Produced by Curtis A. Weyant
KEITH OF THE BORDER
A TALE OF THE PLAINS
By Randall Parrish
Author of "My Lady of the North," "My Lady of the South." "WhenWilderness Was King," etc.
CONTENTS
I The Plainsman II The Scene of Tragedy III An Arrest IV An Old Acquaintance V The One Way VI The Escape VII In the Sand Desert VIII The Wilderness Cabin IX The Girl of the Cabin X Mr. Hawley Reveals Himself XI The Fight in the Dark XII Through the Night Shadows XIII The Ford of the Arkansas XIV The Landlady of the Occidental XV Again Christie Maclaire XVI Introducing Doctor Fairbain XVII In the Next Room XVIII Interviewing Willoughby XIX A Glimpse at Conspiracy XX Hope Goes to Sheridan XXI The Marshal of Sheridan XXII An Interrupted Interview XXIII An Unexpected Meeting XXIV A Mistake in Assassination XXV A Reappearance of the General XXVI A Chance Conversation XXVII Miss Hope Suggests XXVIII The Stage Door of the Trocadero XXIX By Force of Arms XXX In Christie's Room XXXI The Search for the Missing XXXII Fairbain and Christie XXXIII Following the Trail XXXIV Again at the Cabin XXXV The Cabin Taken XXXVI The Duel in the Desert XXXVII At the Water-Hole
KEITH OF THE BORDER
A TALE OF THE PLAINS
Chapter I. The Plainsman
The man was riding just below the summit of the ridge, occasionallyuplifting his head so as to gaze across the crest, shading his eyes withone hand to thus better concentrate his vision. Both horse and riderplainly exhibited signs of weariness, but every movement of the lattershowed ceaseless vigilance, his glance roaming the barren ridges, abrown Winchester lying cocked across the saddle pommel, his left handtaut on the rein. Yet the horse he bestrode scarcely required restraint,advancing slowly, with head hanging low, and only occasionally breakinginto a brief trot under the impetus of the spur.
The rider was a man approaching thirty, somewhat slender and longof limb, but possessing broad, squared shoulders above a deep chest,sitting the saddle easily in plainsman fashion, yet with an erectness ofcarriage which suggested military training. The face under the widebrim of the weather-worn slouch hat was clean-shaven, browned by sun andwind, and strongly marked, the chin slightly prominent, the mouth firm,the gray eyes full of character and daring. His dress was that of roughservice, plain leather "chaps," showing marks of hard usage, a graywoolen shirt turned low at the neck, with a kerchief knotted looselyabout the sinewy bronzed throat. At one hip dangled the holster of a"forty-five," on the other hung a canvas-covered canteen. His was figureand face to be noted anywhere, a man from whom you would expect boththought and action, and one who seemed to exactly fit into his wildenvironment.
Where he rode was the very western extreme of the prairie country,billowed like the sea, and from off the crest of its higher ridges, thewide level sweep of the plains was visible, extending like a vastbrown ocean to the foothills of the far-away mountains. Yet the actualcommencement of that drear, barren expanse was fully ten miles distant,while all about where he rode the conformation was irregular, comprisingnarrow valleys and swelling mounds, with here and there a sharp ravine,riven from the rock, and invisible until one drew up startled at itsvery brink. The general trend of depression was undoubtedly southward,leading toward the valley of the Arkansas, yet irregular ridgesoccasionally cut across, adding to the confusion. The entire surroundinglandscape presented the same aspect, with no special object upon whichthe eye could rest for guidance--no tree, no upheaval of rock, nopeculiarity of summit, no snake-like trail,--all about extended the samedull, dead monotony of brown, sun-baked hills, with slightly greenerdepressions lying between, interspersed by patches of sand or the whitegleam of alkali. It was a dreary, deserted land, parched under the hotsummer sun, brightened by no vegetation, excepting sparse bunches ofbuffalo grass or an occasional stunted sage bush, and disclosing nowhereslightest sign of human habitation.
The rising sun reddened the crest of the hills, and the rider, haltinghis willing horse, sat motionless, gazing steadily into the southwest.Apparently he perceived nothing there unusual, for he slowly turned hisbody about in the saddle, sweeping his eyes, inch by inch, along theline of the horizon, until the entire circuit had been completed. Thenhis compressed lips smiled slightly, his hand unconsciously patting thehorse's neck.
"I reckon we're still alone, old girl," he said quietly, a bit ofSouthern drawl in the voice. "We'll try for the trail, and take iteasy."
He swung stiffly out of the saddle, and with reins dangling over hisshoulder, began the slower advance on foot, the exhausted horse trailingbehind. His was not a situation in which one could feel certain ofsafety, for any ridge might conceal the wary foemen he sought to avoid,yet he proceeded now with renewed confidence. It was the Summer of 1868,and the place the very heart of the Indian country, with every separatetribe ranging between the Yellowstone and the Brazos, either restlessor openly on the war-path. Rumors of atrocities were being retold thelength and breadth of the border, and every report drifting in to eitherfort or settlement only added to the alarm. For once at least the PlainsIndians had discovered a common cause, tribal differences had beenadjusted in war against the white invader, and Kiowas, Comanches,Arapahoes, Cheyennes, and Sioux, had become welded together in savagebrotherhood. To oppose them were the scattered and unorganized settlerslining the more eastern streams, guarded by small detachments of regulartroops posted here and there amid that broad wilderness, scarcely withintouch of each other.
Everywhere beyond these lines of patrol wandered roaming war parties,attacking travellers on the trails, raiding exposed settlements, andoccasionally venturing to try open battle with the small squads of armedmen. In this stress of sudden emergency--every available soldier onactive duty--civilians had been pressed into service, and hastilydespatched to warn exposed settlers, guide wagon trains, or carrydespatches between outposts. And thus our rider, Jack Keith, who knewevery foot of the plains lying between the Republican and the CanadianRivers, was one of these thus suddenly requisitioned, merely becausehe chanced to be discovered unemployed by the harassed commander ofa cantonment just without the environs of Carson City. Twenty minuteslater he was riding swiftly into the northwest, bearing important newsto General Sheridan, commander of the Department, who happened at thatmoment to be at Fort Cairnes. To Keith this had been merely another pagein a career of adventure; for him to take his life in his hands hadlong ago become an old story. He had quietly performed the special dutyallotted him, watched a squadron of troopers trot forth down the valleyof the Republican, received the hasty thanks of the peppery littlegeneral, and then, having nothing better to do, traded his horse inat the government corral for a fresh mount and started back again forCarson City. For the greater portion of two nights and a day he had beenin the saddle, but he was accustomed to this, for he had driven morethan one bunch of longhorns up the Texas trail; and as he had sleptthree hours at Cairnes, and as his nerves were like steel, the thoughtof danger gave him slight concern. He was thoroughly tired, and itrested him to get out of the saddle, while the freshness of the morningair was a tonic, the very breath of which made him forgetful of fatigue.
After all, this was indeed the very sort of experience which appealed tohim, and always had--this life of peril in the open, under the stars andthe sky. He had constantly experienced it for so long now, eight years,as to make it seem merely natural. While he ploughed steadily forwardthrough the shifting sand of the coulee, his thought drifted idly backover
those years, and sometimes he smiled, and occasionally frowned, asvarious incidents returned to memory. It had been a rough life, yetone not unusual to those of his generation. Born of excellent family intidewater Virginia, his father a successful planter, his mother had diedwhile he was still in early boyhood, and he had grown up cut off fromall womanly influence. He had barely attained his majority, a senior atWilliam and Mary's College, when the Civil War came; and one monthafter Virginia cast in her lot with the South, he became a sergeant ina cavalry regiment commanded by his father. He had enjoyed that lifeand won his spurs, yet it had cost. There was much not over pleasantto remember, and those strenuous years of almost ceaseless fighting,of long night marches, of swift, merciless raiding, of lonely scoutingwithin the enemy's lines, of severe wounds, hardship, and suffering,had left their marks on both body and soul. His father had fallen on thefield at Antietam, and left him utterly alone in the world, but he hadfought on grimly to the end, until the last flag of the Confederacy hadbeen furled. By that time, upon the collar of his tattered gray jacketappeared the tarnished insignia of a captain. The quick tears dimmedhis eyes even now as he recalled anew that final parting followingAppomattox, the battle-worn faces of his men, and his own painfuljourney homeward, defeated, wounded, and penniless. It was no homewhen he got there, only a heap of ashes and a few weed-grown acres. Nofamiliar face greeted him; not even a slave was left.
He had honestly endeavored to remain there, to face the future and workit out alone; he persuaded himself to feel that this was his paramountduty to the State, to the memory of the dead. But those very yearsof army life made such a task impossible; the dull, dead monotony ofroutine, the loneliness, the slowness of results, became intolerable. Asit came to thousands of his comrades, the call of the West came to him,and at last he yielded, and drifted toward the frontier. The life therefascinated him, drawing him deeper and deeper into its swirling vortex.He became freighter, mail carrier, hunter, government scout, cowboyforeman. Once he had drifted into the mountains, and took a chance inthe mines, but the wide plains called him back once more to their desertloneliness. What an utter waste it all seemed, now that he looked backupon it. Eight years of fighting, hardship, and rough living, and whathad they brought him? The reputation of a hard rider, a daring playerat cards, a quick shot, a scorner of danger, and a bad man to foolwith--that was the whole of a record hardly won. The man's eyeshardened, his lips set firmly, as this truth came crushing home. Apretty life story surely, one to be proud of, and with probably nobetter ending than an Indian bullet, or the flash of a revolver in somebarroom fight.
The narrow valley along which he was travelling suddenly changed itsdirection, compelling him to climb the rise of the ridge. Slightly belowthe summit he halted. In front extended the wide expanse of the Arkansasvalley, a scene of splendor under the golden rays of the sun, with vividcontrast of colors, the gray of rocks, the yellow of sand, the brownof distant hills, the green of vegetation, and the silver sheen of thestream half hidden behind the fringe of cottonwoods lining itsbanks. This was a sight Keith had often looked upon, but always withappreciation, and for the moment his eyes swept across from bluff tobluff without thought except for its wild beauty. Then he perceivedsomething which instantly startled him into attention--yonder, closebeside the river, just beyond that ragged bunch of cottonwoods, slenderspirals of blue smoke were visible. That would hardly be a camp offreighters at this hour of the day, and besides, the Santa Fe trailalong here ran close in against the bluff, coming down to the riverat the ford two miles further west. No party of plainsmen would everventure to build a fire in so exposed a spot, and no small company wouldtake the chances of the trail. But surely that appeared to be the flapof a canvas wagon top a little to the right of the smoke, yet all wasso far away he could not be certain. He stared in that direction a longwhile, shading his eyes with both hands, unable to decide. There werethree or four moving black dots higher up the river, but so far away hecould not distinguish whether men or animals. Only as outlined againstthe yellow sand dunes could he tell they were advancing westward towardthe ford.
Decidedly puzzled by all this, yet determined to solve the mystery andunwilling to remain hidden there until night, Keith led his horse alongthe slant of the ridge, until he attained a sharp break through thebluff leading down into the valley. It was a rugged gash, nearlyimpassable, but a half hour of toil won them the lower prairie, thewinding path preventing the slightest view of what might be meanwhiletranspiring below. Once safely out in the valley the river could nolonger be seen, while barely a hundred yards away, winding along likea great serpent, ran the deeply rutted trail to Santa Fe. In neitherdirection appeared any sign of human life. As near as he could determinefrom those distant cottonwoods outlined against the sky, for the smokespirals were too thin by then to be observed, the spot sought must beconsiderably to the right of where he had emerged. With this idea inmind he advanced cautiously, his every sense alert, searching anxiouslyfor fresh signs of passage or evidence of a wagon train having desertedthe beaten track, and turned south. The trail itself, dustless andpacked hard, revealed nothing, but some five hundred yards beyond theravine he discovered what he sought--here two wagons had turned sharplyto the left, their wheels cutting deeply enough into the prairie sod toshow them heavily laden. With the experience of the border he was ableto determine that these wagons were drawn by mules, two span to each,their small hoofs clearly defined on the turf, and that they were beingdriven rapidly, on a sharp trot as they turned, and then, a hundred feetfurther, at a slashing gallop. Just outside their trail appeared themarks of a galloping horse. A few rods farther along Keith came to aconfused blur of pony tracks sweeping in from the east, and the wholestory of the chase was revealed as though he had witnessed it with hisown eyes. They must have been crazy, or else impelled by some gravenecessity, to venture along this trail in so small a party. And theywere travelling west--west! Keith drew a deep breath, and swore tohimself, "Of all the blame fools!"
He perceived the picture in all its grewsome details--the two mule-drawnwagons moving slowly along the trail in the early morning; the band ofhostile Indians suddenly swooping out from some obscure hiding placein the bluffs; the discovery of their presence; the desperate effort atescape; the swerving from the open trail in vain hope of reaching theriver and finding protection underneath its banks; the frightenedmules galloping wildly, lashed into frenzy by the man on horseback; thepounding of the ponies' hoofs, punctuated by the exultant yells of thepursuers. Again he swore:
"Of all the blame fools!"
Chapter II. The Scene of Tragedy
Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains Page 1
