“What evidence is there?”
“Five men swear they saw ye haulin' the bodies about, and lootin' the pockets.”
Then Keith understood, his heart beating rapidly, his teeth clenched to keep back an outburst of passion. So that was their game, was it?—some act of his had awakened the cowardly suspicions of those watching him across the river. They were afraid that he knew them as white men. And they had found a way to safely muzzle him. They must have ridden hard over those sand dunes to have reached Carson City and sworn out this warrant. It was a good trick, likely enough to hang him, if the fellows only stuck to their story. All this flashed through his brain, yet somehow he could not clearly comprehend the full meaning, his mind confused and dazed by this sudden realization of danger. His eyes wandered from the steady gaze of the marshal, who had half drawn his gun fearing resistance, to the man at the bottom of the steps. Suddenly it dawned upon him where he had seen that dark-skinned face, with the black goatee, before—at the faro table of the “Red Light.” He gripped his hands together, instantly connecting that sneering, sinister face with the plot.
“Who swore out that warrant?”
“I did, if you need to know,” a sarcastic smile revealing a gleam of white teeth, “on the affidavit of others, friends of mine.”
“Who are you?”
“I'm mostly called 'Black Bart.'”
That was it; he had the name now—“Black Bart.” He straightened up so quickly, his eyes blazing, that the marshal jerked his gun clear.
“See here, Jack,” shortly, “are yer goin' to raise a row, or come along quiet?”
As though the words had aroused him from a bad dream, Keith turned to front the stern, bearded face.