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Updated: July 15, 2025
I escorted Hope there, dressed as near like Miss Maclaire as possible, and left her inside the vestibule waiting for 'Black Bart' to appear. At the head of the alley I ran into Fairbain, told him something of the circumstances, and persuaded him to escort Miss Christie back to the hotel. He was not very hard to persuade.
Bristoe cast an appealing glance at Fairbain, mopping his face vigorously, not knowing what to say, and the other attempted to turn the tide. "Not likely not likely at all no reason why it should be probably just a stray horse you stay back here, Miss Hope Ben and I will find out, and let you know." She looked at the two faces, realizing intuitively that they were concealing something.
Fairbain had originally joined the searching party, fully as eager as Keith himself to run down the renegade Hawley, but after an hour of resultless effort, his entire thought shifted to the woman they had left alone at the hotel. He could not, as yet, fully grasp the situation, but he remained loyal to the one overpowering truth that he loved Christie Maclaire.
A narrow bench stood against the wall, with a couple of half drunken men lounging upon it. The marshal routed them out with a single, expressive gesture. "Wait here with the lady, Fairbain," he said shortly, "and I'll arrange for the room." They watched him glance in at the bar, vigilant and cautious, and then move directly across to the desk. "Tommy," he said genially to the clerk.
You can do it far better than I, for she will not suspect you of any interest in this affair. Tell her any lie you can think up on account of Hawley's absence. Good Lord, old man, can't you see this is your chance; go in and win." Fairbain struggled to his feet, still a bit dazed and uncertain, yet tempted by the opportunity.
Fairbain grasped her hand, dinned by the medley of discordant sounds, and confused by the vociferous jam of humanity. A band came tooting down the street in a hack, a fellow, with a voice like a fog horn, howling on the front seat.
"Hey, there," he said shortly, grabbing a shirt-sleeved individual by the arm. "Where's Charlie?" The fellow looked at him wonderingly. "Charlie? Oh, you mean the 'Kid'? Well, he ain't here ter-night; had a weddin', an' is totin' the bridal couple 'round." Fairbain swore discreetly under his breath, and cast an uncertain glance at the slender figure shrinking beside him.
Well, Hawley came, and Hope met him; they went out of the alley-way together arm in arm, talking pleasantly, and turned this way toward the hotel. The doctor and I both saw and heard them. I was delayed not to exceed two minutes, speaking a final word to Fairbain, and when I reached the street they had disappeared.
Here, also, was tragedy, intense, compelling, which for the instant seemed to even overshadow the fate of the girl he loved. There were three men present, and the woman. She stood clutching the back of a chair, white-faced and open-eyed, with Fairbain slightly behind her, one hand grasping her arm, the other clinched, his jaw set pugnaciously.
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