this hole?”
The negro hitched up onto the bench, the whites of his eyes conspicuous as he stared uneasily about—he had a short, squatty figure, with excessively broad shoulders, and a face of intense good humor.
“I reck'n dat am consider'ble ob a story, Massa Jack, de circumlocution ob which would take a heap ob time tellin',” he began soberly. “But it happened 'bout dis away. When de Yankees come snoopin' long de East Sho'—I reck'n maybe it des a yeah after dat time when we done buried de ol' Co'nel—dey burned Missus Caton's house clah to de groun'; de ol' Missus was in Richmond den, an' de few niggers left jest natchally took to de woods. I went into Richmond huntin' de ol' Missus, but, Lawd, Massa Jack, I nebber foun' nuthin' ob her in dat crowd. Den an' officer man done got me, an' put me diggin' in de trenches. Ef dat's what wah am, I sho' don' want no mo' wah. Den after dat I jest natchally drifted. I reckon I libbed 'bout eberywhar yo' ebber heard ob, fo' dar want no use ob me goin' back to de East Sho'. Somebody said dat de West am de right place fo' a nigger, an' so I done headed west.”
He dropped his face in his black hands, and was silent for some minutes, but Keith said nothing, and finally the thick voice continued:
“I tell yo', Massa Jack, it was mighty lonely fo' Neb dem days. I didn't know whar any ob yo' all was, an' it wan't no fun fo' dis nigger bein' free dat away. I got out ter Independence, Missouri, an' was roustaboutin' on de ribber, when a coupple ob men come along what wanted a cook to trabbel wid 'em. I took de job, an' dat's what fetched me here ter Carson City.”
“But what caused your arrest?”
“A conjunction ob circumstances, Massa Jack; yes, sah, a conjunction ob circumstances. I got playin' pokah ober in dat 'Red Light,' an' I was doin' fine. I reckon I'd cleaned up mo'n a hundred dollars when I got sleepy, an' started fo' camp. I'd most got dar w'en a bunch ob low white trash jumped me. It made me mad, it did fo' a fact, an' I reckon I carved some ob 'em up befo' I got away. Ennyhow, de marshal come down, took me out ob de tent, an' fetched me here, an' I ben here ebber sence. I wan't goin' ter let no low down white trash git all dat money.”
“What became of the men you were working for?”
“I reckon dey went on, sah. Dey had 'portent business, an' wouldn't likely wait 'roun' here jest ter help a nigger. Ain't ennybody ben here ter see me, no-how, an' I 'spects I'se eradicated from dey mem'ry—I 'spects I is.”
Chapter V. The One Way
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
