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Updated: June 15, 2025
Both Hickock and Fairbain assisted in this effort to learn the whereabouts of the dead boy's father, but without the slightest result, nor did Keith's investigations reveal the gambler at any of his accustomed resorts, while Scott had apparently made a complete get-away.
Taking Fairbain with him, and hastily reviewing late occurrences to him, Keith crossed over to the corral, realizing that their work his work was not wholly done until Hawley had been located. With this quest in mind he strode straight to the black-bearded giant who had guarded Hope from Sheridan. "What is your name?" he asked sharply. The man looked up scowling. "Hatchett," he answered gruffly.
As he reached out, gripping the astonished loiterer by the collar, the two stared at one another in surprise, and the gripping hand as instantly released its hold. "You, Fairbain! What the devil does this mean? What are you spying on us for?"
He nodded, not yet able to put It more clearly into words. She swayed as though about to faint, and Fairbain caught her, but she slipped through his arms, and fell upon her knees, her face buried in her hands upon the chair. "Oh, thank God," she sobbed, "thank God! I know who I am! I know who I am!"
The little company now consisted of Keith, Fairbain, who, in spite of his rotundity of form had proven himself hard and fit, Neb, having charge of the single pack-horse, the scout Bristoe, and the two cowboys of the "Bar X," rough, wiry fellows, accustomed to exposure and peril. It was emphatically a fighting outfit, and to be trusted in emergency.
Procuring horses at the corral, their forces augmented by two volunteers both men of experience Keith, Waite, Fairbain, and Neb departed without delay, not even pausing to eat but taking the necessary food with them.
"Fairbain met us coming out of the dining-room, you know what a delightful, blunt, blundering old fellow he is! Well, Miss Christie must have made an impression even on his bachelor heart, for he actually requested the privilege of escorting her to the Trocadero, and back to the hotel after the performance to-night hinted at a lunch, the gay old dog, and pranced about like a stage-door Johnnie.
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.
The fellows at the side of the car surged aside to get a glimpse of this new attraction, and Fairbain, taking quick advantage of the opportunity thus presented, swung his charge to the cinders below. Bending before her, and butting his great shoulders into the surging crowd, he succeeded in pushing a passage through, thus finally bringing her forth to the edge of the street.
Knowing instantly what it meant those riderless animals drifting derelict in the heart of the desert his throat dry with fear, the scout wheeled, and spurred back to his party, quickly resolving on a course of action. Hawley and Keith had met; both had fallen, either dead or wounded. A moment's delay now might cost a life; he would need Fairbain, but he must keep the girl back, if possible.
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