Keith possessed sufficient means for several months of idleness, and even if he had not, his reputation as a plains scout would insure him employment at any of the more important scattered army posts. Reliable men for such service were in demand. The restlessness of the various Indian tribes, made specially manifest by raids on the more advanced settlements, and extending over a constantly widening territory, required continuous interchange of communication between commanders of detachments. Bold and reckless spirits had flocked to the frontier in those days following the Civil War, yet all were not of the type to encourage confidence in military authorities. Keith had already frequently served in this capacity, and abundantly proved his worth under rigorous demands of both endurance and intelligence, and he could feel assured of permanent employment whenever desired. Not a few of the more prominent officers he had met personally during the late war—including Sheridan, to whom he had once borne a flag of truce,—yet the spirit of the Confederacy still lingered in his heart: not in any feeling of either hatred or revenge, but in an unwillingness to serve the blue uniform, and a memory of antagonism which would not entirely disappear. He had surrendered at Appomattox, conquered, yet he could not quite adjust himself to becoming companion-in-arms with those against whom he had fought valiantly for four years. Some of the wounds of that conflict still smarted. A natural soldier, anxious to help the harassed settlers, eager enough to be actively employed, he still held aloof from army connections except as a volunteer in case of emergency.

Just now other considerations caused him to desire freedom. He had been accused of murder, imprisoned for it, and in order to escape, had been compelled to steal horses, the most heinous crime of the frontier. Not only for his own protection and safety must the truth of that occurrence at the Cimmaron Crossing be made clear, but he also had now a personal affair with “Black Bart” Hawley to be permanently settled. They had already clashed twice, and Keith intended they should meet again.

Memory of the girl was still in his mind as he and Neb rode silently forth on the black prairie, leading the extra horse behind them. He endeavored to drive the recollection from his mind, so he might concentrate it upon plans for the future, but somehow she mysteriously wove her own personality into those plans, and he was ever seeing the pleading in her eyes, and listening to the soft Southern accent of her voice. Of late years he had been unaccustomed to association with women of high type, and there was that touch of the gentlewoman about this girl which had awakened deep interest. Of course he knew that in her case it was merely an inheritance of her past, and could not truly represent the present Christie Maclaire of the music halls. However fascinating she might be, she could not be worthy any serious consideration. In spite of his rough life the social spirit of the old South was implanted in his blood, and no woman of that class could hold him captive. Yet, some way, she refused to be banished or left behind. Even Neb must have been obsessed by a similar spirit, for he suddenly observed:

“Dat am sutt'nly a mighty fine gal, Massa Jack. I ain't seen nothin' to compare wid her since I quit ol' Virginia—'deed I ain't.”

Keith glanced back at his black satellite, barely able to distinguish the fellow's dim outlines.

“You think her a lady, then?” he questioned, giving thoughtless utterance to his own imagination.

“'Deed I does!” the thick voice somewhat indignant. “I reck'n I knows de real quality when I sees it. I'se 'sociated wid quality white folks befo'.”

“But, Neb, she's a singer in dance halls.”

“I don't believe it, Massa Jack.”

“Well, I wouldn't if I could help it. She don't seem like that kind, but I recognized her as soon as I got her face in the light. She was at the Gaiety in Independence, the last time I was there. Hawley knew her too, and called her by name.”

Neb rubbed his eyes, and slapped his pony's flank, unable to answer, yet still unconvinced.

“I reck'n both ob yer might be mistook,” he insisted doggedly.

“Not likely,” and Keith's brief laugh was not altogether devoid of bitterness. “We both called her Christie Maclaire, and she didn't even deny the name; she was evidently not proud of it, but there was no denial that she was the girl.”

“Dat wasn't like no name dat you called her when we was ridin'.”

“No; she didn't approve of the other, and told me to call her Hope, but I reckon she's Christie Maclaire all right.”

They rode on through the black, silent night as rapidly as their tired horses would consent to travel. Keith led directly across the open prairie, guiding his course by the stars, and purposely avoiding the trails, where some suspicious eye might mark their passage. His first object was to get safely away from the scattered settlements lying east of Carson City. Beyond their radius he could safely dispose of the horses they rode, disappear from view, and find time to develop future plans. As to the girl—well, he would keep his word with her, of course, and see her again sometime. There would be no difficulty about that, but otherwise she should retain no influence over him. She belonged rather to Hawley's class than his.

It was a lonely, tiresome ride, during which Neb made various efforts to talk, but finding his white companion uncommunicative, at last relapsed into rather sullen silence. The horses plodded on steadily, and when daylight finally dawned, the two men found themselves in a depression leading down to the Smoky River. Here they came to a water hole, where they could safely hide themselves and their stock. With both Indians and white men to be guarded against, they took all the necessary precautions, picketing the horses closely under the rock shadows, and not venturing upon building any fire. Neb threw himself on the turf and was instantly asleep, but Keith climbed the steep side of the gully, and made searching survey of the horizon. The wide arc to south, east, and west revealed nothing to his searching eyes, except the dull brown of the slightly rolling plains, with no life apparent save some distant grazing antelope, but to the north extended more broken country with a faint glimmer of water between the hills. Satisfied they were unobserved, he slid back again into the depression. As he turned to lie down he took hold of the saddle belonging to Hawley's horse. In the unbuckled holster his eye observed the glimmer of a bit of white paper. He drew it forth, and gazed at it unthinkingly. It was an envelope, robbed of its contents, evidently not sent through the mails as it had not been stamped, but across its face was plainly written, “Miss Christie Maclaire.” He stared at it, his lips firm set, his gray eyes darkening. If he possessed any doubts before as to her identity, they were all thoroughly dissipated now.

As he lay there, with head pillowed on the saddle, his body aching from fatigue yet totally unable to sleep, staring open-eyed into the blue of the sky, the girl they had left behind awoke from uneasy slumber, aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Murphy. For an instant she failed to comprehend her position, but the strong brogue of the energetic landlady broke in sharply:

“A bit av a cup av coffee fer ye, honey,” she explained, crossing to the bed. “Shure an' there's nuthin' loike it when ye first wake up. Howly Mither, but it's toird 'nough ye do be lookin' yet.”

“I haven't slept very well,” the girl confessed, bringing her hand out from beneath the coverlet, the locket still tightly clasped in her fingers. “See, I found this on the floor last night after you had gone down stairs.”

“Ye did!” setting the coffee on a convenient chair, and reaching out for the trinket. “Let's have a look at it once. Angels av Hiven, if it isn't the same the ol' Gineral was showin' me in the parly.”

The other sat up suddenly, her white shoulders and rounded throat gleaming.

“The old General, you said? What General? When was he here?”

“Shure now, be aisy, honey, an' Oi 'll tell ye all there is to it. It's not his name Oi know; maybe Oi niver heard till av it, but 'twas the 'Gineral' they called him, all right. He was here maybe three days outfittin'—a noice spoken ol' gintlemin, wid a gray beard, an' onc't he showed me the locket—be the powers, if it do be his, there's an openin' to it, an' a picter inside.”

The girl touched the spring, revealing the face within, but her eyes were blinded with tears. The landlady looked at her in alarm.

“What is it, honey? What is it? Did you know him?”

The slender form swayed forward, shaken with sobs.

“He was my father, and—and this is my mother's picture which he always carried.”

“Then what is your name?”

“Hope Waite.”

Kate Murphy looked, at the face half hidden in the bed-clothes. That was not the name which Keith had given her, but she had lived on the border too long to be inquisitive. The other lifted her head, flinging back her loosened hair with one hand.

“Mr. Keith dropped it,” she exclaimed. “Where do you suppose he got it?” Then she gave a quick, startled cry, her eyes opening wide in horror. “The Cimmaron Crossing, the murder at the Cimmaron Crossing! He—he told me about that; but he never showed me this—this. Do you—do you think—”

Her voice failed, but Kate Murphy gathered her into her arms.

“Cry here, honey,” she said, as if to a child. “Shure an' Oi don't know who it was got kilt out yonder, but Oi'm tellin' ye it niver was Jack Keith what did it—murther ain't his stoyle.”