papers in his pockets were sufficient to
prove his identity. Besides, he and his companion--a young fellow named
Sibley--were known to have pulled out two days before from Carson City."

"When was this?"

"Ten days ago."

Fairbain's lips smiled, the ruddy coloring sweeping back into his
cheeks.

"Damn me, Keith, you came near giving me a shock," he said, jerkily.
"Shouldn't be so careless--not sure my heart's just right--tendency
to apoplexy, too--got to be guarded against. Now, let me tell
you something--maybe you buried some poor devil out at Cimmaron
Crossing--but it wasn't Willis Waite. How do I know? Because I saw him,
and talked with him yesterday--damn me, if I didn't, right here in this
town."

Chapter XVII. In the Next Room

Keith, his eyes filled with undisguised doubt, studied the face of the
man opposite, almost convinced that he was, in some way, connected with
the puzzling mystery. But the honesty of the rugged face only added to
his perplexity.

"Are you certain you are not mistaken?"

"Of course I am, Keith. I've known Waite for fifteen years a bit
intimately--have met him frequently since the war--and I certainly
talked with him. He told me enough to partially confirm your story. He
said he had started for Santa Fe light, because he couldn't get enough
men to run a caravan--afraid of Indians, you know. So, he determined to
take money--buy Mexican goods--and risk it himself. Old fighting cock
wouldn't turn back for all the Indians on the plains once he got an idea
in his head--he was that kind--Lord, you ought to seen the fight he put
up at Spottsylvania! He got to Carson City with two wagons, a driver and
a cook--had eight thousand dollars with him, too, the damn fool. Cook
got into row, gambling, cut a man, and was jugged. Old Waite wouldn't
leave even a nigger in that sort of fix--natural fighter--likes any kind
of row. So, he hung on there at Carson, but had sense enough--Lord knows
where he got it--to put all but a few hundred dollars in Ben Levy's
safe. Then, he went out one night to play poker with his driver and
a friend--had a drink or two--doped, probably, and never woke up for
forty-eight hours--lost clothes, money, papers, and whole outfit--was
just naturally cleaned out--couldn't get a trace worth following after.
You ought to have heard him cuss when he told me--it seemed to be the
papers that bothered him most--them, and the mules."

"You say there was no trace?"

"