Keith possessed sufficient means for several months of idleness, andeven if he had not, his reputation as a plains scout would insure himemployment at any of the more important scattered army posts. Reliablemen for such service were in demand. The restlessness of the variousIndian tribes, made specially manifest by raids on the more advancedsettlements, and extending over a constantly widening territory,required continuous interchange of communication between commanders ofdetachments. Bold and reckless spirits had flocked to the frontier inthose days following the Civil War, yet all were not of the typeto encourage confidence in military authorities. Keith had alreadyfrequently served in this capacity, and abundantly proved his worthunder rigorous demands of both endurance and intelligence, and he couldfeel assured of permanent employment whenever desired. Not a few ofthe more prominent officers he had met personally during the latewar--including Sheridan, to whom he had once borne a flag of truce,--yetthe spirit of the Confederacy still lingered in his heart: not in anyfeeling of either hatred or revenge, but in an unwillingness to servethe blue uniform, and a memory of antagonism which would not entirelydisappear. He had surrendered at Appomattox, conquered, yet he could notquite adjust himself to becoming companion-in-arms with those againstwhom he had fought valiantly for four years. Some of the wounds of thatconflict still smarted. A natural soldier, anxious to help the harassedsettlers, eager enough to be actively employed, he still held aloof fromarmy connections except as a volunteer in case of emergency.
Just now other considerations caused him to desire freedom. He had beenaccused of murder, imprisoned for it, and in order to escape, had beencompelled to steal horses, the most heinous crime of the frontier. Notonly for his own protection and safety must the truth of that occurrenceat the Cimmaron Crossing be made clear, but he also had now a personalaffair with "Black Bart" Hawley to be permanently settled. They hadalready clashed twice, and Keith intended they should meet again.
Memory of the girl was still in his mind as he and Neb rode silentlyforth on the black prairie, leading the extra horse behind them.He endeavored to drive the recollection from his mind, so he mightconcentrate it upon plans for the future, but somehow she mysteriouslywove her own personality into those plans, and he was ever seeing thepleading in her eyes, and listening to the soft Southern accent of hervoice. Of late years he had been unaccustomed to association with womenof high type, and there was that touch of the gentlewoman about thisgirl which had awakened deep interest. Of course he knew that in hercase it was merely an inheritance of her past, and could not trulyrepresent the present Christie Maclaire of the music halls. Howeverfascinating she might be, she could not be worthy any seriousconsideration. In spite of his rough life the social spirit of the oldSouth was implanted in his blood, and no woman of that class could holdhim captive. Yet, some way, she refused to be banished or left behind.Even Neb must have been obsessed by a similar spirit, for he suddenlyobserved:
"Dat am sutt'nly a mighty fine gal, Massa Jack. I ain't seen nothin' tocompare wid her since I quit ol' Virginia--'deed I ain't."
Keith glanced back at his black satellite, barely able to distinguishthe fellow's dim outlines.
"You think her a lady, then?" he questioned, giving thoughtlessutterance to his own imagination.
"'Deed I does!" the thick voice somewhat indignant. "I reck'n I knowsde real quality when I sees it. I'se 'sociated wid quality white folksbefo'."
"But, Neb, she's a singer in dance halls."
"I don't believe it, Massa Jack."
"Well, I wouldn't if I could help it. She don't seem like that kind, butI recognized her as soon as I got her face in the light. She was at theGaiety in Independence, the last time I was there. Hawley knew her too,and called her by name."
Neb rubbed his eyes, and slapped his pony's flank, unable to answer, yetstill unconvinced.
"I reck'n both ob yer might be mistook," he insisted doggedly.
"Not likely," and Keith's brief laugh was not altogether devoid ofbitterness. "We both called her Christie Maclaire, and she didn't evendeny the name; she was evidently not proud of it, but there was nodenial that she was the girl."
"Dat wasn't like no name dat you called her when we was ridin'."
"No; she didn't approve of the other, and told me to call her Hope, butI reckon she's Christie Maclaire all right."
They rode on through the black, silent night as rapidly as their tiredhorses would consent to travel. Keith led directly across the openprairie, guiding his course by the stars, and purposely avoiding thetrails, where some suspicious eye might mark their passage. His firstobject was to get safely away from the scattered settlements lyingeast of Carson City. Beyond their radius he could safely dispose of thehorses they rode, disappear from view, and find time to develop futureplans. As to the girl--well, he would keep his word with her, of course,and see her again sometime. There would be no difficulty about that, butotherwise she should retain no influence over him. She belonged ratherto Hawley's class than his.
It was a lonely, tiresome ride, during which Neb made various efforts totalk, but finding his white companion uncommunicative, at last relapsedinto rather sullen silence. The horses plodded on steadily, and whendaylight finally dawned, the two men found themselves in a depressionleading down to the Smoky River. Here they came to a water hole, wherethey could safely hide themselves and their stock. With both Indiansand white men to be guarded against, they took all the necessaryprecautions, picketing the horses closely under the rock shadows, andnot venturing upon building any fire. Neb threw himself on the turf andwas instantly asleep, but Keith climbed the steep side of the gully, andmade searching survey of the horizon. The wide arc to south, east, andwest revealed nothing to his searching eyes, except the dull brown ofthe slightly rolling plains, with no life apparent save some distantgrazing antelope, but to the north extended more broken country witha faint glimmer of water between the hills. Satisfied they wereunobserved, he slid back again into the depression. As he turned tolie down he took hold of the saddle belonging to Hawley's horse. In theunbuckled holster his eye observed the glimmer of a bit of white paper.He drew it forth, and gazed at it unthinkingly. It was an envelope,robbed of its contents, evidently not sent through the mails as ithad not been stamped, but across its face was plainly written, "MissChristie Maclaire." He stared at it, his lips firm set, his gray eyesdarkening. If he possessed any doubts before as to her identity, theywere all thoroughly dissipated now.
* * * * *
As he lay there, with head pillowed on the saddle, his body aching fromfatigue yet totally unable to sleep, staring open-eyed into the blueof the sky, the girl they had left behind awoke from uneasy slumber,aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Murphy. For an instant she failed tocomprehend her position, but the strong brogue of the energetic landladybroke in sharply:
"A bit av a cup av coffee fer ye, honey," she explained, crossing to thebed. "Shure an' there's nuthin' loike it when ye first wake up. HowlyMither, but it's toird 'nough ye do be lookin' yet."
"I haven't slept very well," the girl confessed, bringing her handout from beneath the coverlet, the locket still tightly clasped in herfingers. "See, I found this on the floor last night after you had gonedown stairs."
"Ye did!" setting the coffee on a convenient chair, and reaching out forthe trinket. "Let's have a look at it once. Angels av Hiven, if it isn'tthe same the ol' Gineral was showin' me in the parly."
The other sat up suddenly, her white shoulders and rounded throatgleaming.
"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'snot 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 daysoutfittin'--a noice spoken ol' gintlemin, wid a gray beard, an' onc't heshowed 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 eyeswere 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 alwayscarried."
"Then what is your name?"
"Hope Waite."
Kate Murphy looked, at the face half hidden in the bed-clothes. That wasnot the name which Keith had given her, but she had lived on the bordertoo long to be inquisitive. The other lifted her head, flinging back herloosened 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--hetold me about that; but he never showed me this--this. Do you--do youthink--"
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 knowwho it was got kilt out yonder, but Oi'm tellin' ye it niver was JackKeith what did it--murther ain't his stoyle."
Chapter XVI. Introducing Doctor Fairbain
Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains Page 15