slowly:

"We are in much the same position, Neb, and the fate of one is liable to
be the fate of both. This is my story"--and briefly as possible, he
ran over the circumstances which had brought him there, putting the
situation clear enough for the negro's understanding, without wasting
any time upon detail. Neb followed his recital with bulging eyes, and an
occasional exclamation. At the end he burst forth:

"Yo' say dar was two ob dem white men murdered--one an ol' man wid a
gray beard, an' de odder 'bout thirty? Am dat it, Massa Jack, an' dey
had fo' span ob mules, an' a runnin' hoss?"

"Yes."

"An' how far out was it?"

"About sixty miles."

"Oh, de good Lawd!" and the negro threw up his hands dramatically. "Dat
sutt'nly am my outfit! Dat am Massa Waite an' John Sibley."

"You mean the same men with whom you came here from Independence?"

Neb nodded, overcome by the discovery.

"But what caused them to run such a risk?" Keith insisted. "Didn't they
know the Indians were on the war path?"

"Sho'; I heard 'em talkin' 'bout dat, but Massa Waite was jest boun' foh
to git movin'. He didn't 'pear to be 'fraid ob no Injuns; reck'ned dey'd
nebber stop him, dat he knowed ebbery chief on de plains. I reck'n dat
he did, too."

"But what was he so anxious to get away for?"

"I dunno, Massa, I done heerd 'em talk some 'bout dey plans, an' 'bout
some gal dey wanted ter fin', but I didn't git no right sense to it. De
Gin'ral, he was a mighty still man."

"The General? Whom do you mean? Not Waite?"

"John Sibley done called him dat."

Then Keith remembered--just a dim, misty thread at first, changing
slowly into a clear recollection. He was riding with despatches from
Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson, and had been shot through the side. The
first of Jackson's troops he reached was a brigade of North Carolinians,
commanded by General Waite--General Willis Waite. He had fallen from his
horse at the outposts, was brought helpless to the General's tent, and
another sent on with the papers. And Mrs. Waite had dressed and bandaged
his wound. That was where he had seen that woman's face before, with
its haunting familiarity. He drew the locket from beneath his shirt, and
gazed at the countenance revealed, with new intelligence. There could
be no doubt--it was the face of her who had cared for him so tenderly
in that tent at Manassas before the fever came and he had lost
consciousness. And that, then, was Willis Waite lyi