He saw Neb drop down before the blazing fireplace, and curl up like a tired dog, and observed her take the lamp, open the door into the other room a trifle, and slip silently out of sight. He remembered staring vaguely about the little room, still illumined by the flames, only half comprehending, and then the reaction from his desperate struggle with the elements overcame all resolution, and he dropped his head forward on the table, and lost consciousness. Her hand upon his shoulder aroused him, startled into wakefulness, yet he scarcely realized the situation.
“I have placed food for the negro beside him,” she said quietly, and for the first time Keith detected the soft blur in her speech.
“You are from the South!” he exclaimed, as though it was a discovery.
“Yes—and you?”
“My boyhood began in Virginia—the negro was an old-time slave in our family.”
She glanced across at the black, now sitting up and eating voraciously.
“I thought he had once been a slave; one can easily tell that. I did not ask him to sit here because, if you do not object, we will eat here together. I have also been almost as long without food. It was so lonely here, and—and I hardly understood my situation—and I simply could not force myself to eat.”
He distinguished her words clearly enough, although she spoke low, as if she preferred what was said between them should not reach the ears of the negro, yet somehow, for the moment, they made no adequate impression on him. Like a famished wolf he began on the coarse fare, and for ten minutes hardly lifted his head. Then his eyes chanced to meet hers across the narrow table, and instantly the gentleman within him reawoke to life.
“I have been a perfect brute,” he acknowledged frankly, “with no thought except for myself. Hunger was my master, and I ask your forgiveness, Miss Maclaire.”
Her eyes smiled.
“I am so very glad to have any one here—any one—in whom I feel even a little confidence—that nothing else greatly matters. Can you both eat, and listen?”
Keith nodded, his eyes full of interest, searching her face.
“Whoever I may be, Mr. Keith, and really that seems only of small importance, I came to Fort Larned seeking some trace of my only brother, whom we last heard from there, where he had fallen into evil companionship. On the stage trip I was fortunate enough to form an acquaintance with a man who told me he knew where I could meet Fred, but that the boy was hiding because of some trouble he had lately gotten into, and that I should have to proceed very carefully so as not to lead the officers to discover his whereabouts. This gentleman was engaged in some business at Carson City, but he employed a man to bring me to this place, and promised to get Fred, and meet me here the following day. There must have been some failure in the plans, for I have been here entirely alone now for three days. It has been very lonesome, and—and I've been a little frightened. Perhaps I ought not to have come, and I am not certain what kind of a place this is. I was so afraid when you came, but I am not afraid now.”
“You have no need to be,” he said soberly, impressed by the innocent candor of the girl, and feeling thankful that he was present to aid her. “I could not wrong one of the South.”
“My father always told me I could trust a Southern gentleman under any circumstance. Mr. Hawley was from my own State, and knew many of our old friends. That was why I felt such unusual confidence in him, although he was but a travelling acquaintance.”
“Mr. Hawley?”
“The gentleman whom I met on the stage.”
“Oh, yes; you said he was in business in Carson City, but I don't seem to remember any one of that name.”
“He was not there permanently; only to complete some business deal.”
“And your brother? I may possibly have known him.”
She hesitated an instant, her eyes dropping, until completely shaded by the long lashes.
“He—he was rather a wild boy, and ran away from home to enlist in the army. But he got into a bad set, and—and deserted. That was part of the trouble which caused him to hide. He enlisted under the name of Fred Willoughby. Mr. Hawley told me this much, but I am afraid he did not tell me all.”
“And he said you would meet him here?”
Keith gazed about on the bare surroundings wonderingly. What was this place, hidden away in the midst of the desert, isolated in a spot where not even Indians roamed. Could it be a secret rendezvous of crime, the headquarters of desperadoes, of cattle-rustlers, of highwaymen of the Santa Fé Trail—a point to which they could ride when hard pressed, certain of hiding here in safety? He began to suspect this, but, if so, who then was this Hawley, and with what object had he sent this girl here? Every way he turned was to confront mystery, to face a new puzzle. Whatever she might be—even the music hall singer he believed—she had been inveigled here innocently enough. Even now she possessed only the most vague suspicion that she had been deceived. The centre of the whole plot, if there was a plot, must be Hawley.
“Yes,” she replied, “he said that this was one of the stations of a big ranch on which Fred was employed, and that he would certainly be here within a day or two.”
“You met Hawley on the stage coach? How did you become acquainted?”
“We were alone for nearly fifty miles,” her voice faltering slightly, “and—and he called me what you did.”
“Christie Maclaire?”
“Yes; he—he seemed to think he knew me, and I needed help so much that I let him believe so. I thought it could do no harm, and then, when I found he actually knew Fred, I didn't think of anything else, only how fortunate I was to thus meet him. Surely something serious must have happened, or he would have been here before this. Do you—do you suppose there is anything wrong?”
Keith did not smile nor change posture. The more he delved into the matter, the more serious he felt the situation to be. He knew all those ranches lying south on the Canadian, and was aware that this was no out-station. No cattle ever came across that sandy desert unless driven by rustlers, and no honest purpose could account for this isolated hut. There had been frequent robberies along the trail, and he had overheard tales of mysterious disappearances in both Larned and Carson City. Could it be that he had now, accidentally, stumbled upon the rendezvous of the gang? He was not a man easily startled, but this thought sent his heart beating. He knew enough to realize what such a gang would naturally consist of—deserters, outlaws, rustlers; both Indians and whites, no doubt, combined under some desperate leadership. Gazing into the girl's questioning eyes he could scarcely refrain from blurting out all he suspected. Yet why should he? What good could it do? He could not hope to bear her south to the “Bar X” Ranch, for the ponies were already too thoroughly exhausted for such a journey; he dared not turn north with her, for that would mean his own arrest, leaving her in worse condition than ever. If he only knew who this man Hawley was, his purpose, and plans! Yet what protection could he and Neb prove, alone here, and without arms? All this flashed through his mind in an instant, leaving him confused and uncertain.
“I hope not,” he managed to say in answer to her query. “But it is rather a strange mix-up all around, and I confess I fail to comprehend its full meaning. It is hardly likely your friends will show up to-night, and by morning perhaps we can decide what is best to do. Let me look around outside a moment.”
Her eyes followed him as he stepped through the door into the darkness; then her head dropped into the support of her hands. There was silence except for the crackling of the fire, until Neb moved uneasily. At the sound the girl looked up, seeing clearly the good-natured face of the negro.
“Yo' don't nebber need cry, Missus,” he said soberly, “so long as Massa Jack done 'greed to look after yo'.”
“Have—have you known him long?”
“Has I knowed him long, honey? Ebber sence befo' de wah. Why I done knowed Massa Jack when he wan't more'n dat high. Lawd, he sho' was a lively youngster, but mighty good hearted to us niggers.”
She hesitated to question a servant, and yet felt she must uncover the truth.
“Who is he? Is he all he claims to be—a Virginia gentleman?”
All the loyalty and pride of slavery days was in Neb. “He sho' am, Missus; dar ain't nuthin' higher in ol' Virginia dan de Keiths. Dey ain't got much money sence the Yankees come down dar, but dey's quality folks jest de same. I was done born on de ol' Co'nel's plantation, and I reck'n dar wan't no finer man ebber libed. He was done killed in de wah. An' Massa Jack he was a captain; he rode on hossback, an' Lawdy, but he did look scrumptuous when he first got his uniform. He done fought all through de wah, an' dey say Ginral Lee done shook hands wid him, an' said how proud he was ter know him. You kin sutt'nly tie to Massa Jack, Missus.”
The negro's voice had scarcely ceased when Keith came in again, closing the door securely behind him.
“All quiet outside,” he announced, speaking with new confidence. “I wanted to get an understanding of the surroundings in case of emergency,” he explained, as if in answer to the questioning of the brown eyes gravely uplifted to his face. “I see there is quite a corral at the lower end of this island, safely hidden behind the fringe of cottonwoods. And a log stable back of the house. Is the creek fordable both ways?”
“I think so; the man who brought me here rode away south.”
“And are you going to trust yourself to my care?”
She came around the table with hands extended. He took them into his grasp, looking down into her eyes.
“Yes,” she said softly, “I am going to trust you, Captain Keith.”
He laughed.
“Captain, hey? You must have been talking with that black rascal there.”
The swift color flooded her face, but her hands remained imprisoned.
“I just done tol' her who de Keiths was down in ol' Virginia, sah,” burst in Neb indignantly. “I sho' don't want nobody to think I go trapsin' 'round wid any low white trash.”
The gray eyes and the brown, gazing into one another, smiled with understanding.
“Oh, well,” Keith acknowledged, genially, “I cannot say I am sorry you know something of my past glories; if one can't have a future, it is some source of pride to have a past to remember. But now about the present. We're not much protection to any one, the way we're fixed, as we are unarmed.”
“There is a big revolver hanging in a holster in the other room,” she answered, “and a short, sawed-off gun of some kind, but I don't know about ammunition.”
“May we investigate?”
“Most certainly,” and she threw open the intervening door. As the two stepped into the other apartment she held the lamp in aid of their search. “There is the revolver on the wall, and the gun is in the opposite corner. Isn't it strange you should be out in this country without arms?”
Keith glanced up, the revolver in his hands. The radiance of the light was full upon her face, revealing the clearness of her skin, the dark shadows of her lashes. There was the faintest tinge of suspicion to the question, but he answered easily.
“We left Carson in something of a hurry. I'll tell you the story to-morrow.”
A fragment of candle, stuck tightly into the neck of an empty bottle, appeared on a low shelf, and Keith lighted it, the girl returning the lamp to its former position on the front room table. Investigation revealed a dozen cartridges fitting the revolver, but no ammunition was discovered adapted to the sawed-off gun, which Neb had already appropriated, and was dragging about with him, peering into each black corner in anxious search. The two were still busily employed at this, when to their ears, through the stillness of the night, there came the unexpected noise of splashing in the water without, and then the sound of a horse stumbling as he struck the bank. Quick as a flash Keith closed the intervening door, extinguished the dim flame of the candle, and grasping the startled negro's arm, hushed him into silence.
Crouching close behind the door, through a crack of which the light streamed, yielding slight view of the interior, the plainsman anxiously awaited developments. These arrivals must certainly be some of those connected with the house; there could be little doubt as to that. Nevertheless, they might prove the posse following them, who had chanced to stumble accidentally on their retreat. In either case they could merely wait, and learn. Some one swore without, and was sharply rebuked by another voice, which added an order gruffly. Then the outer latch clicked, and a single man stepped within, immediately closing the door. Keith could not see the girl through the small aperture, but he heard her quick exclamation, startled, yet full of relief.
“Oh, is it you? I am so glad!”
The man laughed lightly.
“It is nice to be welcomed, although, perhaps, after your time of loneliness any arrival would prove a relief. Did you think I was never coming, Christie?”
“I could not understand,” she replied, evidently with much less enthusiasm, and to Keith's thinking, a shade resentful of the familiarity, “but naturally supposed you must be unexpectedly delayed.”
“Well, I was,” and he apparently flung both coat and hat on a bench, with the intention of remaining, “The marshal arrested a fellow for a murder committed out on the Santa Fé Trail, and required me as a witness. But the man got away before we had any chance to try him, and I have been on his trail ever since.”
“A murder! Did you imagine he came this way?”
“Not very likely; fact of it is, the sand storm yesterday destroyed all traces, and, as a result, we've lost him. So I headed a few of the boys over in this direction, as I wanted to relieve you of anxiety.”
She was silent an instant, and the man crossed to the fireplace, where Keith could gain a glimpse of him. Already suspicious from the familiar sound of his voice, he was not surprised to recognize “Black Bart.” The plainsman's fingers gripped the negro's arm, his eyes burning. So this gambler and blackleg was the gentlemanly Mr. Hawley, was he; well, what could be his little game? Why had he inveigled the girl into this lonely spot? And what did he now propose doing with her? As he crouched there, peering through that convenient crack in the door, Keith completely forgot his own peril, intent only upon this new discovery. She came slowly around the end of the table, and stood leaning against it, her face clearly revealed in the light of the lamp. For the first time Keith really perceived its beauty, its fresh charm. Could such as she be singer and dancer in a frontier concert hall? And if so, what strange conditions ever drove her into that sort of life?
“Is—is Fred with you?” she questioned, doubtfully.
“No; he's with another party riding farther west,” the man's eyes surveying her with manifest approval. “You are certainly looking fine to-night, my girl. It's difficult to understand how I ever managed to keep away from you so long.”
She flushed to the hair, her lips trembling at the open boldness of his tone.
“I—I prefer you would not speak like that,” she protested.
“And why not?” with a light laugh. “Come, Christie, such fine airs are a trifle out of place. If I didn't know you were a concert hall artist, I might be more deeply impressed. As it is, I reckon you've heard love words before now.”
“Mr. Hawley, I have trusted you as a gentleman. I never came here except on your promise to bring me to my brother,” and she stood erect before him. “You have no right to even assume that I am Christie Maclaire.”
“Sure not; I don't assume. I have seen that lady too often to be mistaken. Don't try on that sort of thing with me—I don't take to it kindly. Perhaps a kiss might put you in better humor.”
He took a step forward, as though proposing to carry out his threat, but the girl stopped him, her eyes burning with indignation.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed passionately, all fear leaving her in sudden resentment. “You think me alone here and helpless; that you can insult me at your pleasure. Don't go too far, Mr. Hawley. I know what you are now, and it makes no difference what you may think of me, or call me; you 'll find me perfectly able to defend myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” sneeringly, “you are melodramatic; you should have been an actress instead of a singer. But you waste your talent out here on me. Do you imagine I fear either you, or your precious brother? Why, I could have him hung to-morrow.”
She was staring at him with wide open eyes, her face white.
“What—what do you mean? What has Fred done?”
He was cold and sarcastic.
“That makes no difference; it is what I could induce men to swear he had done. It's easy enough to convict in this country, if you only know how. I simply tell you this, so you won't press me too hard. Puritanism is out of place west of the Missouri, especially among ladies of your profession. Oh, come, now, Christie, don't try to put such airs on with me. I know who you are, all right, and can guess why you are hunting after Fred Willoughby. I pumped the boy, and got most of the truth out of him.”
“You—you have seen him, then, since you left me,” she faltered, bewildered, “and didn't bring him here with you?”
“Why should I?” and the man stepped forward, his eyes on her, his hands twitching with a desire to clasp her to him, yet restrained by some undefinable power. “While I believed your brother story, I could have played the good Samaritan most beautifully, but after I talked with Willoughby I prefer him at a distance.”
“My brother story! Do you mean to insinuate you doubt his being my brother? He told you that?”
“He gave up the whole trick. You can't trust a kid like that, Christie. A couple of drinks will loosen his tongue, and put you in wrong. Come, now, I know it all; be reasonable.”
Apparently the girl had lost her power of speech, staring blindly at the face of the man before her, as a bird meets the slow approach of a snake. Keith could see her lips move, but making no sound. Hawley evidently interpreted her silence as hesitation, doubt as to his real meaning.
“You see where you are at now, Christie,” he went on swiftly. “But you don't need to be afraid. I'm going to be a friend to you, and you can be mighty glad you got rid of Willoughby so easily. Why, I can buy you diamonds where he couldn't give you a calico dress. Come on, let's stop this foolishness. I took a liking to you back there in the stage, and the more I've thought about you since the crazier I've got. When I succeeded in pumping Willoughby dry, and discovered you wasn't his sister at all, why that settled the matter. I came down here after you. I love you, do you understand that? And, what's more, I intend to have you!”
He reached out, and actually grasped her, but, in some manner, she tore loose, and sprang back around the end of the table, her cheeks flushed, her eyes burning.
“Don't touch me! don't dare touch me!” she panted. “You lie; Fred Willoughby never told you that. If you come one step nearer, I'll scream; I'll call your men here; I'll tell them the kind of a cur you are.”
He laughed, leaning over toward her, yet hesitating, his eyes full of admiration. Her very fierceness appealed to him, urged him on.
“Oh, I wouldn't! In the first place they probably wouldn't hear, for they are camped down in the corral. I suspected you might be something of a tigress, and preferred to fight it out with you alone. Then, even if they did hear, there would be no interference—I've got those fellows trained too well for that. Come on, Christie; you're helpless here.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are.”
He took a step toward her, his hands flung out. With one quick movement she sprang aside and extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into instant darkness. A few red coals glowed dully in the fireplace, but all else was dense blackness. Keith heard the movements of Hawley, as he felt his way uncertainly along the table, swearing as he failed to find the girl. Then, like a shadow, he glided through the partly open door into the room.
Had the room been filled with men Keith could have restrained himself no longer. Whatever her past might be, this woman appealed to him strangely; he could not believe evil of her; he would have died if need be in her defence. But as it was, the ugly boast of Hawley gave confidence in the final outcome of this struggle in the dark, even a possibility of escape for them all. The gambler, assured of being confronted merely by a frail and not over-scrupulous woman, had ventured there alone; had stationed his men beyond sound; had doubtless instructed them to ignore any noise of struggle which they might overhear within. It was these very arrangements for evil which now afforded opportunity, and Keith crept forward, alert and ready, his teeth clenched, his hands bare for contest. Even although he surprised his antagonist, it was going to be a fight for life; he knew “Black Bart,” broad-shouldered, quick as a cat, accustomed to every form of physical exercise, desperate and tricky, using either knife or gun recklessly. Yet it was now or never for all of them, and the plainsman felt no mercy, experienced no reluctance. He reached the table, and straightened up, silent, expectant. For an instant there was no further sound; no evidence of movement in the room. Hawley, puzzled by the silence, was listening intently in an endeavor to thus locate the girl through some rustling, some slight motion. A knife, knocked from the table, perhaps, as she slipped softly past, fell clattering to the floor, and the gambler leaped instantly forward. Keith's grip closed like iron on his groping arm, while he shot one fist out toward where the man's head should be. The blow glanced, yet drove the fellow backward, stumbling against the table, and Keith closed in, grappling for the throat. The other, startled by the unexpected attack, and scarcely realizing even yet the nature of his antagonist, struggled blindly to escape the fingers clawing at him, and flung one hand down to the knife in his belt. Warned by the movement, the assailant drove his head into the gambler's chest, sending him crashing to the floor, falling himself heavily upon the prostrate body. Hawley gave utterance to one cry, half throttled in his throat, and then the two grappled fiercely, so interlocked together as to make weapons useless. Whoever the assailant might be, the gambler was fully aware by now that he was being crushed in the grasp of a fighting man, and exerted every wrestler's trick, every ounce of strength, to break free. Twice he struggled to his knees, only to be crowded backward by relentless power; once he hurled Keith sideways, but the plainsman's muscles stiffened into steel, and he gradually regained his position. Neither dared release a grip in order to strike a blow: neither had sufficient breath left with which to utter a sound. They were fighting for life, silently, desperately, like wild beasts, with no thought but to injure the other. The gambler's teeth sank into Keith's arm, and the latter in return jammed the man's head back onto the puncheon floor viciously. Perspiration streamed from their bodies, their fingers clutching, their limbs wrapped together, their muscles strained to the utmost. Keith had forgotten the girl, the negro, everything, dominated by the one passion to conquer. He was swept by a storm of hatred, a desire to kill. In their fierce struggle the two had rolled close to the fireplace, and in the dull glow of the dying embers, he could perceive a faint outline of the man's face. The sight added flame to his mad passion, yet he could do nothing except to cling to him, jabbing his fingers into the straining throat.
The negro ended the affair in his own way, clawing blindly at the combatants in the darkness, and finally, determining which was the enemy, he struck the gambler with the stock of his gun, laying him out unconscious. Keith, grasping the table, hauled himself to his feet, gasping for breath, certain only that Hawley was no longer struggling. For an instant all was blank, a mist of black vapor; then a realization of their situation came back in sudden flood of remembrance. Even yet he could see nothing, but felt the motionless figure at his feet.
“Quick,” he urged, the instant he could make himself speak. “The fellow is only stunned; we must tie and gag him. Is that you, Neb? Where is the girl?”
“I am here, Captain Keith,” and he heard the soft rustle of her dress across the room. “What is it I may do?”
“A coil of rope, or some straps, with a piece of cloth; anything you can lay hands on.”
She was some moments at it, confused by the darkness, and Hawley moved slightly, his labored breathing growing plainly perceptible. Keith heard her groping toward him, and held out his hands. She started as he thus unexpectedly touched her, yet made no effort to break away.
“You—you frightened me a little,” she confessed. “This has all happened so quickly I hardly realize yet just what has occurred.”
“The action has only really begun,” he assured her, still retaining his hold upon her hand. “This was merely a preliminary skirmish, and you must prepare to bear your part in what follows. We have settled Mr. Hawley for the present, and now must deal with his gang.”
“Oh, what would I have done if you had not been here?”
“Let us not think about that; we were here, and now have a busy night before us if we get away safely. Give me the rope first. Good! Here, Neb, you must know how to use this,—not too tight, but without leaving any play to the arms; take the knife out of his belt. Now for the cloth, Miss Maclaire.”
“Please do not call me that!”
“But you said it didn't make any difference what I called you.”
“I thought it didn't then, but it does now.”
“Oh, I see; we are already on a new footing. Yet I must call you something.”
She hesitated just long enough for him to notice it. Either she had no substitute ready at hand, or else doubted the advisability of confiding her real name under present circumstances to one so nearly a stranger.
“You may call me Hope.”
“A name certainly of good omen,” he returned. “From this moment I shall forget Christie Maclaire, and remember only Miss Hope. All right, Neb; now turn over a chair, and sit your man up against it. He will rest all the easier in that position until his gang arrive.”
He thrust his head out of the door, peering cautiously forth into the night, and listening. A single horse, probably the one Hawley had been riding, was tied to a dwarfed cottonwood near the corner of the cabin. Nothing else living was visible.
“I am going to round up our horses, and learn the condition of Hawley's outfit,” he announced in a low voice. “I may be gone for fifteen or twenty minutes, and, meanwhile, Miss Hope, get ready for a long ride. Neb, stand here close beside the door, and if any one tries to come in brain him with your gun-stock. I'll rap three times when I return.”
He slipped out into the silent night, and crept cautiously around the end of the dark cabin. The distinct change in the girl's attitude of friendship toward him, her very evident desire that he should think well of her, together with the providential opportunity for escape, had left him full of confidence. The gambler had played blindly into their hands, and Keith was quick enough to accept the advantage. It was a risk to himself, to be sure, thus turning again to the northward, yet the clear duty he owed the girl left such a choice almost imperative. He certainly could not drag her along with him on his flight into the wild Comanche country extending beyond the Canadian. She must, at the very least, be first returned to the protection of the semi-civilization along the Arkansas. After that had been accomplished, he would consider his own safety. He wondered if Hope really was her name, and whether it was the family cognomen, or her given name. That she was Christie Maclaire he had no question, yet that artistic embellishment was probably merely assumed for the work of the concert hall. Both he and Hawley could scarcely be mistaken as to her identity in this respect, and, indeed, she had never openly denied the fact. Yet she did not at all seem to be that kind, and Keith mentally contrasted her with numerous others whom he had somewhat intimately known along the border circuit. It was difficult to associate her with that class; she must have come originally from some excellent family East, and been driven to the life by necessity; she was more to be pitied than blamed. Keith held no puritanical views of life—his own experiences had been too rough and democratic for that—yet he clung tenaciously to an ideal of womanhood which could not be lowered. However interested he might otherwise feel, no Christie Maclaire could ever find entrance into the deeps of his heart, where dwelt alone the memory of his mother.
He found the other horses turned into the corral, and was able, from their restless movements, to decide they numbered eight. A fire, nearly extinguished, glowed dully at the farther corner of the enclosure, and he crawled close enough to distinguish the recumbent forms of men sleeping about it on the ground. Apparently no guard had been set, the fellows being worn out from their long ride, and confident of safety in this isolated spot. Besides, Hawley had probably assumed that duty, and told them to get whatever sleep they could. However, the gate of the corral opened beside their fire, and Keith dare not venture upon roping any of their ponies, or leading them out past where they slept. There might be clippers in the cabin with which he could cut the wires, yet if one of the gang awoke, and discovered the herd absent, it would result in an alarm, and lead to early pursuit. It was far safer to use their own ponies. He would lead Hawley's horse quietly through the water, and they could mount on the other shore. This plan settled, he went at it swiftly, riding the captured animal while rounding up the others, and fastening the three to stunted trees on the opposite bank. Everything within the cabin remained exactly as he had left it, and he briefly explained the situation, examining Hawley's bonds again carefully while doing so.
“He'll remain there all right until his men find him,” he declared, positively, “and that ought to give us a good six hours' start. Come, Miss Hope, every minute counts now.”
He held her arm, not unconscious of its round shapeliness, as he helped her down the rather steep bank through the dense gloom. Then the two men joined hands, and carrying her easily between them, waded the shallow stream. The horses, not yet sufficiently rested to be frisky, accepted their burdens meekly enough, and, with scarcely a word spoken, the three rode away silently into the gloom of the night.
Keith had very little to guide him, as he could not determine whether this mysterious cabin on the Salt Fork lay to east or west of the usual cattle trail leading down to the Canadian. Yet he felt reasonably assured that the general trend of the country lying between the smaller stream and the valley of the Arkansas would be similar to that with which he was already acquainted. It was merely a wild stretch of sandy desolation, across which their horses would leave scarcely any trail, and even that little would be quickly obliterated by the first puff of wind. As they drew in toward the river valley this plain would change into sand dunes, baffling and confusing, but no matter how hard they pressed forward, it must be daylight long before they could hope to reach these, and this would give him opportunity to spy out some familiar landmark which would guide them to the ford. Meanwhile, he must head as directly north as possible, trusting the horses to find footing.
It was plains instinct, or rather long training in the open, which enabled him to retain any true sense of direction, for beyond the narrow fringe of cotton-woods along the stream, nothing was visible, the eyes scarcely able even to distinguish where earth and sky met. They advanced across a bare level, without elevation or depression, yet the sand appeared sufficiently solid, so that their horses were forced into a swinging lope, and they seemed to fairly press aside the black curtain, which as instantly swung shut once more, and closed them in. The pounding hoofs made little noise, and they pressed steadily onward, closely bunched together, so as not to lose each other, dim, spectral shadows flitting through the night, a very part of that grim desolation surrounding them. No one of the three felt like speaking; the gloomy, brooding desert oppressed them, their vagrant thoughts assuming the tinge of their surroundings; their hope centred on escape. Keith rode, grasping the rein of the woman's horse in his left hand, and bending low in vain effort at picking a path. He had nothing to aim toward, yet sturdy confidence in his expert plainscraft yielded him sufficient sense of direction. He had noted the bark of the cottonwoods, the direction of the wind, and steered a course accordingly straight northward, alert to avert any variation.
The girl rode easily, although in a man's saddle, the stirrups much too long. Keith glanced aside with swift approval at the erectness with which she sat, the loosened rein in her hand, the slight swaying of her form. He could appreciate horsemanship, and the easy manner in which she rode relieved him of one anxiety. It even caused him to break the silence.
“You are evidently accustomed to riding, Miss Hope.”
She glanced across at him through the darkness, as though suddenly surprised from thought, her words not coming quickly.
“I cannot remember when I first mounted a horse; in earliest childhood, surely, although I have not ridden much of late. This one is like a rocking chair.”
“He belonged to your friend, Mr. Hawley.”
She drew a quick breath, her face again turned forward.
“Who—who is that man? Do you know?”
“I possess a passing acquaintance,” he answered, uncertain yet how much to tell her, but tempted to reveal all in test of her real character. “Few do not who live along the Kansas border.”
“Do you mean he is a notoriously bad character?”
“I have never heard of his being held up as a model to the young, Miss Hope,” he returned more soberly, convinced that she truly possessed no real knowledge regarding the man, and was not merely pretending innocence. “I had never heard him called Hawley before, and, therefore, failed to recognize him under that respectable name. But I knew his voice the moment he entered the cabin, and realized that some devilment was afoot. Every town along this frontier has his record, and I've met him maybe a dozen times in the past three years. He is known as 'Black Bart'; is a gambler by profession, a desperado by reputation, and a cur by nature. Just now I suspect him of being even deeper in the mire than this.”
He could tell by the quick clasping of her hands on the pommel of the saddle the effect of his words, but waited until the silence compelled her to speak.
“Oh, I didn't know! You do not believe that I ever suspected such a thing? That I ever met him there understanding who he was?”
“No, I do not,” he answered. “What I overheard between you convinced me you were the victim of deceit. But your going to that place alone was a most reckless act.”
She lifted her hand to her eyes, her head drooping forward.
“Wasn't it what he told me—the out-station of a ranch?”
“No; I have ridden this country for years, and there is no ranch pasturing cattle along the Salt Fork. Miss Hope, I want you to comprehend what it is you have escaped from; what you are now fleeing from. Within the last two years an apparently organized body of outlaws have been operating throughout this entire region. Oftentimes disguised as Indians, they have terrorized the Santa Fé trail for two hundred miles, killing travellers in small parties, and driving off stock. There are few ranches as far west as this, but these have all suffered from raids. These fellows have done more to precipitate the present Indian war than any act of the savages. They have endeavored to make the authorities believe that Indians were guilty of their deeds of murder and robbery. Both troops and volunteers have tried to hold the gang up, but they scatter and disappear, as though swallowed by the desert. I have been out twice, hard on their trail, only to come back baffled. Now, I think accident has given me the clue.”
She straightened up; glancing questioningly at him through the darkness.
“That is what I mean, Miss Hope. I suspect that cabin to be the rendezvous of those fellows, and I half believe Hawley to be their leader.”
“Then you will report all this to the authorities?”
He smiled grimly, his lips compressed.
“I hardly think so; at least, not for the present. I am not blood-thirsty, or enamored of man-hunting, but I happen to have a personal interest in this particular affair which I should prefer to settle alone.” He paused, swiftly reviewing the circumstances of their short acquaintance, and as suddenly determining to trust her discretion. Deep down in his heart he rather wanted her to know. “The fact of the matter is, that Neb and I here were the ones that particular posse were trailing.”
“You!” her voice faltered. “He said those men were under arrest for murder, and had broken jail.”
“He also said it was easy to convict men in this country if you only knew how. It is true we broke jail, but only in order to save our lives; it was the only way. Technically, we are outlaws, and now run the risk of immediate re-arrest by returning north of the Arkansas. We came to you fugitives; I was charged with murder, the negro with assault. So, you see, Miss Hope, the desperate class of men you are now associating with.”
The slight bitterness in his tone stung the girl into resentment. She was looking straight at him, but in the gloom he could not discern the expression of her eyes.
“I don't believe it,” she exclaimed decisively, “you—you do not look like that!”
“My appearance may be sufficient to convince you,” he returned, rather dryly, “but would weigh little before a Western court. Unfortunately, the evidence was strong against me; or would have been had the case ever come to a trial. The strange thing about it was that both warrants were sworn out by the same complainant, and apparently for a similar purpose—'Black Bart' Hawley.”
“What purpose?”
“To keep us from telling what we knew regarding a certain crime, in which either he, or some of his intimate friends, were deeply interested.”
“But it would all come out at the trial, wouldn't it?”
“There was to be no trial; Judge Lynch settles the majority of such cases out here at present. It is extremely simple. Listen, and I will tell you the story.”
He reviewed briefly those occurrences leading directly up to his arrest, saying little regarding the horrors of that scene witnessed near the Cimmaron Crossing, but making sufficiently clear his very slight connection with it, and the reason those who were guilty of the crime were so anxious to get him out of the way. She listened intently, asking few questions, until he ended. Then they both looked up, conscious that dawn was becoming gray in the east. Keith's first thought was one of relief—the brightening sky showed him they were riding straight north.