Chapter XVIII. Interviewing Willoughby
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.
Chapter XIX. A Glimpse at Conspiracy
Leaning against the inside of his own door, startled by the rapid sequence of events, Keith was able, from different sounds reaching him, to mentally picture most of what occurred in the next room. He heard Bill sink down into the convenient chair, and drink from the bottle, while the gambler apparently advanced toward the bed, where he stood looking down on its unconscious occupant.
“The fool is dead drunk,” he declared disgustedly. “We can't do anything with him to-night.”
“I say—throw bucket water over him,” hiccoughed the other genially, “allers sobers me off.”
Hawley made no response, evidently finding a seat on one end of the washstand.
“Hardly worth while, Scott,” he returned finally. “Perhaps I better have some understanding with Christie, anyhow, before I pump the boy any further. If we can once get her working with us, Willoughby won't have much hand in the play—we shan't need him. Thought I told you to keep sober?”
“Am sober,” solemnly, “ain't had but six drinks; just nat'rly tired out.”
“Oh, indeed; well, such a room as this would drive any man to drink. Did you get what I sent you here after?”
“I sure did, Bart,” and Keith heard the fellow get to his feet unsteadily. “Here's the picture, an' some letters. I didn't take only what he had in the grip.”
Hawley shuffled the letters over in his hands, apparently hastily reading them with some difficulty in the dim light.
“Nothing there to give us any help,” he acknowledged reluctantly, “mostly advice as far as I can see. Damn the light; a glow worm would be better.” There was a pause; then he slapped his leg. “However, it's clear they live in Springfield, Missouri, and this photograph is a peach. Just look here, Bill! What did I tell you? Ain't Christie a dead ringer for this girl?”
“You bet she is, Bart,” admitted the other in maudlin admiration, “only, I reckon, maybe some older.”
“Well, she ought to be accordin' to Willoughby's story, an' them papers bear him out all right, so I reckon he's told it straight—this Phyllis would be twenty-six now, and that's just about what Christie is. It wouldn't have fit better if we had made it on purpose. If the girl will only play up to the part we won't need any other evidence—her face would be enough.”
Keith could hear the beating of his own heart in the silence that followed. Here was a new thought, a new understanding, a complete new turn to affairs. Christie Maclaire, then, was not Willoughby's sister Hope. The girl he rescued on the desert—the girl with the pleading brown eyes, and the soft blur of the South on her lips—was not the music hall singer. He could hardly grasp the truth at first, it antagonized so sharply with all he had previously believed. Yet, if this were true his own duty became clearer than ever; aye, and would be more willingly performed. But what did Hawley know? Did he already realize that the girl he had first met on the stage coach, and later inveigled into the desert, was Hope, and not the music hall artist? He, of course, fully believed her to be Christie Maclaire at that time, but something might have occurred since to change that belief. Anyhow, the man was not now seeking Hope, but the other. Apparently the latter was either already here in Sheridan or expected soon. And exactly what was it the gambler desired this Maclaire woman to do? This was the important matter, and for its solution Keith possessed merely a few hints, a few vague suggestions. She was expected to represent herself as Phyllis—Phyllis who? Some Phyllis surely whose physical resemblance to Hope must be sufficiently marked to be at once noticeable. Willoughby had evidently revealed to Hawley some hidden family secret, having money involved, no doubt, and in which the discovery of this mysterious Phyllis figured. She might, perhaps, be a sister, or half-sister, who had disappeared, and remained ignorant as to any inheritance. Hope's picture shown by the boy, and reminding Hawley at once of Christie Maclaire, had been the basis of the whole plot. Exactly what the details of that plot might be Keith could not figure out, but one thing was reasonably certain—it was proposed to defraud Hope. And who in the very truth was Hope? It suddenly occurred to him as a remarkably strange fact that he possessed not the slightest inkling as to the girl's name. Her brother had assumed to be called Willoughby when he enlisted in the army, and his companions continued to call him this. If he could interview the girl now for only five minutes he should be able probably to straighten out the whole intricate tangle. But where was she? Would she have remained until this time at Fort Larned with Kate Murphy?
There was a noise of movement in the next room. Apparently as Hawley arose carelessly from his edge of the washstand he had dislodged the glass, which fell shivering on the floor. Scott swore audibly at the loss.
“Shut up, Bill,” snapped the gambler, irritated, “you've got the bottle left. I'm going; there's nothing for any of us to do now, until after I see Christie. You remain here! Do you understand?—remain here. Damn me, if that drunken fool isn't waking up.” There was a rattling of the rickety bed, and then the sound of Willoughby's voice, thick from liquor.
“Almighty glad see you, Bart—am, indeed. Want money—Bill an' I both want money—can't drink without money—can't eat without money—shay, when you goin' stake us?”
“I'll see you again in the morning, Fred,” returned the other briefly. “Go on back to sleep.”
“Will when I git good an' ready—go sleep, stay wake, just as I please—don't care damn what yer do—got new frien' now.”
“A new friend? Who?” Hawley spoke with aroused interest.
“Oh, he's all right—he's mighty fine fellow—come in wisout in—invitation—ol' friend my sister—called—called her Hope—you fool, Bart Hawley, think my sister Christie—Christie—damfino the name—my sister, Hope—don't want yer money—my—my new friend, he 'll stake me—he knows my sister—Hope.”
The gambler grasped the speaker, shaking him into some slight semblance of sobriety.
“Now, look here, Willoughby, I want the truth, and mean to have it,” he insisted. “Has some one been in here while Scott was gone?”
“Sure—didn't I just tell yer?—friend o' Hope's.”
“Who was he? Speak up! I want the name!”
There was a faint gurgling sound, as though the gambler's vise-like fingers were at the boy's throat; a slight struggle, and then the choked voice gasped out:
“Let up! damn yer! He called himself Jack Keith.”
The dead silence which ensued was broken only by heavy breathing. Then Scott swore, bringing his fist down with a crash on the washstand.
“That rather stumps yer, don't it, Bart? Well, it don't me. I tell yer it's just as I said from the first. It was Keith an' that nigger what jumped ye in the cabin. They was hidin' there when we rode in. He just nat'rly pumped the gal, an' now he's up here trailin' you. Blame it all, it makes me laugh.”
“I don't see what you see to laugh at. This Keith isn't an easy man to play with, let me tell you. He may have got on to our game.”
“Oh, hell, Bart, don't lose your nerve. He can't do anything, because we've got the under holt. He's a fugitive; all we got to do is locate him, an' have him flung back inter jail—there's murder an' hoss-stealing agin him.”
Hawley seemed to be thinking swiftly, while his companion took another drink.
“Well, pard, ain't that so?”
“No, that trick won't work, Scott. We could do it easily enough if we were down in Carson, where the boys would help us out. The trouble up here is that 'Wild Bill' Hickock is Marshal of Sheridan, and he and I never did hitch. Besides, Keith was one of his deputies down at Dodge two years ago—you remember when Dutch Charlie's place was cleaned out? Well, Hickock and Keith did that job all alone, and 'Wild Bill' isn't going back on that kind of a pal, is he? I tell you we've got to fight this affair alone, and on the quiet. Maybe the fellow don't know much yet, but he's sure on the trail, or else he wouldn't have been in here talking to Willoughby. We've got to get him, Scott, somehow. Lord, man, there's a clean million dollars waiting for us in this deal, and I'm ready to fight for it. But I'm damned sleepy, and I'm going to bed. You locate Keith to-morrow, and then, when you're sober, we'll figure out how we can get to him best; I've got to set Christie right. Good-night, Bill.”
He went out into the hall and down the creaking stairs, the man he wanted so badly listening to his descending footsteps, half tempted to follow. Scott did not move, perhaps had already fallen drunkenly asleep on his chair, and finally Keith crossed his own room, and lay down. The din outside continued unabated, but the man's intense weariness overcame it all, and he fell asleep, his last conscious thought a memory of Hope.
Chapter XX. Hope Goes to Sheridan
The discovery of the locket which had fallen from about Keith's neck made it impossible for Hope to remain quietly for very long in the hotel at Fort Larned. The more carefully she thought over the story of that murder at the Cimmaron Crossing, and Keith's tale of how he had discovered and buried the mutilated bodies, the more assured she became that that was where this locket came from, and that the slain freighter must have been her own father. She never once questioned the truth of Keith's report; there was that about the man which would not permit of her doubting him. He had simply failed to mention what he removed from the bodies, supposing this would be of no special interest.
Mrs. Murphy, hoping thus to quiet the apprehensions of her charge, set herself diligently at work to discover the facts. As her house was filled with transients, including occasional visitors from Carson City, and was also lounging headquarters for many of the officers from the near-by fort, she experienced no difficulty in picking up all the floating rumors. Out of these, with Irish shrewdness, she soon managed to patch together a consistent fabric of fact.
“Shure, honey, it's not so bad the way they tell it now,” she explained, consolingly. “Nobody belaves now it was yer father that got kilt. It was two fellers what stole his outfit, clothes an' all, an' was drivin' off wid 'em inter the sand hills. Divil a wan does know who kilt 'em, but there's some ugly stories travellin' about. Some says Injuns; some says the posse run 'em down; an' Black Bart an' his dirthy outfit, they swear it was Keith. Oi've got me own notion. Annyhow, there's 'bout three hundred dollars, some mules, an' a lot o' valyble papers missin'.”
“But if it wasn't father, where is he now?”
“That's what Oi've been tryin' ter foind out. First off he went out to the Cimmaron Crossing, gyarded by a squad o' cavalry from the fort here. Tommy Caine wint along, an' told me all about it. They dug up the bodies, but niver a thing did they find on 'em—not a paper, nor a dollar. They'd bin robbed all roight. The owld Gineral swore loike a wild mon all the way back, Tommy said, an' the first thing he did at Carson City was to start huntin' fer 'Black Bart.' He was two days gittin' on the trail av him; then he heard the feller was gone away trapsing after a singin' or dancin' gyurl called Christie Maclaire. She was supposed to be ayther at Topeky or Sheridan. A freighter told the owld man she was at Sheridan, an' so he started there overland, hopin' ter head off 'Black Bart.' Oi reckon we could a towld mor 'n that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why shure, honey, what's the use tryin' ter decave me? Didn't Jack Keith, wid his own lips, tell me ye was Christie Maclaire?”
“But I'm not! I'm not, Mrs. Murphy. I don't even know the woman. It is such a strange thing; I cannot account for it—both those men mistook me for her, and—and I let them. I didn't care who the man Hawley supposed me to be, but I intended to have told Mr. Keith he was mistaken. I don't know why I didn't, only I supposed he finally understood. But I want you to believe, Mrs. Murphy—I am Hope Waite, and not Christie Maclaire.”
“It's little the loss to ye not ter be her, an' Oi'm thinkin' loikely Jack Keith will be moighty well plased ter know the truth. What's 'Black Bart' so ayger ter git hold av this Maclaire gyurl fer?”
“I do not in the least know. He must have induced me to go to that place in the desert believing me to be the other woman. Yet he said nothing of any purpose; indeed, he found no opportunity.”
Mrs. Murphy shook her head disparagingly.
“It was shure some divilment,” she asserted, stoutly. “He'll be up to some thrick wid the poor gyurl; Oi know the loikes av him. Shure, the two av yez must look as much aloike as two payes in a pod. Loikely now, it's a twin sister ye've got?”
Hope smiled, although her eyes were misty.
“Oh, no; Fred and I were the only children; but what shall I do? What ought I to do?”
The Irish mouth of Kate Murphy set firmly, her blue eyes burning.
“It's not sthrong Oi am on advisin',” she said, shortly, “but if it was me Oi'd be fer foindin' out what all this mix-up was about. There's somethin' moighty quare in it. It's my notion that Hawley's got hold av thim papers av yer father's. The owld gint thinks so, too, an' that's why he's so hot afther catchin' him. May the divil admoire me av Oi know where this Maclaire gyurl comes in, but Oi'll bet the black divil has get her marked fer some part in the play. What would Oi do? Be goory, Oi'd go to Sheridan, an' foind the Gineral, an' till him all I knew. Maybe he could piece it together, an' guess what Hawley was up ter.”
Hope was already upon her feet, her puzzled face brightening.
“Oh, that is what I wanted to do, but I was not sure it would be best. How can I get there from here?”
“Ye'd have ter take the stage back to Topeky; loikely they'd be runnin' thrains out from there on the new road. It'll be aisy fer me ter foind out from some av the lads down below.”
The only equipment operating into Sheridan was a construction train, with an old battered passenger coach coupled to the rear. A squad of heavily armed infantrymen rode along, as protection against possible Indian raiders, but there was no crowd aboard on this special trip, as all construction work had been suspended on the line indefinitely, and most of the travel, therefore, had changed to the eastward. The coach used had a partition run through it, and, as soon as the busy trainmen discovered ladies on board, they unceremoniously drove the more bibulous passengers, protesting, into the forward compartment. This left Hope in comparative peace, her remaining neighbors quiet, taciturn men, whom she looked at through the folds of her veil during the long, slow, exasperating journey, mentally guessing at their various occupations. It was an exceedingly tedious, monotonous trip, the train slackening up, and jerking forward, apparently without slightest reason; then occasionally achieving a full stop, while men, always under guard, went ahead to fix up some bit of damaged track, across which the engineer dared not advance. At each bridge spanning the numerous small streams, trainmen examined the structure before venturing forward, and at each stop the wearied passengers grew more impatient and sarcastic, a perfect stream of fluent profanity being wafted back whenever the door between the two sections chanced to be left ajar.
Hope was not the only woman on board, yet a glance at the others was sufficient to decide their status, even had their freedom of manner and loud talking not made it equally obvious. Fearful lest she might be mistaken for one of the same class, she remained in silence, her veil merely lifted enough to enable her to peer out through the grimy window at the barren view slipping slowly past. This consisted of the bare prairie, brown and desolate, occasionally intersected by some small watercourse, the low hills rising and falling like waves to the far horizon. Few incidents broke the dead monotony; occasionally a herd of antelope appeared in the distance silhouetted against the sky-line, and once they fairly crept for an hour through a mass of buffalo, grazing so close that a fusillade of guns sounded from the front end of the train. A little farther along she caught a glimpse of a troop of wild horses dashing recklessly down into a sheltering ravine. Yet principally all that met her straining eyes was sterile desolation. Here and there a great ugly water tank reared its hideous shape beside the track, the engine always pausing for a fresh supply. Beside it was invariably a pile of coal, a few construction cars, a hut half buried under earth, loop-holed and barricaded, with several rough men loafing about, heavily armed and inquisitive. A few of these points had once been terminal, the surrounding scenery evidencing past glories by piles of tin cans, and all manner of debris, with occasionally a vacant shack, left deserted and forlorn.
Wearied and heartsick, Hope turned away from this outside dreariness to contemplate more closely her neighbors on board, but found them scarcely more interesting. Several were playing cards, others moodily staring out of the windows, while a few were laughing and talking with the girls, their conversation inane and punctuated with profanity. One man was figuring on a scratch pad, and Hope decided he must be an engineer employed on the line; others she classed as small merchants, saloon-keepers, and frontier riff-raff. They would glance curiously at her as they marched up and down the narrow aisle, but her veil, and averted face, prevented even the boldest from speaking, Once she addressed the conductor, and the man who was figuring turned and looked back at her, evidently attracted by the soft note of her voice. But he made no effort at advances, returning immediately to his pad, oblivious to all else.
It was growing dusk, the outside world, now consisting of level plains, fading into darkness, with a few great stars burning overhead. Trainsmen lit the few smoking oil lamps screwed against the sides of the car, and its occupants became little more than dim shadows. All by this time were fatigued into silence, and several were asleep, finding such small comfort as was possible on the cramped seats. Hope glanced toward the heretofore noisy group at the rear—the girl nearest her rested with unconscious head pillowed upon the shoulder of her man friend, and both were sleeping. How haggard and ghastly the woman's powdered face looked, with the light just above it, and all semblance of joy gone. It was as though a mask had been taken off. Out in the darkness the engine whistled sharply and then came to a bumping stop at some desert station. Through the black window a few lanterns could be seen flickering about, and there arose the sound of gruff voices speaking. The sleepers inside, aroused by the sharp stop, rolled over and swore, seeking easier postures. Then the front door opened, and slammed shut, and a new passenger entered. He came down the aisle, glancing carelessly at the upturned faces, and finally sank into the seat directly opposite Hope. He was a broad shouldered man, his coat buttoned to the throat, with strong face showing clearly beneath the broad hat brim and lighted up with a pair of shrewd, kindly eyes. The conductor came through, nodded at him, and passed on. Hope thought he must be some official of the road, and ventured to break the prolonged silence with a question:
“Could you tell me how long it will be before we reach Sheridan?”
She had partially pushed aside her veil in order to speak more clearly, and the man, turning at sound of her voice, took off his hat, his searching eyes quizzical.
“Well, no, I can't, madam,” the words coming with a jerk. “For I'm not at all sure we'll keep the track. Ought to make it in an hour, however, if everything goes right. Live in Sheridan?”
She shook her head, uncertain how frankly to answer.
“No loss to you—worst place to live in on earth—no exceptions—I know—been there myself three months—got friends there likely?”
“I hardly know,” she acknowledged doubtfully. “I think so, but I shall have to hunt some place in which to stay to-night. Can you tell me of some—some respectable hotel, or boarding house?”
The man wheeled about, until he could look at her more clearly.
“That's a pretty hard commission, Miss,” he returned uneasily: “There may be such a place in Sheridan, but I have never found it. Old Mother Shattuck keeps roomers, but she won't have a woman in the house. I reckon you 'll have to try it at the hotel—I'll get you in there if I have to mesmerize the clerk—you'll find it a bit noisy though.”
“Oh, I thank you so much. I don't mind the noise, so it is respectable.”
He laughed, good humoredly.
“Well I don't propose to vouch for that—the proprietor ain't out there for his health—but, I reckon, you won't have no serious trouble—the boys mostly know a good woman when they see one—which isn't often—anyhow, they're liable to be decent enough as long as I vouch for you.”
“But you know nothing of me.”
“Don't need to—your face is enough—I'll get you the room all right.”
She hesitated, then asked:
“Are you—are you connected with the railroad??'
“In a way, yes—I'm the contract surgeon—had to dig a bullet out of a water-tank tender back yonder—fellow howled as though I was killing him—no nerve—mighty poor stuff most of the riff-raff out here—ball wasn't in much below the skin—Indian must have plugged him from the top of the bluff—blame good shot too—ragged looking slug—like to see it?”
She shook her head energetically.
“Don't blame you—nothing very uncommon—get a dozen cases like it a day sometimes—stay in Sheridan, show you something worth while—very pretty surgical operation to-morrow—come round and get you if you care to see it—got to open the stomach—don't know what I'll find—like to go?”
“Oh, no! I'm sure you mean it all kindly, but—but I would rather not.”
“Hardly supposed you would—only knew one woman who cared for that sort of thing much—she was nursing for me during the war—had a hare lip and an eye like a dagger—good nurse though—rather have your kind round me—ever nurse any? Could get you a dozen jobs in Sheridan—new prospects every night—fifty dollars a week—what do you say?”
“But I'm not seeking work, Doctor,” smiling in spite of her bewilderment. “I have money enough with me.”
“Well, I didn't know—thought maybe you wanted a job, and didn't like to ask for it—have known 'em like that—no harm done—if you ever do want anything like that, just come to me—my name's Fairbain—everybody knows me here—operated on most of 'em—rest expect to be—Damn that engineer. I don't believe he knows whether he's going ahead or backing up.” He peered out of the window, pressing his face hard against the glass. “I reckon that's Sheridan he's whistling for now—don't be nervous—I'll see you make the hotel all right.”
Chapter XXI. The Marshal of Sheridan
It was called a depot merely through courtesy, consisting of a layer of cinders, scattered promiscuously so as to partially conceal the underlying mud, and a dismantled box car, in which presided ticket agent and telegrapher. A hundred yards below was the big shack where the railroad officials lodged. Across the tracks blazed invitingly the “First Chance” saloon. All intervening space was crowded with men, surging aimlessly about in the glare of a locomotive head light, and greeting the alighting passengers with free and easy badinage. Stranger or acquaintance made no difference, the welcome to Sheridan was noisily extended, while rough play and hoarse laughter characterized the mass.
Hope paused on the step, even as Dr. Fairbain grasped her hand, dinned by the medley of discordant sounds, and confused by the vociferous jam of humanity. A band came tooting down the street in a hack, a fellow, with a voice like a fog horn, howling on the front seat. The fellows at the side of the car surged aside to get a glimpse of this new attraction, and Fairbain, taking quick advantage of the opportunity thus presented, swung his charge to the cinders below. Bending before her, and butting his great shoulders into the surging crowd, he succeeded in pushing a passage through, thus finally bringing her forth to the edge of the street.
“Hey, there,” he said shortly, grabbing a shirt-sleeved individual by the arm. “Where's Charlie?”
The fellow looked at him wonderingly.
“Charlie? Oh, you mean the 'Kid'? Well, he ain't here ter-night; had a weddin', an' is totin' the bridal couple 'round.”
Fairbain swore discreetly under his breath, and cast an uncertain glance at the slender figure shrinking beside him. The streets of Sheridan were not over pleasant at night.
“Only hack in town is somewhere else, Miss,” he explained briefly. “I reckon you and I will have to hoof it.”
He felt the grip of her fingers on his sleeve.
“The boys are a little noisy, but it's just their way—don't mean anything—you hang on to me, an' keep the veil down—we 'll be there in the shake of a dog's tail.”
He helped her over the muddy crossing, and as they reached a stretch of board walk, began expatiating on the various places lining the way.
“That's the 'Mammoth' over there,—dance hall back of it—biggest thing west of the Missouri—three men killed there last week—what for? Oh, they got too fresh—that's the 'Casino,' and the one beyond is 'Pony Joe's Place'—cut his leg off since I've been here—fight over a girl. Ain't there any stores?—sure; they're farther back—you see the saloons got in first—that's 'Sheeny Mike's' gambling joint you're looking at—like to go over and see 'em play? All right, just thought I'd ask you—it's early anyhow, and things wouldn't be goin' very lively yet. Say, there, you red head, what are you trying to do?”
The fellow had lurched out of the crowd in such a manner as to brush partially aside the girl's veil, permitting the glare of “Sheeny Mike's” lights to fall full upon her revealed face. It was accomplished so openly as to appear planned, but before he could reel away again, Fairbain struck out, and the man went down. With an oath he was on his feet, and Hope cowered back against her protector. Each man had weapons drawn, the crowd scurrying madly to keep out of the line of fire, when, with a stride, a new figure stepped quietly in between them. Straight as an arrow, broad shouldered, yet small waisted as a woman, his hair hanging low over his coat-collar, his face smooth shaven except for a long moustache, and emotionless, the revolvers in his belt untouched, he simply looked at the two, and then struck the revolver out of the drunken man's hand. It fell harmless to the ground.
“And don't you pick it up until I tell you, Scott,” he said quietly. “If you do you've got to fight me.”
Without apparently giving the fellow another thought, he wheeled and faced the others.
“Oh, it's you, is it, Doctor? The drunken fool won't make any more trouble. Where were you taking the lady?”
“To the hotel, Bill.”
“I'll walk along with you. I reckon the boys will give us plenty of room.” He glanced over the crowd, and then more directly at Scott.
“Pick up your gun!” the brief words snapping out. “This is the second time I've caught you hunting trouble. The next time you are going to find it. I saw you run into the lady—what did you do it for?”
“I only wanted to see who she was, Bill.”
“You needn't call me Bill. I don't trot in your class. My name is Hickock to you. Was it any of your affair who she was?”
“I reckoned I know'd her, and I did.”
The marshal turned his eyes toward Hope, and then back upon Scott, evidently slightly interested.
“So? Recognized an old friend, I suppose?”
The slight sneer in “Wild Bill's” soft voice caused Scott to flame up in sudden passion.
“No, I didn't! but I called the turn just the same—she's Christie Maclaire.”
The marshal smiled.
“All right, little boy,” he said soberly. “Now you trot straight along to bed. Don't let me catch you on the street again to-night, and I'd advise you not to pull another gun—you're too slow on the trigger for this town. Come along, Doctor, and we'll get Miss Maclaire to her hotel.”
He shouldered his way through the collected crowd, the others following. Hope endeavored to speak, to explain to Fairbain who she actually was, realizing then, for the first time, that she had not previously given him her name. Amidst the incessant noise and confusion, the blaring of brass, and the jangle of voices, she found it impossible to make the man comprehend. She pressed closer to him, holding more tightly to his arm, stunned and confused by the fierce uproar. The stranger steadily pushing ahead of them, and opening a path for their passage, fascinated her, and her eyes watched him curiously. His name was an oddly familiar one, associated in vague memory with some of the most desperate deeds ever witnessed in the West, yet always found on the side of law and order; it was difficult to conceive that this quiet-spoken, mild-eyed, gently smiling man could indeed be the most famous gun fighter on the border, hated, feared, yet thoroughly respected, by every desperado between the Platte and the Canadian. Beyond the glare and glitter of the Metropolitan Dance Hall the noisy crowd thinned away somewhat, and the marshal ventured to drop back beside Fairbain, yet vigilantly watched every approaching face.
“Town appears unusually lively to-night, Bill,” observed the latter gravely, “and the boys have got an early start.”
“West end graders just paid off,” was the reply. “They have been whoopin' it up ever since noon, and are beginning to get ugly. Now the rest of the outfit are showing up, and there will probably be something interesting happening before morning. Wouldn't mind it so much if I had a single deputy worth his salt.”
“What's the matter with Bain?”
“Nothing, while he was on the job, but 'Red' Haggerty got him in 'Pony Joe's' shebang two hours ago; shot him in the back across the bar. Ned never even pulled his gun.”
“I'm sorry to hear that; what became of Haggerty?”
The marshal let his eyes rest questioningly on the doctor's face for an instant.
“Well, I happened to be just behind Ned when he went in,” he said gently, “and 'Red' will be buried on 'Boots Hill' to-morrow. I'm afraid I don't give you much chance to show your skill, Doc,” with a smile.
“If they all shot like you do, my profession would be useless. What's the matter with your other deputies?”
“Lack of nerve, principally, I reckon; ain't one of 'em worth the powder to blow him up. I'd give something just now for a fellow I had down at Dodge—he was a man. Never had to tell him when to go in; good judgment too; wasn't out hunting for trouble, but always ready enough to take his share. Old soldier in our army, Captain I heard, though he never talked much about himself; maybe you knew him—Jack Keith.”
“Well, I reckon,” in quick surprise, “and what's more to the point, he's here—slept in my room last night.”
“Keith here? In Sheridan? And hasn't even hunted me up yet? That's like him, all right, but I honestly want to see the boy. Here's your hotel. Shall you need me any longer?”
“Better step in with us, Bill,” the doctor advised, “your moral influence might aid in procuring the lady a decent room.”
“I reckon it might.”
They passed together up the three rickety steps leading into the front hall, which latter opened directly into the cramped office; to the left was the wide-open barroom, clamorous and throbbing with life. A narrow bench stood against the wall, with a couple of half drunken men lounging upon it. The marshal routed them out with a single, expressive gesture.
“Wait here with the lady, Fairbain,” he said shortly, “and I'll arrange for the room.”
They watched him glance in at the bar, vigilant and cautious, and then move directly across to the desk.
“Tommy,” he said genially to the clerk. “I've just escorted a lady here from the train—Miss Maclaire—and want you to give her the very best room in your old shebang.”
The other looked at him doubtfully.
“Hell, Bill, I don't know how I'm goin' to do that,” acknowledged. “She wrote in here to the boss for a room; said she'd be along yesterday. Well, she didn't show up, an' so to-night we let a fellow have it. He's up there now.”
“Well, he'll have to vamose—who is he?”
“Englishman—'Walter Spotteswood Montgomery,'” consulting his book. “Hell of a pompous duck; the boys call him 'Juke Montgomery.'”
“All right; send some one up to rout his lordship out lively.”
Tommy shuffled his feet, and looked again at the marshal; he had received positive orders about that room, and was fully convinced that Montgomery would not take kindly to eviction. But Hickock's quiet gray eyes were insistent.
“Here, 'Red,'” he finally called to the burly porter, “hustle up to '15,' an' tell that fellow Montgomery he's got to get out; tell him we want the room for a lady.”
Hickock watched the man disappear up the stairs, helped himself carefully to a cigar out of the stand, tossing a coin to the clerk and then deliberately lighting up.
“Think Montgomery will be pleased?” he asked shortly.
“No; he'll probably throw 'Red' down stairs.”
The marshal smiled, his glance turning expectantly in that direction.
“Then perhaps I had better remain, Tommy.” And he strolled nonchalantly over to the open window, and stood there looking quietly out, a spiral of blue smoke rising from his cigar.
They could distinctly hear the pounding on the door above, and occasionally the sound of the porter's voice, but the straight, erect figure at the window remained motionless. Finally “Red” came down, nursing his knuckles.
“Says he'll be damned if he will—says he's gone to bed, an' that there ain't a cussed female in this blasted country he'd git up for,” he reported circumstantially to the clerk. “He told me to tell you to go plumb to hell, an' that if any one else come poundin' 'round thar to-night, he'd take a pot shot at 'em through the door. 'Fifteen' seemed a bit peevish, sir, an' I reckoned if he was riled up much more, he might git rambunctious; his language was sure fierce.”
“Wild Bill” turned slowly around, still calmly smoking, his eyes exhibiting mild amusement.
“Did you clearly inform Mr.—ah—Montgomery that we desired the room for the use of a lady?” he questioned gently, apparently both pained and shocked.
“I did, sir.”
“It surprises me to find one in our city with so little regard for the ordinary courtesies of life, Tommy. Perhaps I can persuade the gentleman.”
He disappeared up the stairs, taking them deliberately step by step, the cigar still smoking between his lips. “Red” called after him.
“Keep away from in front of the door, Bill; he'll shoot sure, for he cocked his gun when I was up there.”
Hickock glanced back, and waved his hand.
“Don't worry—the room occupied by Mr.—ah—Montgomery was '15,' I believe you said?”
Whatever occurred above, it was over with very shortly. Those listening at the foot of the stairs heard the first gentle rap on the door, an outburst of profanity, followed almost instantly by a sharp snap, as if a lock had given way, then brief scuffling mingled with the loud creaking of a bed. Scarcely a minute later the marshal appeared on the landing above, one hand firmly gripped in the neck-band of an undershirt, thus securely holding the writhing, helpless figure of a man, who swore violently every time he could catch his breath.
“Any other room you could conveniently assign Mr.—ah—Montgomery to, Tommy?” he asked pleasantly. “If he doesn't like it in the morning, he could be changed, you know.”
“Give—give him '47.'”
“All right. I'm the bell-boy temporarily, Montgomery; easy now, my man, easy, or I'll be compelled to use both hands. 'Red,' carry the gentleman's luggage to '47'—he has kindly consented to give up his old room to a lady—come along, Montgomery.”
It was possibly five minutes later when he came down, still smoking, his face not even flushed.
“Montgomery is feeling so badly we were obliged to lock him in,” he reported to the clerk. “Seems to be of a somewhat nervous disposition. Well, good-night, Doctor,” he lifted his hat. “And to you, Miss, pleasant dreams.”
Hope watched him as he stepped outside, pausing a moment in the shadows to glance keenly up and down the long street before venturing down the steps. This quiet man had enemies, hundreds of them, desperate and reckless; ceaseless vigilance alone protected him. Yet her eyes only, and not her thoughts, were riveted on the disappearing marshal. She turned to Fairbain, who had risen to his feet.
“I wish I might see him, also,” she said, as though continuing an interrupted conversation.
“See him? Who?”
“Mr. Keith. I—I knew him once, and—and, Doctor, won't you tell him I should like to have him come and see me just—just as soon as he can.”