d or
alive!" Well, they had him at last--dead; and the plainsman shuddered,
as he turned 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.

"Well, Hatchett, I am going to ask you a question or two, and advise
you to reply just about as straight as you know how. I am in no mood
to-night for any foolishness. Where is 'Black Bart' Hawley?"

"How in hell should I know?"

"You do know, just the same. Perhaps not to an inch, or a mile, but
you know near enough where he is, and where he has been since you left
Sheridan."

"If I do, I'm damned if I'll tell you."

"No? Well now, Hatchett, listen to me," and Keith's voice had in it the
click of a steel trap. "You'll either answer, and answer straight, or
we'll hang you to that cottonwood in about five minutes. If you want
a chance for your miserable life you answer me. We have our way of
treating your kind out in this country. Sit up, you brute! Now where did
Hawley go after he left you?"

"To Fort Larned."

"After those fresh horses?"

"Yes."

"He didn't bring them to you; I know that. Where has he been since?"

"Topeky and Leavenworth."

"How do you know?"

"He writ me a note the boss herder brought."

"Hand it over."

Keith took the dirty slip of paper the man reluctantly extracted from
his belt, and Fairbain lit matches while he ran his eyes hastily over
the lines. As he ended he crushed the paper between his fingers, and
walked away to the end of the corral. He wanted to be alone, to think,
to decide definitely upon what he ought to do. Hawley, according to the
schedule just read, must have left Larned alone early the day before;
this night he would be camped at the water-hole; with daybreak he
expected to resume his lonely journey across the desert to the Salt
Fork. For years Keith had lived a primitive life, and in some ways his
thought had grown primitive. His code of honor was that of the border,
tinged by that of the South before the war. The antagonism existing
between him and this gambler was personal, private, deadly--not an
affair for any others--outsiders--to meddle with. He could wait