He saw Neb drop down before the blazing fireplace, and curl up like a
tired dog, and observed her take the lamp, open the door into the other
room a trifle, and slip silently out of sight. He remembered staring
vaguely about the little room, still illumined by the flames, only half
comprehending, and then the reaction from his desperate struggle with
the elements overcame all resolution, and he dropped his head forward
on the table, and lost consciousness. Her hand upon his shoulder aroused
him, startled into wakefulness, yet he scarcely realized the situation.
“I have placed food for the negro beside him,” she said quietly, and for
the first time Keith detected the soft blur in her speech.
“You are from the South!” he exclaimed, as though it was a discovery.
“Yes--and you?”
“My boyhood began in Virginia--the negro was an old-time slave in our
family.”
She glanced across at the black, now sitting up and eating voraciously.
“I thought he had once been a slave; one can easily tell that. I did
not ask him to sit here because, if you do not object, we will eat here
together. I have also been almost as long without food. It was so lonely
here, and--and I hardly understood my situation--and I simply could not
force myself to eat.”
He distinguished her words clearly enough, although she spoke low, as
if she preferred what was said between them should not reach the ears of
the negro, yet somehow, for the moment, they made no adequate impression
on him. Like a famished wolf he began on the coarse fare, and for ten
minutes hardly lifted his head. Then his eyes chanced to meet hers
across the narrow table, and instantly the gentleman within him reawoke
to life.
“I have been a perfect brute,” he acknowledged frankly, “with no thought
except for myself. Hunger was my master, and I ask your forgiveness,
Miss Maclaire.”
Her eyes smiled.
“I am so very glad to have any one here--any one--in whom I feel even a
little confidence--that nothing else greatly matters. Can you both eat,
and listen?”
Keith nodded, his eyes full of interest, searching her face.
“Whoever I may be, Mr. Keith, and really that seems only of small
importance, I came to Fort Larned seeking some trace of my only
brother, whom we last heard from there, where he had fallen into evil
companionship. On the stage trip I was fortunate enough to form an
acquaintance with a man who told me he knew where I could meet Fred,
but that the boy was hiding because of some trouble he had lately gotten
into, and that I should have to proceed very carefully so as not to lead
the officers to discover his whereabouts. This gentleman was engaged in
some business at Carson City, but he employed a man to bring me to this
place, and promised to get Fred, and meet me here the following day.
There must have been some failure in the plans, for I have been here
entirely alone now for three days. It has been very lonesome, and--and
I've been a little frightened. Perhaps I ought not to have come, and I
am not certain what kind of a place this is. I was so afraid when you
came, but I am not afraid now.”
“You have no need to be,” he said soberly, impressed by the innocent
candor of the girl, and feeling thankful that he was present to aid her.
“I could not wrong one of the South.”
“My father always told me I could trust a Southern gentleman under any
circumstance. Mr. Hawley was from my own State, and knew many of our old
friends. That was why I felt such unusual confidence in him, although he
was but a travelling acquaintance.”
“Mr. Hawley?”
“The gentleman whom I met on the stage.”
“Oh, yes; you said he was in business in Carson City, but I don't seem
to remember any one of that name.”
“He was not there permanently; only to complete some business deal.”
“And your brother? I may possibly have known him.”
She hesitated an instant, her eyes dropping, until completely shaded by
the long lashes.
“He--he was rather a wild boy, and ran away from home to enlist in the
army. But he got into a bad set, and--and deserted. That was part of
the trouble which caused him to hide. He enlisted under the name of Fred
Willoughby. Mr. Hawley told me this much, but I am afraid he did not
tell me all.”
“And he said you would meet him here?”
Keith gazed about on the bare surroundings wonderingly. What was this
place, hidden away in the midst of the desert, isolated in a spot where
not even Indians roamed. Could it be a secret rendezvous of crime, the
headquarters of desperadoes, of cattle-rustlers, of highwaymen of the
Santa Fé Trail--a point to which they could ride when hard pressed,
certain of hiding here in safety? He began to suspect this, but, if so,
who then was this Hawley, and with what object had he sent this girl
here? Every way he turned was to confront mystery, to face a new puzzle.
Whatever she might be--even the music hall singer he believed--she had
been inveigled here innocently enough. Even now she possessed only the
most vague suspicion that she had been deceived. The centre of the whole
plot, if there was a plot, must be Hawley.
“Yes,” she replied, “he said that this was one of the stations of a big
ranch on which Fred was employed, and that he would certainly be here
within a day or two.”
“You met Hawley on the stage coach? How did you become acquainted?”
“We were alone for nearly fifty miles,” her voice faltering slightly,
“and--and he called me what you did.”
“Christie Maclaire?”
“Yes; he--he seemed to think he knew me, and I needed help so much that
I let him believe so. I thought it could do no harm, and then, when I
found he actually knew Fred, I didn't think of anything else, only how
fortunate I was to thus meet him. Surely something serious must have
happened, or he would have been here before this. Do you--do you suppose
there is anything wrong?”
Keith did not smile nor change posture. The more he delved into the
matter, the more serious he felt the situation to be. He knew all those
ranches lying south on the Canadian, and was aware that this was no
out-station. No cattle ever came across that sandy desert unless driven
by rustlers, and no honest purpose could account for this isolated hut.
There had been frequent robberies along the trail, and he had overheard
tales of mysterious disappearances in both Larned and Carson City. Could
it be that he had now, accidentally, stumbled upon the rendezvous of the
gang? He was not a man easily startled, but this thought sent his heart
beating. He knew enough to realize what such a gang would naturally
consist of--deserters, outlaws, rustlers; both Indians and whites, no
doubt, combined under some desperate leadership. Gazing into the girl's
questioning eyes he could scarcely refrain from blurting out all he
suspected. Yet why should he? What good could it do? He could not hope
to bear her south to the “Bar X” Ranch, for the ponies were already too
thoroughly exhausted for such a journey; he dared not turn north with
her, for that would mean his own arrest, leaving her in worse condition
than ever. If he only knew who this man Hawley was, his purpose, and
plans! Yet what protection could he and Neb prove, alone here, and
without arms? All this flashed through his mind in an instant, leaving
him confused and uncertain.
“I hope not,” he managed to say in answer to her query. “But it is
rather a strange mix-up all around, and I confess I fail to comprehend
its full meaning. It is hardly likely your friends will show up
to-night, and by morning perhaps we can decide what is best to do. Let
me look around outside a moment.”
Her eyes followed him as he stepped through the door into the darkness;
then her head dropped into the support of her hands. There was silence
except for the crackling of the fire, until Neb moved uneasily. At the
sound the girl looked up, seeing clearly the good-natured face of the
negro.
“Yo' don't nebber need cry, Missus,” he said soberly, “so long as Massa
Jack done 'greed to look after yo'.”
“Have--have you known him long?”
“Has I knowed him long, honey? Ebber sence befo' de wah. Why I done
knowed Massa Jack when he wan't more'n dat high. Lawd, he sho' was a
lively youngster, but mighty good hearted to us niggers.”
She hesitated to question a servant, and yet felt she must uncover the
truth.
“Who is he? Is he all he claims to be--a Virginia gentleman?”
All the loyalty and pride of slavery days was in Neb. “He sho' am,
Missus; dar ain't nuthin' higher in ol' Virginia dan de Keiths. Dey
ain't got much money sence the Yankees come down dar, but dey's quality
folks jest de same. I was done born on de ol' Co'nel's plantation, and I
reck'n dar wan't no finer man ebber libed. He was done killed in de wah.
An' Massa Jack he was a captain; he rode on hossback, an' Lawdy, but he
did look scrumptuous when he first got his uniform. He done fought all
through de wah, an' dey say Ginral Lee done shook hands wid him, an'
said how proud he was ter know him. You kin sutt'nly tie to Massa Jack,
Missus.”
The negro's voice had scarcely ceased when Keith came in again, closing
the door securely behind him.
“All quiet outside,” he announced, speaking with new confidence.
“I wanted to get an understanding of the surroundings in case of
emergency,” he explained, as if in answer to the questioning of the
brown eyes gravely uplifted to his face. “I see there is quite a corral
at the lower end of this island, safely hidden behind the fringe of
cottonwoods. And a log stable back of the house. Is the creek fordable
both ways?”
“I think so; the man who brought me here rode away south.”
“And are you going to trust yourself to my care?”
She came around the table with hands extended. He took them into his
grasp, looking down into her eyes.
“Yes,” she said softly, “I am going to trust you, Captain Keith.”
He laughed.
“Captain, hey? You must have been talking with that black rascal there.”
The swift color flooded her face, but her hands remained imprisoned.
“I just done tol' her who de Keiths was down in ol' Virginia, sah,”
burst in Neb indignantly. “I sho' don't want nobody to think I go
trapsin' 'round wid any low white trash.”
The gray eyes and the brown, gazing into one another, smiled with
understanding.
“Oh, well,” Keith acknowledged, genially, “I cannot say I am sorry you
know something of my past glories; if one can't have a future, it is
some source of pride to have a past to remember. But now about the
present. We're not much protection to any one, the way we're fixed, as
we are unarmed.”
“There is a big revolver hanging in a holster in the other room,” she
answered, “and a short, sawed-off gun of some kind, but I don't know
about ammunition.”
“May we investigate?”
“Most certainly,” and she threw open the intervening door. As the two
stepped into the other apartment she held the lamp in aid of their
search. “There is the revolver on the wall, and the gun is in the
opposite corner. Isn't it strange you should be out in this country
without arms?”
Keith glanced up, the revolver in his hands. The radiance of the light
was full upon her face, revealing the clearness of her skin, the dark
shadows of her lashes. There was the faintest tinge of suspicion to the
question, but he answered easily.
“We left Carson in something of a hurry. I'll tell you the story
to-morrow.”