Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains

by Randall Parrish

  The Carson City lock-up was an improvised affair, although a decidedlypopular resort. It was originally a two-room cabin with gable to thestreet, the front apartment at one time a low groggery, the keepersleeping in the rear room. Whether sudden death, or financial reverses,had been the cause, the community had in some manner become possessedof the property, and had at once dedicated it to the commonweal. For thepurpose thus selected it was rather well adapted, being strongly built,easily guarded, and on the outskirts of the town. With iron grating overthe windows, the back door heavily spiked, and the front secured byiron bars, any prisoner once locked within could probably be found whenwanted. On the occasion of Keith's arrival, the portion abutting uponthe street was occupied by a rather miscellaneous assembly--the drunkand disorderly element conspicuous--who were awaiting their severalcalls to appear before a local justice and make answer for variousmisdeeds. Some were pacing the floor, others sat moodily on benchesranged against the wall, while a few were still peacefully slumberingupon the floor. It was a frowsy, disreputable crowd, evincing but mildcuriosity at the arrival of a new prisoner. Keith had barely time toglance about, recognizing no familiarity of face amid the mass peeringat him, as he was hustled briskly forward and thrust into the rear room,the heavy door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock.

  He was alone, with only the faintest murmur of voices coming to himthrough the thick partition. It was a room some twelve feet square, opento the roof, with bare walls, and containing no furniture except a rudebench. Still dazed by the suddenness of his arrest, he sank down uponthe seat, leaned his head on his hands, and endeavored to think. It wasdifficult to get the facts marshalled into any order or to comprehendclearly the situation, yet little by little his brain grasped the maindetails, and he awoke to a full realization of his condition, of theforces he must war against. The actual murderers of those two men on thetrail had had their suspicions aroused by his actions; they believedhe guessed something of their foul deed, and had determined to clearthemselves by charging the crime directly against him. It was a shrewdtrick, and if they only stuck to their story, ought to succeed. He hadno evidence, other than his own word, and the marshal had already takenfrom his pockets the papers belonging to the slain man. He had not foundthe locket hidden under his shirt, yet a more thorough search woulddoubtless reveal that also.

  Even should the case come to trial, how would it be possible for him toestablish innocence, and--_would it ever come to trial?_ Keith knew thecharacter of the frontier, and of Carson City. The inclination of itscitizens in such cases was to act first, and reflect later. The law hadbut slender hold, being respected only when backed by the strong hand,and primitive instincts were always in the ascendency, requiring merelya leader to break forth into open violence. And in this case would therebe any lack of leadership? Like a flash his mind reverted to "BlackBart." There was the man capable of inciting a mob. If, for some unknownreason, he had sufficient interest to swear out the warrant and assistin the arrest, he would have equal cause to serve those fellows behindhim in other ways. Naturally, they would dread a trial, with itspossibility of exposure, and eagerly grasp any opportunity for wipingthe slate clean. Their real security from discovery undoubtedly layin his death, and with the "Red Light" crowd behind them they wouldexperience no trouble in getting a following desperate enough for anypurpose.

  The longer Keith thought the less he doubted the result. It was notthen a problem of defence, but of escape, for he believed now that noopportunity to defend himself would ever be allowed. The arrest wasmerely part of the plot intended to leave him helpless in the hands ofthe mob. In this Hicks was in no way blamable--he had merely performedhis sworn duty, and would still die, if need be, in defence of hisprisoner. He was no tool, but only an instrument they had found means ofusing.

  Keith was essentially a man of action, a fighter by instinct, and solong accustomed to danger that the excitement of it merely put new fireinto his veins. Now that he understood exactly what threatened, allnumbing feeling of hesitancy and doubt vanished, and he became instantlyalive. He would not lie there in that hole waiting for the formation ofa mob; nor would he trust in the ability of the marshal to defend him.

  He had some friends without--not many, for he was but an occasionalvisitor at Carson--who would rally to Hicks's assistance, but therewould not be enough on the side of law and order to overcome the "RedLight" outfit, if once they scented blood. If he was to be savedfrom their clutches, he must save himself; if his innocence was everestablished it would be by his own exertions--and he could accomplishthis only out yonder, free under the arch of sky.

  He lifted his head, every nerve tingling with desperate determination.The low growl of voices was audible through the partition, but therewas no other sound. Carson City was still resting, and there would beno crowd nor excitement until much later. Not until nightfall would anyattack be attempted; he had six or eight hours yet in which to perfecthis plans. He ran his eyes about the room searching for some spotof weakness. It was dark back of the bench, and he turned in thatdirection. Leaning over, he looked down on the figure of a man curledup, sound asleep on the floor. The fellow's limbs twitched as if in adream, otherwise he might have deemed him dead, as his face was buriedin his arms. A moment Keith hesitated; then he reached down and shookthe sleeper, until he aroused sufficiently to look up. It was the faceof a coal-black negro. An instant the fellow stared at the man toweringover him, his thick lips parted, his eyes full of sudden terror. Then hesat up, with hands held before him as though warding off a blow.

  "Fo' de Lawd's sake," he managed to articulate finally, "am dis sho'yo', Massa Jack?"

  Keith, to whom all colored people were much alike, laughed at theexpression on the negro's face.

  "I reckon yer guessed the name, all right, boy. Were you the cook of theDiamond L?"

  "No, sah, I nebber cooked no di'onds. I'se ol' Neb, sah."

  "What?"

  "Yes, sah, I'se de boy dat libbed wid ol' Missus Caton durin' de wah. Iain't seen yo', Massa Jack, sence de day we buried yo' daddy, ol' MassaKeith. But I knowed yo' de berry minute I woke up. Sho', yo' 'membersNeb, sah?"

  It came to Keith now in sudden rush of memory--the drizzling rain in thelittle cemetery, the few neighbors standing about, a narrow fringe ofslaves back of them, the lowering of the coffin, and the hollow soundof earth falling on the box; and Neb, his Aunt Caton's house servant, ablack imp of good humor, who begged so hard to be taken back with him tothe war. Why, the boy had held his stirrup the next morning when he rodeaway. The sudden rush of recollection seemed to bridge the years, andthat black face became familiar, a memory of home.

  "Of course, I remember, Neb," he exclaimed, eagerly, "but that's allyears ago and I never expected to see you again. What brought you Westand got you into this hole?"

  The negro hitched up onto the bench, the whites of his eyes conspicuousas he stared uneasily about--he had a short, squatty figure, withexcessively broad shoulders, and a face of intense good humor.

  "I reck'n dat am consider'ble ob a story, Massa Jack, de circumlocutionob which would take a heap ob time tellin'," he began soberly. "Butit happened 'bout dis away. When de Yankees come snoopin' long de EastSho'--I reck'n maybe it des a yeah after dat time when we done buriedde ol' Co'nel--dey burned Missus Caton's house clah to de groun'; de ol'Missus was in Richmond den, an' de few niggers left jest natchally tookto de woods. I went into Richmond huntin' de ol' Missus, but, Lawd,Massa Jack, I nebber foun' nuthin' ob her in dat crowd. Den an' officerman done got me, an' put me diggin' in de trenches. Ef dat's what waham, I sho' don' want no mo' wah. Den after dat I jest natchally drifted.I reckon I libbed 'bout eberywhar yo' ebber heard ob, fo' dar want nouse ob me goin' back to de East Sho'. Somebody said dat de West am deright place fo' a nigger, an' so I done headed west."

  He dropped his face in his black hands, and was silent for some minutes,but Keith said nothing, and finally the thick voice continued:

  "I tell yo', Massa Jack, it was mighty
lonely fo' Neb dem days. I didn'tknow whar any ob yo' all was, an' it wan't no fun fo' dis niggerbein' free dat away. I got out ter Independence, Missouri, an' wasroustaboutin' on de ribber, when a coupple ob men come along what wanteda cook to trabbel wid 'em. I took de job, an' dat's what fetched me hereter Carson City."

  "But what caused your arrest?"

  "A conjunction ob circumstances, Massa Jack; yes, sah, a conjunction obcircumstances. I got playin' pokah ober in dat 'Red Light,' an' I wasdoin' fine. I reckon I'd cleaned up mo'n a hundred dollars when I gotsleepy, an' started fo' camp. I'd most got dar w'en a bunch ob lowwhite trash jumped me. It made me mad, it did fo' a fact, an' I reckonI carved some ob 'em up befo' I got away. Ennyhow, de marshal come down,took me out ob de tent, an' fetched me here, an' I ben here ebber sence.I wan't goin' ter let no low down white trash git all dat money."

  "What became of the men you were working for?"

  "I reckon dey went on, sah. Dey had 'portent business, an' wouldn'tlikely wait 'roun' here jest ter help a nigger. Ain't ennybody ben hereter see me, no-how, an' I 'spects I'se eradicated from dey mem'ry--I'spects I is."

  Chapter V. The One Way