The note of unrestrained joy of relief in the woman's voice rang through
the room, stilling all else, and causing those who heard to forget for
an instant the sterner purpose of their gathering. Fairbain bent over
her, like a fat guardian angel, patting her shoulder, her eyes so
blurred with tears as to be practically sightless, yet still turned
questioningly upon Waite. The sheriff was first to recover speech, and a
sense of duty.
“Then this lets Miss Maclaire out of the conspiracy charge,” he said,
gravely, “but it doesn't make it any brighter for Hawley so far as I can
see--there's a robbery charge against him if nothing else. Any one here
know where the fellow is?”
For a moment no one answered, although Keith took a step forward,
reminded instantly of Hope's predicament. Before he could speak,
however, Christie looked up, with swift gesture pushing back her
loosened hair.
“He was to have met me at the theatre to-night,” she said, her voice
trembling, “but was not there when I came out; he--he said he had
important news for me.”
“And failed to show up--did he send no message?”
“Doctor Fairbain was waiting for me instead. He said that Mr. Hawley was
called suddenly out of town.”
The eyes of the sheriff turned to Fairbain, whose face grew redder than
usual, as he shifted his gaze toward Keith.
“That was a lie,” he confessed, lamely. “I--I was told to say that.”
“Just a moment, Sheriff,” and Keith stood before them, his voice clear
and convincing. “My name is Keith, and I have unavoidably been mixed up
in this affair from the beginning. Just now I can relieve the doctor of
his embarrassment. Miss Hope Waite and I have been associated together
in an effort to solve this mystery. This evening, taking advantage of
the remarkable resemblance existing between herself and Miss Maclaire,
Miss Hope decided upon a mask--”
“What's that,” Waite broke in excitedly. “Is Hope here?”
“Yes, has been for a week; we've had all the police force of Sheridan
hunting you.”
The old man stared at the speaker, open-mouthed, and muttered something
about Fort Hays, but Keith, paying little attention to him, hurried on
with his story.
“As I say, she decided upon impersonating Christie here, hoping in this
way to learn more regarding Hawley's plans. We had discovered that the
two were to meet after the evening performance at the stage door of the
Trocadero. I escorted Hope there, dressed as near like Miss Maclaire as
possible, and left her inside the vestibule waiting for 'Black Bart' to
appear. At the head of the alley I ran into Fairbain, told him something
of the circumstances, and persuaded him to escort Miss Christie back to
the hotel. He was not very hard to persuade. Well, Hawley came, and Hope
met him; they went out of the alley-way together arm in arm, talking
pleasantly, and turned this way toward the hotel. The doctor and I both
saw and heard them. I was delayed not to exceed two minutes, speaking
a final word to Fairbain, and when I reached the street they had
disappeared. I have hunted them everywhere without finding a trace--I
have even been through the resorts. She has not returned to the hotel,
and I burst in upon you here hoping that Miss Maclaire might have some
information.”
She shook her head, and Waite, glaring impotently at the two of them,
swore sharply.
“Good God, man! my girl! Hope, alone with that damn villain. Come on,
Sheriff; we've got to find her. Wait though!” and he strode almost
menacingly across the room. “First, I want to know who the devil you
are?”
Keith straightened up, looking directly into the fierce questioning
eyes.
“I have told you my name--Jack Keith,” he replied, quietly. “Doctor
Fairbain knows something of me, but for your further information I will
add that when we met before I was Captain Keith, Third Virginia Cavalry,
and bearing despatches from Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson.”
The gruff old soldier, half-crazed by the news of his daughter's peril,
the gleam of his eyes still revealing uncontrolled temper, stared at the
younger face fronting him; then slowly he held out his hand.
“Keith--Keith,” he repeated, as though bringing back the name with
an effort. “By God, that's so--old Jefferson Keith's boy--killed at
Antietam. And you know Hope?”
“Yes, General.”
He looked about as though dazed, and the sheriff broke in not unkindly.
“Well, Waite, if we are going to search for your daughter we better
be at it. Come on, all of you; Miss Maclaire will be safe enough here
alone.”
He took hold of Keith's arm, questioning him briefly as they passed down
the hall. On the stairs the latter took his turn, still confused by what
he had just heard.
“Who is Miss Maclaire?” he asked.
“Phyllis Gale.”
“Of course, but who is Phyllis Gale? What has she to do with General
Waite? His daughter has told me she never heard of any one by that
name.”
“Well, Keith, the old man has never told me very much; he's pretty
close-mouthed, except for swearing, but I've read his papers, and picked
up a point or two. I reckon the daughter, Miss Hope, maybe never heard
a word about it, but the boy--the one that was shot--must have stumbled
onto the story and repeated it to Hawley. That's what set that fellow
going. It seems Mrs. Waite's maiden name was Pierpont, and when she was
seventeen years old she was married to the son of a rich North Carolina
planter. The fellow was a drunken, dissolute good-for-nothing. They had
a daughter born--this Phyllis--and when the child was three years old
her father, in a fit of drunken rage, ran away, and to spite his wife
took the little girl with him. All efforts to trace them failed, and the
mother finally secured a divorce and, two years later, married Willis
Waite. Waite, of course, knew these facts, but probably they were never
told to the children. When the father of Mrs. Waite's first husband
died, he left all his large property to his grandchild, providing she
could be found and identified within a certain time, failing which the
property was to be distributed among certain designated charities. Waite
was named sole administrator. Well, the old man took as much interest
in it as though it was his own girl, but made mighty little progress. He
did discover that the father had taken the child to St. Louis and left
her there with a woman named Raymond, but after the woman died the girl
completely disappeared.”
“Then Miss Maclaire is Hope Waite's half-sister?”
“That's the way it looks now.”
“And Hawley merely happened to stumble on to the right party?”
“Sure; it's clear enough how that came about. The boy told him about the
lost heiress his father was searching after, and showed him his sister's
picture. 'Black Bart' instantly recognized her resemblance to Christie
Maclaire, and thought he saw a good chance for some easy money. He
needed the papers, however, to ascertain exactly the terms of the will,
and what would be necessary for the identification. He never intended
to go into court, but hoped to either get Waite out of the way, or else
convince him that Christie was the girl, relying on her gratitude for
his profits. When Waite played into his hands by coming to Carson City,
the chance was too good to be lost. I'm not sure he meant to kill him,
but he did mean to have those papers at any cost. Probably you know the
rest--the girl was easy, because she was so ignorant of her parentage,
and nothing prevented Hawley from winning except that Waite got mad and
decided to fight. That knocked over the whole thing.”
They were outside now, and the first touch of the cool night air, the
first glance up and down the noisy street, brought Keith to himself,
his mind ready to grapple with the problem of Hope's disappearance. It
seemed to him he had already looked everywhere, yet there was nothing to
do except to continue the search, only more systematically. The
sheriff assumed control--clear headed, and accustomed to that sort of
thing--calling in Hickock and his deputies to assist, and fairly
combing the town from one end to the other. Not a rat could have slipped
unobserved through the net he dragged down that long street, or its
intersecting alleys--but it was without result; nowhere was there found
a trace of either the gambler or his companion.
They dug into saloons, bagnios, dance-halls, searching back rooms
and questioning inmates; they routed out every occupant of the hotel,
invaded boarding houses, and explored shacks and tents, indifferent to
the protests of those disturbed,--but without result. They found several
who knew Hawley, others who had seen the two together passing by the
lighted windows of the Trocadero, but beyond that--nothing. Convinced,
at last, that the parties sought were not alive in Sheridan, and
beginning to fear the worst, the searchers separated, and began
spreading forth over the black surrounding prairie, and by the light of
lanterns seeking any semblance of trail. There was no lack of volunteers
for this work, but it was daylight before the slightest clue presented
itself. Keith, with the sheriff and two or three others, had groped
their way outward until, with the first flush of dawn, they found
themselves at the opening of a small rocky ravine, near the foot
of “Boots Hill.” Peering down into its still shadowed depths, they
discerned what appeared like a body lying there motionless. Keith sprang
down beside it, and turned the rigid form over until the dead face was
revealed in the wan light--it was that of the red moustached Scott. He
staggered back at the recognition, barely able to ejaculate.
“Here, Sheriff! This is one of Hawley's men!”
The sheriff was bending instantly above the corpse, searching for the
truth.
“You know the fellow?”
“Yes, his name was Scott.”
“Well, he's been dead some hours, at least six I should say; shot just
above the eye, and good Heavens! look here, Keith, at the size of this
bullet wound; that's no man's gun in this country--no more than a '32'
I'd say.”
“Miss Waite had a small revolver. She must have shot the fellow. But why
did they leave the body here to be discovered?”
The sheriff arose to his feet, prowling about in the brightening glow of
the dawn.
“They were in a hurry to get away, and knew he wouldn't be found before
morning. A six hours' start means a good deal. They did drag him back
out of sight--look here. This was where the struggle took place, and
here is where the man fell,” tracing it out upon the ground. “The girl
put up a stiff fight, too--see where they dragged her up the path. From
the footprints there must have been half a dozen in the party. Get back
out of the way, Sims, while I follow their trail.”
It was plain enough, now they had daylight to assist them, and led
around the edge of the hill. A hundred feet away they came to where
horses had been standing, the trampled sod evidencing they must have
been there for some considerable time. Keith and the sheriff circled
out until they finally struck the trail of the party, which led forth
southwest across the prairie.
“Seven horses, one being led light,” said the former. “That was Scott's,
probably.”
“That's the whole story,” replied the sheriff, staring off toward the
bare horizon, “and the cusses have at least six hours the start with
fresh horses.” He turned around. “Well, boys, that takes 'em out of my
baliwick, I reckon. Some of the rest of you will have to run that gang
down.”