Keith of the Border: A Tale of the Plains

by Randall Parrish

  Keith rode straight forward into the sandy desolation, spurring hishorse into a swift trot. After one glance backward as they clambered upthe steep bank, a glance which revealed Hope's slender form in the cabindoor, his eyes never turned again that way. He had a man's stern workto do out yonder, and his purpose could not be swerved, his firmnessof hand and keenness of eye affected, by any thought of her. His lipscompressed, his fingers gripping the rein, he drove all regretful memoryfrom his mind, until every nerve within him throbbed in unison with hispresent purpose. He was right; he knew he was right. It was not hate,not even revenge, which had sent him forth, leaving love behind, buthonor--the honor of the South, and of the frontier, of his ancestry andhis training--honor that drove him now to meet Hawley face to face,man to man, to settle the feud between them for all time. And he rodesmiling, gladly, as to a tryst, now that he was at last alone, free inthe desert.

  The hours passed, the sun rising higher in the blazing blue of the sky;the horse, wearied by the constant pull of the sand, had long sinceslowed down to a walk; the last dim blur of the cottonwoods along theFork had disappeared; and the rider swayed in the saddle, the deadlifelessness of sky and desert dulling his brain. Yet he had notforgotten his errand--rousing constantly from lethargy to sweep hisshaded eyes about the rounded horizon, keenly marking the slightestshadow across the sands, taking advantage of every drift to givehim wider viewpoint, rising in his stirrups to scan the leagues ofdesolation ahead. Twice he drew his revolver from out its sheath, testedit, and slipped in a fresh cartridge, returning the weapon more lightlyto its place, the flap of the holster turned back and held open by hisleg. The sun beat upon him like a ball of fire, the hot sand flingingthe blaze back into his face. He pushed back the upper part of hisshirt, and drank a swallow of tepid water from a canteen strapped behindthe saddle. His eyes ached with the glare, until he saw fantastic redand yellow shapes dancing dizzily before him. The weariness of the longnight pressed upon his eye-balls; he felt the strain of the past hours,the lack of food, the need of rest. His head nodded, and he broughthimself to life again with a jerk and a muttered word, staring out intothe dim, formless distance. Lord, if there was only something moving;something he could concentrate his attention upon; something to rest thestraining eyes!

  But there was nothing, absolutely nothing--just that seemingly endlessstretch of sand, circled by the blazing sky, the wind sweeping itssurface soundless, and hot, as though from the pits of hell; no stir, nomotion, no movement of anything animate or inanimate to break the awfulmonotony. Death! it was death everywhere! his aching eyes rested onnothing but what was typical of death. Even the heat waves seemedfantastic, grotesque, assuming spectral forms, as though ghosts beckonedand danced in the haze, luring him on to become one of themselves. Keithwas not a dreamer, nor one to yield easily to such brain fancies, butthe mad delirium of loneliness gripped him, and he had to struggle backto sanity, beating his hands upon his breast to stir anew thesluggish circulation of his blood, and talking to the horse in strangefeverishness.

  With every step of advance the brooding silence seemed more profound,more deathlike. He got to marking the sand ridges, their slightvariations giving play to the brain. Way off to the left was the mirageof a lake, apparently so real that he had to battle with himself to keepfrom turning aside. He dropped forward in the saddle, his head hanginglow, so blinded by the incessant sun glare he could no longer bear theglitter of that horrible ocean of sand. It was noon now--noon, and hehad been riding steadily seven hours. The thought brought his blurredeyes again to the horizon. Where could he be, the man he sought in theheart of this solitude? Surely he should be here by now, if he had leftthe water-hole at dawn. Could he have gone the longer route, south tothe Fork? The possibility of such a thing seared through him like a hotiron, driving the dulness from his brain, the lethargy from his limbs.God! no! Fate could never play such a scurvy trick as that! The manmust have been delayed; had failed to leave camp early--somewhere ahead,yonder where the blue haze marked the union of sand and sky, he wassurely coming, riding half dead, and drooping in the saddle.

  Again Keith rose in his stirrups, rubbing the mist out of his eyes thathe might see clearer, and stared ahead. What was that away out yonder?a shadow? a spot dancing before his tortured vision? or a moving, livingsomething which he actually saw? He could not tell, he could not besure, yet he straightened up expectantly, shading his eyes, andnever losing sight of the object. It moved, grew larger, darker, morereal--yet how it crawled, crawled, crawled toward him. It seemed asif the vague, shapeless thing would, never take form, never standout revealed against the sky so he could determine the truth. He hadforgotten all else--the silent desert, the blazing sun, the burningwind--all his soul concentrated on that speck yonder. Suddenly itdisappeared--a swale in the sand probably--and, when it rose into viewagain, he uttered a cry of joy--it was a horse and rider!

  Little by little they drew nearer one another, two black specks in thatvast ocean of sand, the only moving, living things under the brazencircle of the sky. Keith was ready now, his eyes bright, the cockedrevolver gripped hard in his hand. The space between them narrowed, andHawley saw him, caught a glimpse of the face under the broad hat brim,the burning eyes surveying him. With an oath he stopped his horse,dragging at his gun, surprised, dazed, yet instantly understanding.Keith also halted, and across the intervening desert the eyes of thetwo men met in grim defiance. The latter wet his dry lips, and spokeshortly: "I reckon you know what this means, Hawley, and why I am here.We're Southerners both of us, and we settle our own personal affairs.You've got to fight me now, man to man."

  The gambler glanced about him, and down at his horse. If he thought offlight it was useless. His lip curled with contempt.

  "Damn your talking, Keith," he returned savagely. "Let's have it overwith," and spurred his horse. The gun of the other came up.

  "Wait!" and Hawley paused, dragging at his rein. "One of us most likelyis going to die here; perhaps both. But if either survives he'll need ahorse to get out of this alive. Dismount; I'll do the same; step awayso the horses are out of range, and then we'll fight it out--is thatsquare?"

  Without a word, his eyes gleaming with cunning hatred, the gambler swungdown from his saddle onto the sand, his horse interposed between him andthe other. Keith did the same, his eyes peering across the back of hisanimal.

  "Now," he said steadily, "when I count three drive your horse aside, andlet go--are you ready?"

  "Damn you--yes!"

  "Then look out--one! two! three!"

  The plainsman struck his horse with the quirt in his left hand, andsprang swiftly aside so as to clear the flank of the animal, hisshooting arm flung out. There was a flash of flame across Hawley'ssaddle, a sharp report, and Keith reeled backward, dropping to hisknees, one hand clutching the sand. Again Hawley fired, but the horse,startled by the double report, leaped aside, and the ball went wild.Keith wheeled about, steadying himself with his outstretched hand, andlet drive, pressing the trigger, until, through the haze over his eyes,he saw Hawley go stumbling down, shooting wildly as he fell. The mannever moved, and Keith endeavored to get up, his gun still held ready,the smoke circling about them. He had been shot treacherously, as acowardly cur might shoot, and he could not clear his mind of the thoughtthat this last act hid treachery also. But he could not raise himself,could not stand; red and black shadows danced before his eyes; hebelieved he saw the arm of the other move. Like a snake he creptforward, holding himself up with one hand, his head dizzily reeling, buthis gun held steadily on that black, shapeless object lying on the sand.Then the revolver hand began to quiver, to shake, to make odd circles;he couldn't see; it was all black, all nothingness. Suddenly he wentdown face first into the sand.

  They both lay motionless, the thirsty sand drinking in their life blood,Hawley huddled up upon his left side, his hat still shading the glazingeyes, Keith lying flat, his face in the crook of an arm whose hand stillgripped a revolver. There was a grim smile on his lips, as if, even
ashe pitched forward, he knew that, after he had been shot to death, hehad gotten his man. The riderless horses gazed at the two figures, anddrifted away, slowly, fearfully, still held in mute subjection totheir dead masters by dangling reins. The sun blazed down from directlyoverhead, the heat waves rising and falling, the dead, desolate desertstretching to the sky. An hour, two hours passed. The horses were now ahundred yards away, nose to nose; all else was changeless. Then into thefar northern sky there rose a black speck, growing larger and larger;others came from east and west, beating the air with widely outspreadwings, great beaks stretched forward. Out from their nests of foulnessthe desert scavengers were coming for their spoil.

  Chapter XXXVII. At the Water-Hole