Chapter XXII. An Interrupted Interview
Miss Christie Maclaire, attired in a soft lounging robe, her luxuriant hair wound simply about her head, forming a decidedly attractive picture, gazed with manifest dissatisfaction on the bare walls of her room, and then out through the open window into the comparatively quiet street below. The bar-tender at the “Palace,” directly opposite, business being slack, was leaning negligently in the doorway. His roving eyes caught the fair face framed in the window, and he waved his hand encouragingly. Miss Christie's big brown eyes stared across at him in silent disgust, and then wandered again about the room, her foot tapping nervously on the rag carpet.
“It's my very last trip to this town,” she said decisively, her red lips pressed tightly together.
Miss Maclaire had indeed ample reason to feel aggrieved over her reception. She had written to have the best apartment in the house reserved for her, and then, merely because she had later been invited out to Fort Hays, and was consequently a day behind in arrival, had discovered that another woman—a base imposter, actually masquerading under her name—had been duly installed in the coveted apartment. Driving in from the fort that morning, accompanied by two of the more susceptible junior officers, conscious that she had performed most artistic work the evening before in the spacious mess-hall, and feeling confident of comfortable quarters awaiting her, it had been something of a shock to be informed by the perturbed clerk that “15” was already occupied by another. “A lady what come in last night, and I naturally supposed it was you.”
In vain Miss Maclaire protested, ably backed by the worshipful officers who still gallantly attended her; the management was obdurate. Then she would go up herself, and throw the hussy out. Indeed, too angry for bantering further words, Christie had actually started for the stairs, intending to execute her threat, when the perspiring Tommy succeeded in stopping her, by plainly blurting out the exact truth.
“Don't you ever do it,” he insisted. “The marshal brought her in here, and fired a fellow out o' the room so as to give it to her. He'd clean out this house if we ran in a cold deck on a friend o' his.”
“What do I care for what your marshal does?”
“But he's Bill Hickock, Miss, 'Wild Bill.'”
Miss Maclaire leaned back against the stair-rail, her eyes turning from Tommy to her speechless supporters. Slowly the truth seemed to penetrate her brain.
“Oh,” she gasped at last. “Then—then what else can you give me?”
The officers had long since departed, promising, however, to remain over in town and hear her again that night at the Trocadero, with hints as to a late supper; she had received a call from the manager of that most popular resort, and had rendered his life miserable by numerous demands; had passed half an hour practising with the leader of the orchestra; but now was at last alone, tired, decidedly irritable, and still tempted to invade “15,” and give that other woman a piece of her mind. Then someone rapped on the door. There was a decided accent of vexation in the voice which bade the one outside enter, but the lady's mood changed swiftly as her brown eyes perceived standing in the doorway the erect form of Keith, the light from the window revealing clearly his strong face. The man stood hat in hand, bowing slightly, unable to comprehend why he should have been sent for, yet marvelling again at the remarkable resemblance between this woman and that other whom he had left at Fort Larned. As Miss Maclaire stood with back toward the window, she presented the same youthful appearance, the same slenderness of figure, the same contour of face.
“Miss Christie Maclaire?” he asked, as though in doubt.
“Yes,” graciously, won instantly by the man's appearance and manner, “you wished to see me? Will you be seated?”
He crossed the narrow room to the stiff-backed chair indicated, and the lady sank negligently down into her own, resting her head against a pillow, and regarding him expectantly. He could view her now much more distinctly, observing the slight difference in age, the fuller lips, the darker shade of the hair, and the varied expression of the eyes. It was as if a different soul looked forth from the same face. He had never before realized how little, apparently trifling, details marked the human countenance, and, embarrassed by her own scrutiny, his glance swept about the room. Misunderstanding this shifting of eyes, Miss Christie sought to place the man more at ease.
“The room is a perfect fright,” she observed briskly, “but what can one expect in these mushroom towns? Really I had never been here before, or I shouldn't have come. They pay good money though for talent, and we all have to live, you know. Are—are you in professional work?”
He shook his head, smiling, somewhat perplexed at his reception.
“Really I didn't suppose you were,” she went on, “you don't look it. But there are so many who come to me to help them, that I have grown suspicious of every stranger. May I ask why you desired to see me?”
Another suspicion had taken possession of her mind, for the men of that section were never backward in exhibiting admiration, yet somehow this man did not seem exactly of that kind.
“I came merely because I was sent for, Miss Maclaire,” he replied, his gray eyes once again upon her face. “Doctor Fairbain gave me your message; I am Jack Keith.”
She looked the complete astonishment she felt, sitting up in the chair, her eyes filled with questioning doubt.
“Doctor Fairbain! My message! Surely you are mistaken? I know no one of that name, and have sent no message.”
“You did not express a desire to see me?”
She laughed, exhibiting a row of white teeth.
“Certainly not; not until this moment was I even of the existence of Mr. Jack Keith.”
His own eyes smiled in response to the challenge of hers.
“I can assure you the surprise was mine also,” he hastened to inform her, now more at ease, as he grasped the situation. “I could not understand how I had become known to you, yet I pledge you my word the message was actually brought. Of course you may suspicion otherwise, for I have seen you on the stage, and being a normal man, have wished that I could devise some excuse for meeting you.”
“Indeed!” her eye-brows slightly uplifted.
“Yes, I make that confession frankly, yet this call comes from no such desire. I had no question when I came, but what I had been sent for—you will believe this?”
“I suppose I must, yet it seems very peculiar,” she replied, feeling convinced that he was a gentleman, and troubled as to what she had best do. “Yet now that you have discovered your mistake—”
“I hope to take advantage of the opportunity,” he broke in firmly, leaning slightly forward. “May I ask you a question?”
“I could hardly prevent it, and really I do not know that I have anything to conceal.”
“Then I will risk the effort—do you know a man named Hawley?—Bartlett Hawley?”
Her eyes did not falter, although a red spot shot into her cheeks, and her lips pressed together.
“No; that is I have never met him,” she acknowledged, just a trifle confused. “But I have received two letters signed by that name, and rather expected the gentleman would call upon me here in Sheridan during my engagement. Is that your mission? Were you sent by him? or are you Mr. Hawley?”
“I disclaim all relation, Miss Maclaire, even friendship. You, of course, know who this individual is?”
“No,” the short monosyllable was not encouraging. “His messages were of a business character.”
“So I presumed, yet one likes to know something even of the person he does business with. I have been acquainted with Hawley for several years, and have never been aware of any honorable business he has ever engaged in. He is a professional gambler, known on the frontier as 'Black Bart'; last night he was running a faro game across there in the 'Palace.' I cannot help wondering what kind of business such a fellow could possibly have with you, Miss Maclaire.”
The woman's eyes flashed, hardening in their brown depths.
“What right have you to ask?” she began indigently. “I am capable of deciding my own affairs. As I have told you I have never met Mr. Hawley, but I am not to be influenced against him merely by the denunciation of an avowed enemy. He has written me of something he has discovered which is of deep personal interest to me, and has promised to tell me the details, as well as place within my hands certain necessary papers.”
“I appreciate your feelings,” he said gently, as she paused, “but would you mind telling me the nature of those papers?”
There was something in Keith's face which told of honesty, and inspired confidence. Miss Maclaire's worldly experience had given her deep insight into the character of men, and somehow, as she looked into the clear gray eyes, she felt impelled to answer, a vague doubt of the unknown Hawley in her mind.
“They—they were papers to establish identity. He had discovered them by accident; they have to do with an inheritance. Really that is all I know, for he wrote very briefly, stating it would be safer to confer with me personally—only I imagine there is a large sum involved.”
“From whose estate?”
“My grandfather's.”
“And his name was?”
“Why—why, Mr. Keith, actually I do not know. It may seem strange, but—but I cannot even tell the names of my parents; I cannot remember either my father or mother. Oh, I do not know why I should tell you all this! Who are you, really? Why do you ask me such questions?”
He leaned forward, touched by the woman's emotion. “Miss Maclaire,” he said gravely. “I am not prying into your life needlessly, but am endeavoring to serve you as well as others. Hawley may indeed possess papers of great value, but if so they were not found by accident, but stolen from the body of a murdered man. These papers may possibly refer to you, but if so Hawley himself does not believe it—he has simply chosen you to impersonate the right party because of physical resemblance.”
“Resemblance to whom?”
“To a young woman, a Miss Hope.”
“But how do you know this? Why should you be interested? Are you a detective?”
“No, I am not a detective, but I cannot explain to you my interest. I am trying to serve you, to keep you from being drawn into a plot—”
“Rather to keep me from learning the truth, Mr. Jack Keith,” she burst forth, rising to her feet indignantly. “You are here trying to prejudice me against Mr. Hawley. He is your enemy, and you have come to me stabbing him in the back for revenge. That is your interest. Well, I am going to see the man, and consider what he has to say. I don't care half so much about the money as I do to find out who I am. If he can throw any light on my early life, on my parentage, I shall be the happiest woman in the world. I am sorry I told you anything—but I am going to see him just the same. Perhaps he might tell me something about you.”
They were both standing, the woman's eyes flashing angrily, defiantly, her hands clinched. Keith, realizing the false position into which he had drifted, hesitated to answer. He meant to tell her the whole story and urge her to cooperate with him in learning the gambler's purpose. The woman impressed him as honest at heart, in spite of her life and environment; she was not one whom a swindler could easily dupe into becoming a tool.
“Miss Maclaire,” he began, determined on his course, “listen to me for just a moment. I am—”
There was a rap at the door. The eyes of both turned that way, and then Keith backed slowly into the darkened corner beyond the window, his right hand thrust into the pocket of his coat. Miss Maclaire observed the movement, her lips smiling, a red flush on either cheek. Then she stepped across the root, and opened the door. Framed against the black background of the hall, his dark, rather handsome face clearly revealed as he fronted the window, his black, audacious eyes fixed appreciatingly upon the lady, stood “Black Bart” Hawley. He saw no one but her, realized no other presence, had no thought except to make a good impression. He was facing a beautiful woman, whom he sought to use, and he bowed low, hat in hand.
“Miss Maclaire,” he said, pleasantly, “I trust you will pardon all that has occurred between us, and permit me to explain.”
“I—I do not understand,” she replied, puzzled by these unexpected words. “There has nothing occurred between us, I am sure, which requires explanation. Have we met before?”
The man smiled. Seeing the woman's face in the shadows he was still convinced she was the same he had last parted with on the Salt Fork. However, if she preferred to ignore all that, and begin their relations anew, it was greatly to his liking. It gave him insight into her character, and fresh confidence that he could gain her assistance. Anyhow, he was ready enough to play her game.
“Let us assume not,” just the slightest trace of mockery in the tone, “and begin anew. At least, you will confess the receipt of my letters—I am Bartlett Hawley.”
She cast a half-frightened glance toward Keith, and the man, following the direction of her eyes, perceived the presence of the other. His right leg went backward, his hand dropping to the belt, his form stiffening erect. Keith's voice, low but clear in the silence, seemed to cut the air.
“Not a motion, Hawley! I have you covered.”
“Oh, gentlemen, please don't!”
“Have no fear, Miss Maclaire; this man and I will settle our differences elsewhere, and not in your presence.” He stepped forth into the middle of the room, revolver drawn, but held low at the hip, his watchful eyes never deserting the gambler's face.
“Back up against the wall, Hawley,” he commanded. “I hardly need to tell you how I shoot, for we, at least, have met before. Now, I'm going out, and leave you to your interview with Miss Maclaire, and I wish you happiness and success.”
He moved across to the opening, keeping his face toward his adversary; then backed out slowly, closed the door with a snap, and sprang aside to avoid any possibility of a bullet crashing after him. No sound of movement from within reached his ears, however, and he walked silently to the head of the stairs.
Chapter XXIII. An Unexpected Meeting
Keith paused at the landing, looking down into the deserted office, almost tempted to return and force Hawley into a confession of his purpose. It was easy for him to conceive what would be the final result of this interview between the artistic gambler and Miss Maclaire. In spite of the vague suspicion of evil which the plainsman had implanted within the woman's mind, the other possessed the advantage, and would certainly improve it. All conditions were decidedly in his favor. He merely needed to convince the girl that she was actually the party sought, and she would go forward, playing the game he desired, believing herself right, totally unconscious of any fraud. The very simplicity of it rendered the plot the more dangerous, the more difficult to expose. Hawley had surely been favored by fortune in discovering this singer who chanced to resemble Hope so remarkably, and who, at the same time, was in such ignorance as to her own parentage. She would be ready to grasp at a straw, and, once persuaded as to her identity and legal rights, could henceforth be trusted implicitly as an ally.
Realizing all this, and comprehending also how easily Hawley would win her confidence and overcome his warning by denouncing him as a fugitive from justice charged with murder, the temptation to return and fight it out then and there became almost overpowering. He had no fear of Hawley; indeed, physical fear had scarcely a place in his composition, but he was not as yet sufficiently fortified with facts for the seeking of such an encounter. He could merely guess at the truth, unable to produce any proof with which to meet the gambler's certain denial.
A man came in through the office, and began climbing the stairs. He was almost at the landing before Keith recognized him or the other glanced up.
“Ah—seen her, I suppose?”
“Yes,” returned Keith, not thinking it worth while to mention the lady's denial of having sent for him, “I have just come from there.”
“Hum—thought you'd be through by this time—fine looking girl, ain't she?—believe I'll run in and chat with her myself.”
“I would advise you to select some other time, Doctor,” said the younger, drily, “as the lady has a visitor at present.”
“A visitor?” his face rosy, his shrewd eyes darkening. “Ah, indeed! Of the male sex?”
“I judge so—'Black Bart' Hawley.”
“Good Lord!” so startled his voice broke. “Did he see you?”
“Rather; I backed him up against the wall with a gun while I made my adieu.”
“But what brought him there? Are they acquainted?”
“Don't ask conundrums, Doctor. He may be your rival with the fair lady for all I know. If he is, my sympathies are all with you. Only I wouldn't try to see Miss Christie just now; I'd wait for a clearer field. Hawley is probably not in the best of humor.”
Fairbain stared into the face of the speaker, uncertain whether or not he was being laughed at.
“Reckon you're right,” he acknowledged at last. “Tired, anyhow—been out all night—thought I'd like to see her again, though—finest looking woman I've met since I came West—remarkable eyes—well, I'll go along to bed—see you again to-morrow, Jack.”
Keith watched the sturdy figure stomp heavily down the hall-way, loose boards creaking under his positive tread, and smiled to himself at the thought that he might have, indeed, become truly interested in the music hall singer. Somehow, the doctor did not harmonize with the conception of love, or fit graciously into the picture. Still, stranger matings had occurred, and Cupid does not ask permission before he plays pranks with hearts. Keith turned again toward the stairs, only to observe a woman slowly cross the office and commence the ascent. She was in the shadow, her face even more deeply shaded by her hat, yet he stared at her in amazement—surely, it was Miss Maclaire! Yet how could it be? He had left that person scarcely five minutes before in “26,” and this stairway was the only exit. His hand grasped the rail, his heart throbbing strangely, as a suspicion of the truth crossed his brain. Could this be Hope? Could it be that she was here also? As her foot touched the landing, she saw him, her eyes lighting up suddenly in recognition, a wave of color flooding her cheeks.
“Why, Captain Keith,” she exclaimed, extending her gloved hand frankly, “you have been to my room, and were going away. I am so glad I came in time.”
“I hardly thought to meet you,” he replied, retaining her fingers in his grasp. “When did you reach Sheridan?”
“Only last night. I had no idea you were here, until Doctor Fairbain chanced to mention your name. Then I at once begged him to tell you how exceedingly anxious I was to see you. You see, I was sure you would come if you only knew. I really thought you would be here this morning, and remained in my room waiting, but there were some things I actually had to have. I wasn't out ten minutes, so you mustn't think I sent you a message and then forgot.”
The nature of the mistake was becoming apparent, and Keith's gray eyes smiled as they looked into the depths of the brown.
“Your message had rather an amusing result,” he said, “as the doctor informed me that Miss Christie Maclaire was the one who desired my presence.”
“Miss Maclaire!” her voice exhibiting startled surprise. “Why—why—oh, I did forget; I never told him differently. Why, it was most ridiculous.” She laughed, white teeth gleaming between the parted red lips, yet not altogether happily. “Let me explain, Captain Keith, for really I have not been masquerading. Doctor Fairbain and I arrived upon the same train last evening. He is such a funny man, but was very nice, and offered to escort me to the hotel. I remember now that although he introduced himself, I never once thought to mention to him my name. The town was very rough last night—the company had paid off the graders I was told—and there was no carriage, so we were compelled to walk. I—I never saw such a mob of drunken men. One came reeling against me, and brushed aside my veil so as to see my face. The doctor struck him, and then the marshal came up—you know him, Bill Hickock—and the impudent fellow actually declared he knew me, that I was Christie Maclaire. I tried to explain, but they hurried me on through the crowd to the hotel, and I became confused, and forgot. Do you suppose they registered me by that name?”
“Quite likely; at least Fairbain still believes it was the fair Christie whom he so gallantly escorted last night.”
“How provoking,” her foot tapping the floor, a little wrinkle between her eyes. “It seems as though I couldn't escape that woman—does she—does she really look like me?”
“At a little distance, yes,” he admitted, “her form and face resemble yours very closely, but her hair is darker, her eyes have a different expression, and she must be five or six years older.”
“Do—do you know her well?”
“No, indeed; I have seen her several times on the stage, but never met her until a few moments ago.”
“A few moments ago! Do you mean she is here in this hotel?”
“Yes, Miss Hope, and that was what made the mistake in names so laughable. Fairbain gave me your message, but as coming from Christie. I was, of course, greatly surprised, yet responded. The lady very promptly denied having sent for me, but as I was anxious to interview her myself, we managed to drift into conversation, and I must have passed a half hour there. I might have been there still, but for an interruption.”
“Oh, indeed!” with rising inflection.
He glanced quickly about, reminded of the situation.
“Yes, Hawley came in, and I would prefer not to meet him here, or have him discover you were in Sheridan. Could we not go to your room? I have much to tell you.”
Her questioning eyes left his face, and stared down over the rail. A heavily built man, with red moustache, leaned against the clerk's desk, his face toward them.
“Do you know that man?” she asked quickly. “He followed me all the time I was shopping. I—I believe he is the same one who jostled me in the crowd last night.”
Keith leaned past her to get a better view, but the fellow turned, and slouched away.
“I only had a glimpse, but have no recollection of ever seeing him before. You heard no name?”
“'Wild Bill' called him either Scott, or Scotty—if this is the same man.”
Keith's jaw set, the fighting light burning in his eyes. That was the name of the fellow rooming with Willoughby, the one who seemed to be Hawley's special assistant. Was he here as a spy? His hands clinched on the rail. He was anxious to go down and wring the truth out of him, but instead, he compelled his eyes to smile, turning back to the girl.
“A mere accident probably; but about my request? May I talk with you a few moments alone?”
She bowed, apparently still dissatisfied regarding his lengthy conversation with Christie, yet permitted him to follow down the hall. She held open the door of “15,” and he entered silently, not wholly understanding the change in her manner. She stood before the dresser, drawing off her gloves and removing her hat.
“Will you be seated, Captain; the arm-chair by the window is the more comfortable.” She turned toward him, almost shyly, yet with womanly curiosity which would not be stilled. “Was your call upon Miss Maclaire very interesting? Did you admire her very much?”
Keith's eyes lifted to her face, his ears quick to detect the undertone in her voice.
“Interesting? yes, for I was seeking after information, and met with some success. As to the other question, I am not sure whether I admire the lady or not. She is bright, pretty, and companionable, and in spite of her profession, at heart, I believe, a good woman. But really, Miss Hope, I was too deeply immersed in my purpose to give her personality much consideration. Among other things we spoke of you.”
“Of me? Why?”
“I told her something of our adventures together; of how both Hawley and I had been confused. She was anxious to learn who you were, but unfortunately, I have never, even yet, heard your name.”
“You have not?”
“No; I left you at Fort Larned believing you Christie Maclaire—supposing it your stage name, of course—and was confirmed in this belief by finding in the holster of the saddle you had been riding an envelope bearing that address.”
“I remember; it contained the note the man brought to me from Hawley; he had written it that way.” She crossed the room, sinking down into a chair facing him. “And you have actually confused me with Christie Maclaire all this while? Have never known who I was?”
He shook his head.
“I told you to call me Hope; that is my name—I am Hope Waite.”
“Waite!” he leaned forward, startled by the possibility—“not—not—”
“Yes,” she burst in, holding out her hands, clasping the locket, “and this was my father's; where did you get it?”
He took the trinket from her, turning it over in his fingers. Little by little the threads of mystery were being unravelled, yet, even now, he could not see very far. He looked up from the locket into her questioning face.
“Did I not tell you? No; then it was an oversight. This was about the throat of one of the men I buried at Cimmaron Crossing, but—but, Hope, it was not your father.”
“I know,” her voice choking slightly. “Mrs. Murphy found that out; that is why I am here. I heard my father came to Sheridan, and I wanted you to help me find him.”
He was thinking, and did not answer at once, and she went on in some alarm.
“Do you know anything about him, Captain Keith? Where is he? Why is he here? Don't be afraid to tell me.”
He pressed the locket back into her hand, retaining the latter, unresisted, within his own.
“I have not seen your father, Hope, but he was certainly here a few days ago, for Fairbain met him. They were together in the army. I am going to tell you all I know—it seems to be a tangled web, but the ends must be somewhere, although, I confess, I am all at sea.”
He told it slowly and simply, bringing forth his earlier suspicion, and how he had stumbled upon facts apparently confirming them. He related her father's robbery, his loss of valuable papers, and the conversation between Hawley and Scott which led to the suspicion that these same papers had fallen into the hands of the former, and were the basis of his plot. Hope listened, breathless with interest, her widely opened eyes filled with wonder. As he concluded speaking she burst forth:
“But I don't understand in the least, Captain Keith. Why did this man Hawley send me to the Salt Fork?”
“He thought he was dealing with Christie Maclaire. He had some reason for getting her away; getting her where he could exercise influence over her.”
“Yes—yes; but who is she?”
“That is what makes the matter so hard to unravel. She doesn't even know herself. Hawley is going to take advantage of her ignorance in this respect, and convince her that she is the person he wishes her to represent—but who is the person? If we knew that we might block the game.”
Both sat silent, striving to figure out some reasonable explanation.
“Do you know of any special papers your father carried?” he asked.
“No; none outside his business agreements.”
“Has anyone ever disappeared connected with your family? Did you have an older sister?”
“Fred and I were the only children. Why should you ask that question?”
“Because something of that nature would seem to be the only rational explanation. Your brother must have told Hawley something—some family secret—which he felt could be utilized to his own advantage. Then he saw your picture, and was immediately reminded of the remarkable resemblance between you and Christie Maclaire. Evidently this discovery fitted into his plan, and made it possible for him to proceed. He has been trying ever since to get an interview with the woman, to sound her, and find out what he can do with her. He has written letters, sufficiently explicit to make it clear his scheme is based upon a will drawn, as he claims, by Christie's grandfather. No doubt by this time he has fully convinced the girl that she is the rightful heiress to property—as he stated to Scott—valued at over a million dollars. That's a stake worth fighting for, and these two will make a hard combination. He's got the papers, or claims to have, and they must be the ones stolen from your father. I have been trusting you might know something in your family history which would make it all plain.”
“But I do not,” decisively. “You must believe me; not so much as a hint of any secret has ever reached me. There are only the four of us, Father, Mother, Fred, and I. I am sure there can be no secret; nothing which I would not know. Perhaps, if I could see Miss Maclaire—”
“I am convinced that would be useless,” he interrupted, rising, and pacing across the floor. “If Hawley has convinced her of the justice of the claim, he will also have pledged her to secrecy. He is working out of sight like a mole, for he knows the fraud, and will never come to the surface until everything is in readiness. I know a better way; I'll find Fred, and bring him here. He would tell you whatever it was he told Hawley, and that will give us the clue.”
He picked up his hat from the table, but she rose to her feet, holding forth her hands.
“I cannot thank you enough. Captain Keith,” she exclaimed frankly. “You are doing so much, and with no personal interest—”
“Oh, but I have.”
The long lashes dropped over the brown eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“That I have a personal interest—in you, Hope.”
She stood silent, her bosom rising and falling to rapid breathing.
“You don't mind my calling you Hope? I haven't got used to Miss Waite yet.”
Her eyes met his swiftly.
“Of course, not. Such ceremony would be foolish after all you have done for me. Do—do you call her Christie?”
He laughed, clasping her hands closer.
“I assure you no—she is strictly Miss Maclaire, and,” solemnly, “shall be to the end of the chapter.”
“Oh, well, I didn't care, only that was what you called her when you were telling me what she said. Are you going?”
“Yes, to find Fred; the sooner we can get this straightened out, the better.”
Chapter XXIV. A Mistake in Assassination
Let his future be what it might, Jack Keith would never again forget the girl who held the door open for his passage with one hand, her other clasped in his. Interested before, yet forcing himself into indifference now that he knew who she really was, the man made full surrender. It was a struggle that kept him from clasping the slender figure in his arms, and pouring forth the words of tenderness which he sternly choked back. This was neither the time, nor the place, yet his eyes must have spoken, for Hope's glance fell, and her cheeks grew crimson.
“I do not need to pledge you to return this time, do I?” she questioned, her voice trembling.
“No,” he answered, “nor any time again.”
The hall was deserted, but a few men loitered in the office. Keith recognized none of the faces, and did not stop to make any inquiries of the clerk. It was growing dark, the lights already burning, and from the plashing of drops on the window, it must be raining outside. Hawley would surely have ended his call upon Miss Maclaire long before this, and left the hotel. However interesting his communication might have proven, she must fill her evening engagement at the Trocadero, and would require time for supper and rest. As to the result of that interview there could be little doubt. Providing the gambler possessed the proper papers he would have small difficulty in convincing the girl that she was indeed the one sought. Keith had probed sufficiently into her mind to feel assured that her inclination was to side with Hawley. Under all the circumstances this was natural enough, and he did not blame her.
He glanced into the bar-room as he passed, not in any anticipation, but merely from the vigilance which becomes second nature upon the frontier. Hawley stood leaning against the bar, where he could see anyone passing through the hall. The eyes of the two men met, but the gambler never moved, never changed his attitude, although Keith noted that his right hand was hidden beneath the skirts of his long coat. The plainsman drew back, facing his enemy, until he reached the outer door. There was a sneer on Hawley's dark sinister face like an invitation, but a memory of the girl he had just left, and her dependence upon him, caused Keith to avoid an encounter. He would fight this affair out in a different way. As the door opened and he slipped forth into the gloom, he brushed against a man apparently just entering. The gleam of light fell for an instant upon the face of the other—it was Scotty with the red moustache.
They had been watching for him then—what for? Hawley on the inside, and this man Scott without, were waiting to determine when he left the hotel; would probably dog his footsteps to discover where he went. Keith loosened his revolver, so as to be assured he could draw quickly, and slipped back into the shadow of the steps, his eyes on the door of the hotel. There was a cold, drizzly rain falling, the streets almost deserted, appearing sodden and miserable where the lights shone forth through saloon windows. One or two men, seeking supper, coat collars turned up and hats drawn low over their eyes, climbed the rickety steps and went in, but no one came out. Perhaps he was mistaken as to the purpose of those fellows; they may have desired merely to know when he left, or Scott's return just at that moment might have been an accident. To be sure, the hotel possessed a back exit, but he could not cover both ends of the building, and must take his chances. It was too wet and disagreeable to remain crouched there, now that it was evident there was no intention of following him. With hand on the butt of his gun, suspicious and watchful, yet with scarcely a faster beat to his heart, Keith straightened up, and began splashing his way through the mud down the street. He knew where Willoughby would be most likely found at this hour—with cronies at the “Tenderfoot”—and he meant to discover the boy, and make him confess to Hope the truth. Matters had now reached a point where longer delay was dangerous.
Sheridan was seemingly dead, the long street silent, gloomy, black, except for those streams of saloon light shining across pools of water. He stumbled over the irregular ground, occasionally striking patches of wooden sidewalk or a strip of cinders. Here and there a tent flapped in the wind, which drove the drizzle into his face; somewhere ahead a swinging sign moaned as if in agony. A few wanderers ploughed through the muck, dim uncertain shapes appearing and vanishing in the gloom. He had gone a block and over, the struggle against the elements leaving him forgetful of all else, when a man reeled out of some dimly lit shack to his right, and staggered drunkenly forward a few feet in advance. He could barely distinguish the fellow's outlines, giving little thought to the occurrence, for the way was unusually black along there, the saloon opposite having shades drawn. Suddenly a flash of red fire spurted into the night, with a sharp report. It was so close at hand it blinded him, and he flung up one arm over his eyes, and yet, in that single instant, he perceived the whole picture as revealed by the red flame. He saw the man in front go down in a heap, the projection of the building from behind which the shot came, the end of a wagon sticking forth into the street which had concealed the assassin. The blinding flash, the shock of that sudden discharge, for a moment held him motionless; then he leaped forward, revolver in hand, sprang around the end of the wagon, and rushed down the dark alley between two buildings. He could see nothing, but someone was running recklessly ahead of him, and he fired in the direction of the sound, the leaping spurt of flame yielding a dim outline of the fugitive. Three times he pressed the trigger; then there was nothing to shoot at—the fellow had faded away into the black void of prairie. Keith stood there baffled, staring about into the gloom, the smoking revolver in his hand. The sound of men's voices behind was all that reached him, and feeling the uselessness of further pursuit, he retraced his way back through the narrow passage.
A group was gathered about the body in the rain, a single lantern glimmering. Two or three men had started down the passageway, and Keith met them, revolvers drawn and suspicious.
“Who are you?” snapped one sharply. “Were you doing all that shooting yonder?”
Keith recognized the voice, thankful that he did so.
“I fired at the fellow, but he got away onto the prairie. I reckon you couldn't have done any better, Bill.”
“Jack Keith!” and Hickock's voice had a new tone, his hand dropping on the other's shoulder. “Never was gladder to meet a fellow in my life. Boys, this is an old deputy of mine down in Dodge. When he gives up chasin' a murderer there isn't much use our tryin'. Let's go back, and find out how bad the fellow is hurt. While we're feelin' our way, Jack, you might tell us what you know about this affair.”
“It was just the flash of a gun, and the man dropped,” Keith explained, briefly. “I was ten or a dozen feet behind, and the fellow fired from under the wagon there. He must have been laying for some one—I reckon, maybe, it was me.”
“You? Then it's likely you have some notion who he was?”
“Well, if I have, Bill,” and Keith's lips were set tight, “I'm not liable to tell you. If it's the lad I think likely, I'll attend to the case myself. You understand—this is my personal affair.”
Hickock nodded, his hand again pressing the other's shoulder
“Sure, Jack, if you feel that way. There's enough in Sheridan to keep a marshal reasonably busy, without dippin' into private matters. I rather reckon you can take care of yourself, but if you need me, old boy I'm always right here on the job. You know that.”
“I do, Bill, and appreciate it.”
The group about the motionless body fell away, and made room for the marshal, the last man to rise saying soberly:
“He's dead all right, Hickock. I guess he never knew what hit him. Good shootin', too, dark as it is here.”
“Had the range fixed, likely,” returned the marshal. “That's what makes it look like it was arranged for.”
He bent down, striving to distinguish the dead man's features turned up to the drizzle, but the night revealed the faintest outline.
“Anybody know him?” There was no response, only a shuffling of feet in the mud. “Here you man with the lantern, hold it over where I can see. There, that is better. Now, you fellows take a look, and see if some of you can't name the poor devil.”
They glanced down, one after the other, over Bill's shoulder, shading their eyes from the rain so as to see clearer. The light of the flickering lantern streamed full on the ghastly face, but each man shook his head, and passed on. Keith hung back, hoping some one would identify the body, and not make it necessary for him to take part in the grewsome task. It was not likely to be any one he knew, and besides, he felt the man had died in his stead, and he dreaded to look upon the stricken face. When the last of the group had drifted back out of the radius of light, Hickock looked up, and saw him.
“Here, Jack,” he said, gravely, “you better try—you might know him.”
Keith bent over, and looked down. As he did so his heart seemed to rise choking into his throat, and a blur obscured his sight. He swept a hand over his eyes and dropped on his knees into the mud beside the body, staring speechless into the white face, the sightless eyes. Hickock watching him closely, and gripped his arm.
“What is it? Do you know him?”
“My God, yes; Fred Willoughby!”