Leaning against the inside of his own door, startled by the rapidsequence of events, Keith was able, from different sounds reaching him,to mentally picture most of what occurred in the next room. He heardBill sink down into the convenient chair, and drink from the bottle,while the gambler apparently advanced toward the bed, where he stoodlooking down on its unconscious occupant.
"The fool is dead drunk," he declared disgustedly. "We can't do anythingwith him to-night."
"I say--throw bucket water over him," hiccoughed the other genially,"allers sobers me off."
Hawley made no response, evidently finding a seat on one end of thewashstand.
"Hardly worth while, Scott," he returned finally. "Perhaps I betterhave some understanding with Christie, anyhow, before I pump the boy anyfurther. If we can once get her working with us, Willoughby won't havemuch hand in the play--we shan't need him. Thought I told you to keepsober?"
"Am sober," solemnly, "ain't had but six drinks; just nat'rly tiredout."
"Oh, indeed; well, such a room as this would drive any man to drink. Didyou get what I sent you here after?"
"I sure did, Bart," and Keith heard the fellow get to his feetunsteadily. "Here's the picture, an' some letters. I didn't take onlywhat he had in the grip."
Hawley shuffled the letters over in his hands, apparently hastilyreading them with some difficulty in the dim light.
"Nothing there to give us any help," he acknowledged reluctantly,"mostly advice as far as I can see. Damn the light; a glow worm wouldbe better." There was a pause; then he slapped his leg. "However, it'sclear they live in Springfield, Missouri, and this photograph is apeach. Just look here, Bill! What did I tell you? Ain't Christie a deadringer for this girl?"
"You bet she is, Bart," admitted the other in maudlin admiration, "only,I reckon, maybe some older."
"Well, she ought to be accordin' to Willoughby's story, an' them papersbear him out all right, so I reckon he's told it straight--this Phylliswould be twenty-six now, and that's just about what Christie is. Itwouldn't have fit better if we had made it on purpose. If the girl willonly play up to the part we won't need any other evidence--her facewould be enough."
Keith could hear the beating of his own heart in the silence thatfollowed. Here was a new thought, a new understanding, a complete newturn to affairs. Christie Maclaire, then, was not Willoughby's sisterHope. The girl he rescued on the desert--the girl with the pleadingbrown eyes, and the soft blur of the South on her lips--was notthe music hall singer. He could hardly grasp the truth at first, itantagonized so sharply with all he had previously believed. Yet, if thiswere true his own duty became clearer than ever; aye, and would be morewillingly performed. But what did Hawley know? Did he already realizethat the girl he had first met on the stage coach, and later inveigledinto the desert, was Hope, and not the music hall artist? He, of course,fully believed her to be Christie Maclaire at that time, but somethingmight have occurred since to change that belief. Anyhow, the man wasnot now seeking Hope, but the other. Apparently the latter was eitheralready here in Sheridan or expected soon. And exactly what was itthe gambler desired this Maclaire woman to do? This was the importantmatter, and for its solution Keith possessed merely a few hints, afew vague suggestions. She was expected to represent herself asPhyllis--Phyllis who? Some Phyllis surely whose physical resemblance toHope must be sufficiently marked to be at once noticeable. Willoughbyhad evidently revealed to Hawley some hidden family secret, havingmoney involved, no doubt, and in which the discovery of this mysteriousPhyllis figured. She might, perhaps, be a sister, or half-sister, whohad disappeared, and remained ignorant as to any inheritance. Hope'spicture shown by the boy, and reminding Hawley at once of ChristieMaclaire, had been the basis of the whole plot. Exactly what the detailsof that plot might be Keith could not figure out, but one thing wasreasonably certain--it was proposed to defraud Hope. And who in the verytruth was Hope? It suddenly occurred to him as a remarkably strange factthat he possessed not the slightest inkling as to the girl's name. Herbrother had assumed to be called Willoughby when he enlisted in thearmy, and his companions continued to call him this. If he couldinterview the girl now for only five minutes he should be able probablyto straighten out the whole intricate tangle. But where was she? Wouldshe have remained until this time at Fort Larned with Kate Murphy?
There was a noise of movement in the next room. Apparently as Hawleyarose carelessly from his edge of the washstand he had dislodged theglass, which fell shivering on the floor. Scott swore audibly at theloss.
"Shut up, Bill," snapped the gambler, irritated, "you've got the bottleleft. I'm going; there's nothing for any of us to do now, until after Isee Christie. You remain here! Do you understand?--remain here. Damnme, if that drunken fool isn't waking up." There was a rattling ofthe rickety bed, and then the sound of Willoughby's voice, thick fromliquor.
"Almighty glad see you, Bart--am, indeed. Want money--Bill an' I bothwant money--can't drink without money--can't eat without money--shay,when you goin' stake us?"
"I'll see you again in the morning, Fred," returned the other briefly."Go on back to sleep."
"Will when I git good an' ready--go sleep, stay wake, just as Iplease--don't care damn what yer do--got new frien' now."
"A new friend? Who?" Hawley spoke with aroused interest.
"Oh, he's all right--he's mighty fine fellow--come in wisoutin--invitation--ol' friend my sister--called--called her Hope--you fool,Bart Hawley, think my sister Christie--Christie--damfino the name--mysister, Hope--don't want yer money--my--my new friend, he 'll stakeme--he knows my sister--Hope."
The gambler grasped the speaker, shaking him into some slight semblanceof sobriety.
"Now, look here, Willoughby, I want the truth, and mean to have it," heinsisted. "Has some one been in here while Scott was gone?"
"Sure--didn't I just tell yer?--friend o' Hope's."
"Who was he? Speak up! I want the name!"
There was a faint gurgling sound, as though the gambler's vise-likefingers were at the boy's throat; a slight struggle, and then the chokedvoice gasped out:
"Let up! damn yer! He called himself Jack Keith."
The dead silence which ensued was broken only by heavy breathing. ThenScott swore, bringing his fist down with a crash on the washstand.
"That rather stumps yer, don't it, Bart? Well, it don't me. I tell yerit's just as I said from the first. It was Keith an' that nigger whatjumped ye in the cabin. They was hidin' there when we rode in. He justnat'rly pumped the gal, an' now he's up here trailin' you. Blame it all,it makes me laugh."
"I don't see what you see to laugh at. This Keith isn't an easy man toplay with, let me tell you. He may have got on to our game."
"Oh, hell, Bart, don't lose your nerve. He can't do anything, becausewe've got the under holt. He's a fugitive; all we got to do islocate him, an' have him flung back inter jail--there's murder an'hoss-stealing agin him."
Hawley seemed to be thinking swiftly, while his companion took anotherdrink.
"Well, pard, ain't that so?"
"No, that trick won't work, Scott. We could do it easily enough if wewere down in Carson, where the boys would help us out. The trouble uphere is that 'Wild Bill' Hickock is Marshal of Sheridan, and he and Inever did hitch. Besides, Keith was one of his deputies down at Dodgetwo years ago--you remember when Dutch Charlie's place was cleaned out?Well, Hickock and Keith did that job all alone, and 'Wild Bill' isn'tgoing back on that kind of a pal, is he? I tell you we've got to fightthis affair alone, and on the quiet. Maybe the fellow don't know muchyet, but he's sure on the trail, or else he wouldn't have been in heretalking to Willoughby. We've got to get him, Scott, somehow. Lord, man,there's a clean million dollars waiting for us in this deal, and I'mready to fight for it. But I'm damned sleepy, and I'm going to bed. Youlocate Keith to-morrow, and then, when you're sober, we'll figure outhow we can get to him best; I've got to set Christie right. Good-night,Bill."
He went out into the hall and down the creaking st
airs, the man hewanted so badly listening to his descending footsteps, half tempted tofollow. Scott did not move, perhaps had already fallen drunkenly asleepon his chair, and finally Keith crossed his own room, and lay down. Thedin outside continued unabated, but the man's intense weariness overcameit all, and he fell asleep, his last conscious thought a memory of Hope.
Chapter XX. Hope Goes to Sheridan