence in himself.

"I am, indeed, most fortunate to discover you alone, Miss Maclaire," he said, avoiding her eyes by a swift glance over the table, "and evidently at a time when you are only beginning your meal. May I join you?"

She hesitated for an instant, debating with herself, and as quickly deciding on disagreeable tactics.

"I presume this is a public table, and I consequently have little choice in the matter, if you insist," she replied, her voice more civil than her words. "Still, Mr. Keith, I am not accustomed to a.s.sociating with criminals."

He smiled, holding his temper in check, more than ever determined to win.

"Then, possibly, you may rather welcome a new diversion. I can a.s.sure you our criminals out here are the most interesting portion of our population. I wish I might have your permission."

Standing there before her, bare-headed, his slightly tanned face strong and manly, his gray eyes filled with humor, Miss Maclaire recognized again that he was not of the common herd, and the innate coquetry of her nature obtained mastery. What harm could it do for her to chat with him for half an hour? It was better than eating a lonely meal, and, besides, she might learn something of value to report to Hawley. Her own eyes brightened, the slight frown disappearing.