Up from the far, dim southwest they rode slowly, silently, wearied still
by the exertions of the past night, and burned by the fierce rays of
the desert sun. No wind of sufficient force had blown since Keith passed
that way, and they could easily follow the hoof prints of his horse
across the sand waste. Bristoe was ahead, hat brim drawn low, scanning
the horizon line unceasingly. Somewhere out in the midst of that mystery
was hidden tragedy, and he dreaded the knowledge of its truth. Behind
him Fairbain, and Hope rode together, their lips long since grown
silent, the man ever glancing uneasily aside at her, the girl drooping
slightly in the saddle, with pale face and heavy eyes. Five prisoners,
lashed together, the binding ropes fastened to the pommels of the two
“Bar X” men's saddles, were bunched together, and behind all came Neb,
his black face glistening in the heat.
Suddenly Bristoe drew rein, and rose to his full length in the
stirrups, shading his eyes from the sun's glare, as he stared ahead. Two
motionless black specks were visible--yet were they motionless? or was
it the heat waves which seemed to yield them movement? He drove in his
spurs, driving his startled horse to the summit of a low sand ridge, and
again halted, gazing intently forward. He was not mistaken--they
were horses. Knowing instantly what it meant--those riderless animals
drifting derelict in the heart of the desert--his throat dry with fear,
the scout wheeled, and spurred back to his party, quickly resolving on a
course of action. Hawley and Keith had met; both had fallen, either
dead or wounded. A moment's delay now might cost a life; he would need
Fairbain, but he must keep the girl back, if possible. But could he? She
straightened up in the saddle as he came spurring toward them; her eyes
wide open, one hand clutching at her throat.
“Doctor,” he called as soon as he was near enough, his horse circling,
“thar is somethin' showin' out yonder I'd like ter take a look at, an' I
reckon you better go 'long. The nigger kin com' up ahead yere with Miss
Waite.”
She struck her horse, and he plunged forward, bringing her face to face
with Bristoe.
“What is it? Tell me, what is it?”
“Nothin' but a loose hoss, Miss.”
“A horse! here on the desert?” looking about, her eyes dark with horror.
“But how could that be? Could--could it be Captain Keith's?”
Bristoe cast an appealing glance at Fairbain, mopping his face
vigorously, not knowing what to say, and the other attempted to turn the
tide.
“Not likely--not likely at all--no reason why it should be--probably
just a stray horse--you stay back here, Miss Hope--Ben and I will find
out, and let you know.”
She looked at the two faces, realizing intuitively that they were
concealing something.
“No, I'm going,” she cried, stifling a sob in her throat. “It would kill
me to wait here.”
She was off before either might raise hand or voice in protest, and they
could only urge their horses in effort to overtake her, the three racing
forward fetlock deep in sand. Mounted upon a swifter animal Fairbain
forged ahead; he could see the two horses now plainly, their heads
uplifted, their reins dangling. Without perceiving more he knew already
what was waiting them there on the sand, and swore fiercely, spurring
his horse mercilessly, forgetful of all else, even the girl, in his
intense desire to reach and touch the bodies. He had begged to do this
himself, to be privileged to seek this man Hawley, to kill him--but
now he was the physician, with no other thought except a hope to save.
Before his horse had even stopped he flung himself from the saddle, ran
forward and dropped on his knees beside Keith, bending his ear to the
chest, grasping the wrist in his fingers. As the others approached, he
glanced up, no conception now of aught save his own professional work.
“Water, Bristoe,” he exclaimed sharply, “Dash some brandy in it. Quick
now. There, that's it; hold his head up--higher. Yes, you do it, Miss
Hope; here, Ben, take this, and pry his teeth open--well, he got a
swallow anyhow. Hold him just as he is--can you stand it? I've got to
find where he was hit.”
“Yes--yes,” she answered, “don't--don't mind me.”
He tore open the woolen shirt, soaked with blood already hardening,
felt within with skilled fingers, his eyes keen, his lips muttering
unconsciously.
“Quarter of an inch--quarter of an inch too high--scraped the
lung--Lord, if I can only get it out--got to do it now--can't
wait--here, Bristoe, that leather case on my saddle--run, damn
you--we'll save him yet, girl--there, drop his head in your lap--yes,
cry if you want to--only hold still--open the case, will you--down here,
where I can reach it--now water--all our canteens--Hope, tear me off a
strip of your under-skirt--what am I going to do?--extract the ball--got
to do it--blood poison in this sun.”
She ripped her skirt, handing it to him without a word; then dropped her
white face in her hands, bending, with closed eyes, over the whiter face
resting on her lap, her lips trembling with the one prayer, “Oh, God!
Oh, God!” How long he was at it, or what he did, she scarcely knew--she
heard the splash of water; caught the flash of the sun on the probe;
felt the half conscious shudder of the wounded man, whose head was in
her lap, the deft, quick movements of Fairbain, and then--
“That's it--I've got it--missed the lung by a hair--damn me I'm proud of
that job--you're a good girl.”
She looked at him, scarce able to see, her eyes blinded with tears.
“Will--will he live? Oh, tell me!”
“Live! Why shouldn't he?--nothing but a hole to close up--nature'll do
that, with a bit of nursing--here, now, don't you keel over--give me the
rest of that skirt.”
He bandaged the wound, then glanced about suddenly.
“How's the other fellow?”
“Dead,” returned Bristoe, “shot through the heart.”
“Thought so--have seen Keith shoot before--I wonder how the cuss ever
managed to get him.”
As he arose to his feet, his red face glistening with perspiration,
and began strapping his leather case, the others rode up, and Bristoe,
explaining the situation, set the men to making preparations for pushing
on to the water-hole. Blankets were swung between ponies, and the bodies
of the dead and wounded deposited therein, firm hands on the bridles.
Hope rode close beside Keith, struggling to keep back the tears, as she
watched him lying motionless, unconscious, scarcely breathing. So, under
the early glow of the desert stars, they came to the water-hole, and
halted.
The wounded man opened his eyes, and looked about him unable to
comprehend. At first all was dark, silent; then he saw the stars
overhead, and a breath of air fanned the near-by fire, the ruddy glow
of flame flashing across his face. He heard voices faintly, and thus,
little by little, consciousness asserted itself and memory struggled
back into his bewildered brain. The desert--the lonely leagues of
sand--his fingers gripped as if they felt the stock of a gun--yet that
was all over--he was not there--but he was somewhere--and alive, alive.
It hurt him to move, to breathe even, and after one effort to turn
over, he lay perfectly still, staring up into the black arch of sky,
endeavoring to think, to understand--where was he? How had he come
there? Was Hawley alive also? A face bent over him, the features faintly
visible in the flash of firelight. His dull eyes lit up in sudden
recollection.
“Doc! is that you?”
“Sure, old man,” the pudgy fingers feeling his pulse, the gray eyes
twinkling. “Narrow squeak you had--going to pull through all right,
though--no sign of fever.”
“Where am I?”
“At the water-hole; sling you in a blanket, and get you into Larned
to-morrow.”
There was a moment's silence, Keith finding it hard to speak.
“Hawley--?” he whispered at last.
“Oh, don't worry; you got him all right. Say,” his voice sobering,
“maybe it was just as well you took that job. If it had been me I would
have been in bad.”
The wounded man's eyes questioned.
“It's a bad mix-up, Keith. Waite never told us all of it. I reckon he
didn't want her to know, and she never shall, if I can help it. I Ve
been looking over some papers in his pocket--he'd likely been after them
this trip--and his name ain't Hawley. He's Bartlett Gale, Christie's
father.”
Keith could not seem to grasp the thought, his eyes half-closed.
“Her--her father?” ne questioned, weakly. “Do you suppose he knew?”
“No; not at first, anyhow; not at Sheridan. He was too interested in his
scheme to even suspicion he had actually stumbled onto the real girl. I
think he just found out.”
A coyote howled somewhere in the darkness, a melancholy chorus joining
in with long-drawn cadence. A shadow swept into the radius of dancing
firelight.
“Is he conscious, Doctor?”
Fairbain drew back silently, and she dropped on her knees at Keith's
side, bending low to look into his face.
“Hope--Hope.”
“Yes, dear, and you are going to live now--live for me.”
He found her hand, and held it, clasped within his own, his eyes wide
open.
“I have never told you,” he said, softly, “how much I love you.”
She bent lower until her cheek touched his.
“No, Jack, but you may now.”
THE END