“Don't remember me I s'pose—don't think you ever saw me—delirious when I came—hate to tell you what you was talking about—gave you hypodermic first thing—behaved well enough though when I dug out the lead—Minié bullet, badly blunted hitting the rib—thought you might die with blood poison—couldn't stay to see—too damn much to do—evidently didn't though—remember me now?”
“No, only from what you say. You must have been at General Waite's headquarters.”
“That's it—charge of Stonewall's field hospital—just happened to ride into Waite's camp that night—damn lucky for you I did—young snip there wanted to saw the bone—I stopped that—liked your face—imagined you might be worth saving—ain't so sure of it now, or you wouldn't be out in this God forsaken country, eating such grub—my name's Fairbain—Joseph Wright Fairbain, M.D.—contract surgeon for the railroad—working on the line?”
Keith shook his head, feeling awakening interest in his peculiar companion.
“No; just drifted in here from down on the Arkansas,” he explained, briefly. “Did you know General Waite was dead?”
The doctor's ruddy face whitened.
“Dead?—Willis Waite dead?” he repeated. “What do you mean, sir? Are you sure? When?”
“I ought to be sure; I buried him just this side the Cimmaron Crossing out on the Santa Fé trail.”
“But do you know it was General Waite?” the man's insistent tone full of doubt.
“I have no question about it,” returned Keith, conclusively. “The man was Waite's size and general appearance, with gray beard, similar to the one I remember he wore during the war. He had been scalped, and his face beaten beyond recognition, but papers in his pockets were sufficient to prove his identity. Besides, he and his companion—a young fellow named Sibley—were known to have pulled out two days before from Carson City.”