Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains

by Randall Parrish

  Had the room been filled with men Keith could have restrained himselfno longer. Whatever her past might be, this woman appealed to himstrangely; he could not believe evil of her; he would have died ifneed be in her defence. But as it was, the ugly boast of Hawley gaveconfidence in the final outcome of this struggle in the dark, evena possibility of escape for them all. The gambler, assured of beingconfronted merely by a frail and not over-scrupulous woman, hadventured there alone; had stationed his men beyond sound; had doubtlessinstructed them to ignore any noise of struggle which they mightoverhear within. It was these very arrangements for evil which nowafforded opportunity, and Keith crept forward, alert and ready, histeeth clenched, his hands bare for contest. Even although he surprisedhis antagonist, it was going to be a fight for life; he knew "BlackBart," broad-shouldered, quick as a cat, accustomed to every form ofphysical exercise, desperate and tricky, using either knife or gunrecklessly. Yet it was now or never for all of them, and the plainsmanfelt no mercy, experienced no reluctance. He reached the table, andstraightened up, silent, expectant. For an instant there was no furthersound; no evidence of movement in the room. Hawley, puzzled by thesilence, was listening intently in an endeavor to thus locate the girlthrough some rustling, some slight motion. A knife, knocked from thetable, perhaps, as she slipped softly past, fell clattering to thefloor, and the gambler leaped instantly forward. Keith's grip closedlike iron on his groping arm, while he shot one fist out toward wherethe man's head should be. The blow glanced, yet drove the fellowbackward, stumbling against the table, and Keith closed in, grapplingfor the throat. The other, startled by the unexpected attack, andscarcely realizing even yet the nature of his antagonist, struggledblindly to escape the fingers clawing at him, and flung one hand down tothe knife in his belt. Warned by the movement, the assailant drovehis head into the gambler's chest, sending him crashing to the floor,falling himself heavily upon the prostrate body. Hawley gave utteranceto one cry, half throttled in his throat, and then the two grappledfiercely, so interlocked together as to make weapons useless. Whoeverthe assailant might be, the gambler was fully aware by now that hewas being crushed in the grasp of a fighting man, and exerted everywrestler's trick, every ounce of strength, to break free. Twice hestruggled to his knees, only to be crowded backward by relentless power;once he hurled Keith sideways, but the plainsman's muscles stiffenedinto steel, and he gradually regained his position. Neither daredrelease a grip in order to strike a blow: neither had sufficient breathleft with which to utter a sound. They were fighting for life, silently,desperately, like wild beasts, with no thought but to injure the other.The gambler's teeth sank into Keith's arm, and the latter in returnjammed the man's head back onto the puncheon floor viciously.Perspiration streamed from their bodies, their fingers clutching, theirlimbs wrapped together, their muscles strained to the utmost. Keith hadforgotten the girl, the negro, everything, dominated by the one passionto conquer. He was swept by a storm of hatred, a desire to kill. Intheir fierce struggle the two had rolled close to the fireplace, and inthe dull glow of the dying embers, he could perceive a faint outline ofthe man's face. The sight added flame to his mad passion, yet hecould do nothing except to cling to him, jabbing his fingers into thestraining throat.

  The negro ended the affair in his own way, clawing blindly at thecombatants in the darkness, and finally, determining which was theenemy, he struck the gambler with the stock of his gun, laying him outunconscious. Keith, grasping the table, hauled himself to his feet,gasping for breath, certain only that Hawley was no longer struggling.For an instant all was blank, a mist of black vapor; then a realizationof their situation came back in sudden flood of remembrance. Even yet hecould see nothing, but felt the motionless figure at his feet.

  "Quick," he urged, the instant he could make himself speak. "The fellowis only stunned; we must tie and gag him. Is that you, Neb? Where is thegirl?"

  "I am here, Captain Keith," and he heard the soft rustle of her dressacross the room. "What is it I may do?"

  "A coil of rope, or some straps, with a piece of cloth; anything you canlay hands on."

  She was some moments at it, confused by the darkness, and Hawley movedslightly, his labored breathing growing plainly perceptible. Keith heardher groping toward him, and held out his hands. She started as he thusunexpectedly touched her, yet made no effort to break away.

  "You--you frightened me a little," she confessed. "This has all happenedso quickly I hardly realize yet just what has occurred."

  "The action has only really begun," he assured her, still retaining hishold upon her hand. "This was merely a preliminary skirmish, and youmust prepare to bear your part in what follows. We have settled Mr.Hawley for the present, and now must deal with his gang."

  "Oh, what would I have done if you had not been here?"

  "Let us not think about that; we were here, and now have a busy nightbefore us if we get away safely. Give me the rope first. Good! Here,Neb, you must know how to use this,--not too tight, but without leavingany play to the arms; take the knife out of his belt. Now for the cloth,Miss Maclaire."

  "Please do not call me that!"

  "But you said it didn't make any difference what I called you."

  "I thought it didn't then, but it does now."

  "Oh, I see; we are already on a new footing. Yet I must call yousomething."

  She hesitated just long enough for him to notice it. Either she had nosubstitute ready at hand, or else doubted the advisability of confidingher real name under present circumstances to one so nearly a stranger.

  "You may call me Hope."

  "A name certainly of good omen," he returned. "From this moment I shallforget Christie Maclaire, and remember only Miss Hope. All right, Neb;now turn over a chair, and sit your man up against it. He will rest allthe easier in that position until his gang arrive."

  He thrust his head out of the door, peering cautiously forth into thenight, and listening. A single horse, probably the one Hawley had beenriding, was tied to a dwarfed cottonwood near the corner of the cabin.Nothing else living was visible.

  "I am going to round up our horses, and learn the condition of Hawley'soutfit," he announced in a low voice. "I may be gone for fifteen ortwenty minutes, and, meanwhile, Miss Hope, get ready for a long ride.Neb, stand here close beside the door, and if any one tries to come inbrain him with your gun-stock. I'll rap three times when I return."

  He slipped out into the silent night, and crept cautiously around theend of the dark cabin. The distinct change in the girl's attitude offriendship toward him, her very evident desire that he should think wellof her, together with the providential opportunity for escape, had lefthim full of confidence. The gambler had played blindly into their hands,and Keith was quick enough to accept the advantage. It was a risk tohimself, to be sure, thus turning again to the northward, yet the clearduty he owed the girl left such a choice almost imperative. He certainlycould not drag her along with him on his flight into the wild Comanchecountry extending beyond the Canadian. She must, at the very least,be first returned to the protection of the semi-civilization along theArkansas. After that had been accomplished, he would consider his ownsafety. He wondered if Hope really was her name, and whether it was thefamily cognomen, or her given name. That she was Christie Maclaire hehad no question, yet that artistic embellishment was probably merelyassumed for the work of the concert hall. Both he and Hawley couldscarcely be mistaken as to her identity in this respect, and, indeed,she had never openly denied the fact. Yet she did not at all seem to bethat kind, and Keith mentally contrasted her with numerous otherswhom he had somewhat intimately known along the border circuit. Itwas difficult to associate her with that class; she must have comeoriginally from some excellent family East, and been driven to thelife by necessity; she was more to be pitied than blamed. Keith held nopuritanical views of life--his own experiences had been too rough anddemocratic for that--yet he clung tenaciously to an ideal of womanhoodwhich could not be lowered. However interested he might otherwise feel
,no Christie Maclaire could ever find entrance into the deeps of hisheart, where dwelt alone the memory of his mother.

  He found the other horses turned into the corral, and was able, fromtheir restless movements, to decide they numbered eight. A fire, nearlyextinguished, glowed dully at the farther corner of the enclosure,and he crawled close enough to distinguish the recumbent forms of mensleeping about it on the ground. Apparently no guard had been set, thefellows being worn out from their long ride, and confident of safety inthis isolated spot. Besides, Hawley had probably assumed that duty, andtold them to get whatever sleep they could. However, the gate of thecorral opened beside their fire, and Keith dare not venture upon ropingany of their ponies, or leading them out past where they slept. Theremight be clippers in the cabin with which he could cut the wires, yet ifone of the gang awoke, and discovered the herd absent, it would resultin an alarm, and lead to early pursuit. It was far safer to use theirown ponies. He would lead Hawley's horse quietly through the water, andthey could mount on the other shore. This plan settled, he went at itswiftly, riding the captured animal while rounding up the others, andfastening the three to stunted trees on the opposite bank. Everythingwithin the cabin remained exactly as he had left it, and he brieflyexplained the situation, examining Hawley's bonds again carefully whiledoing so.

  "He'll remain there all right until his men find him," he declared,positively, "and that ought to give us a good six hours' start. Come,Miss Hope, every minute counts now."

  He held her arm, not unconscious of its round shapeliness, as he helpedher down the rather steep bank through the dense gloom. Then the two menjoined hands, and carrying her easily between them, waded the shallowstream. The horses, not yet sufficiently rested to be frisky, acceptedtheir burdens meekly enough, and, with scarcely a word spoken, the threerode away silently into the gloom of the night.

  Chapter XII. Through the Night Shadows