“Well, I wouldn't if I could help it. She don't seem like that kind, but I recognized her as soon as I got her face in the light. She was at the Gaiety in Independence, the last time I was there. Hawley knew her too, and called her by name.”
Neb rubbed his eyes, and slapped his pony's flank, unable to answer, yet still unconvinced.
“I reck'n both ob yer might be mistook,” he insisted doggedly.
“Not likely,” and Keith's brief laugh was not altogether devoid of bitterness. “We both called her Christie Maclaire, and she didn't even deny the name; she was evidently not proud of it, but there was no denial that she was the girl.”
“Dat wasn't like no name dat you called her when we was ridin'.”
“No; she didn't approve of the other, and told me to call her Hope, but I reckon she's Christie Maclaire all right.”
They rode on through the black, silent night as rapidly as their tired horses would consent to travel. Keith led directly across the open prairie, guiding his course by the stars, and purposely avoiding the trails, where some suspicious eye might mark their passage. His first object was to get safely away from the scattered settlements lying east of Carson City. Beyond their radius he could safely dispose of the horses they rode, disappear from view, and find time to develop future plans. As to the girl—well, he would keep his word with her, of course, and see her again sometime. There would be no difficulty about that, but otherwise she should retain no influence over him. She belonged rather to Hawley's class than his.
It was a lonely, tiresome ride, during which Neb made various efforts to talk, but finding his white companion uncommunicative, at last relapsed into rather sullen silence. The horses plodded on steadily, and when daylight finally dawned, the two men found themselves in a depression leading down to the Smoky River. Here they came to a water hole, where they could safely hide themselves and their stock. With both Indians and white men to be guarded against, they took all the necessary precautions, picketing the horses closely under the rock shadows, and not venturing upon building any fire. Neb threw himself on the turf and was instantly asleep, but Keith climbed the steep side of the gully, and made searching survey of the horizon. The wide arc to south, east, and west revealed nothing to his searching eyes, except the dull brown of the slightly rolling plains, with no life apparent save some distant grazing antelope, but to the north extended more broken country with a faint glimmer of water between the hills. Satisfied they were unobserved, he slid back again into the depression. As he turned to lie down he took hold of the saddle belonging to Hawley's horse. In the unbuckled holster his eye observed the glimmer of a bit of white paper. He drew it forth, and gazed at it unthinkingly. It was an envelope, robbed of its contents, evidently not sent through the mails as it had not been stamped, but across its face was plainly written, “Miss Christie Maclaire.” He stared at it, his lips firm set, his gray eyes darkening. If he possessed any doubts before as to her identity, they were all thoroughly dissipated now.
As he lay there, with head pillowed on the saddle, his body aching from fatigue yet totally unable to sleep, staring open-eyed into the blue of the sky, the girl they had left behind awoke from uneasy slumber, aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Murphy. For an instant she failed to comprehend her position, but the strong brogue of the energetic landlady broke in sharply: