Keith possessed sufficient means for several months of idleness, and
even if he had not, his reputation as a plains scout would insure him
employment at any of the more important scattered army posts. Reliable
men for such service were in demand. The restlessness of the various
Indian tribes, made specially manifest by raids on the more advanced
settlements, and extending over a constantly widening territory,
required continuous interchange of communication between commanders of
detachments. Bold and reckless spirits had flocked to the frontier in
those days following the Civil War, yet all were not of the type
to encourage confidence in military authorities. Keith had already
frequently served in this capacity, and abundantly proved his worth
under rigorous demands of both endurance and intelligence, and he could
feel assured of permanent employment whenever desired. Not a few of
the more prominent officers he had met personally during the late
war--including Sheridan, to whom he had once borne a flag of truce,--yet
the spirit of the Confederacy still lingered in his heart: not in any
feeling of either hatred or revenge, but in an unwillingness to serve
the blue uniform, and a memory of antagonism which would not entirely
disappear. He had surrendered at Appomattox, conquered, yet he could not
quite adjust himself to becoming companion-in-arms with those against
whom he had fought valiantly for four years. Some of the wounds of that
conflict still smarted. A natural soldier, anxious to help the harassed
settlers, eager enough to be actively employed, he still held aloof from
army connections except as a volunteer in case of emergency.
Just now other considerations caused him to desire freedom. He had been
accused of murder, imprisoned for it, and in order to escape, had been
compelled to steal horses, the most heinous crime of the frontier. Not
only for his own protection and safety must the truth of that occurrence
at the Cimmaron Crossing be made clear, but he also had now a personal
affair with “Black Bart” Hawley to be permanently settled. They had
already clashed twice, and Keith intended they should meet again.
Memory of the girl was still in his mind as he and Neb rode silently
forth on the black prairie, leading the extra horse behind them.
He endeavored to drive the recollection from his mind, so he might
concentrate it upon plans for the future, but somehow she mysteriously
wove her own personality into those plans, and he was ever seeing the
pleading in her eyes, and listening to the soft Southern accent of her
voice. Of late years he had been unaccustomed to association with women
of high type, and there was that touch of the gentlewoman about this
girl which had awakened deep interest. Of course he knew that in her
case it was merely an inheritance of her past, and could not truly
represent the present Christie Maclaire of the music halls. However
fascinating she might be, she could not be worthy any serious
consideration. In spite of his rough life the social spirit of the old
South was implanted in his blood, and no woman of that class could hold
him captive. Yet, some way, she refused to be banished or left behind.
Even Neb must have been obsessed by a similar spirit, for he suddenly
observed:
“Dat am sutt'nly a mighty fine gal, Massa Jack. I ain't seen nothin' to
compare wid her since I quit ol' Virginia--'deed I ain't.”
Keith glanced back at his black satellite, barely able to distinguish
the fellow's dim outlines.
“You think her a lady, then?” he questioned, giving thoughtless
utterance to his own imagination.
“'Deed I does!” the thick voice somewhat indignant. “I reck'n I knows
de real quality when I sees it. I'se 'sociated wid quality white folks
befo'.”
“But, Neb, she's a singer in dance halls.”
“I don't believe it, Massa Jack.”
“Well, I wouldn't if I could help it. She don't seem like that kind, but
I recognized her as soon as I got her face in the light. She was at the
Gaiety in Independence, the last time I was there. Hawley knew her too,
and called her by name.”
Neb rubbed his eyes, and slapped his pony's flank, unable to answer, yet
still unconvinced.
“I reck'n both ob yer might be mistook,” he insisted doggedly.
“Not likely,” and Keith's brief laugh was not altogether devoid of
bitterness. “We both called her Christie Maclaire, and she didn't even
deny the name; she was evidently not proud of it, but there was no
denial that she was the girl.”
“Dat wasn't like no name dat you called her when we was ridin'.”
“No; she didn't approve of the other, and told me to call her Hope, but
I reckon she's Christie Maclaire all right.”
They rode on through the black, silent night as rapidly as their tired
horses would consent to travel. Keith led directly across the open
prairie, guiding his course by the stars, and purposely avoiding the
trails, where some suspicious eye might mark their passage. His first
object was to get safely away from the scattered settlements lying
east of Carson City. Beyond their radius he could safely dispose of the
horses they rode, disappear from view, and find time to develop future
plans. As to the girl--well, he would keep his word with her, of course,
and see her again sometime. There would be no difficulty about that, but
otherwise she should retain no influence over him. She belonged rather
to Hawley's class than his.
It was a lonely, tiresome ride, during which Neb made various efforts to
talk, but finding his white companion uncommunicative, at last relapsed
into rather sullen silence. The horses plodded on steadily, and when
daylight finally dawned, the two men found themselves in a depression
leading down to the Smoky River. Here they came to a water hole, where
they could safely hide themselves and their stock. With both Indians
and white men to be guarded against, they took all the necessary
precautions, picketing the horses closely under the rock shadows, and
not venturing upon building any fire. Neb threw himself on the turf and
was instantly asleep, but Keith climbed the steep side of the gully, and
made searching survey of the horizon. The wide arc to south, east, and
west revealed nothing to his searching eyes, except the dull brown of
the slightly rolling plains, with no life apparent save some distant
grazing antelope, but to the north extended more broken country with
a faint glimmer of water between the hills. Satisfied they were
unobserved, he slid back again into the depression. As he turned to
lie down he took hold of the saddle belonging to Hawley's horse. In the
unbuckled holster his eye observed the glimmer of a bit of white paper.
He drew it forth, and gazed at it unthinkingly. It was an envelope,
robbed of its contents, evidently not sent through the mails as it
had not been stamped, but across its face was plainly written, “Miss
Christie Maclaire.” He stared at it, his lips firm set, his gray eyes
darkening. If he possessed any doubts before as to her identity, they
were all thoroughly dissipated now.
* * * * *
As he lay there, with head pillowed on the saddle, his body aching from
fatigue yet totally unable to sleep, staring open-eyed into the blue
of the sky, the girl they had left behind awoke from uneasy slumber,
aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Murphy. For an instant she failed to
comprehend her position, but the strong brogue of the energetic landlady
broke in sharply:
“A bit av a cup av coffee fer ye, honey,” she explained, crossing to the
bed. “Shure an' there's nuthin' loike it when ye first wake up. Howly
Mither, but it's toird 'nough ye do be lookin' yet.”
“I haven't slept very well,” the girl confessed, bringing her hand
out from beneath the coverlet, the locket still tightly clasped in her
fingers. “See, I found this on the floor last night after you had gone
down stairs.”
“Ye did!” setting the coffee on a convenient chair, and reaching out for
the trinket. “Let's have a look at it once. Angels av Hiven, if it isn't
the same the ol' Gineral was showin' me in the parly.”
The other sat up suddenly, her white shoulders and rounded throat
gleaming.
“The old General, you said? What General? When was he here?”
“Shure now, be aisy, honey, an' Oi 'll tell ye all there is to it. It's
not his name Oi know; maybe Oi niver heard till av it, but 'twas the
'Gineral' they called him, all right. He was here maybe three days
outfittin'--a noice spoken ol' gintlemin, wid a gray beard, an' onc't he
showed me the locket--be the powers, if it do be his, there's an openin'
to it, an' a picter inside.”
The girl touched the spring, revealing the face within, but her eyes
were blinded with tears. The landlady looked at her in alarm.
“What is it, honey? What is it? Did you know him?”
The slender form swayed forward, shaken with sobs.
“He was my father, and--and this is my mother's picture which he always
carried.”
“Then what is your name?”
“Hope Waite.”
Kate Murphy looked, at the face half hidden in the bed-clothes. That was
not the name which Keith had given her, but she had lived on the border
too long to be inquisitive. The other lifted her head, flinging back her
loosened hair with one hand.
“Mr. Keith dropped it,” she exclaimed. “Where do you suppose he got it?”
Then she gave a quick, startled cry, her eyes opening wide in horror.
“The Cimmaron Crossing, the murder at the Cimmaron Crossing! He--he
told me about that; but he never showed me this--this. Do you--do you
think--”
Her voice failed, but Kate Murphy gathered her into her arms.
“Cry here, honey,” she said, as if to a child. “Shure an' Oi don't know
who it was got kilt out yonder, but Oi'm tellin' ye it niver was Jack
Keith what did it--murther ain't his stoyle.”