Keith said nothing for some moments, staring up at the light stealing in through the window grating, his mind once again active. The eyes of the black man had the patient look of a dog as they watched; evidently he had cast aside all responsibility, now that this other had come. Finally Keith spoke slowly:

“We are in much the same position, Neb, and the fate of one is liable to be the fate of both. This is my story”—and briefly as possible, he ran over the circumstances which had brought him there, putting the situation clear enough for the negro's understanding, without wasting any time upon detail. Neb followed his recital with bulging eyes, and an occasional exclamation. At the end he burst forth:

“Yo' say dar was two ob dem white men murdered—one an ol' man wid a gray beard, an' de odder 'bout thirty? Am dat it, Massa Jack, an' dey had fo' span ob mules, an' a runnin' hoss?”

“Yes.”

“An' how far out was it?”

“About sixty miles.”

“Oh, de good Lawd!” and the negro threw up his hands dramatically. “Dat sutt'nly am my outfit! Dat am Massa Waite an' John Sibley.”

“You mean the same men with whom you came here from Independence?”

Neb nodded, overcome by the discovery.

“But what caused them to run such a risk?” Keith insisted. “Didn't they know the Indians were on the war path?”

“Sho'; I heard 'em talkin' 'bout dat, but Massa Waite was jest boun' foh to git movin'. He didn't 'pear to be 'fraid ob no Injuns; reck'ned dey'd nebber stop him, dat he knowed ebbery chief on de plains. I reck'n dat he did, too.”

“But what was he so anxious to get away for?”

“I dunno, Massa, I done heerd 'em talk some 'bout dey plans, an' 'bout some gal dey wanted ter fin', but I didn't git no right sense to it. De Gin'ral, he was a mighty still man.”

“The General? Whom do you mean? Not Waite?”

“John Sibley done called him dat.”

Then Keith remembered—just a dim, misty thread at first, changing slowly into a clear recollection. He was riding with despatches from Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson, and had been shot through the side. The first of Jackson's troops he reached was a brigade of North Carolinians, commanded by General Waite—General Willis Waite. He had fallen from his horse at the outposts, was brought helpless to the General's tent, and another sent on with the papers. And Mrs. Waite had dressed and bandaged his wound. That was where he had seen that woman's face before, with its haunting familiarity. He drew the locket from beneath his shirt, and gazed at the countenance revealed, with new intelligence. There could be no doubt—it was the face of her who had cared for him so tenderly in that tent at Manassas before the fever came and he had lost consciousness. And that, then, was Willis Waite lying in that shallow grave near the Cimmaron Crossing, and for whose death he had been arrested. 'T was a strange world, and a small one. What a miserable ending to a life like his—a division commander of the Army of Northern Virginia, a Lieutenant-Governor of his State. What strange combination of circumstances could ever have brought such a man to this place, and sent him forth across those Indian-scouted plains? Surely nothing ordinary. And why should those border desperadoes have followed, through sixty miles of desolation, to trike him down? It was not robbery, at least in the ordinary sense. What then? And how was “Black Bart” involved? Why should he be sufficiently interested to swear out a warrant, and then assist in his arrest? There must be something to all this not apparent upon the surface—some object, some purpose shrouded in mystery. No mere quarrel, no ordinary feud, no accident of meeting, no theory of commonplace robbery, would account for the deed, or for the desperate efforts now being made to conceal it.

Some way, these questions, thus surging upon him, became a call to live, to fight, to unravel their mystery. The memory of that sweet-faced woman who had bent above him when the fever began its mastery, appealed to him now with the opportunity of service. He might be able to clear this, bring to her the truth, save her from despair, and hand over to justice the murderers of her husband. It was up to him alone to accomplish this—no one else knew what he knew, suspected what he suspected. And there was but one way—through escape. To remain there in weak surrender to fate could have but one ending, and that swift and sudden. He had no doubt as to “Black Bart's” purpose, or of his ability to use the “Red Light” outfit as desired. The whole plan was clearly evident, and there would be no delay in execution—all they were waiting for was night, and a lax guard. He glanced about at the walls of the room, his eyes grown hard, his teeth clenched.

“Neb,” he said shortly, “I guess that was your outfit all right, but they were not killed by Indians. They were run down by a gang from this town—the same fellows who have put you and me in here. I don't know what they were after—that's to be found out later,—but the fight you put up at the camp spoiled their game for once, and led to your arrest. They failed to get what was wanted in Carson, and so they trailed the party to the Cimmaron Crossing. Then I got on their track, and fearing the result, they've landed me also. Now they 'll get rid of us both as best they can. These fellows won't want any trial—that would be liable to give the whole trick away—but they have got to put us where we won't talk. There is an easy way to do this, and that is by a lynching bee. Do you get my drift, Neb?”

The whites of the negro's eyes were very much in evidence, his hands gripping at the bench on which he sat.

“Fo' de Lawd, yes, Massa Jack, I sho' does. I corroborates de whole thing.”

“Then you are willing to take a chance with me?”

“Willin'! Why, Massa Jack, I'se overjoyed; I ain't gwine leave yer no mo'. I'se sho' gwine ter be yo' nigger. What yo' gwine ter do?”

Keith ran his eyes over the walls, carefully noting every peculiarity.

“We'll remain here quietly just as long as it is daylight, Neb,” he replied finally, “but we'll try every board and every log to discover some way out. Just the moment it grows dark enough to slip away without being seen we've got to hit the prairie. Once south of the Arkansas we're safe, but not until then. Have you made any effort to get out?”

The negro came over to him, and bent down.

“I was layin' on a board what I'd worked loose at one end,” he whispered hoarsely, “back ob de bench, but I couldn't jerk it out wid'out somethin' ter pry it up wid.”

“Where is it?”

“Right yere, Massa Jack.”

It was a heavy twelve-inch plank, part of the flooring, and the second from the side-wall. Keith managed to get a grip next to the black fingers, and the two pressed it up far enough for the white man to run one arm through the opening up to his shoulder and grope about below.

“There's a two-foot space there,” he reported, as they let the board settle silently down into position. “The back part of this building must be set up on piles. I reckon we could pry that plank up with the bench, Neb, but it's liable to make considerable racket. Let's hunt about first for some other weak spot.”

They crept across the floor, testing each separate board, but without discovering a place where they could exert a leverage. The thick planks were tightly spiked down. Nor did the walls offer any better encouragement. Keith lifted himself to the grated window, getting a glimpse of the world without, but finding the iron immovable, the screws solidly imbedded in the outside wood. He dropped to the floor, feeling baffled and discouraged.

“It will have to be the plank back of the bench, Neb,” he announced briefly, wiping the perspiration from his face. “Get down there, and work it as loose as you can without making any noise, while I keep my ear to the door and listen for any interruption.”

They took turns at this labor, discovering a loose nail which gave an opening purchase at the crack, thus enabling the insertion of a small wooden block, and insuring space for a good finger grip when the right time came. A sleepy Mexican brought in their dinner, and set it down on the bench without a word, but on his return with supper, the marshal accompanied him, and remained while they ate, talking to Keith, and staring about the room. Fortunately, the single window was to the west, and the last rays of the sun struck the opposite wall, leaving the space behind the bench in deep shadow. Whatever might be the plans of “Black Bart” and his cronies, Keith was soon convinced they were unknown to Hicks, who had evidently been deceived into thinking that this last arrest had created no excitement.

“That's why we picked yer up so early,” he explained, genially. “Bart said if we got to yer afore the boys woke up they'd never hear nuthin' 'bout it, an' so thar wouldn't be no row. He didn't even think thar'd be enny need o' keepin' a special guard ter-night, but I reckon I won't take no such chance as that, an' I'll have a couple o' deputies prowlin' 'round fer luck. When Carson does wake up, she's hell.”

He left them tobacco and pipes, and went away evidently convinced that he had performed his full duty. The two prisoners, puffing smoke-rings into the air, heard the heavy clang of the iron bar falling into place across the door, and sat looking into one another's faces through the deepening twilight. In the mind of both blaik and white reposed the same thought. The negro was first to break the silence.

“'Pears ter me, Massa Jack, like dis yere Bart pusson am mighty anxious ter hab no suspicions raised.”

“Anybody but Hicks would see that,” acknowledged the other, the rings of smoke circling his head, “but he hasn't any brains. It was pure nerve that got him the job. Well, this is one time that 'Bart pusson' is going to find an empty coop. We'll get out, Neb, just as soon as it gets dark enough. Hicks isn't likely to put on his extra guard for an hour yet, and the 'Red Light' bunch won't be fit for business much before midnight. By that time we'll be in the sand hills, heading south, able to give them a run for their money—we'll have horses, too, if we can find them.”

The negro's eyes shone white.

“Fo' de Lawd's sake, Massa,” he protested, “dat'd sho' be a hangin' job if ebber dey cotched us.”

Keith laughed, knocking out the ashes from his pipe.

“With an hour's start that will be the least of my troubles,” he said, quietly.