With her heart throbbing fiercely, Hope clung to the outer door of the vestibule endeavoring to see a little of what was transpiring without. About her was dense darkness, and she dare not explore the surroundings. Behind could be heard, through what must have been a thin partition, the various distractions of the stage, shifting scenery, music, shuffling feet, voices, and the occasional sound of applause. The girl had nerved herself to the encounter with Hawley but this waiting here in darkness and uncertainty tried her to the uttermost. If some one should venture out that way how could she excuse her presence or explain her purpose? She found herself trembling in every limb from nervous fear, startled by every strange sound. Would the man never come? Surely Christie herself must be ready to depart by this time.
Almost prepared to flee before the terrors thus conjured up within her mind, they left her as if by magic the moment her straining eyes distinguished the approach of a dim figure without. She could not tell who it was, only that it was the unmistakable form of a man, and that he was whistling softly to himself. It might not prove to be the gambler, but she must accept the chance, for flesh and blood could stand the strain of waiting no longer. Yet she was not conscious of fear, only of exultation, as she stepped forth into the open, her blood again circulating freely in her veins. At the slight creak of the door the man saw her, his whistle ceasing, his hat lifted. Instantly she recognized him as Hawley, her heart leaping with the excitement of encounter.
“Why, hullo, Christie,” he said familiarly, “I thought I was early, and expected a ten minutes' wait. I came out as soon as you left the stage.”
“Oh, I can dress in a jiffy when there is any cause for hurry,” Hope responded, permitting herself to drift under his guidance. “Are you disappointed? Would you prefer to commune with nature?”
“Well, I should say not,” drawing her hand through his arm, and then patting it with his own. “I have seen about all I care to of nature, but not of Christie Maclaire.”
“You may learn to feel the same regarding her,” Hope answered, afraid to encourage the man, yet eagerly fearful lest she fail to play her part aright.
“Not the slightest danger,” laughing lightly, and pressing her arm more closely against his body. “Although I must confess you exhibited some temper when I was late to-night.”
“Did I not have occasion to? A woman should never be kept waiting, especially if her engagement be imperative.”
“Oh, I am not finding any fault, you little spitfire. I like you all the better because you fight. But the trouble was, Christie, you simply jumped on me without even asking how it occurred. You took it for granted I was late on purpose to spite you.”
“Well, weren't you?” and the girl glanced inquiringly up into his face, as they passed out of the alley into the light of the Trocadero's windows. “You certainly acted that way.”
“No, I did not; but you wouldn't listen, and besides I had no time then to explain. There's a lot happened this afternoon I want to tell you about. Will you give me time to talk with you?”
“Why, of course,” surprised at the question, yet full of eagerness. “Why should you ask that?”
“Because I want you alone where no one can overhear a syllable. I'm afraid of that damned hotel. You never know who is in the next room, and the slightest whisper travels from one end to the other. That is one way in which Keith got onto our deal—he had a room next to Willoughby and Scott, and overheard them talking. I'm not going to take any more chances. Will you go to 'Sheeny Joe's' with me?”
She drew back from him.
“'Sheeny Joe's'? You mean the saloon near the depot?”
“Sure; what's the use of being so squeamish? You sing and dance to a saloon crowd, don't you? Oh, I know you're a good girl, Christie, and all that. I'm not ranking you with these fly-by-nights around here. But there's no reason that I can see why you should shy so at a saloon. Besides, you won't see any one. Joe has got some back rooms where we can be alone, and have a bite to eat while we're talking. What do you say?”
“Oh, I would rather not,” Hope faltered, bewildered by this unexpected request, already half-tempted to break away and run. “Really I—I don't want to go there.”
Hawley was evidently surprised at this refusal, naturally supposing from her life that Miss Maclaire's scruples would be easily overcome. This obstinacy of the girl aroused his anger.
“You women beat the devil,” he ejaculated, gruffly, “pretending to be so damn particular. Maybe you'd rather stand out there on the prairie and talk?” with a sweep of his hand around the horizon.
“Yes, I would,” catching desperately at the straw. “I'm not afraid of you; I'm not blaming you at all, only I—I don't want to go to 'Sheeny Joe's.'”
He looked at her, puzzled at her attitude, and yet somewhat reassured by her expression of confidence. Oh, well, what was the difference? It might be better to let her have her own way, and the change would not materially interfere with his plans. Of course, it would be pleasanter sitting together at one of Joe's tables, but he could talk just as freely out yonder under the stars. Besides, it might be as well now to humor the girl.
“All right, Christie,” his voice regaining its pleasant tone. “You shall have your way this time. There is too much at stake for us to quarrel over this.”
Frightened, yet not daring to resist or exhibit the least reluctance, she clung to his arm, and permitted him to lead her to the right down a dark passage and out into the open land beyond. He had to feel his way carefully, and scarcely spoke, yet proceeded as though the passage was reasonably familiar and he had some definite point in view. She answered in monosyllables, now thoroughly regretful of having permitted herself to drift into this position, yet not in the least knowing how to extricate herself. Hawley took everything for granted, her very silence convincing him of her acquiescence. With throbbing pulse, Hope felt the small revolver hidden within her dress, undoing a button so that, in emergency, she might grasp it more quickly. Hawley felt the movement, the trembling of her arm.
“You are afraid, just the same,” he said, pressing her to him lover-like. “Darkness always gets on a woman's nerves.”
“Yes, that and loneliness,” resenting his familiarity.
“Do we need to go any farther? Surely, we are alone here.”
“Only a few steps; the ravine is yonder, and we can sit down on the rocks. I want to smoke, and we will be entirely out of sight there.”
He helped her down the rather sharp declivity until both were thoroughly concealed below the prairie level. Feeling about with his hands he found the surface of a smooth rock, and seated her upon it. Then a match flared, casting an instant's gleam across his face as he lighted his cigar. Blacker than ever the night shut down about them, and he groped for a seat beside her. She could perceive just one star peering through a rift of cloud, and in her nostrils was the pungent odor of tobacco. With a little shiver of disgust she drew slightly away from him, dreading what was to come. One thing alone she felt was in her favor—however familiar Hawley attempted to be, he was evidently not yet sufficiently sure of Miss Maclaire to become entirely offensive. She might not have frowned at his love-making, but apparently he had not yet progressed sufficiently far in her good graces to venture to extremes. Hope pressed her lips together, determined to resist any further approach of the man. However, his earliest words were a relief.
“I reckon, Christie,” he said slowly, between puffs on his cigar, the lighted end of which faintly illumined his face, “you've got the idea I have brought you out here to make love. Lord knows I'd like to well enough, but just now there's more important matters on hand. Fact is, my girl, we're up against a little back-set, and have got to make a shift in our plans—a mighty quick shift, too,” he added, almost savagely.
“I—I don't think I understand.”
“No, of course, you don't. You imagine all we've got to do in a matter of this kind is to step into the nearest court, and draw the money. One trouble is, our evidence isn't complete—we've got to find that woman who brought you up.”
“Oh!” said Hope, not knowing what else to say.
“Yes,” he went on, apparently satisfied with her exclamation. “Of course, I know she's dead, or at least, you say so, but we haven't got enough proof without her—not the way old Waite promises to fight your claim—and so we've got to hunt for a substitute. Do you happen to know any old woman about the right age who would make affidavit for you? She probably wouldn't have to go on the stand at all. Waite will cave in as soon as he knows we've got the evidence.”
He waited for an answer, but she hardly knew what to say. Then she remembered that Keith insisted that Miss Maclaire had no conception that there was any fraud in her claim.
“No, I know no one. But what do you mean? I thought everything was straight? That there was no question about my right to inherit?”
“Well, there isn't, Christie,” pulling fiercely on his cigar. “But the courts are particular; they have got to have the whole thing in black and white. I thought all along I could settle the entire matter with Waite outside, but the old fool won't listen to reason. I saw him twice to-day.”
“Twice?” surprise wringing the word from her.
“Yes; thought I had got him off on a false scent and out of the way, the first time, but he turned up again like a bad penny. What's worse, he's evidently stumbled on to a bit of legal information which makes it safer for us to disappear until we can get the links of our chain forged. He's taken the case into court already, and the sheriff is here tryin' to find me so as to serve the papers. I've got to skip out, and so've you.”
“I?” rising to her feet, indignantly. “What have I done to be frightened over?”
He laughed, but not pleasantly.
“Oh, hell, Christie, can't you understand? Old Waite is after you the same way he is me. It'll knock our whole case if he can get you into court before our evidence is ready. All you know is what I have told you—that's straight enough—but we've got to have proof. I can get it in a month, but he's got hold of something which gives him a leverage. I don't know what it is—maybe it's just a bluff—but the charge is conspiracy, and he's got warrants out. There is nothing for us to do but skip.”
“But my clothes; my engagement?” she urged, feeling the insistent earnestness of the man, and sparring for delay. “Why, I cannot go. Besides, if the sheriff is hunting us, the trains will be watched.”
“Do you suppose I am fool enough to risk the trains?” he exclaimed, roughly, plainly losing patience. “Not much; horses and the open plains for us, and a good night the start of them. They will search for me first, and you'll never be missed until you fail to show up at the Trocadero. Never mind the clothes; they can be sent after us.”
“To-night!” she cried, awakening to the immediate danger, and rising to her feet. “You urge me to fly with you to-night?—now?”
“Sure, don't be foolish and kick up a row. The horses are here waiting just around the end of the ravine.”
She pressed her hands to her breast, shrinking away from him.
“No! No! I will not go!” she declared, indignantly. “Keep back! Don't touch me!”
Hawley must have expected the resistance, for with a single movement he grasped her even as she turned to fly, pinning her arms helplessly to her side, holding her as in a vice.
“Oh, but you will, my beauty,” he growled. “I thought you might act up and I'm ready. Do you think I am fool enough to leave you here alone to be pumped dry? It is a big stake I'm playing after, girl, and I am not going to lose it through the whims of a woman. If you won't go pleasantly, then you'll go by force. Keep still, you tigress! Do you want me to choke you?”
She struggled to break loose, twisting and turning, but the effort was useless. Suddenly he whistled sharply. There was the sound of feet scrambling down the path, and the frightened woman perceived the dim outlines of several approaching men. She gave one scream, and Hawley released his grip on her arms to grasp her throat.
She jerked away, half-stumbling backward over a rock. The revolver, carried concealed in her dress, was in her hand. Mad with terror, scarcely knowing what she did, she pulled the trigger. In the flash she saw one man throw up his hands and go down. The next instant the others were upon her.
Keith swept his glance up and down the street without results. Surely, Hawley and his companion could not have disappeared so suddenly. They had turned to the right, he was certain as to that, and he pushed through the crowd of men around the theatre entrance, and hastened to overtake them. He found nothing to overtake—nowhere along that stretch of street, illumined by window lights, was there any sign of a man and woman walking together. He stopped bewildered, staring blindly about, failing utterly to comprehend this mysterious vanishing. What could it mean? What had happened? How could they have disappeared so completely during that single moment he had waited to speak to Fairbain? The man's heart beat like a trip-hammer with apprehension, a sudden fear for Hope taking possession of him. Surely the girl would never consent to enter any of those dens along the way, and Hawley would not dare resort to force in the open street. The very thought seemed preposterous, and yet, with no other supposition possible, he entered these one after the other in hasty search, questioning the inmates sharply, only to find himself totally baffled—Hawley and Hope had vanished as though swallowed by the earth. He explored dark passage-ways between the scattered buildings, rummaging about recklessly, but came back to the street again without reward.
Could they have gone down the other side, in the deeper shadows, and thus reached the hotel more quickly than it seemed to him possible? There was hardly a chance that this could be true, and yet Keith grasped at it desperately, cursing himself for having wasted time. Five minutes later, breathless, almost speechless with anxiety, he startled the clerk.
“Has Miss Waite come in? Miss Hope Waite?”
“Blamed if I know,” retorted the other, indifferently. “Can't for the life of me tell those two females apart. One of them passed through 'bout ten minutes ago; Doc Fairbain was with her. Another party just went upstairs hunting Miss Maclaire, and as they haven't come down, I reckon it must have been her—anything wrong?”
“I'm not sure yet,” shortly. “Who was this other person?”
“Old fellow with white hair and whiskers—swore like a pirate—had the sheriff along with him.”
It came to Keith in a flash—it was Waite. Perhaps Christie knew. Perhaps the General knew. Certainly something of importance was crystallizing in the actress' room which might help to explain all else. He rushed up the stairs, barely waiting to rap once at the closed door before he pressed it open. The sight within held him silent, waiting opportunity to blurt out his news. Here, also, was tragedy, intense, compelling, which for the instant seemed to even overshadow the fate of the girl he loved. There were three men present, and the woman. She stood clutching the back of a chair, white-faced and open-eyed, with Fairbain slightly behind her, one hand grasping her arm, the other clinched, his jaw set pugnaciously. Facing these two was Waite, and a heavily built man wearing a brown beard, closely trimmed.
“You'd better acknowledge it,” Waite snapped out, with a quick glance at the newcomer. “It will make it all the easier for you. I tell you this is the sheriff, and we've got you both dead to rights.”
“But,” she urged, “why should I be arrested? I have done nothing.”
“You're an adventuress—a damn adventuress—Hawley's mistress, probably—a—”
“Now, see here, Waite,” and Fairbain swung himself forward, “you drop that. Miss Maclaire is my friend, and if you say another word I'll smash you, sheriff or no sheriff.”
Waite glared at him.
“You old fool,” he snorted, “what have you got to do with this?”
“I've got this to do with it, you'll find—the woman is to be treated with respect or I'll blow your damned obstinate head off.”
The sheriff laid his hand on Waite's shoulder.
“Come,” he said, firmly, “this is no way to get at it. We want to know certain facts, and then we can proceed lawfully. Let me question the woman.”
The two older men still faced one another belligerently, but Keith saw Christie draw the doctor back from between her and the sheriff.
“You may ask me anything you please,” she announced, quietly. “I am sure these gentlemen will not fight here in my room.”
“Very well, Miss Maclaire. It will require only a moment. How long have you known this man Hawley?”
“Merely a few days—since I arrived in Sheridan.”
“But you were in communication with him before that?”
The pleasant voice and quiet demeanor of the sheriff seemed to yield the girl confidence and courage.
“Yes, he had written me two or three letters.”
“You met him here then by appointment?”
“He was to come to Sheridan, and explain to me more fully what his letters had only hinted at.”
“You possessed no previous knowledge of his purpose?”
“Only the barest outline—details were given me later.”
“Will you tell us briefly exactly what Hawley told you?”
The girl's bewildered eyes wandered from face to face, then returned to the waiting sheriff.
“May—may I sit down?” she asked.
“Most certainly; and don't be afraid, for really we wish to be your friends.”
She sank down into the chair, and even Keith could see how her slender form trembled. There was a moment's silence.
“Believe me, gentlemen,” she began, falteringly, “if there is any fraud, any conspiracy, I have borne no conscious part in it. Mr. Hawley came to me saying a dying man had left with him certain papers, naming one, Phyllis Gale, as heiress to a very large estate in North Carolina, left by her grandfather in trust. He said the girl had been taken West, when scarcely two years old, by her father in a fit of drunken rage, and then deserted by him in St. Louis.”
“You—you saw the papers?” Waite broke in.
“Yes, those that Hawley had; he gave them to me to keep for him.” She crossed to her trunk, and came back, a manilla envelope in her hand. Waite opened it hastily, running his eyes over the contents.
“The infernal scoundrel!” he exclaimed, hotly. “These were stolen from me at Carson City.”
“Let me see them.” The sheriff ran them over, merely glancing at the endorsements.
“Just as you represented, Waite,” he said, slowly. “A copy of the will, your commission as guardian, and memoranda of identification. Well, Miss Maclaire, how did you happen to be so easily convinced that you were the lost girl?”
“Mr. Hawley brought me a picture which he said was of this girl's half-sister; the resemblance was most startling. This, with the fact that I have never known either father or mother or my real name, and that my earlier life was passed in St. Louis, sufficed to make me believe he must be right.”
“You—you—” Waite choked, leaning forward.
“You don't know your real name?”
“No, I do not,” her lips barely forming the words. “The woman who brought me up never told me.”
“Who—who was the woman?”
“A Mrs. Raymond—Sue Raymond—she was on the stage, and died in Texas—San Antonio, I think.”
Waite swore audibly, his eyes never once deserting the girl's face.
“Hawley told you to say that?”
“No, he did not,” she protested warmly. “It was never even mentioned between us—at least, not Sue Raymond's name. What difference can that make?”
He stepped forward, one hand flung out, and Fairbain sprang forward instantly between them, mistaking the action.
“Hands off there, Waite,” he commanded sternly. “Whatever she says goes.”
“You blundering old idiot,” the other exploded. “I'm not going to hurt her; stand aside, will you!”
He reached the startled girl, thrust aside the dark hair combed low over the neck, swung her about toward the light, and stared at a birthmark behind her ear. No one spoke, old Waite seemingly stricken dumb, the woman shrinking away from him as though she feared he was crazed.
“What is it?” asked the sheriff, sternly.
Slowly Waite turned about and faced him, running the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. He appeared dazed, confounded.
“My God, it's all right,” he said, with a choke in the throat. “She's—she's the girl.”
Christie stared at him, her lips parted, unable to grasp what it all meant.
“You mean I—I am actually Phyllis Gale? That—that there is no mistake?”
He nodded, not yet able to put It more clearly into words. She swayed as though about to faint, and Fairbain caught her, but she slipped through his arms, and fell upon her knees, her face buried in her hands upon the chair.
“Oh, thank God,” she sobbed, “thank God! I know who I am! I know who I am!”
The note of unrestrained joy of relief in the woman's voice rang through the room, stilling all else, and causing those who heard to forget for an instant the sterner purpose of their gathering. Fairbain bent over her, like a fat guardian angel, patting her shoulder, her eyes so blurred with tears as to be practically sightless, yet still turned questioningly upon Waite. The sheriff was first to recover speech, and a sense of duty.
“Then this lets Miss Maclaire out of the conspiracy charge,” he said, gravely, “but it doesn't make it any brighter for Hawley so far as I can see—there's a robbery charge against him if nothing else. Any one here know where the fellow is?”
For a moment no one answered, although Keith took a step forward, reminded instantly of Hope's predicament. Before he could speak, however, Christie looked up, with swift gesture pushing back her loosened hair.
“He was to have met me at the theatre to-night,” she said, her voice trembling, “but was not there when I came out; he—he said he had important news for me.”
“And failed to show up—did he send no message?”
“Doctor Fairbain was waiting for me instead. He said that Mr. Hawley was called suddenly out of town.”
The eyes of the sheriff turned to Fairbain, whose face grew redder than usual, as he shifted his gaze toward Keith.
“That was a lie,” he confessed, lamely. “I—I was told to say that.”
“Just a moment, Sheriff,” and Keith stood before them, his voice clear and convincing. “My name is Keith, and I have unavoidably been mixed up in this affair from the beginning. Just now I can relieve the doctor of his embarrassment. Miss Hope Waite and I have been associated together in an effort to solve this mystery. This evening, taking advantage of the remarkable resemblance existing between herself and Miss Maclaire, Miss Hope decided upon a mask—”
“What's that,” Waite broke in excitedly. “Is Hope here?”
“Yes, has been for a week; we've had all the police force of Sheridan hunting you.”
The old man stared at the speaker, open-mouthed, and muttered something about Fort Hays, but Keith, paying little attention to him, hurried on with his story.
“As I say, she decided upon impersonating Christie here, hoping in this way to learn more regarding Hawley's plans. We had discovered that the two were to meet after the evening performance at the stage door of the Trocadero. I escorted Hope there, dressed as near like Miss Maclaire as possible, and left her inside the vestibule waiting for 'Black Bart' to appear. At the head of the alley I ran into Fairbain, told him something of the circumstances, and persuaded him to escort Miss Christie back to the hotel. He was not very hard to persuade. Well, Hawley came, and Hope met him; they went out of the alley-way together arm in arm, talking pleasantly, and turned this way toward the hotel. The doctor and I both saw and heard them. I was delayed not to exceed two minutes, speaking a final word to Fairbain, and when I reached the street they had disappeared. I have hunted them everywhere without finding a trace—I have even been through the resorts. She has not returned to the hotel, and I burst in upon you here hoping that Miss Maclaire might have some information.”
She shook her head, and Waite, glaring impotently at the two of them, swore sharply.
“Good God, man! my girl! Hope, alone with that damn villain. Come on, Sheriff; we've got to find her. Wait though!” and he strode almost menacingly across the room. “First, I want to know who the devil you are?”
Keith straightened up, looking directly into the fierce questioning eyes.
“I have told you my name—Jack Keith,” he replied, quietly. “Doctor Fairbain knows something of me, but for your further information I will add that when we met before I was Captain Keith, Third Virginia Cavalry, and bearing despatches from Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson.”
The gruff old soldier, half-crazed by the news of his daughter's peril, the gleam of his eyes still revealing uncontrolled temper, stared at the younger face fronting him; then slowly he held out his hand.
“Keith—Keith,” he repeated, as though bringing back the name with an effort. “By God, that's so—old Jefferson Keith's boy—killed at Antietam. And you know Hope?”
“Yes, General.”
He looked about as though dazed, and the sheriff broke in not unkindly.
“Well, Waite, if we are going to search for your daughter we better be at it. Come on, all of you; Miss Maclaire will be safe enough here alone.”
He took hold of Keith's arm, questioning him briefly as they passed down the hall. On the stairs the latter took his turn, still confused by what he had just heard.
“Who is Miss Maclaire?” he asked.
“Phyllis Gale.”
“Of course, but who is Phyllis Gale? What has she to do with General Waite? His daughter has told me she never heard of any one by that name.”
“Well, Keith, the old man has never told me very much; he's pretty close-mouthed, except for swearing, but I've read his papers, and picked up a point or two. I reckon the daughter, Miss Hope, maybe never heard a word about it, but the boy—the one that was shot—must have stumbled onto the story and repeated it to Hawley. That's what set that fellow going. It seems Mrs. Waite's maiden name was Pierpont, and when she was seventeen years old she was married to the son of a rich North Carolina planter. The fellow was a drunken, dissolute good-for-nothing. They had a daughter born—this Phyllis—and when the child was three years old her father, in a fit of drunken rage, ran away, and to spite his wife took the little girl with him. All efforts to trace them failed, and the mother finally secured a divorce and, two years later, married Willis Waite. Waite, of course, knew these facts, but probably they were never told to the children. When the father of Mrs. Waite's first husband died, he left all his large property to his grandchild, providing she could be found and identified within a certain time, failing which the property was to be distributed among certain designated charities. Waite was named sole administrator. Well, the old man took as much interest in it as though it was his own girl, but made mighty little progress. He did discover that the father had taken the child to St. Louis and left her there with a woman named Raymond, but after the woman died the girl completely disappeared.”
“Then Miss Maclaire is Hope Waite's half-sister?”
“That's the way it looks now.”
“And Hawley merely happened to stumble on to the right party?”
“Sure; it's clear enough how that came about. The boy told him about the lost heiress his father was searching after, and showed him his sister's picture. 'Black Bart' instantly recognized her resemblance to Christie Maclaire, and thought he saw a good chance for some easy money. He needed the papers, however, to ascertain exactly the terms of the will, and what would be necessary for the identification. He never intended to go into court, but hoped to either get Waite out of the way, or else convince him that Christie was the girl, relying on her gratitude for his profits. When Waite played into his hands by coming to Carson City, the chance was too good to be lost. I'm not sure he meant to kill him, but he did mean to have those papers at any cost. Probably you know the rest—the girl was easy, because she was so ignorant of her parentage, and nothing prevented Hawley from winning except that Waite got mad and decided to fight. That knocked over the whole thing.”
They were outside now, and the first touch of the cool night air, the first glance up and down the noisy street, brought Keith to himself, his mind ready to grapple with the problem of Hope's disappearance. It seemed to him he had already looked everywhere, yet there was nothing to do except to continue the search, only more systematically. The sheriff assumed control—clear headed, and accustomed to that sort of thing—calling in Hickock and his deputies to assist, and fairly combing the town from one end to the other. Not a rat could have slipped unobserved through the net he dragged down that long street, or its intersecting alleys—but it was without result; nowhere was there found a trace of either the gambler or his companion.
They dug into saloons, bagnios, dance-halls, searching back rooms and questioning inmates; they routed out every occupant of the hotel, invaded boarding houses, and explored shacks and tents, indifferent to the protests of those disturbed,—but without result. They found several who knew Hawley, others who had seen the two together passing by the lighted windows of the Trocadero, but beyond that—nothing. Convinced, at last, that the parties sought were not alive in Sheridan, and beginning to fear the worst, the searchers separated, and began spreading forth over the black surrounding prairie, and by the light of lanterns seeking any semblance of trail. There was no lack of volunteers for this work, but it was daylight before the slightest clue presented itself. Keith, with the sheriff and two or three others, had groped their way outward until, with the first flush of dawn, they found themselves at the opening of a small rocky ravine, near the foot of “Boots Hill.” Peering down into its still shadowed depths, they discerned what appeared like a body lying there motionless. Keith sprang down beside it, and turned the rigid form over until the dead face was revealed in the wan light—it was that of the red moustached Scott. He staggered back at the recognition, barely able to ejaculate.
“Here, Sheriff! This is one of Hawley's men!”
The sheriff was bending instantly above the corpse, searching for the truth.
“You know the fellow?”
“Yes, his name was Scott.”
“Well, he's been dead some hours, at least six I should say; shot just above the eye, and good Heavens! look here, Keith, at the size of this bullet wound; that's no man's gun in this country—no more than a '32' I'd say.”
“Miss Waite had a small revolver. She must have shot the fellow. But why did they leave the body here to be discovered?”
The sheriff arose to his feet, prowling about in the brightening glow of the dawn.
“They were in a hurry to get away, and knew he wouldn't be found before morning. A six hours' start means a good deal. They did drag him back out of sight—look here. This was where the struggle took place, and here is where the man fell,” tracing it out upon the ground. “The girl put up a stiff fight, too—see where they dragged her up the path. From the footprints there must have been half a dozen in the party. Get back out of the way, Sims, while I follow their trail.”
It was plain enough, now they had daylight to assist them, and led around the edge of the hill. A hundred feet away they came to where horses had been standing, the trampled sod evidencing they must have been there for some considerable time. Keith and the sheriff circled out until they finally struck the trail of the party, which led forth southwest across the prairie.
“Seven horses, one being led light,” said the former. “That was Scott's, probably.”
“That's the whole story,” replied the sheriff, staring off toward the bare horizon, “and the cusses have at least six hours the start with fresh horses.” He turned around. “Well, boys, that takes 'em out of my baliwick, I reckon. Some of the rest of you will have to run that gang down.”
Dr. Fairbain had originally joined the searching party, fully as eager as Keith himself to run down the renegade Hawley, but after an hour of resultless effort, his entire thought shifted to the woman they had left alone at the hotel. He could not, as yet, fully grasp the situation, but he remained loyal to the one overpowering truth that he loved Christie Maclaire. Fairbain's nature was rough, original, yet loyal to the core. He had lived all his life long in army camps, and upon the frontier, and his code of honor was extremely simple. It never once occurred to him that Christie's profession was not of the highest, or that her life and associations in any way unfitted her for the future. To his mind she was the one and only woman. His last memory of her, as the little party of men filed out of that room, haunted him until he finally dropped out of the search, and drifted back toward the hotel.
It was a late hour, yet it was hardly likely the woman had retired. Her excitement, her interest in the pursuit, would surely prevent that; moreover, he was certain he saw a light still burning in her room, as he looked up from the black street below. Nevertheless he hesitated, uncertain of his reception. Bluff, emphatic, never afraid to face a man in his life, his heart now beat fiercely as he endeavored to muster the necessary courage. Far down the dark street some roysterer fired a shot, and sudden fear lest he might be sought after professionally sent the doctor hurriedly within, and up the stairs. He stood, just outside her door, quaking like a child, the perspiration beading his forehead, but a light streamed through the transom, and he could plainly hear movements within. At last, in a sudden spasm of courage, he knocked softly. Even in that noisy spot she heard instantly, opening the door without hesitation, and standing fully dressed within. She was no longer a discouraged, sobbing girl, but an aroused, intent woman, into whose pathetic, lonely life there had come a new hope. She appeared younger, fairer, with the light shimmering in her hair and her eyes smiling welcome.
“Oh, Doctor,” and her hands were thrust out towards him, “I am glad you have come. Somehow, I thought you would, and I have wanted so to talk to someone—to you.”
“To me! Do you really mean that, Miss Christie?”
“Yes, I really mean that, you great bear of a man,” and the girl laughed lightly, dragging him into the room, and closing the door. “Why, who else could I expect to come to-night? You were the only one really good to me. You—you acted as if you believed in me all the time—”
“I did, Christie; you bet I did,” broke in the delighted doctor, every nerve tingling. “I'd 'a' cleaned out that whole gang if you'd only said so, but I reckon now it was better to let them tell all they knew. It was like a thunder storm clearing the atmosphere.”
“Oh, it was, indeed! Now I know who I am—who I am! Isn't that simply glorious? Sit down, Doctor Fairbain, there in the big chair where I can see your face. I want to talk, talk, talk; I want to ask questions, a thousand questions; but it wouldn't do any good to ask them of you, would it? You don't know anything about my family, do you?”
“Not very much, I am afraid, only that you have got an almighty pretty half-sister,” admitted the man, emphatically, “and old Waite possesses the vilest temper ever given a human being. He's no blood kin to you, though.”
“No, but he is awfully good underneath, isn't he?”
“Got a heart of pure gold, old Waite. Why, I've seen him cry like a baby over one of his men that got hurt.”
“Have you known him, then, for a long while?”
“Ever since the Spring of '61. I was brigaded with him all through the war, and had to cut a bullet or so out of his hide before it ended. If there was ever a fight, Willis Waite was sure to get his share. He could swear some then, but he's improved since, and I reckon now he could likely claim the championship.”
“Did—did you know my mother also?” and Christie leaned forward, her eyes suddenly grown misty. “I haven't even the slightest memory of her.”
The doctor's heart was tender, and he was swift to respond, reaching forth and grasping the hand nearest him. He had made love before, yet somehow this was different; he felt half afraid of this woman, and it was a new sensation altogether, and not unpleasant.
“I saw her often enough in those days, but not since. She was frequently in camp, a very sweet-faced woman; you have her eyes and hair, as I remember. Waite ought to have recognized you at first sight. By Heavens! that was what made me so internally mad, the mulish obstinacy of the old fool. Your mother used to come to the hospital tent, too; one of the best nurses I ever saw. I thought she was a beauty then, but she's some older by this time,” he paused regretfully. “You see, I'm no spring chicken, myself.”
Her eyes were upon his face, a slight flush showing in either cheek, and she made no effort to withdraw her imprisoned hand.
“You are just a nice age,” with firm conviction. “Boys are tiresome, and I think a little gray in the hair is an improvement. Oh, you mustn't imagine I say this just to please you—I have always thought so, since—well, since I grew up. Besides, fleshy men generally look young, because they are so good natured, perhaps. How old are you, Doctor?”
“It isn't the gray hairs I mind, either,” he admitted hesitatingly, “but I'm too darned bald-headed. Oh, I ain't so old, for I was only thirty-five when the war broke out. I was so thin then I could hardly cast a shadow. I've changed some since,” casting his eyes admiringly downward, “and got quite a figure. I was forty-three last month.”
“That isn't old; that's just right.”
“I've been afraid you looked on me as being an old fogy!”
“I should say not,” indignantly. “Why should you ever think that?”
“Well, there were so many young fellows hanging about.”
“Who?”
“Oh, Keith, and Hawley, and that bunch of officers from the fort; you never had any time to give me.”
She laughed again, her fingers tightening in their clasp on his hand.
“Why, how foolish; Hawley is older than you are, and I was only playing with Keith. Surely you must know that now. And as to the officers, they were just fun. You see, in my profession, one has to be awfully nice to everybody.”
“But didn't you really care for Hawley?” he insisted, bluntly probing for facts.
“He—he interested me,” admitted the girl, hesitatingly, her eyes darkening with sudden anger. “He lied and I believed him—I would have believed any one who came with such a story. Oh, Dr. Fairbain,” and she clung to him now eagerly, “you cannot realize how hungry I have been for what he brought me. I wanted so to know the truth of my birth. Oh, I hated this life!” She flung her disengaged hand into the air, with a gesture expressive of disgust. “I was crazy to get away from it. That was what made the man look good to me—he—he promised so much. You will believe me, won't you? Oh, you must; I am going to make you. I am a singer in music halls; I was brought up to that life from a little girl, and of course, I know what you Western men think of us as a class. Hawley showed it in his whole manner toward me, and I resented it; just for that, deep down in my heart, I hated him. I know it now, now that I really understand his purpose; but some way, when I was with him he seemed to fascinate me, to make me do just as he willed. But you have never been that way; you—you have acted as though I was somebody—somebody nice, and not just a music-hall singer. Perhaps it's just your way, and maybe, deep down you don't think I'm any better than the others do, but—but I want you to think I am, and I am going to tell you the truth, and you must believe me—I am a good girl.”
“Great God! of course you are,” he blurted out. “Don't you suppose I know? That isn't what has been bothering me, lassie. Why, I'd 'a' fought any buck who'd 'a' sneered at you. What I wanted to know was, whether or not you really cared for any of those duffers. Can you tell me that, Christie?”
She lifted her eyes to his face, her lips parted.
“I can answer any thing you ask.”
“And you do not care for them?”
“No.”
He drew his breath sharply, his round face rosy.
“Then you have got to listen to me, for I'm deadly in earnest. I'm an old, rough, bald-headed fool that don't know much about women,—I never thought before I'd ever want to,—but you can bet on one thing, I'm square. Anybody in this town will tell you I'm square. They'll tell you that whatever I say goes. I've never run around much with women; somehow I never exactly liked the kind I've come up against, and maybe they didn't feel any particular interest in me. I didn't cut much shine as a ladies' man, but, I reckon now, it's only because the right one hadn't happened along. She is here now, though, all right, and I knew it the very first time I set eyes on her. Oh, you roped and tied me all right the first throw. Maybe I did get you and that half-sister mixed up a bit, but just the same you were the one I really wanted. Hope's all right; she's a mighty fine girl, but you are the one for me, Christie. Could you—could you care for such a duffer as I am?”
Her lips were smiling and so were her eyes, but it was a pleading smile.
“I—I don't think it would be so very hard,” she admitted, “not if you really wanted me to.”
“You know what I mean—that I love you,—wish you to be my wife?”
“I supposed that was it—that—that you wanted me.”
“Yes, and—and you will love me?”
Her head drooped slowly, so slowly he did not realize the significance of the action, until her lips touched his hand.
“I do,” she said; “you are the best man in the world.”
Fairbain could not move, could not seem to realize what it all meant. The outcome had been so sudden, so surprising, that all power of expression deserted him. In bewilderment he lifted her face, and looked into her eyes. Perhaps she realized—with the swift intuition of a clever woman—the man's perplexity, for instantly she led his mind to other things.
“But let us not talk of ourselves any more, to-night. There is so much I wish to know; so much that ought to be done.” She sprang to her feet. “Why, it is almost shameful for us to stay here, selfishly happy, while others are in such trouble. Have they discovered Hope?”
“No; we scoured the whole town and found no trace. Now they are outside on the prairie, but there can be little chance of their picking up a trail before daylight.”
“And Hawley?”
“He has vanished also; without doubt they are together. What do you suppose he can want of her? How do you imagine he ever got her to go with him? She isn't that sort of a girl.”
She shook her head, shivering a little.
“He must have mistaken her for me—perhaps has not even yet discovered his mistake. But what it all means, or how he gained her consent to go with him, I cannot conceive.”
She stood with hands clasped, staring out the window.
“There is a little light showing already,” she exclaimed, pointing. “See, yonder. Oh, I trust they will find her alive, and unhurt. That man, I believe, is capable of any crime. But couldn't you be of some help? Why should you remain here with me? I am in no danger.”
“You really wish me to go, Christie?”
“Not that way—not that way,” and she turned impulsively, with hands outstretched. “Of course I want you here with me, but I want you to help bring Hope back.”
He drew her to him, supremely happy now, every feeling of embarrassment lost in complete certainty of possession.
“And I will,” he said solemnly. “Wherever they may have gone I shall follow. I am going now, dear, and when I come back you'll be glad to see me?”
“Shall I?” her eyes uplifted to his own, and swimming in tears. “I will be the happiest girl in all the world, I reckon. Oh, what a night this has been! What a wonderful night! It has given me a name, a mother, and the man I love.”
He kissed her, not in passion, but in simple tenderness, and as he turned away she sank upon her knees at the window, with head bowed upon the sill. At the door he paused, and looked back, and she turned, and smiled at him. Then he went out, and she knelt there silently, gazing forth into the dawn, her eyes blurred with tears—facing a new day, and a new life.