Keith had very little to guide him, as he could not determine whether
this mysterious cabin on the Salt Fork lay to east or west of the
usual cattle trail leading down to the Canadian. Yet he felt reasonably
assured that the general trend of the country lying between the smaller
stream and the valley of the Arkansas would be similar to that with
which he was already acquainted. It was merely a wild stretch of sandy
desolation, across which their horses would leave scarcely any trail,
and even that little would be quickly obliterated by the first puff of
wind. As they drew in toward the river valley this plain would change
into sand dunes, baffling and confusing, but no matter how hard they
pressed forward, it must be daylight long before they could hope
to reach these, and this would give him opportunity to spy out some
familiar landmark which would guide them to the ford. Meanwhile, he must
head as directly north as possible, trusting the horses to find footing.
It was plains instinct, or rather long training in the open, which
enabled him to retain any true sense of direction, for beyond the narrow
fringe of cotton-woods along the stream, nothing was visible, the eyes
scarcely able even to distinguish where earth and sky met. They advanced
across a bare level, without elevation or depression, yet the sand
appeared sufficiently solid, so that their horses were forced into a
swinging lope, and they seemed to fairly press aside the black curtain,
which as instantly swung shut once more, and closed them in. The
pounding hoofs made little noise, and they pressed steadily onward,
closely bunched together, so as not to lose each other, dim, spectral
shadows flitting through the night, a very part of that grim desolation
surrounding them. No one of the three felt like speaking; the gloomy,
brooding desert oppressed them, their vagrant thoughts assuming the
tinge of their surroundings; their hope centred on escape. Keith rode,
grasping the rein of the woman's horse in his left hand, and bending
low in vain effort at picking a path. He had nothing to aim toward, yet
sturdy confidence in his expert plainscraft yielded him sufficient sense
of direction. He had noted the bark of the cottonwoods, the direction of
the wind, and steered a course accordingly straight northward, alert to
avert any variation.
The girl rode easily, although in a man's saddle, the stirrups much
too long. Keith glanced aside with swift approval at the erectness with
which she sat, the loosened rein in her hand, the slight swaying of her
form. He could appreciate horsemanship, and the easy manner in which
she rode relieved him of one anxiety. It even caused him to break the
silence.
“You are evidently accustomed to riding, Miss Hope.”
She glanced across at him through the darkness, as though suddenly
surprised from thought, her words not coming quickly.
“I cannot remember when I first mounted a horse; in earliest childhood,
surely, although I have not ridden much of late. This one is like a
rocking chair.”
“He belonged to your friend, Mr. Hawley.”
She drew a quick breath, her face again turned forward.
“Who--who is that man? Do you know?”
“I possess a passing acquaintance,” he answered, uncertain yet how much
to tell her, but tempted to reveal all in test of her real character.
“Few do not who live along the Kansas border.”
“Do you mean he is a notoriously bad character?”
“I have never heard of his being held up as a model to the young, Miss
Hope,” he returned more soberly, convinced that she truly possessed
no real knowledge regarding the man, and was not merely pretending
innocence. “I had never heard him called Hawley before, and, therefore,
failed to recognize him under that respectable name. But I knew his
voice the moment he entered the cabin, and realized that some devilment
was afoot. Every town along this frontier has his record, and I've met
him maybe a dozen times in the past three years. He is known as 'Black
Bart'; is a gambler by profession, a desperado by reputation, and a cur
by nature. Just now I suspect him of being even deeper in the mire than
this.”
He could tell by the quick clasping of her hands on the pommel of the
saddle the effect of his words, but waited until the silence compelled
her to speak.
“Oh, I didn't know! You do not believe that I ever suspected such a
thing? That I ever met him there understanding who he was?”
“No, I do not,” he answered. “What I overheard between you convinced me
you were the victim of deceit. But your going to that place alone was a
most reckless act.”
She lifted her hand to her eyes, her head drooping forward.
“Wasn't it what he told me--the out-station of a ranch?”
“No; I have ridden this country for years, and there is no ranch
pasturing cattle along the Salt Fork. Miss Hope, I want you to
comprehend what it is you have escaped from; what you are now fleeing
from. Within the last two years an apparently organized body of outlaws
have been operating throughout this entire region. Oftentimes disguised
as Indians, they have terrorized the Santa Fé trail for two hundred
miles, killing travellers in small parties, and driving off stock. There
are few ranches as far west as this, but these have all suffered from
raids. These fellows have done more to precipitate the present Indian
war than any act of the savages. They have endeavored to make the
authorities believe that Indians were guilty of their deeds of murder
and robbery. Both troops and volunteers have tried to hold the gang up,
but they scatter and disappear, as though swallowed by the desert. I
have been out twice, hard on their trail, only to come back baffled.
Now, I think accident has given me the clue.”
She straightened up; glancing questioningly at him through the darkness.
“That is what I mean, Miss Hope. I suspect that cabin to be the
rendezvous of those fellows, and I half believe Hawley to be their
leader.”
“Then you will report all this to the authorities?”
He smiled grimly, his lips compressed.
“I hardly think so; at least, not for the present. I am not
blood-thirsty, or enamored of man-hunting, but I happen to have a
personal interest in this particular affair which I should prefer to
settle alone.” He paused, swiftly reviewing the circumstances of their
short acquaintance, and as suddenly determining to trust her discretion.
Deep down in his heart he rather wanted her to know. “The fact of the
matter is, that Neb and I here were the ones that particular posse were
trailing.”
“You!” her voice faltered. “He said those men were under arrest for
murder, and had broken jail.”
“He also said it was easy to convict men in this country if you only
knew how. It is true we broke jail, but only in order to save our lives;
it was the only way. Technically, we are outlaws, and now run the risk
of immediate re-arrest by returning north of the Arkansas. We came to
you fugitives; I was charged with murder, the negro with assault. So,
you see, Miss Hope, the desperate class of men you are now associating
with.”
The slight bitterness in his tone stung the girl into resentment. She
was looking straight at him, but in the gloom he could not discern the
expression of her eyes.
“I don't believe it,” she exclaimed decisively, “you--you do not look
like that!”
“My appearance may be sufficient to convince you,” he returned, rather
dryly, “but would weigh little before a Western court. Unfortunately,
the evidence was strong against me; or would have been had the case ever
come to a trial. The strange thing about it was that both warrants
were sworn out by the same complainant, and apparently for a similar
purpose--'Black Bart' Hawley.”
“What purpose?”
“To keep us from telling what we knew regarding a certain crime,
in which either he, or some of his intimate friends, were deeply
interested.”
“But it would all come out at the trial, wouldn't it?”
“There was to be no trial; Judge Lynch settles the majority of such
cases out here at present. It is extremely simple. Listen, and I will
tell you the story.”
He reviewed briefly those occurrences leading directly up to his arrest,
saying little regarding the horrors of that scene witnessed near
the Cimmaron Crossing, but making sufficiently clear his very slight
connection with it, and the reason those who were guilty of the crime
were so anxious to get him out of the way. She listened intently, asking
few questions, until he ended. Then they both looked up, conscious that
dawn was becoming gray in the east. Keith's first thought was one of
relief--the brightening sky showed him they were riding straight north.