Had the room been filled with men Keith could have restrained himself
no longer. Whatever her past might be, this woman appealed to him
strangely; he could not believe evil of her; he would have died if
need be in her defence. But as it was, the ugly boast of Hawley gave
confidence in the final outcome of this struggle in the dark, even
a possibility of escape for them all. The gambler, assured of being
confronted merely by a frail and not over-scrupulous woman, had
ventured there alone; had stationed his men beyond sound; had doubtless
instructed them to ignore any noise of struggle which they might
overhear within. It was these very arrangements for evil which now
afforded opportunity, and Keith crept forward, alert and ready, his
teeth clenched, his hands bare for contest. Even although he surprised
his antagonist, it was going to be a fight for life; he knew “Black
Bart,” broad-shouldered, quick as a cat, accustomed to every form of
physical exercise, desperate and tricky, using either knife or gun
recklessly. Yet it was now or never for all of them, and the plainsman
felt no mercy, experienced no reluctance. He reached the table, and
straightened up, silent, expectant. For an instant there was no further
sound; no evidence of movement in the room. Hawley, puzzled by the
silence, was listening intently in an endeavor to thus locate the girl
through some rustling, some slight motion. A knife, knocked from the
table, perhaps, as she slipped softly past, fell clattering to the
floor, and the gambler leaped instantly forward. Keith's grip closed
like iron on his groping arm, while he shot one fist out toward where
the man's head should be. The blow glanced, yet drove the fellow
backward, stumbling against the table, and Keith closed in, grappling
for the throat. The other, startled by the unexpected attack, and
scarcely realizing even yet the nature of his antagonist, struggled
blindly to escape the fingers clawing at him, and flung one hand down to
the knife in his belt. Warned by the movement, the assailant drove
his head into the gambler's chest, sending him crashing to the floor,
falling himself heavily upon the prostrate body. Hawley gave utterance
to one cry, half throttled in his throat, and then the two grappled
fiercely, so interlocked together as to make weapons useless. Whoever
the assailant might be, the gambler was fully aware by now that he
was being crushed in the grasp of a fighting man, and exerted every
wrestler's trick, every ounce of strength, to break free. Twice he
struggled to his knees, only to be crowded backward by relentless power;
once he hurled Keith sideways, but the plainsman's muscles stiffened
into steel, and he gradually regained his position. Neither dared
release a grip in order to strike a blow: neither had sufficient breath
left with which to utter a sound. They were fighting for life, silently,
desperately, like wild beasts, with no thought but to injure the other.
The gambler's teeth sank into Keith's arm, and the latter in return
jammed the man's head back onto the puncheon floor viciously.
Perspiration streamed from their bodies, their fingers clutching, their
limbs wrapped together, their muscles strained to the utmost. Keith had
forgotten the girl, the negro, everything, dominated by the one passion
to conquer. He was swept by a storm of hatred, a desire to kill. In
their fierce struggle the two had rolled close to the fireplace, and in
the dull glow of the dying embers, he could perceive a faint outline of
the man's face. The sight added flame to his mad passion, yet he
could do nothing except to cling to him, jabbing his fingers into the
straining throat.
The negro ended the affair in his own way, clawing blindly at the
combatants in the darkness, and finally, determining which was the
enemy, he struck the gambler with the stock of his gun, laying him out
unconscious. Keith, grasping the table, hauled himself to his feet,
gasping for breath, certain only that Hawley was no longer struggling.
For an instant all was blank, a mist of black vapor; then a realization
of their situation came back in sudden flood of remembrance. Even yet he
could see nothing, but felt the motionless figure at his feet.
“Quick,” he urged, the instant he could make himself speak. “The fellow
is only stunned; we must tie and gag him. Is that you, Neb? Where is the
girl?”
“I am here, Captain Keith,” and he heard the soft rustle of her dress
across the room. “What is it I may do?”
“A coil of rope, or some straps, with a piece of cloth; anything you can
lay hands on.”
She was some moments at it, confused by the darkness, and Hawley moved
slightly, his labored breathing growing plainly perceptible. Keith heard
her groping toward him, and held out his hands. She started as he thus
unexpectedly touched her, yet made no effort to break away.
“You--you frightened me a little,” she confessed. “This has all happened
so quickly I hardly realize yet just what has occurred.”
“The action has only really begun,” he assured her, still retaining his
hold upon her hand. “This was merely a preliminary skirmish, and you
must prepare to bear your part in what follows. We have settled Mr.
Hawley for the present, and now must deal with his gang.”
“Oh, what would I have done if you had not been here?”
“Let us not think about that; we were here, and now have a busy night
before us if we get away safely. Give me the rope first. Good! Here,
Neb, you must know how to use this,--not too tight, but without leaving
any play to the arms; take the knife out of his belt. Now for the cloth,
Miss Maclaire.”
“Please do not call me that!”
“But you said it didn't make any difference what I called you.”
“I thought it didn't then, but it does now.”
“Oh, I see; we are already on a new footing. Yet I must call you
something.”
She hesitated just long enough for him to notice it. Either she had no
substitute ready at hand, or else doubted the advisability of confiding
her real name under present circumstances to one so nearly a stranger.
“You may call me Hope.”
“A name certainly of good omen,” he returned. “From this moment I shall
forget Christie Maclaire, and remember only Miss Hope. All right, Neb;
now turn over a chair, and sit your man up against it. He will rest all
the easier in that position until his gang arrive.”
He thrust his head out of the door, peering cautiously forth into the
night, and listening. A single horse, probably the one Hawley had been
riding, was tied to a dwarfed cottonwood near the corner of the cabin.
Nothing else living was visible.
“I am going to round up our horses, and learn the condition of Hawley's
outfit,” he announced in a low voice. “I may be gone for fifteen or
twenty minutes, and, meanwhile, Miss Hope, get ready for a long ride.
Neb, stand here close beside the door, and if any one tries to come in
brain him with your gun-stock. I'll rap three times when I return.”
He slipped out into the silent night, and crept cautiously around the
end of the dark cabin. The distinct change in the girl's attitude of
friendship toward him, her very evident desire that he should think well
of her, together with the providential opportunity for escape, had left
him full of confidence. The gambler had played blindly into their hands,
and Keith was quick enough to accept the advantage. It was a risk to
himself, to be sure, thus turning again to the northward, yet the clear
duty he owed the girl left such a choice almost imperative. He certainly
could not drag her along with him on his flight into the wild Comanche
country extending beyond the Canadian. She must, at the very least,
be first returned to the protection of the semi-civilization along the
Arkansas. After that had been accomplished, he would consider his own
safety. He wondered if Hope really was her name, and whether it was the
family cognomen, or her given name. That she was Christie Maclaire he
had no question, yet that artistic embellishment was probably merely
assumed for the work of the concert hall. Both he and Hawley could
scarcely be mistaken as to her identity in this respect, and, indeed,
she had never openly denied the fact. Yet she did not at all seem to be
that kind, and Keith mentally contrasted her with numerous others
whom he had somewhat intimately known along the border circuit. It
was difficult to associate her with that class; she must have come
originally from some excellent family East, and been driven to the
life by necessity; she was more to be pitied than blamed. Keith held no
puritanical views of life--his own experiences had been too rough and
democratic for that--yet he clung tenaciously to an ideal of womanhood
which could not be lowered. However interested he might otherwise feel,
no Christie Maclaire could ever find entrance into the deeps of his
heart, where dwelt alone the memory of his mother.
He found the other horses turned into the corral, and was able, from
their restless movements, to decide they numbered eight. A fire, nearly
extinguished, glowed dully at the farther corner of the enclosure,
and he crawled close enough to distinguish the recumbent forms of men
sleeping about it on the ground. Apparently no guard had been set, the
fellows being worn out from their long ride, and confident of safety in
this isolated spot. Besides, Hawley had probably assumed that duty, and
told them to get whatever sleep they could. However, the gate of the
corral opened beside their fire, and Keith dare not venture upon roping
any of their ponies, or leading them out past where they slept. There
might be clippers in the cabin with which he could cut the wires, yet if
one of the gang awoke, and discovered the herd absent, it would result
in an alarm, and lead to early pursuit. It was far safer to use their
own ponies. He would lead Hawley's horse quietly through the water, and
they could mount on the other shore. This plan settled, he went at it
swiftly, riding the captured animal while rounding up the others, and
fastening the three to stunted trees on the opposite bank. Everything
within the cabin remained exactly as he had left it, and he briefly
explained the situation, examining Hawley's bonds again carefully while
doing so.
“He'll remain there all right until his men find him,” he declared,
positively, “and that ought to give us a good six hours' start. Come,
Miss Hope, every minute counts now.”
He held her arm, not unconscious of its round shapeliness, as he helped
her down the rather steep bank through the dense gloom. Then the two men
joined hands, and carrying her easily between them, waded the shallow
stream. The horses, not yet sufficiently rested to be frisky, accepted
their burdens meekly enough, and, with scarcely a word spoken, the three
rode away silently into the gloom of the night.