The Carson City lock-up was an improvised affair, although a decidedly
popular resort. It was originally a two-room cabin with gable to the
street, the front apartment at one time a low groggery, the keeper
sleeping in the rear room. Whether sudden death, or financial reverses,
had been the cause, the community had in some manner become possessed
of the property, and had at once dedicated it to the commonweal. For the
purpose thus selected it was rather well adapted, being strongly built,
easily guarded, and on the outskirts of the town. With iron grating over
the windows, the back door heavily spiked, and the front secured by
iron bars, any prisoner once locked within could probably be found when
wanted. On the occasion of Keith's arrival, the portion abutting upon
the street was occupied by a rather miscellaneous assembly--the drunk
and disorderly element conspicuous--who were awaiting their several
calls to appear before a local justice and make answer for various
misdeeds. Some were pacing the floor, others sat moodily on benches
ranged against the wall, while a few were still peacefully slumbering
upon the floor. It was a frowsy, disreputable crowd, evincing but mild
curiosity at the arrival of a new prisoner. Keith had barely time to
glance about, recognizing no familiarity of face amid the mass peering
at him, as he was hustled briskly forward and thrust into the rear room,
the heavy door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock.
He was alone, with only the faintest murmur of voices coming to him
through the thick partition. It was a room some twelve feet square, open
to the roof, with bare walls, and containing no furniture except a rude
bench. Still dazed by the suddenness of his arrest, he sank down upon
the seat, leaned his head on his hands, and endeavored to think. It was
difficult to get the facts marshalled into any order or to comprehend
clearly the situation, yet little by little his brain grasped the main
details, and he awoke to a full realization of his condition, of the
forces he must war against. The actual murderers of those two men on the
trail had had their suspicions aroused by his actions; they believed
he guessed something of their foul deed, and had determined to clear
themselves by charging the crime directly against him. It was a shrewd
trick, and if they only stuck to their story, ought to succeed. He had
no evidence, other than his own word, and the marshal had already taken
from his pockets the papers belonging to the slain man. He had not found
the locket hidden under his shirt, yet a more thorough search would
doubtless reveal that also.
Even should the case come to trial, how would it be possible for him to
establish innocence, and--_would it ever come to trial?_ Keith knew the
character of the frontier, and of Carson City. The inclination of its
citizens in such cases was to act first, and reflect later. The law had
but slender hold, being respected only when backed by the strong hand,
and primitive instincts were always in the ascendency, requiring merely
a leader to break forth into open violence. And in this case would there
be any lack of leadership? Like a flash his mind reverted to “Black
Bart.” There was the man capable of inciting a mob. If, for some unknown
reason, he had sufficient interest to swear out the warrant and assist
in the arrest, he would have equal cause to serve those fellows behind
him in other ways. Naturally, they would dread a trial, with its
possibility of exposure, and eagerly grasp any opportunity for wiping
the slate clean. Their real security from discovery undoubtedly lay
in his death, and with the “Red Light” crowd behind them they would
experience no trouble in getting a following desperate enough for any
purpose.
The longer Keith thought the less he doubted the result. It was not
then a problem of defence, but of escape, for he believed now that no
opportunity to defend himself would ever be allowed. The arrest was
merely part of the plot intended to leave him helpless in the hands of
the mob. In this Hicks was in no way blamable--he had merely performed
his sworn duty, and would still die, if need be, in defence of his
prisoner. He was no tool, but only an instrument they had found means of
using.
Keith was essentially a man of action, a fighter by instinct, and so
long accustomed to danger that the excitement of it merely put new fire
into his veins. Now that he understood exactly what threatened, all
numbing feeling of hesitancy and doubt vanished, and he became instantly
alive. He would not lie there in that hole waiting for the formation of
a mob; nor would he trust in the ability of the marshal to defend him.
He had some friends without--not many, for he was but an occasional
visitor at Carson--who would rally to Hicks's assistance, but there
would not be enough on the side of law and order to overcome the “Red
Light” outfit, if once they scented blood. If he was to be saved
from their clutches, he must save himself; if his innocence was ever
established it would be by his own exertions--and he could accomplish
this only out yonder, free under the arch of sky.
He lifted his head, every nerve tingling with desperate determination.
The low growl of voices was audible through the partition, but there
was no other sound. Carson City was still resting, and there would be
no crowd nor excitement until much later. Not until nightfall would any
attack be attempted; he had six or eight hours yet in which to perfect
his plans. He ran his eyes about the room searching for some spot
of weakness. It was dark back of the bench, and he turned in that
direction. Leaning over, he looked down on the figure of a man curled
up, sound asleep on the floor. The fellow's limbs twitched as if in a
dream, otherwise he might have deemed him dead, as his face was buried
in his arms. A moment Keith hesitated; then he reached down and shook
the sleeper, until he aroused sufficiently to look up. It was the face
of a coal-black negro. An instant the fellow stared at the man towering
over him, his thick lips parted, his eyes full of sudden terror. Then he
sat up, with hands held before him as though warding off a blow.
“Fo' de Lawd's sake,” he managed to articulate finally, “am dis sho'
yo', Massa Jack?”
Keith, to whom all colored people were much alike, laughed at the
expression on the negro's face.
“I reckon yer guessed the name, all right, boy. Were you the cook of the
Diamond L?”
“No, sah, I nebber cooked no di'onds. I'se ol' Neb, sah.”
“What?”
“Yes, sah, I'se de boy dat libbed wid ol' Missus Caton durin' de wah. I
ain't seen yo', Massa Jack, sence de day we buried yo' daddy, ol' Massa
Keith. But I knowed yo' de berry minute I woke up. Sho', yo' 'members
Neb, sah?”
It came to Keith now in sudden rush of memory--the drizzling rain in the
little cemetery, the few neighbors standing about, a narrow fringe of
slaves back of them, the lowering of the coffin, and the hollow sound
of earth falling on the box; and Neb, his Aunt Caton's house servant, a
black imp of good humor, who begged so hard to be taken back with him to
the war. Why, the boy had held his stirrup the next morning when he rode
away. The sudden rush of recollection seemed to bridge the years, and
that black face became familiar, a memory of home.
“Of course, I remember, Neb,” he exclaimed, eagerly, “but that's all
years ago and I never expected to see you again. What brought you West
and got you into this hole?”
The negro hitched up onto the bench, the whites of his eyes conspicuous
as he stared uneasily about--he had a short, squatty figure, with
excessively broad shoulders, and a face of intense good humor.
“I reck'n dat am consider'ble ob a story, Massa Jack, de circumlocution
ob which would take a heap ob time tellin',” he began soberly. “But
it happened 'bout dis away. When de Yankees come snoopin' long de East
Sho'--I reck'n maybe it des a yeah after dat time when we done buried
de ol' Co'nel--dey burned Missus Caton's house clah to de groun'; de ol'
Missus was in Richmond den, an' de few niggers left jest natchally took
to de woods. I went into Richmond huntin' de ol' Missus, but, Lawd,
Massa Jack, I nebber foun' nuthin' ob her in dat crowd. Den an' officer
man done got me, an' put me diggin' in de trenches. Ef dat's what wah
am, I sho' don' want no mo' wah. Den after dat I jest natchally drifted.
I reckon I libbed 'bout eberywhar yo' ebber heard ob, fo' dar want no
use ob me goin' back to de East Sho'. Somebody said dat de West am de
right place fo' a nigger, an' so I done headed west.”
He dropped his face in his black hands, and was silent for some minutes,
but Keith said nothing, and finally the thick voice continued:
“I tell yo', Massa Jack, it was mighty lonely fo' Neb dem days. I didn't
know whar any ob yo' all was, an' it wan't no fun fo' dis nigger
bein' free dat away. I got out ter Independence, Missouri, an' was
roustaboutin' on de ribber, when a coupple ob men come along what wanted
a cook to trabbel wid 'em. I took de job, an' dat's what fetched me here
ter Carson City.”
“But what caused your arrest?”
“A conjunction ob circumstances, Massa Jack; yes, sah, a conjunction ob
circumstances. I got playin' pokah ober in dat 'Red Light,' an' I was
doin' fine. I reckon I'd cleaned up mo'n a hundred dollars when I got
sleepy, an' started fo' camp. I'd most got dar w'en a bunch ob low
white trash jumped me. It made me mad, it did fo' a fact, an' I reckon
I carved some ob 'em up befo' I got away. Ennyhow, de marshal come down,
took me out ob de tent, an' fetched me here, an' I ben here ebber sence.
I wan't goin' ter let no low down white trash git all dat money.”
“What became of the men you were working for?”
“I reckon dey went on, sah. Dey had 'portent business, an' wouldn't
likely wait 'roun' here jest ter help a nigger. Ain't ennybody ben here
ter see me, no-how, an' I 'spects I'se eradicated from dey mem'ry--I
'spects I is.”