“Oh, on that horrible 'Boots Hill'?”
“Only temporarily, little girl,” his voice full of deepest sympathy. “In a few weeks, perhaps, it could be removed East.”
She was silent for what seemed to him a long while; then she looked up into his face, clinging to his arm.
“Yes,” she said, “that will be best.”
That same afternoon, the sun low in the west, they placed the dead boy in his shallow grave on “Boots Hill.” It was a strange funeral, in a strange environment—all about the barren, deserted plains; far away to the east and west, the darker line marking the railroad grade, and just below, nestled close in against the foot of the hill, the squalid town of tents and shacks. There were not many to stand beside the open grave, for few in Sheridan knew the lad, and funerals were not uncommon—some cronies, half-drunk and maudlin, awed somewhat by the presence of the marshal, Doctor Fairbain, Keith, and Hope. That was all excepting the post chaplain from Fort Hays, who, inspired by a glimpse of the girl's unveiled face, spoke simple words of comfort. It was all over with quickly, and with the red sun still lingering on the horizon, the little party slowly wended their way back, down the steep trail into the one long street of Sheridan.
At the hotel Neb was waiting, the whites of his eyes shining with excitement, his pantomime indicating important news. As soon as he could leave Hope, Keith hurried down to interview his dusky satellite, who appeared about to burst with restrained information. As soon as uncorked that individual began to flow volubly:
“I sho' done seed 'em, Massa Jack; I done seed 'em both.”
“Both? Both who?”
“Massa Waite, sah, an' dat black debble dat we was huntin' fo'. It was a mos' surprisin' circumstance, sah—a mos' surprisin' circumstance.”
“Well, go on; where did you see them? Do you mean they were together?”