His heart beating with new happiness, yet conscious of the stern duty
still confronting him, Keith joined the others, giving them, in a
whisper, a hurried account of Hope's release from the cabin, and of what
she had to report.
“It's old Juan Sanchez in the front room, boys,” he added soberly, “and
there is ten thousand dollars reward out for him, dead or alive.”
Joe of the “Bar X” drew in his breath sharply.
“It'll sure be dead then,” he muttered, “that cuss will never be got no
other way.”
They went at it in the grim silent manner of the West, wasting little
time, feeling no mercy. One by one the unconscious sleepers were
aroused, each waking to find a steel barrel pressing against his
forehead, and to hear a stern voice say ominously, “Not a move, Johnny;
yes, that's a gun; now get up quietly, and step out here.” Resistance
was useless, and the five, rendered weaponless, were herded back toward
the corral. They all belonged to Hawley's outfit; one, a black-whiskered
surly brute Bristoe remembered having seen in Sheridan. There was no
time to deal with them then, and a “Bar X” man was placed on guard, with
orders to shoot at the slightest suspicious movement.
The Indian, then, would be guarding the front of the house, and Sanchez
sleeping inside. Well, the former could be left alone; his chance of
escape would be small enough with Fairbain and Neb on the opposite bank.
Old Sanchez was the villain they wanted--dead or alive. With this in
view, and anxious to make a quick job of it, the three entered the back
room, and, revolvers in hand, groped their way across to the connecting
door. As Hope had described, this had been securely fastened by a stout
wooden bar. Bristoe forced it from the sockets, not without some slight
noise, and Keith, crouching down at one side, lifted the latch. “Keep
down low, boys,” he cautioned, “where he can't hit you.”
With one quick push he flung the door wide open, and a red flash lit the
room. There were two sharp reports, the bullets crashing into the wall
behind them, the sudden blaze of flame revealing the front door open,
and within it the black outline of a man's figure. Two of the men fired
in instant response, leaping recklessly forward, but were as quickly
left blind in the darkness, the outer door slammed in their faces.
Outside there was a snarl of rage, another shot, a fierce curse in
Spanish; then Keith flung the door wide open, and leaped down the step.
As he did so he struck a body, and fell forward, his revolver knocked
from his hand. Rising to his knees, the dim light of the stars revealed
a man already half across the stream. Suddenly two sparks of fire leaped
forth from the blackness of the opposite bank; the man flung up his
hand, staggered, then went stumbling up the stream, knee deep in water.
He made a dozen yards, reeling as though drunk, and fell forward, face
down across a spit of sand. Keith stared out at the black, motionless
shape, felt along the ground for his lost gun, and arose to his feet.
Bristoe had turned over the dead body at the foot of the steps, and was
peering down into the upturned face.
“It's the Indian,” he said grimly, “Sanchez must 'a' mistook him fer one
of us, and shot the poor devil.”
“And Sanchez himself is out yonder on that sand-spit,” and Keith
pointed; then lifted his voice to make it carry across the stream. “Come
on over, Doctor, you and Neb. We've got the gang. Bring that body out
there along with you.”
The “Bar X” man waded out to help, and the three together laid the dead
Mexican outlaw on the bank beside the Indian he had shot down in his
effort to escape. Keith stood for a moment bending low to look curiously
into the dead face--wrinkled, scarred, still featuring cruelty, the thin
lips drawn back in a snarl. What scenes of horror those eyes had
gazed upon during fifty years of crime; what suffering of men, women,
children; what deeds of rapine; what examples or merciless hate. Juan
Sanchez!--the very sound of the name made the blood run cold. “Dead or
alive!” Well, they had him at last--dead; and the plainsman shuddered,
as he turned away.
Taking Fairbain with him, and hastily reviewing late occurrences to
him, Keith crossed over to the corral, realizing that their work--his
work--was not wholly done until Hawley had been located. With this quest
in mind he strode straight to the black-bearded giant who had guarded
Hope from Sheridan.
“What is your name?” he asked sharply.
The man looked up scowling.
“Hatchett,” he answered gruffly.
“Well, Hatchett, I am going to ask you a question or two, and advise
you to reply just about as straight as you know how. I am in no mood
to-night for any foolishness. Where is 'Black Bart' Hawley?”
“How in hell should I know?”
“You do know, just the same. Perhaps not to an inch, or a mile, but
you know near enough where he is, and where he has been since you left
Sheridan.”
“If I do, I'm damned if I'll tell you.”
“No? Well now, Hatchett, listen to me,” and Keith's voice had in it the
click of a steel trap. “You'll either answer, and answer straight, or
we'll hang you to that cottonwood in about five minutes. If you want
a chance for your miserable life you answer me. We have our way of
treating your kind out in this country. Sit up, you brute! Now where did
Hawley go after he left you?”
“To Fort Larned.”
“After those fresh horses?”
“Yes.”
“He didn't bring them to you; I know that. Where has he been since?”
“Topeky and Leavenworth.”
“How do you know?”
“He writ me a note the boss herder brought.”
“Hand it over.”
Keith took the dirty slip of paper the man reluctantly extracted from
his belt, and Fairbain lit matches while he ran his eyes hastily over
the lines. As he ended he crushed the paper between his fingers, and
walked away to the end of the corral. He wanted to be alone, to think,
to decide definitely upon what he ought to do. Hawley, according to the
schedule just read, must have left Larned alone early the day before;
this night he would be camped at the water-hole; with daybreak he
expected to resume his lonely journey across the desert to the Salt
Fork. For years Keith had lived a primitive life, and in some ways his
thought had grown primitive. His code of honor was that of the border,
tinged by that of the South before the war. The antagonism existing
between him and this gambler was personal, private, deadly--not an
affair for any others--outsiders--to meddle with. He could wait
here, and permit Hawley to be made captive; could watch him ride
unsuspectingly into the power of these armed men, and then turn him over
to the law to be dealt with. The very thought nauseated him. That would
be a coward's act, leaving a stain never to be eradicated. No, he must
meet this as became a man, and now, now before Hope so much as dreamed
of his purpose--aye, and before he spoke another word of love to Hope.
He wheeled about fully decided on his course, his duty, and met Fairbain
face to face.
“Jack,” the latter said earnestly, “I read the note over your shoulder,
and of course I know what you mean to do. A Southern gentleman could
not choose otherwise. But I've come here to beg you to let me have the
chance.”
“You?” surprised and curious. “What greater claim on that fellow's life
have you than I?”
The pudgy hands of the doctor grasped the plainsman's shoulders.
“It's for Christie,” he explained brokenly. “She was the one he tried to
run away with. You--you know how I feel.”
“Sure, I know,” shaking the other off, yet not roughly. “But it happened
to be Miss Waite he took, and so this is my job, Fairbain. Besides, I've
got another score to settle with him.”
He wasted little time upon preparations,--a few brief words of
instruction to Bristoe; a request to the doctor not to leave Hope alone;
the extracting of a promise from the two “Bar X” men to return to Larned
with the prisoners. Then he roped the best horse in the corral, saddled
and bridled him, and went into the cabin. She had a light burning, and
met him at the door.
“I thought you would never come, but they told me you were unhurt.”
“Not a scratch, little girl; we have been a lucky bunch. But I have had
a great deal to look after. Now I shall be obliged to ride ahead as far
as the water-hole, and let you come on with the others a little later,
after you get breakfast. You can spare me a few hours, can't you?”
His tone was full of good humor, and his lips smiling, yet somehow she
felt her heart sink, an inexplicable fear finding expression in her
eyes.
“But--but why do you need to go? Couldn't some of the others?”
“There is a reason which I will explain later,” he said, more gravely.
“Surely you can trust me, Hope, and feel that I am only doing what it
seems absolutely necessary for me to do?” He bent down, and kissed her.
“It will be only for a few hours, and no cause for worry. Good-bye now,
until we meet to-night at the water-hole.”
The east was gray with coming daylight as he rode plashing across the
stream and up the opposite bank. She watched hint, rubbing the blinding
mist from her eyes, until horse and man became a mere dark speck,
finally fading away completely into the dull plain of the desert.