Chapter XV. Again Christie Maclaire
Keith possessed sufficient means for several months of idleness, and even if he had not, his reputation as a plains scout would insure him employment at any of the more important scattered army posts. Reliable men for such service were in demand. The restlessness of the various Indian tribes, made specially manifest by raids on the more advanced settlements, and extending over a constantly widening territory, required continuous interchange of communication between commanders of detachments. Bold and reckless spirits had flocked to the frontier in those days following the Civil War, yet all were not of the type to encourage confidence in military authorities. Keith had already frequently served in this capacity, and abundantly proved his worth under rigorous demands of both endurance and intelligence, and he could feel assured of permanent employment whenever desired. Not a few of the more prominent officers he had met personally during the late war—including Sheridan, to whom he had once borne a flag of truce,—yet the spirit of the Confederacy still lingered in his heart: not in any feeling of either hatred or revenge, but in an unwillingness to serve the blue uniform, and a memory of antagonism which would not entirely disappear. He had surrendered at Appomattox, conquered, yet he could not quite adjust himself to becoming companion-in-arms with those against whom he had fought valiantly for four years. Some of the wounds of that conflict still smarted. A natural soldier, anxious to help the harassed settlers, eager enough to be actively employed, he still held aloof from army connections except as a volunteer in case of emergency.
Just now other considerations caused him to desire freedom. He had been accused of murder, imprisoned for it, and in order to escape, had been compelled to steal horses, the most heinous crime of the frontier. Not only for his own protection and safety must the truth of that occurrence at the Cimmaron Crossing be made clear, but he also had now a personal affair with “Black Bart” Hawley to be permanently settled. They had already clashed twice, and Keith intended they should meet again.
Memory of the girl was still in his mind as he and Neb rode silently forth on the black prairie, leading the extra horse behind them. He endeavored to drive the recollection from his mind, so he might concentrate it upon plans for the future, but somehow she mysteriously wove her own personality into those plans, and he was ever seeing the pleading in her eyes, and listening to the soft Southern accent of her voice. Of late years he had been unaccustomed to association with women of high type, and there was that touch of the gentlewoman about this girl which had awakened deep interest. Of course he knew that in her case it was merely an inheritance of her past, and could not truly represent the present Christie Maclaire of the music halls. However fascinating she might be, she could not be worthy any serious consideration. In spite of his rough life the social spirit of the old South was implanted in his blood, and no woman of that class could hold him captive. Yet, some way, she refused to be banished or left behind. Even Neb must have been obsessed by a similar spirit, for he suddenly observed:
“Dat am sutt'nly a mighty fine gal, Massa Jack. I ain't seen nothin' to compare wid her since I quit ol' Virginia—'deed I ain't.”
Keith glanced back at his black satellite, barely able to distinguish the fellow's dim outlines.
“You think her a lady, then?” he questioned, giving thoughtless utterance to his own imagination.
“'Deed I does!” the thick voice somewhat indignant. “I reck'n I knows de real quality when I sees it. I'se 'sociated wid quality white folks befo'.”
“But, Neb, she's a singer in dance halls.”
“I don't believe it, Massa Jack.”