Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains. Randall Parrish
by a night of high play and deep drinking the border town was sleeping off its debauch, saloons and gambling dens silent, the streets almost deserted. To Keith, whose former acquaintance with the place had been entirely after nightfall, the view of it now was almost a shock—the miserable shacks, the gaudy saloon fronts, the littered streets, the dingy, unpainted hotel, the dirty flap of canvas, the unoccupied road, the dull prairie sweeping away to the horizon, all composed a hideous picture beneath the sun glare. He could scarcely find a man to attend his horse, and at the restaurant a drowsy Chinaman had to be shaken awake, and frightened into serving him. He sat down to the miserable meal oppressed with disgust—never before had his life seemed so mean, useless, utterly without excuse.
He possessed the appetite of the open, of the normal man in perfect physical health, and he ate heartily his eyes wandering out of the open window down the long, dismal street. A drunken man lay in front of the “Red Light” Saloon sleeping undisturbed; two cur dogs were snarling at each other just beyond over a bone; a movers' wagon was slowly coming in across the open through a cloud of yellow dust. That was all within the radius of vision. For the first time in years the East called him—the old life of cleanliness and respectability. He swore to himself as he tossed the Chinaman pay for his breakfast, and strode out onto the steps. Two men were coming up the street together from the opposite direction—one lean, dark-skinned, with black goatee, the other heavily set with closely trimmed gray beard. Keith knew the latter, and waited, leaning against the door, one hand on his hip.
“Hullo, Bob,” he said genially; “they must have routed you out pretty early to-day.”
“They shore did, Jack,” was the response. He came up the steps somewhat heavily, his companion stopping below. “The boys raise hell all night, an' then come ter me ter straighten it out in the mawnin'. When did ye git in?”
“An hour ago; had to wake the 'chink' up to get any chuck. Town looks dead.”
“Tain't over lively at this time o' day,” permitting his blue eyes to wander up the silent street, but instantly bringing them back to Keith's face, “but I reckon it'll wake up later on.”
He stood squarely on both feet, and one hand rested on the butt of a revolver. Keith noticed this, wondering vaguely.
“I reckon yer know, Jack, as how I ginerally git what I goes after,” said the slow, drawling voice, “an' that I draw 'bout as quick as any o' the boys. They tell me yo're a gun-fighter, but it won't do ye no good ter make a play yere, fer one o' us is sure to git yer—do yer sabe?”
“Get me?” Keith's voice and face expressed astonishment, but not a muscle of his body moved. “What do you mean, Bob—are you fellows after me?”
“Sure thing; got the warrant here,” and he tapped the breast of his shirt with his left hand.
The color mounted into the cheeks of the other, his lips grew set and white, and his gray eyes darkened.
“Let it all out, Marshal,” he said sternly, “you've got me roped and tied. Now what's the charge?”
Neither man moved, but the one below swung about so as to face them, one hand thrust out of sight beneath the tail of his long coat.
“Make him throw up his hands, Bob,” he said sharply.
“Oh, I reckon thar ain't goin' ter be no trouble,” returned the marshal genially, yet with no relaxation of attention. “Keith knows me, an' expects a fair deal. Still, maybe I better ask yer to unhitch yer belt, Jack.”
A moment Keith seemed to hesitate, plainly puzzled by the situation and endeavoring to see some way of escape; then his lips smiled, and he silently unhooked the belt, handing it over.
“Sure, I know you're square, Hicks,” he said, coolly. “And now I've unlimbered, kindly inform me what this is all about.”
“I reckon yer don't know.”
“No more than an unborn babe. I have been here but an hour.”
“That's it: if yer had been longer thar wouldn't be no trouble. Yo're wanted for killin' a couple o' men out at Cimmaron Crossin' early yesterday mornin'.”
Keith stared at him too completely astounded for the instant to even speak. Then he gasped.
“For God's sake, Hicks, do you believe that?”
“I'm damned if I know,” returned the marshal, doubtfully. “Don't seem like ye'd do it, but the evidence is straight 'nough, an' thar ain't nothin' fer me ter do but take ye in. I ain't no jedge an' jury.”
“No, but you ought to have ordinary sense, an' you've known me for three years.”
“Sure I have, Jack, but if yer've gone wrong, you won't be the first good man I've seen do it. Anyhow, the evidence is dead agin you, an' I'd arrest my own grand-dad if they give me a warrant agin him.”
“What evidence is there?”
“Five men swear they saw ye haulin' the bodies about, and lootin' the pockets.”
Then Keith understood, his heart beating rapidly, his teeth clenched to keep back an outburst of passion. So that was their game, was it?—some act of his had awakened the cowardly suspicions of those watching him across the river. They were afraid that he knew them as white men. And they had found a way to safely muzzle him. They must have ridden hard over those sand dunes to have reached Carson City and sworn out this warrant. It was a good trick, likely enough to hang him, if the fellows only stuck to their story. All this flashed through his brain, yet somehow he could not clearly comprehend the full meaning, his mind confused and dazed by this sudden realization of danger. His eyes wandered from the steady gaze of the marshal, who had half drawn his gun fearing resistance, to the man at the bottom of the steps. Suddenly it dawned upon him where he had seen that dark-skinned face, with the black goatee, before—at the faro table of the “Red Light.” He gripped his hands together, instantly connecting that sneering, sinister face with the plot.
“Who swore out that warrant?”
“I did, if you need to know,” a sarcastic smile revealing a gleam of white teeth, “on the affidavit of others, friends of mine.”
“Who are you?”
“I'm mostly called 'Black Bart.'”
That was it; he had the name now—“Black Bart.” He straightened up so quickly, his eyes blazing, that the marshal jerked his gun clear.
“See here, Jack,” shortly, “are yer goin' to raise a row, or come along quiet?”
As though the words had aroused him from a bad dream, Keith turned to front the stern, bearded face.
“There'll be no row, Bob,” he said, quietly. “I'll go with you.”
Chapter IV. An Old Acquaintance
The Carson City lock-up was an improvised affair, although a decidedly popular resort. It was originally a two-room cabin with gable to the street, the front apartment at one time a low groggery, the keeper sleeping in the rear room. Whether sudden death, or financial reverses, had been the cause, the community had in some manner become possessed of the property, and had at once dedicated it to the commonweal. For the purpose thus selected it was rather well adapted, being strongly built, easily guarded, and on the outskirts of the town. With iron grating over the windows, the back door heavily spiked, and the front secured by iron bars, any prisoner once locked within could probably be found when wanted. On the occasion of Keith's arrival, the portion abutting upon the street was occupied by a rather miscellaneous assembly—the drunk and disorderly element conspicuous—who were awaiting their several calls to appear before a local justice and make answer for various misdeeds. Some were pacing