Keith did not inform Hope of her brother's death until the following
morning, but had the body properly prepared for burial, and devoted the
remainder of the night to searching for General Waite and, incidentally,
for both Hawley and Scott. Both Hickock and Fairbain assisted in this
effort to learn the whereabouts of the dead boy's father, but without
the slightest result, nor did Keith's investigations reveal the gambler
at any of his accustomed resorts, while Scott had apparently made a
complete get-away. These disappearances merely served to convince him
as to the truth of his first suspicions; Scott might have departed for
good, but Hawley would certainly reappear just so soon as assured his
name had not been mentioned in connection with the tragedy. To Neb alone
did the plainsman candidly confide his belief in the guilt of these two,
and when other duties called him elsewhere, he left the negro scouring
the town for any possible reappearance of either.
Heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, heavy-hearted with his message, yet fully
decided as to what advice he should offer, Keith returned to the hotel,
and requested an interview with Hope. Although still comparatively
early, some premonition of evil had awakened the girl, and in a very few
moments she was prepared to receive her visitor. A questioning glance
into his face was sufficient to assure her of unpleasant news, but,
with one quick breath, she grasped his arm as though his very presence
afforded her strength.
“How tired you look! Something has occurred to keep you out all
night--and--and I know you have brought me bad news. Don't be afraid to
tell me; I can bear anything better than suspense. Is it about father?”
“No, Hope,” and he took her hand, and led her to a chair. Bending
above her he gave her the whole story of the night, and she scarcely
interrupted with a question, sitting there dry-eyed, with only an
occasional sob shaking her slender form. As he ended, she looked up into
his face, and now he could see a mist of unshed tears in her eyes.
“What shall I do, Captain Keith? I am all alone with this, except for
you.”
“I have considered that, Hope,” he answered, gravely, “and it seems to
me your present duty is more to the living than the dead. You should
remain here until we learn something definite regarding your father, and
discover the truth of this conspiracy formed against him. If Fred could
know the trouble his chance words have caused, he would wish you to do
this. With him gone, we are going to find the unravelling harder than
ever. It is my judgment, Hope, your brother should be buried here.”
She shuddered, her hands pressed to her eyes.
“Oh, on that horrible 'Boots Hill'?”
“Only temporarily, little girl,” his voice full of deepest sympathy. “In
a few weeks, perhaps, it could be removed East.”
She was silent for what seemed to him a long while; then she looked up
into his face, clinging to his arm.
“Yes,” she said, “that will be best.”
That same afternoon, the sun low in the west, they placed the dead boy
in his shallow grave on “Boots Hill.” It was a strange funeral, in a
strange environment--all about the barren, deserted plains; far away to
the east and west, the darker line marking the railroad grade, and just
below, nestled close in against the foot of the hill, the squalid town
of tents and shacks. There were not many to stand beside the open grave,
for few in Sheridan knew the lad, and funerals were not uncommon--some
cronies, half-drunk and maudlin, awed somewhat by the presence of the
marshal, Doctor Fairbain, Keith, and Hope. That was all excepting the
post chaplain from Fort Hays, who, inspired by a glimpse of the girl's
unveiled face, spoke simple words of comfort. It was all over with
quickly, and with the red sun still lingering on the horizon, the little
party slowly wended their way back, down the steep trail into the one
long street of Sheridan.
At the hotel Neb was waiting, the whites of his eyes shining with
excitement, his pantomime indicating important news. As soon as he could
leave Hope, Keith hurried down to interview his dusky satellite, who
appeared about to burst with restrained information. As soon as uncorked
that individual began to flow volubly:
“I sho' done seed 'em, Massa Jack; I done seed 'em both.”
“Both? Both who?”
“Massa Waite, sah, an' dat black debble dat we was huntin' fo'. It was a
mos' surprisin' circumstance, sah--a mos' surprisin' circumstance.”
“Well, go on; where did you see them? Do you mean they were together?”
The negro took a long breath, evidently overcome by the importance of
his message, and unable to conjure up words wholly satisfactory to his
ideas.
“It sho' am de strangest t'ing, Massa Jack, ebber I prognosticated. I
was jest comin' roun' de corner ob Sheeny Joe's shebang, back dar by de
blacksmith shop, when--de Lawd save me!--yere come ol' Massa Waite, a
ridin' 'long on a cream colo'd pinto just as much alibe as ebber he was.
Yas, sah; he's whiskers was blowin' round, an' I could eben yeah him
cussin' de hoss, when he done shy at a man what got up sudden like
from a cart-wheel he was settin' on. I done took one look at dat secon'
fellar, and seed it was dat black debble from down Carson way. Den I
ducked inter de blacksmith shop out 'er sight. I sho' didn't want Mister
Hawley to git no chance at dis nigger--I sho' didn't.”
“Did they speak to one another?” Keith asked, anxiously. “Did you hear
what was said?”
“Sho' dey talked, Massa Jack. I sorter reckon dey was dar for dat
special purpose. Sutt'nly, sah, dey went right at talkin' like dey hed
som't'ing on dey minds. Ol' Massa Waite was a sittin' straight up on de
hoss, an' dat black debble was a standin' dar in front ob him. Ol'
Massa Waite he was mad from de first jump off, an' I could heah most
eberyt'ing he said, but Mr. Hawley he grin de same way he do when he
deal faro, an' speaks kinder low. De ol' man he swear fine at him, he
call him eberyt'ing--a damn liar, a damn scoundrel--but Mr. Hawley he
jest grin, and say ober de same ting.”
“What was that, Neb?”
“Som't'ing 'bout a gal, Massa Jack--an' a law suit--an' how de ol' man
better settle up widout no fightin'. I jest didn't git de whole ob it,
he talked so low like.”
“What did Waite say?”
“Well, mostly he jest cussed. He sho' told dat black debble 'bout what
he thought ob him, but he didn't nebber once call him Hawley--no, sah,
not once; he done call him Bartlett, or somet'ing or odder like dat.
But he sutt'nly read dat man's pedigree from way back to de time ob
de flood, I reck'n. An' he done swore he'd fight for whatebber it
was, papers or no papers. Den Hawley, he got plumb tired ob de ol' man
swearin' at him, an' he grabbed a picter out ob he's pocket, an' says,
'Damn you; look at dat! What kind ob a fight can yo' make against dat
face?' De ol' man stared at it a while, sorter chokin' up; den he say
softer like: 'It's Hope; where did yo' ebber get dat?' and de black
debble he laughed, an' shoved de picter back into he's pocket. 'Hope,
hell!' he say, 'it's Phyllis, an' I'll put her before any jury yo're
mind to get--oh, I've got yo' nailed, Waite, dis time.'”
“Was that all?”
“De ol' gin'ral he didn't seem ter know what ter say; he done set dar
lookin' off ober de prairie like he was clar flumegasted. He sho' did
look like dat black debble hed hit him mighty hard. Den he says slow
like, turnin' his hoss 'round: 'Bartlett, yo' am puttin' up a good
bluff, but, by Gawd, I'm goin' ter call yo'. Yo' don't get a cent ob dat
money 'less yo' put up de proof. I'll meet yo' whar yo' say, but ef I
can git hol' ob some papers dat's missin' I'll take dat grin off yo'
face.' De odder one laughed, an' de ol' gin'ral started fo' ter ride
away, den he pull up he's hoss, an' look back. 'Yo' sorter herd wid dat
kind ob cattle, Bartlett,' he say, sharp like, 'maybe yo' know a gambler
roun' yere called Hawley?' De black debble nebber eben lose he's grin.
'Do yo' mean Black Bart Hawley?' 'Dat's the man, where is he?' 'Dealin'
faro fo' Mike Kenna in Topeka a week ago--friend ob yours?' 'Dat's none
ob yo' damned business,' snorted de ol' gin'ral, givin' his hoss de
spur. Sho', Massa Jack, he nebber knowed he was talkin' ter dat same
Hawley, an' dat black debble jest laughed as he rode off.”
“When was all this, Neb?”
“'Bout de time yo' all went up on de hill, I reck'n. I done come right
yere, and waited.”
Keith walked across the room, selected a cigar, and came back, his
mind busy with the problem. Hawley had in some manner, then, got into
communication with Waite, and was threatening him. But Waite evidently
knew the man under another name--his given name--and the gambler had
sent him off on a false trail. The lost papers apparently contained the
solution to all this mystery. Waite believed Hawley possessed them,
but did not suspect that Bartlett and Hawley were the same person. What
would he most naturally do now? Seek Hawley in Topeka probably; seize
the first opportunity of getting there. Keith turned impatiently to the
clerk.
“Any train running east?”
“Well, they generally start one out every day,”, with a glance toward
the clock, “'long 'bout this time. Maybe it's gone, and maybe it
hasn't.”
It was already nearly dark outside as the two men hastened toward the
depot. They arrived there barely in time to see the red lights on the
last car disappear. No inquiries made of those lounging about brought
results--they had been interested in a lot of drunken graders loaded on
the flat cars by force, and sent out under guard--and not one could
tell whether any man answering Waite's description was in the single
passenger coach. Convinced, however, that the General would waste no
time in prosecuting his search, Keith believed him already on his way
east, and after dismissing Neb, with instructions to watch out closely
for Hawley, he made his own way back to the hotel.
It seemed strange enough how completely he was blocked each time, just
as he thought the whole baffling mystery was about to be made clear.
Hawley was playing in rare luck, all the cards running easily to his
hand, thus, at least, gaining time, and strengthening his position.
There could no longer be any doubt that the gambler possessed some
knowledge which made him a formidable adversary. From Waite's statement
it was the loss of the papers which left him helpless to openly resist
the claim being made upon him on behalf of the mysterious Phyllis. His
only hope, therefore, lay in recovering these; but, with time limited,
he had been sent back on a wild goose chase, while Keith alone knew,
with any degree of positiveness, where those documents really were.
Hawley certainly had them in his possession the day before, for he had
taken them to Miss Maclaire to thus convince her as to the truth of his
statements. And Hawley was still in Sheridan. However, it was not likely
the man would risk carrying documents of such value, and documents
connecting him so closely with that murder on the Santa Fé Trail, about
upon his person. At best, life was cheap in that community, and Black
Bart must possess enemies in plenty. Yet if not on his person--where?
Scott was only a tool, a mere ignorant desperado, not to be trusted
to such a degree--yet apparently he was the only one working with
the gambler in this deal, the only one cognizant as to his plans.
Christie--Keith came to a stop in the street at the recurrence of the
woman's name. Why not? If she had been convinced, if she really believed
that these papers proved her right to both property and parentage, then
she would guard them as a tigress does her young. And Hawley would know
that, and must realize they would be far safer in her hands than in his
pocket. She could not use them without his aid and guidance, and yet,
whatever happened to him, they would still be safely beyond reach. True,
this might not have been done; the gambler might not yet have felt that
he had sufficient hold upon the woman to trust her thus far, but it was,
at least, a possibility to be considered, and acted upon.
Still wrestling with the intricate problem, Keith entered the
dining-room, and weaved his way, as usual, through the miscellaneous
crowd, toward the more exclusive tables at the rear. A woman sat alone
at one of these, her back toward the door. His first thought was that
it must be Hope, and he advanced toward her, his heart throbbing.
She glanced up, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead, and he bowed,
recognizing Christie Maclaire.