The boy fidgeted along the edge of the bed, evidently half ashamed of himself, yet obstinate and unyielding. Keith sat watching his face, unable to evolve any means of changing his decision. Hawley's influence just at present was greater than Hope's, because the lad naturally felt ashamed to go slinking home penniless and defeated. His pride held him to Hawley, and his faith that the man would redeem his promise. Keith understood all this readily enough, and comprehended also that if “Black Bart” had any use for the boy it would be for some criminal purpose. What was it? Was there a deeply laid plot back of all these preparations involving both Willoughby and his sister? What was it Hawley was scheming about so carefully, holding this boy deserter in one hand, while he reached out the other after Christie Maclaire? Surely, the man was not working blindly; he must have a purpose in view. Willoughby had acknowledged he had told the fellow something once when he was drunk—about his family history, no doubt, for he had shown him Hope's picture. What that family secret was Keith had no means of guessing, but Hawley, the moment he saw the face on the cardboard, had evidently recognized Christie Maclaire—had thought of some way in which what he now knew could be turned to advantage. The few scattered facts which Keith had collected all seemed to point to such a conclusion—Hawley had sent the boy to Sheridan, where he would be out of sight, with orders to wait for him there, and the promise of a “stake” to keep him quiet. Then he had gone to Independence and Topeka seeking after Christie Maclaire. Evidently he meant to keep the two apart until he had gained from each whatever it was he sought. But what could that be? What family secret could Willoughby have blurted out in his cups, which had so stimulated the gambler's wits?
Two things combined to cause Keith to determine he would uncover this rascality,—his desire to repay Hawley, and his interest in the girl rescued on the Salt Fork. This gossamer web of intrigue into which he had stumbled unwittingly was nothing to him personally; had it not involved both Hawley and Miss Hope, he would have left it unsolved without another thought. But under the circumstances it became his own battle. There was a crime here—hidden as yet, and probably not consummated—involving wrong, perhaps disgrace, to the young girl. He had rescued her once from out the clutches of this man, and he had no intention of deserting her now. Whatever her life might be, she was certainly an innocent victim in this case, deserving his protection. The memory came to him of her face upturned toward him in that little room of the Occidental, her eyes tear-dimmed, her lips asking him to come back to her again. He could not believe her a bad woman, and his lips compressed, his eyes darkened, with fixed determination. He would dig into this until he uncovered the truth; he would find out what dirty trick “Black Bart” was up to.
As he thought this out, not swiftly as recorded, but slowly, deliberately, piecing the bits together within his mind, blindly feeling his way to a final conclusion, the boy had sunk back upon the bed, overcome with liquor, and fallen asleep. Keith stepped over, and looked down upon him in the dim light. He could recognize something of her features in the upturned face, and his eyes softened. There was no use seeking again to arouse him; even had he been sober, he would not have talked freely. Keith lifted the dangling feet into a more comfortable position, turned the lamp lower, went out, and latched the door. Two men were tramping heavily up the stairs, and they turned into the hall at the very moment he disappeared within his own room. He still retained his grasp upon the latch, when a voice outside asked:
“What number did you say, Bill—29?”
Keith straightened up as though suddenly pricked by a knife; he could never forget that voice—it was Hawley's.
Chapter XIX. A Glimpse at Conspiracy
Leaning against the inside of his own door, startled by the rapid sequence of events, Keith was able, from different sounds reaching him, to mentally picture most of what occurred in the next room. He heard Bill sink down into the convenient chair, and drink from the bottle, while the gambler apparently advanced toward the bed, where he stood looking down on its unconscious occupant.
“The fool is dead drunk,” he declared disgustedly. “We can't do anything with him to-night.”
“I say—throw bucket water over him,” hiccoughed the other genially, “allers sobers me off.”