Cooly, yet without in the least comprehending how best to proceed,
Keith drew toward him the only chair in the room, and sat down. Miss
Hope--more widely known as Christie Maclaire--had claimed this drunken
lad as her brother, but, according to Hawley, he had vehemently denied
any such relationship. Yet there must be some previous association
between the two, and what this was the plainsman proposed to discover.
The problem was how best to cause the fellow to talk frankly--could he
be reached more easily by reference to the girl or the gambler? Keith
studying the sullen, obstinate face confronting him, with instinctive
antagonism over his intrusion, swiftly determined on the girl.
“It was not very nice of me to come in on you this way,” he began,
apologetically, “but you see I happen to know your sister.”
“My sister? Oh, I guess not!”
“Yes, but I do,” throwing a confidence into his tone he was far from
feeling, “Miss Hope and I are friends.”
The boy sprang to his feet, his face flushed.
“Oh, you mean Hope? Do you know her? Say, I thought you were giving me
that old gag about Christie Maclaire.”
“Certainly not; who is she?”
“That's more than I know; fellow came to me at Carson, and said he'd met
my sister on a stage west of Topeka. I knew he was lyin', because she's
home over in Missouri. Finally, I got it out of him that she claimed to
be my sister, but her name was Maclaire. Why, I don't even know her, and
what do you suppose she ever picked me out for her brother for?”
He was plainly puzzled, and perfectly convinced it was all a mistake.
That his sister might have left home since he did, and drifted West
under an assumed name, apparently never occurred to him as possible.
To Keith this was the explanation, and nothing could be more natural,
considering her work, yet he did not feel like shattering the lad's
loyalty. Faith in the sister might yet save him.
“Perhaps the fellow who told you,” he hazarded blindly, speaking the
first thought which came to his mind, “had some reason to desire to make
you think this Maclaire girl was your sister.”
The suggestion caused him to laugh at first; then his face suddenly
sobered, as though a new thought had occurred to him.
“Damn me, no, it couldn't be that,” he exclaimed, one hand pressing his
head. “He couldn't be workin' no trick of that kind on me.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“A fellow named Hawley,” evasively. “The man who claimed to have met my
sister.”
“'Black Bart' Hawley?”
The boy lifted his head again, his eyes filled with suspicion.
“Yes, if you must know; he's a gambler all right, but he's stuck to me
when I was down and out. You know him?”
“Just a little,” carelessly; “but what sort of a trick could he be
working trying to make you acknowledge Christie Maclaire as your
sister?”
Willoughby did not answer, shifting uneasily about on the bed. Keith
waited, and at last the boy blurted out:
“Oh, it wasn't nothing much. I told him something when I was drunk once,
that I thought maybe might have stuck to him. Odd he should make that
mistake, too, for I showed him Hope's picture. Bart's a schemer, and I
didn't know but what he might have figured out a trick, though I don't
see how he could. It wasn't no more than a pipe dream, I reckon. Where
did you meet Hope? Back in Missouri?”
One thing was clearly evident--the boy's faith in his sister. If he was
to be rightly influenced, and led back to her, he must have no suspicion
aroused that her life was any different from what it had been before he
left home. Besides if Keith hoped to gain any inkling of what Hawley's
purpose could be, he must win the confidence of Willoughby. This could
not be done by telling him of Hope's present life. These considerations
flashed through his mind, and as swiftly determined his answer.
“Oh, I've known her some time. Not long ago I did her a service
for which she is grateful. Did you know she was out in this country
searching for you?”
“Out here? In Kansas?”
“Sure; that isn't much of a trip for a spirited girl. She got it in her
head from your letters that you were in trouble, and set out to find you
and bring you home. She didn't tell me this, but that is the way I heard
it. It was for her sake I came in here. Why not go to her, Willoughby,
and then both of you return to Missouri?”
The sullenness had gone out of the boy's face: he looked tired,
discouraged.
“Where is Hope?” he asked.
“Fort Larned, I suppose. She went to Carson City first.”
“Well, that settles it,” shaking his head. “You don't suppose I could go
browsin' 'round Larned, and not get snapped up, do you? They don't chase
deserters very far out here, but that's the post I skipped from, and
they'd jug me all right. Besides, I'm damned if I'll go back until I get
a stake. I want to see a fellow first.”
“What fellow?”
“Well, it's Hawley, if you want to know so bad. He said if I would come
here and wait for him he'd put me on to a good thing.”
The boy fidgeted along the edge of the bed, evidently half ashamed
of himself, yet obstinate and unyielding. Keith sat watching his face,
unable to evolve any means of changing his decision. Hawley's influence
just at present was greater than Hope's, because the lad naturally felt
ashamed to go slinking home penniless and defeated. His pride held him
to Hawley, and his faith that the man would redeem his promise. Keith
understood all this readily enough, and comprehended also that if “Black
Bart” had any use for the boy it would be for some criminal purpose.
What was it? Was there a deeply laid plot back of all these preparations
involving both Willoughby and his sister? What was it Hawley was
scheming about so carefully, holding this boy deserter in one hand,
while he reached out the other after Christie Maclaire? Surely, the man
was not working blindly; he must have a purpose in view. Willoughby
had acknowledged he had told the fellow something once when he was
drunk--about his family history, no doubt, for he had shown him Hope's
picture. What that family secret was Keith had no means of guessing,
but Hawley, the moment he saw the face on the cardboard, had evidently
recognized Christie Maclaire--had thought of some way in which what he
now knew could be turned to advantage. The few scattered facts which
Keith had collected all seemed to point to such a conclusion--Hawley had
sent the boy to Sheridan, where he would be out of sight, with orders to
wait for him there, and the promise of a “stake” to keep him quiet. Then
he had gone to Independence and Topeka seeking after Christie Maclaire.
Evidently he meant to keep the two apart until he had gained from each
whatever it was he sought. But what could that be? What family secret
could Willoughby have blurted out in his cups, which had so stimulated
the gambler's wits?
Two things combined to cause Keith to determine he would uncover this
rascality,--his desire to repay Hawley, and his interest in the girl
rescued on the Salt Fork. This gossamer web of intrigue into which
he had stumbled unwittingly was nothing to him personally; had it not
involved both Hawley and Miss Hope, he would have left it unsolved
without another thought. But under the circumstances it became his
own battle. There was a crime here--hidden as yet, and probably not
consummated--involving wrong, perhaps disgrace, to the young girl. He
had rescued her once from out the clutches of this man, and he had no
intention of deserting her now. Whatever her life might be, she was
certainly an innocent victim in this case, deserving his protection. The
memory came to him of her face upturned toward him in that little room
of the Occidental, her eyes tear-dimmed, her lips asking him to come
back to her again. He could not believe her a bad woman, and his lips
compressed, his eyes darkened, with fixed determination. He would dig
into this until he uncovered the truth; he would find out what dirty
trick “Black Bart” was up to.
As he thought this out, not swiftly as recorded, but slowly,
deliberately, piecing the bits together within his mind, blindly feeling
his way to a final conclusion, the boy had sunk back upon the bed,
overcome with liquor, and fallen asleep. Keith stepped over, and looked
down upon him in the dim light. He could recognize something of her
features in the upturned face, and his eyes softened. There was no use
seeking again to arouse him; even had he been sober, he would not have
talked freely. Keith lifted the dangling feet into a more comfortable
position, turned the lamp lower, went out, and latched the door. Two men
were tramping heavily up the stairs, and they turned into the hall at
the very moment he disappeared within his own room. He still retained
his grasp upon the latch, when a voice outside asked:
“What number did you say, Bill--29?”
Keith straightened up as though suddenly pricked by a knife; he could
never forget that voice--it was Hawley's.