Puzzled at the unexpected recognition, yet realizing the friendliness of the man, Keith grasped the pudgy fingers extended with some cordiality.
“Don't remember me I s'pose--don't think you ever saw me--delirious when I came--hate to tell you what you was talking about--gave you hypodermic first thing--behaved well enough though when I dug out the lead--Minié bullet, badly blunted hitting the rib--thought you might die with blood poison--couldn't stay to see--too damn much to do--evidently didn't though--remember me now?”
“No, only from what you say. You must have been at General Waite's headquarters.”
“That's it--charge of Stonewall's field hospital--just happened to ride into Waite's camp that night--damn lucky for you I did--young snip there wanted to saw the bone--I stopped that--liked your face--imagined you might be worth saving--ain't so sure of it now, or you wouldn't be out in this God forsaken country, eating such grub--my name's Fairbain--Joseph Wright Fairbain, M.D.--contract surgeon for the railroad--working on the line?”
Keith shook his head, feeling awakening interest in his peculiar companion.
“No; just drifted in here from down on the Arkansas,” he explained, briefly. “Did you know General Waite was dead?”
“Dead?--Willis Waite dead?” he repeated. “What do you mean, sir? Are you sure? When?”
“I ought to be sure; I buried him just this side the Cimmaron Crossing out on the Santa Fé trail.”
“But do you know it was General Waite?” the man's insistent tone full of doubt.
“I have no question about it,” returned Keith, conclusively. “The man was Waite's size and general appearance, with gray beard, similar to the one I remember he wore during the war. He had been scalped, and his face beaten beyond recognition, but 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.”
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.”