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Updated: May 8, 2025
"We were alone for nearly fifty miles," her voice faltering slightly, "and and he called me what you did." "Christie Maclaire?" "Yes; he he seemed to think he knew me, and I needed help so much that I let him believe so. I thought it could do no harm, and then, when I found he actually knew Fred, I didn't think of anything else, only how fortunate I was to thus meet him.
"But, man, that was not Miss Maclaire I was with; it was Hope Waite. Come back here under the tent flap while I explain." Fearful of the coming of Hawley he fairly dragged the portly figure of the bewildered Doctor with him, striving, by quickly spoken words, to make him comprehend the situation.
As he concluded speaking she burst forth: "But I don't understand in the least, Captain Keith. Why did this man Hawley send me to the Salt Fork?" "He thought he was dealing with Christie Maclaire. He had some reason for getting her away; getting her where he could exercise influence over her." "Yes yes; but who is she?" "That is what makes the matter so hard to unravel.
"It's my very last trip to this town," she said decisively, her red lips pressed tightly together. Miss Maclaire had indeed ample reason to feel aggrieved over her reception.
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.
The man stood hat in hand, bowing slightly, unable to comprehend why he should have been sent for, yet marvelling again at the remarkable resemblance between this woman and that other whom he had left at Fort Larned. As Miss Maclaire stood with back toward the window, she presented the same youthful appearance, the same slenderness of figure, the same contour of face.
The marshal smiled. "All right, little boy," he said soberly. "Now you trot straight along to bed. Don't let me catch you on the street again to-night, and I'd advise you not to pull another gun you're too slow on the trigger for this town. Come along, Doctor, and we'll get Miss Maclaire to her hotel." He shouldered his way through the collected crowd, the others following.
Hawley had planted his seed deep and well in fruitful soil. "You make a strong and charming advocate, Miss Maclaire," he returned, feeling the necessity of saying something. "I should like to have you equally earnest on my side. Yet it will be hard to convince me that 'Black Bart' is the paragon of virtue you describe. I wish I might believe for your sake.
"Fairbain," spoke Keith, his lips almost at the ear of the other. "That was Hope, all right, and she has got him going already. Now, man, will you help us out?" "I? How?" "Go back there, and meet Miss Maclaire. I don't care where you take her lunch, anywhere; only keep her from the hotel as long as possible.
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."
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