Keith, his eyes filled with undisguised doubt, studied the face of theman opposite, almost convinced that he was, in some way, connected withthe puzzling mystery. But the honesty of the rugged face only added tohis perplexity.
"Are you certain you are not mistaken?"
"Of course I am, Keith. I've known Waite for fifteen years a bitintimately--have met him frequently since the war--and I certainlytalked with him. He told me enough to partially confirm your story. Hesaid he had started for Santa Fe light, because he couldn't get enoughmen to run a caravan--afraid of Indians, you know. So, he determined totake money--buy Mexican goods--and risk it himself. Old fighting cockwouldn't turn back for all the Indians on the plains once he got an ideain his head--he was that kind--Lord, you ought to seen the fight he putup at Spottsylvania! He got to Carson City with two wagons, a driver anda cook--had eight thousand dollars with him, too, the damn fool. Cookgot into row, gambling, cut a man, and was jugged. Old Waite wouldn'tleave even a nigger in that sort of fix--natural fighter--likes any kindof row. So, he hung on there at Carson, but had sense enough--Lord knowswhere he got it--to put all but a few hundred dollars in Ben Levy'ssafe. Then, he went out one night to play poker with his driver anda friend--had a drink or two--doped, probably, and never woke up forforty-eight hours--lost clothes, money, papers, and whole outfit--wasjust naturally cleaned out--couldn't get a trace worth following after.You ought to have heard him cuss when he told me--it seemed to be thepapers that bothered him most--them, and the mules."
"You say there was no trace?"
"Nothing to travel on after forty-eight hours--a posse started out nextmorning, soon as they found him--when they got back they reported havingrun the fellows as far as Cimmaron Crossing--there they got across intothe sand hills, and escaped."
"Who led the posse?"
"A man called Black, I think," he said.
"Black Bart?"
"Yes, that's the name; so, I reckon you didn't bury Willis Waite thistime, Captain. You wouldn't have thought he was a dead one if you hadheard him swear while he was telling the story--it did him proud; neverheard him do better since the second day at Gettysburg--had his ear shotoff then, and I had to fix him up--Lord, but he called me a few things."
Keith sat silent, fully convinced now that the doctor was telling thetruth, yet more puzzled than ever over the peculiar situation in whichhe found himself involved.
"What brought the General up here?" he questioned, finally.
"I haven't much idea," was the reply. "I don't think I asked himdirectly. I wasn't much interested. There was a hint dropped, however,now you speak about it. He's keen after those papers, and doesn'tfeel satisfied regarding the report of the posse. It's my opinion he'strailing after Black Bart."
The dining-room was thinning out, and they were about the only ones leftat the tables. Keith stretched himself, looking around.
"Well, Doctor, I am very glad to have met you again, and to learn Waiteis actually alive. This is a rather queer affair, but will have to workitself out. Anyway, I am too dead tired to-night to hunt after cluesin midst of this babel. I've been in the saddle most of the time for aweek, and have got to find a bed."
"I reckon you won't discover such a thing here," dryly. "Got seven ina room upstairs, and others corded along the hall. Better share mycell--only thing to do."
"That would be asking too much--I can turn in at the corral with Neb;I've slept in worse places."
"Couldn't think of it, Keith," and the doctor got up. "Besides, yousleep at night, don't you?"
"Usually, yes," the other admitted.
"Then you won't bother me any--no doctor sleeps at night in Sheridan;that's our harvest time. Come on, and I'll show you the way. Whenmorning comes I'll rout you out and take my turn."
Keith had enjoyed considerable experience in frontier hotels, butnothing before had ever quite equalled this, the pride of Sheridan.The product of a mushroom town, which merely existed by grace ofthe temporary railway terminus, it had been hastily and flimsilyconstructed, so it could be transported elsewhere at a moment's notice.Every creak of a bed echoed from wall to wall. The thin partitions oftenfailed to reach the ceiling by a foot or two, and the slightest noisearoused the entire floor. And there was noise of every conceivable kind,in plenty, from the blare of a band at the Pioneer Dance Hall opposite,to the energetic cursing of the cook in the rear. A discordant din ofvoices surged up from the street below--laughter, shouts, the shrieks ofwomen, a rattle of dice, an occasional pistol shot, and the continuousyelling of industrious "barkers." There was no safety anywhere. Anexploding revolver in No. 47 was quite likely to disturb the peacefulslumbers of the innocent occupant of No. 15, and every sound of quarrelin the thronged bar-room below caused the lodger to curl up in momentaryexpectation of a stray bullet coursing toward him through the floor.With this to trouble him, he could lie there and hear everythingthat occurred within and without. Every creak, stamp, and snore wasfaithfully reported; every curse, blow, snarl reechoed to his ears.Inside was hell; outside was Sheridan.
Wearied, and half dead, as Keith was, sleep was simply impossible.He heard heavy feet tramping up and down the hall; once a drunken manendeavored vainly to open his door; not far away there was a scuffle,and the sound of a body falling down stairs. In some distant apartment afellow was struggling to draw off his tight boots, skipping about on onefoot amid much profanity. That the boot conquered was evident whenthe man crawled into the creaking bed, announcing defiantly, "If thelandlord wants them boots off, let him come an' pull 'em off."Across the hall was a rattle of chips, and the voices of several men,occasionally raised in anger. Now and then they would stamp on the flooras an order for liquid refreshments from below. From somewhere beyond,the long-drawn melancholy howl of a distressed dog greeted the risingmoon.
Out from all this pandemonium Keith began to unconsciously detectthe sound of voices talking in the room to his left. In the lull ofobstructing sound a few words reached him through the slight open spacebetween wall and ceiling.
"Hell, Bill, what's the use goin' out again when we haven't the price?"
"Oh, we might find Bart somewhere, and he'd stake us. I guess I knowenough to make him loosen up. Come on; I'm goin'."
"Not me; this town is too near Fort Hays; I'm liable to run into some ofthe fellows."
A chair scraped across the floor as Bill arose to his feet; evidentlyfrom the noise he had been drinking, but Keith heard him lift the latchof the door.
"All right, Willoughby," he said, thickly, "I'll try my luck, an' if Isee Bart I'll tell him yer here. So long."
He shuffled along the hall and went, half sliding, down stairs, andKeith distinguished the click of glass and bottle in the next room.He was sitting up in bed now, wide awake, obsessed with a desire toinvestigate. The reference overheard must have been to Hawley, and ifso, this Willoughby, who was afraid of meeting soldiers from the fort,would be the deserter Miss Hope was seeking. There could be no harmin making sure, and he slipped into his clothes, and as silently aspossible, unlatched his door. There was a noisy crowd at the farther endof the hall, and the sound of some one laboriously mounting the stairs.Not desiring to be seen, Keith slipped swiftly toward the door of theother room, and tried the latch. It was unfastened, and he steppedquietly within, closing it behind him.
A small lamp was on the washstand, a half-emptied bottle and two glassesbeside it, while a pack of cards lay scattered on the floor. Fullydressed, except for a coat, the sole occupant lay on the bed, butstarted up at Keith's unceremonious entrance, reaching for his revolver,which had slipped to the wrong side of his belt.
"What the hell!" he exclaimed, startled and confused.
The intruder took one glance at him through the dingy light--a boy ofeighteen, dark hair, dark eyes, his face, already exhibiting signs ofdissipation, yet manly enough in chin and mouth--and smiled.
"I could draw while you were thinking about it," he said, easily, "but Iam not here on the fight. Are you Fred Willoughby?"
"What do you want to know for?"
"Curiosity largely; thought I'd like to ask you a question or two."
"You--you're not from the fort?"
"Nothing to do with the army; this is a private affair."
The boy was sullen from drink, his eyes heavy.
"Then who the devil are you? I never saw you before."
"That's very true, and my name wouldn't help any. Nevertheless, you'reperfectly welcome to it. I am Jack Keith." No expression of recognitioncame into the face of the other, and Keith added curtly, "Shall wetalk?"
There was a moment's silence, and then Willoughby swung his feet overthe edge of the bed onto the floor.
"Fire away," he said shortly, "until I see what the game is about."
Chapter XVIII. Interviewing Willoughby
Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains Page 17
