A fragment of candle, stuck tightly into the neck of an empty bottle,
appeared on a low shelf, and Keith lighted it, the girl returning the
lamp to its former position on the front room table. Investigation
revealed a dozen cartridges fitting the revolver, but no ammunition
was discovered adapted to the sawed-off gun, which Neb had already
appropriated, and was dragging about with him, peering into each black
corner in anxious search. The two were still busily employed at this,
when to their ears, through the stillness of the night, there came the
unexpected noise of splashing in the water without, and then the sound
of a horse stumbling as he struck the bank. Quick as a flash Keith
closed the intervening door, extinguished the dim flame of the candle,
and grasping the startled negro's arm, hushed him into silence.
Crouching close behind the door, through a crack of which the light
streamed, yielding slight view of the interior, the plainsman anxiously
awaited developments. These arrivals must certainly be some of those
connected with the house; there could be little doubt as to that.
Nevertheless, they might prove the posse following them, who had chanced
to stumble accidentally on their retreat. In either case they could
merely wait, and learn. Some one swore without, and was sharply rebuked
by another voice, which added an order gruffly. Then the outer latch
clicked, and a single man stepped within, immediately closing the door.
Keith could not see the girl through the small aperture, but he heard
her quick exclamation, startled, yet full of relief.
“Oh, is it you? I am so glad!”
The man laughed lightly.
“It is nice to be welcomed, although, perhaps, after your time of
loneliness any arrival would prove a relief. Did you think I was never
coming, Christie?”
“I could not understand,” she replied, evidently with much less
enthusiasm, and to Keith's thinking, a shade resentful of the
familiarity, “but naturally supposed you must be unexpectedly delayed.”
“Well, I was,” and he apparently flung both coat and hat on a bench,
with the intention of remaining, “The marshal arrested a fellow for
a murder committed out on the Santa Fé Trail, and required me as a
witness. But the man got away before we had any chance to try him, and I
have been on his trail ever since.”
“A murder! Did you imagine he came this way?”
“Not very likely; fact of it is, the sand storm yesterday destroyed all
traces, and, as a result, we've lost him. So I headed a few of the boys
over in this direction, as I wanted to relieve you of anxiety.”
She was silent an instant, and the man crossed to the fireplace, where
Keith could gain a glimpse of him. Already suspicious from the familiar
sound of his voice, he was not surprised to recognize “Black Bart.” The
plainsman's fingers gripped the negro's arm, his eyes burning. So this
gambler and blackleg was the gentlemanly Mr. Hawley, was he; well, what
could be his little game? Why had he inveigled the girl into this lonely
spot? And what did he now propose doing with her? As he crouched there,
peering through that convenient crack in the door, Keith completely
forgot his own peril, intent only upon this new discovery. She came
slowly around the end of the table, and stood leaning against it, her
face clearly revealed in the light of the lamp. For the first time
Keith really perceived its beauty, its fresh charm. Could such as she
be singer and dancer in a frontier concert hall? And if so, what strange
conditions ever drove her into that sort of life?
“Is--is Fred with you?” she questioned, doubtfully.
“No; he's with another party riding farther west,” the man's eyes
surveying her with manifest approval. “You are certainly looking fine
to-night, my girl. It's difficult to understand how I ever managed to
keep away from you so long.”
She flushed to the hair, her lips trembling at the open boldness of his
tone.
“I--I prefer you would not speak like that,” she protested.
“And why not?” with a light laugh. “Come, Christie, such fine airs are a
trifle out of place. If I didn't know you were a concert hall artist,
I might be more deeply impressed. As it is, I reckon you've heard love
words before now.”
“Mr. Hawley, I have trusted you as a gentleman. I never came here except
on your promise to bring me to my brother,” and she stood erect before
him. “You have no right to even assume that I am Christie Maclaire.”
“Sure not; I don't assume. I have seen that lady too often to be
mistaken. Don't try on that sort of thing with me--I don't take to it
kindly. Perhaps a kiss might put you in better humor.”
He took a step forward, as though proposing to carry out his threat, but
the girl stopped him, her eyes burning with indignation.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed passionately, all fear leaving her in
sudden resentment. “You think me alone here and helpless; that you can
insult me at your pleasure. Don't go too far, Mr. Hawley. I know what
you are now, and it makes no difference what you may think of me, or
call me; you 'll find me perfectly able to defend myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” sneeringly, “you are melodramatic; you should have been an
actress instead of a singer. But you waste your talent out here on me.
Do you imagine I fear either you, or your precious brother? Why, I could
have him hung to-morrow.”
She was staring at him with wide open eyes, her face white.
“What--what do you mean? What has Fred done?”
He was cold and sarcastic.
“That makes no difference; it is what I could induce men to swear he had
done. It's easy enough to convict in this country, if you only know how.
I simply tell you this, so you won't press me too hard. Puritanism
is out of place west of the Missouri, especially among ladies of your
profession. Oh, come, now, Christie, don't try to put such airs on with
me. I know who you are, all right, and can guess why you are hunting
after Fred Willoughby. I pumped the boy, and got most of the truth out
of him.”
“You--you have seen him, then, since you left me,” she faltered,
bewildered, “and didn't bring him here with you?”
“Why should I?” and the man stepped forward, his eyes on her, his hands
twitching with a desire to clasp her to him, yet restrained by some
undefinable power. “While I believed your brother story, I could have
played the good Samaritan most beautifully, but after I talked with
Willoughby I prefer him at a distance.”
“My brother story! Do you mean to insinuate you doubt his being my
brother? He told you that?”
“He gave up the whole trick. You can't trust a kid like that, Christie.
A couple of drinks will loosen his tongue, and put you in wrong. Come,
now, I know it all; be reasonable.”
Apparently the girl had lost her power of speech, staring blindly at
the face of the man before her, as a bird meets the slow approach of
a snake. Keith could see her lips move, but making no sound. Hawley
evidently interpreted her silence as hesitation, doubt as to his real
meaning.
“You see where you are at now, Christie,” he went on swiftly. “But you
don't need to be afraid. I'm going to be a friend to you, and you can
be mighty glad you got rid of Willoughby so easily. Why, I can buy you
diamonds where he couldn't give you a calico dress. Come on, let's stop
this foolishness. I took a liking to you back there in the stage, and
the more I've thought about you since the crazier I've got. When I
succeeded in pumping Willoughby dry, and discovered you wasn't his
sister at all, why that settled the matter. I came down here after you.
I love you, do you understand that? And, what's more, I intend to have
you!”
He reached out, and actually grasped her, but, in some manner, she tore
loose, and sprang back around the end of the table, her cheeks flushed,
her eyes burning.
“Don't touch me! don't dare touch me!” she panted. “You lie; Fred
Willoughby never told you that. If you come one step nearer, I'll
scream; I'll call your men here; I'll tell them the kind of a cur you
are.”
He laughed, leaning over toward her, yet hesitating, his eyes full of
admiration. Her very fierceness appealed to him, urged him on.
“Oh, I wouldn't! In the first place they probably wouldn't hear, for
they are camped down in the corral. I suspected you might be something
of a tigress, and preferred to fight it out with you alone. Then, even
if they did hear, there would be no interference--I've got those fellows
trained too well for that. Come on, Christie; you're helpless here.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are.”
He took a step toward her, his hands flung out. With one quick movement
she sprang aside and extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into
instant darkness. A few red coals glowed dully in the fireplace, but
all else was dense blackness. Keith heard the movements of Hawley, as he
felt his way uncertainly along the table, swearing as he failed to find
the girl. Then, like a shadow, he glided through the partly open door
into the room.