“When was this?”
“Ten days ago.”
Fairbain's lips smiled, the ruddy coloring sweeping back into his cheeks.
“Damn me, Keith, you came near giving me a shock,” he said, jerkily. “Shouldn't be so careless—not sure my heart's just right—tendency to apoplexy, too—got to be guarded against. Now, let me tell you something—maybe you buried some poor devil out at Cimmaron Crossing—but it wasn't Willis Waite. How do I know? Because I saw him, and talked with him yesterday—damn me, if I didn't, right here in this town.”
Chapter XVII. In the Next Room
Keith, his eyes filled with undisguised doubt, studied the face of the man opposite, almost convinced that he was, in some way, connected with the puzzling mystery. But the honesty of the rugged face only added to his perplexity.
“Are you certain you are not mistaken?”
“Of course I am, Keith. I've known Waite for fifteen years a bit intimately—have met him frequently since the war—and I certainly talked with him. He told me enough to partially confirm your story. He said he had started for Santa Fé light, because he couldn't get enough men to run a caravan—afraid of Indians, you know. So, he determined to take money—buy Mexican goods—and risk it himself. Old fighting cock wouldn't turn back for all the Indians on the plains once he got an idea in his head—he was that kind—Lord, you ought to seen the fight he put up at Spottsylvania! He got to Carson City with two wagons, a driver and a cook—had eight thousand dollars with him, too, the damn fool. Cook got into row, gambling, cut a man, and was jugged. Old Waite wouldn't leave even a nigger in that sort of fix—natural fighter—likes any kind of row. So, he hung on there at Carson, but had sense enough—Lord knows where he got it—to put all but a few hundred dollars in Ben Levy's safe. Then, he went out one night to play poker with his driver and a friend—had a drink or two—doped, probably, and never woke up for forty-eight hours—lost clothes, money, papers, and whole outfit—was just 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 the papers that bothered him most—them, and the mules.”
“You say there was no trace?”