The light was considerably farther away than they had at first supposed,
and as they advanced steadily toward it, the nature of the ground
rapidly changed, becoming irregular, and littered with low growing
shrubs. In the darkness they stumbled over outcroppings of rock,
and after a fall or two, were compelled to move forward with extreme
caution. But the mysterious yellow glow continually beckoned, and with
new hope animating the hearts of both men, they staggered on, nerving
themselves to the effort, and following closely along the bank of the
stream.
At last they arrived where they could perceive dimly something of the
nature of this unexpected desert oasis.
The light shone forth, piercing the night, through the uncurtained
window of a log cabin, which would otherwise have been completely
concealed from view by a group of low growing cottonwoods. This was all
the black, enshrouding night revealed, and even this was merely made
apparent by the yellow illumination of the window. The cabin stood upon
an island, a strip of sand, partially covered by water, separating it
from the north shore on which they stood. There was no sign of
life about the hut, other than the burning lamp, but that alone was
sufficient evidence of occupancy. In spite of hunger, and urgent need,
Keith hesitated, uncertain as to what they might be called upon to face.
Who could be living in this out-of-the-way spot, in the heart of this
inhospitable desert? It would be no cattle outpost surely, for there was
no surrounding grazing land, while surely no professional hunter would
choose such a barren spot for headquarters. Either a hermit, anxious to
escape all intercourse with humanity, or some outlaw hiding from arrest,
would be likely to select so isolated a place in which to live. To them
it would be ideal. Away from all trails, where not even widely roving
cattlemen would penetrate, in midst of a desert avoided by Indians
because of lack of game,--a man might hide here year after year without
danger of discovery. Yet such a one would not be likely to welcome their
coming, and they were without arms. But Keith was not a man to hesitate
long because of possible danger, and he stepped down into the shallow
water.
“Come on, Neb,” he commanded, “and we 'll find out who lives here.”
The window faced the west, and he came up the low bank to where the
door fronted the north in intense darkness. Under the shadow of the
cottonwoods he could see nothing, groping his way, with hands extended.
His foot struck a flat stone, and he plunged forward, striking the
unlatched door so heavily as to swing it open, and fell partially
forward into the room. As he struggled to his knees, Neb's black face
peering past him into the lighted interior, he seemed to perceive in one
swift, comprehensive glance, every revealed detail. A lamp burned on
a rudely constructed set of drawers near the window, and a wood fire
blazed redly in a stone fireplace opposite, the yellow and red lights
blending in a peculiar glow of color. Under this radiance were revealed
the rough log walls, plastered with yellow clay, and hung about with
the skins of wild animals, a roughly made table, bare except for a book
lying upon it, and a few ordinary appearing boxes, evidently utilized as
seats, together with a barrel cut so as to make a comfortable chair.
In the back wall was a door, partially open, apparently leading into a
second room. That was all, except the woman.
Keith must have perceived all these in that first hurried glance, for
they were ever after closely associated together in his mind, yet at the
moment he possessed no clear thought of anything except her. She stood
directly behind the table, where she must have sprung hastily at the
first sound of their approach, clutching at the rude mantel above the
fireplace, and staring toward him, her face white, her breath coming in
sobs. At first he thought the vision a dream, a delirium born from his
long struggle; he could not conceive the possibility of such a presence
in this lonely place, and staggering to his feet, gazed wildly, dumbly
at the slender, gray clad figure, the almost girlish face under the
shadowing dark hair, expecting the marvellous vision to vanish. Surely
this could not be real! A woman, and such a woman as this here, and
alone, of all places! He staggered from weakness, almost terror, and
grasped the table to hold himself erect. The rising wind came swirling
in through the open door, causing the fire to send forth spirals of
smoke, and he turned, dragging the dazed negro within, and snapping the
latch behind him. When he glanced around again he fully believed the
vision confronting him would have vanished. But no! there she yet
remained, those wide-open, frightened brown eyes, with long lashes half
hiding their depths, looking directly into his own; only now she had
slightly changed her posture, leaning toward him across the table. Like
a flash he comprehended that this was reality--flesh and blood--and,
with the swift instinct of a gentleman, his numbed, nerveless fingers
jerked off his hat, and he bowed bareheaded before her.
“Pardon me,” he said, finding his voice with difficulty. “I fell over
the step, but--but I didn't expect to find a woman here.”
He heard her quick breathing, marked a slight change in the expression
of the dark eyes, and caught the glitter of the firelight on a revolver
in her lowered hand.
“What did you expect to find?”
“I hardly knew,” he explained lamely; “we stumbled on this hut by
accident. I didn't know there was a cabin in all this valley.”
“Then you are not here for any purpose? to meet with any one?”
“No; we were lost, and had gone into camp up above, when we discovered
your light.”
“Where do you come from?”
Keith hesitated just an instant, yet falsehood was never easy for him,
and he saw no occasion for any deceit now.
“Carson City.”
“What brought you here?”
“We started for the 'Bar X' Ranch down below, on the Canadian; got
caught in a sand-storm, and then just drifted. I do not know within
twenty miles of where we are.”
She drew a deep breath of unconcealed relief.
“Are you alone?”
“The negro and I--yes; and you haven't the slightest reason to be afraid
of us--we're square.”
She looked at him searchingly, and something in Keith's clean-cut face
seemed to bring reassurance, confidence in the man.
“I am not afraid,” she answered, coming toward him around the short
table. “Only it is so lonely here, and you startled me, bursting in
without warning. But you look all right, and I am going to believe your
story. What is your name?”
“Keith--Jack Keith.”
“A cowman?”
“A little of everything, I reckon,” a touch of returning bitterness
in the tone. “A plainsman, who has punched cattle, but my last job was
government scout.”
“You look as though you might be more than that,” she said slowly.
The man flushed, his lips pressing tightly together. “Well, I--I may
have been,” he confessed unwillingly. “I started out all right, but
somehow I reckon I just went adrift. It's a habit in this country.”
Apparently those first words of comment had left her lips unthinkingly,
for she made no attempt to reply; merely stood there directly facing
him, her clear eyes gazing frankly into his own. He seemed to actually
see her now for the first time, fairly--a supple, slender figure, simply
dressed, with wonderfully excessive brown eyes, a perfect wealth of
dark hair, a clear complexion with slight olive tinge to it, a strong,
intelligent face, not strictly beautiful, yet strangely attractive, the
forehead low and broad, the nose straight, the lips full and inclined to
smile. Suddenly a vague remembrance brought recognition.
“Why, I know you now.”
“Indeed!” the single word a note of undisguised surprise.
“Yes; I thought you looked oddly familiar all the time, but couldn't for
the life of me connect up. You're Christie Maclaire.”
“Am I?” her eyes filled with curiosity.
“Of course you are. You needn't be afraid of me if you want it kept
secret, but I know you just the same. Saw you at the 'Gaiety' in
Independence, maybe two months ago. I went three times, mostly on your
account. You've got a great act, and you can sing too.”
She stood in silence, still looking fixedly at him, her bosom rising
and falling, her lips parted as if to speak. Apparently she did not know
what to do, how to act, and was thinking swiftly.
“Mr. Keith,” she said, at last in decision, “I am going to ask you to
blot that all out--to forget that you even suspect me of being Christie
Maclaire, of the Gaiety.”
“Why, certainly; but would you explain?”
“There is little enough to explain. It is sufficient that I am here
alone with you. Whether I wish to or not, I am compelled to trust myself
to your protection. You may call me Christie Maclaire, or anything else
you please; you may even think me unworthy respect, but you possess the
face of a gentleman, and as such I am going to trust you--I must trust
you. Will you accept my confidence on these terms?”
Keith did not smile, nor move. Weak from hunger and fatigue, he leaned
wearily against the wall. Nevertheless that simple, womanly appeal awoke
all that was strong and sacrificing within him, although her words were
so unexpected that, for the moment, he failed to realize their full
purport. Finally he straightened up.
“I--I accept any terms you desire,” he gasped weakly, “if--if you will
only give one return.”
“One return?--what?”
“Food; we have eaten nothing for sixty hours.” Her face, which had been
so white, flushed to the hair, her dark eyes softening.
“Why, of course; sit down. I ought to have known from your face. There
is plenty here--such as it is--only you must wait a moment.”