 Chapter 25 The Man on the Frenchman Sinclair's place on the Frenchman backed up on a sharp rise against the foothills of the Bridger Range, and the ranch buildings were strung along the creek. The ranch house stood on ground high enough to command the country for miles up and down the valley. Only two roads lead from Medicine Bend and the south into the Frenchman country, one a wagon road following Smoky Creek and running through Dale Canyon, the other a pack road known as the Gridley Trail crossing the Topa Topa Hills and making a short cut from the Dunning Ranch on the crawling stone to the Frenchman. The entire valley is, in fact, so difficult to access saved by the long and roundabout wagon road that the sight of a complete outfit of buildings such as that put up by Sinclair always came as a surprise to the traveller, who, reaching the crest of the hills, looked suddenly down a thousand feet on his well-ordered sheds and barns and corrals. The rider who reaches the Topa Topa crest on the Gridley Trail now sees in the valley below only traces of what was so laboriously planned and perfectly maintained a few years ago. But even the ruins left on the Frenchman show the Herculean labor undertaken by the man in setting up a comfortable and even an elaborate establishment in so inaccessible a spot. His defiance of all ordinary means of doing things was shown in his preference for bringing much of his building material over the trail instead of around by the Smoky Creek Road. A good part of the lumber that went into his house was packed over the Gridley Trail. His piano was brought through the canyon on a wagon, but the mechanical player for the piano and his wagons themselves were packed over the trail on the backs of mules. A heavy steel range for the kitchen had been brought over the same way. For Sinclair no work was hard enough, none went fast enough, and reverie never rose high enough. During the time of his activity in the Frenchman Valley, Sinclair had the best appointed place between William's cache and the Crawling Stone, and in the Crawling Stone only the Dunning Ranch would bear comparison with his own. On the Frenchman Sinclair kept an establishment the fame of which is still foremost in mountain-story. Here his cows ranged the canyons and the hills for miles, and his horses were known from Medicine Bend to Fort Tracy. Here he rallied his men, laid snares for his enemies, dispensed a reckless hospitality, ruled his men with an oath and a blow, and carried a six-shooter to explain orders and answer questions with. Over the Gridley Trail from the Crawling Stone, Marion and Dixie Dunning rode early in the morning the day after MacLeod and his men left the Stone Ranch with their work done. The trail is a good three hours long, and they reached Sinclair's place at about ten o'clock. He was waiting for Marion, she had sent word she should come, and he came out of the front door into the sunshine with a smile of welcome when he saw Dixie with her. Dixie, long and admirer of Sinclair's, as women usually were, had recast somewhat violently her opinions of him. She faced him now with a criminal consciousness that she knew too much. The weight of the dreadful secret weighed on her, and her responsibility in the issue of the day ahead did not help to make her greeting an easy one. One thing only was fixed in her mind, and reflected in the tension of her lips and her eyes, the resolve to keep at every cost the promise she had given. For Dixie had fallen under the spell of a man even more compelling than Sinclair, and felt strangely bounded to what she had said. Sinclair, however, had spirit enough to smooth quite a way every embarrassment. Bachelors' quarters, he explained roughly and pleasantly as he led the two women toward the house. Cow men make poor housekeepers, but you must feel at home. And when Dixie, looking at his Indian rugs on the floors, the walls, and the couches, said she thought he had little to apologize for, Sinclair looked gratified and took off his hat again. "'Just a moment,' he said, standing at the side of the door. "'I've never been able to get Marion over here before, so it happens that a woman's foot has never entered the new house. I want to watch one of you cross the threshold for the first time.' Dixie, moving ahead, retreated with a laugh. "'You first, then, Marion. No, Dixie, you! Never! You first!' So Marion, quite red and wretchedly ill at ease, walked into the ranch house first. Sinclair shone nowhere better than as a host. When he had placed his guests comfortably in the living-room he told them the story of the building of the house. Then he made a ciceroan of himself and explained with running comments each feature of his plan as he showed how it had been carried out through the various rooms. Surprised at the attractiveness of things, Dixie found herself making mental notes for her own use, and began asking questions. Sinclair was superb in answering, but the danger of admiring things became at once apparent. For when Dixie exclaimed, over a handsome bear-skin, a rich dark-brown, grisly skin of unusual size, Sinclair told the story of the killing. Baird his tremendous forearm to show where the polished claws had ripped him, and, disregarding Dixie's protests, insisted on sending the skin over to Crawling Stone Ranch as a souvenir of her visit. "'I lived a great deal alone over here,' he said, waving Dixie's continued refusal magnificently aside as he moved into the next room. "'I've got a few good dogs, and I hunt just enough to keep my hand in with a rifle.' Dixie quailed a little at the smile that went with the words. "'The men, at least the kind I'm mixed with, don't care for grisly skins, and to enjoy anything you've got to have sympathetic company. Don't you know that?' he asked, looking admiringly at Dixie. "'I've got another skin for you, a silver tip,' he added, in deep gentle tones, addressing Marion. "'It has a fine head, as fine as I ever saw in the Smithsonian. It's down at Medicine Bend now, being dressed and mounted. "'By the way, I've forgotten to ask you, Miss Dixie, about the high water. How did you get through at the ranch?' Dixie, sitting on the piano bench, looked up with resolution. "'Briefly,' she exclaimed, "'Mr. McLeod came to our rescue with bags and mattresses and a hundred men, and he has put in a revetment a thousand feet long. Oh, we are regular river experts at our house now. "'Had you any trouble here, Mr. Sinclair?' "'No, the Frenchman behaves pretty well in the rock. We had forty feet of water here one day, though. Forty feet, that's right.' McLeod, yes. Able fell, I guess, too, though he and I don't hit it off.' Sinclair said back in his chair, and as he spoke he spoke magnanimously. "'He doesn't like me, but that's no fault of his. Railroad men and good ones, too, sometimes get started wrong with one another.' "'Well, I'm glad he took care of you.' "'Try that piano, Miss Dixie, will you? I don't know much about pianos, but that ought to be a good one. I would wheel the player over for you, but anyone that plays as beautifully as you do ought not be allowed to use a player.' "'Marion, I want to talk a few minutes with you. May I? Do you mind going out under the cottonwood?' Dixie's heart jumped. "'Don't be gone long, Marion,' she exclaimed impulsively. "'For you know, Mr. Sinclair, we must get back by two o'clock.' And Dixie, paled with apprehension, looked at them both. Marion, quite composed, nodded reassuringly and followed Sinclair out of doors into the sunshine. For a few minutes Dixie fingered wildly on the piano at some half-forgotten air, and in a fever of excitement walked out on the porch to see where they were. To her relief she saw Marion sitting near Sinclair under the big tree in front of the house where the horses stood. Dixie, with her hands on her girdle, walked forlornly back and forth, hummed a tune, sat down in a rocking chair, fanned herself, rose, walked back and forth again, and reflected she was perfectly helpless and that Sinclair might kill Marion a hundred times before she could reach her. And the thought that Marion was perhaps wholly unconscious of danger increased her anxiety. She sat down in despair. How could Whispering Smith have allowed anyone he had a care for to be exposed in this dreadful way? Trying to think what to do, Dixie hurried back into the living-room, walked to the piano, took the pile of sheet music from the top, and sat down to thumb it over. She threw song after song on the chair beside her. There were sheets of gaudy, coon songs and ragtime with flowering covers, and they seemed to give off odours of cheap perfume. Dixie hardly saw the titles as she passed them over, but of a sudden she stopped. Between two sheets of the music lay a small hackerchief. It was must, and in the corner of it Nelly was written conspicuously in a laundry-mark. The odor of must came in an instant sickening. Dixie threw the music disdainfully aside and sprang up with a flushed face to leave the room. Sinclair's remark about the first woman to cross his threshold came back to her. From that moment Dixie hated him. But no sooner had she seated herself on the porch than she remembered she had left her hat in the house and rose to go in after it. She was resolved not to leave it under the roof another moment, and she had resolved to go over and wait where her horse was tied. As she re-entered the doorway she stopped. In the room she had just left a cowboy set at the table taking apart a revolver to clean it. The revolver was spread in its parts before him, but across the table lay a rifle. The man had not been in the room when she left at a moment before. Dixie passed behind him. He paid no attention to her. He had not looked up when she entered the room. Passing behind him once more to go out, Dixie looked through the open window before which he sat. Sinclair and Marion sitting under the cottonwood tree were in plain sight, and the muzzle of the rifle where it lay covered them. Dixie thrilled, but the man was busy with his work. Breathing deeply she walked out on the porch again. Sinclair she thought was looking straight at her. And in her anxiety to appear unconscious she turned, walked to the end of the house, and at the corner almost ran into a man sitting out of doors in the shade mending a saddle. He had removed his belt to work and his revolver lay in the holster on the bench, its grip just within reach of his hand. Dixie walked in front of him but he did not look up. She turned as if changing her mind, and with a little flirt of her riding skirt sat down in the porch chair, feeling a faint moisture upon her forehead. I'm going to leave this country, Marion, Sinclair was saying. There's nothing here for me. I can see that. What's the use of my eating my heart out over the way I've been treated? I've given the best years of my life to this railroad, and now they turn me down with a kick and a curse. It's the old story of the Indian and his dog, only I don't propose to let them make soup of me. I'm going to the coast, Marion, I'm going to California, where I wanted to go when we were married, and I wished to God we had gone there then. All our troubles might never have been if I'd got in with a different crowd from these cowboosers on the start. And Marion, I want to know whether you'll give me another chance and go with me. Sinclair on the bench and leaning against the tree set with folded arms looking at his wife. Marion and a hickory chair faced him. No one would like to see you be all you ought to be more than I, Murray, but you're the only one in the world that can ever give yourself another chance to be that. The fellows in the saddle here now have denied me every chance to make a man of myself again on the railroad. You know that, Marion. In fact, they never did give me the show I was entitled to. I ought to have had Haley's place. Bucks never treated me right in that. He never pushed me in the way he pushed other men that were just as bad as I ever was. It discouraged me. That's the reason I went to pieces. It could be no reason for treating me, as you treated me, for bringing drunken men and drunken women into our house and driving me out of it unless I would be what you were and what they were. I know I haven't treated you right. I've treated you shamefully. I will do anything on earth you say to square it. I will. Recollect I had lived among men and in the same country with women like that for years before I knew you. I didn't know how to treat you. I admit it. Give me another chance, Marion. I gave you all that I had when I married you, Murray. I haven't anything more to give to any man. You would be disappointed in me if I could ever live with you again, and I could not do that without living a lie every day. He bent forward looking at the ground. He talked of their first meeting in Wisconsin of the happiness of their little courtship. He brought up California again in the northwest coast, where he told her a great railroad was to be built, and he should find the chance he needed to make a record for himself. It had been promised him a chance to be the man his abilities entitled him to be in railroading. And I've got a customer for the ranch and the cows, Marion. I don't care for this business. Damn the cows. Let somebody else chase them through the sleet. I've done well. I've made money. A lot of money. The last two years in my cattle deals. And I've got it put away, Marion. You need never lift your hand to work in our house again. We can live in California and live well, under our own orange trees, whether I work or not. All I want to know is, will you go with me? No, I will not go with you, Murray. He moved in his seat and threw his head up appealingly. Why not? I will never be dishonest with you. I never have been and I never will be. I have nothing in my heart to give you, and I will not live upon your money. I'm earning my own living. I am as content as I ever can be, and I shall stay where I am and do what I am doing till I die, probably. And this is why I came when you asked me to, to tell you the exact truth. I'm not a girl any longer. I never can be again. I'm a woman. What I was before I married you, I never can be again. And you have no right to ask me to be a hypocrite and say I can love you. For that is what it all comes to, when I have no such thing in my heart or life for you. It is dead and gone, and I cannot help it. That sounds pretty hard, Marion. It's only the truth. It sounded fearfully hard to me when you told me that woman was your friend, that you knew her before you knew me and would know her after I was dead, that she was as good as I, and that if I didn't entertain her you would. But it was the truth, you told me the truth, and it was better that you told it, as it is better now that I tell it to you. I was drunk, I didn't tell you the truth. A man is a pretty tough animal sometimes, but you are a woman and a pure one. And I care more for you than for all the other women in the world. And it's not your nature to be unforgiving. It is to be honest. He looked suddenly up at her and spoke sharply. Marion, I know why you won't go. I have honestly told you. No, you have not honestly told me. The real reason is Gordon Smith. If he were, I should not hesitate to tell you, Murray. But he is not, she said coldly. Sinclair spoke harshly. Do you think you can fool me? Don't you suppose I know he spends his time loafing around your shop? Marion flushed indignantly. It is not true. Don't you suppose I know he writes letters back to Wisconsin to your folks? What if I did do with that? Why shouldn't he write to my mother? Who has a better right? Don't drive me too far. By God if I go away alone I'll never leave you here to run off with whispering Smith. Remember that. She sat in silence. His rage left her perfectly quiet. And her unmoved expression shamed and in part silenced him. Don't drive me too far. He muttered sullenly. If you do, you will be responsible, Marion. She did not move her eyes from the blue hills on the horizon. I expect you to kill me some time. I feel sure you will. And that you may do. Then she bent her look on him. You may do it now if you want to. His face turned heavy with rage. Marion, he cried with an oath. Do you know how close you are to death at this moment? You may do it now. He clenched the bench rail and rose slowly to his feet. Marion said motionless in the hickory chair. The sun was shining in her face and her hands were folded in her lap. Dixie rocked on the porch. In the shadow of the house the man was mending the saddle. At the end of a long and neglected hall on the second floor of the old bank block and Hill Street, Whispering Smith had a room in which he made headquarters at Medicine Bend. It was in effect Whispering Smith's home. A man's room is usually a forlorn affair in spite of any effort to make it home like. If he neglects his room it looks barren, and if he ornaments it it looks fussy. Boys can do something with the den because they're not yet men, and some tincture of woman's nature still clings to a boy. Girls are born to the deafness that it is to become all theirs in the touch of a woman's hand, but men, if they walk alone, pay the penalty of loneliness. Whispering Smith, being logical, made no effort to decorate his domestic poverty. All his belongings were of a simple sort, and his room was as bare as a Jesuit's. Moreover his affairs, being at times highly particular, did not admit to the presence of a janitor in his quarters, and he was of necessity his own janitor. His iron bed was spread with a pair of Pullman blankets, his toilet arrangements included nothing more elaborate than a shaving outfit, and the mirror above his watchstand was only large enough to make a hurried shave with much neck-stretching possible. The table was littered with letters, but it filled up one corner of the room, and a rocking chair and a trunk filled up another. The floor was spread with a Navajo blanket, and near the head of the bed stood an old-fashioned wardrobe. This served not to ward Whispering Smith's robes, which hung for the most part on his back, but to accommodate his rifles, of which it contained an array that only a practised man could understand. The wardrobe was more, however, than an armory. Beside the guns that stood racked in precision along the inner wall, MacLeod had once, to his surprise, seen a violin. It appeared out of keeping in such an atmosphere, and rather the antithesis of force and violence than a compliment for it, and again, though the rifles were disquietingly bright and effective looking, the violin was old and shabby, hanging obscurely in its corner, as if, whatever it might have in common with its master, it had nothing in common with its surroundings. The door of the room, in the course of many years, had been mutilated with key-holes and reinforced with locks until it appeared difficult to choose an opening that would really afford entrance. But two men, besides Whispering Smith, carried keys to the room, Kennedy and George MacLeod. They had right of way into it at all hours, and knew how to get in. MacLeod had left the bridge-camp for the river from Medicine Ben on the Saturday that Marion Sinclair, whose husband had finally told her he would give her one more chance to think it over, returned with Dixie safely from their trip to the Frenchman Ranch. Whispering Smith, who had been with Bucks and Morris Blood, got back to town the same day. The president and general manager were at the wiki-up during the afternoon and left for the east at nine o'clock in the evening, when their car was attached to an eastbound passenger train. MacLeod took supper afterward with Whispering Smith at a front street chop-house, and the two men separated at eleven o'clock. It was three hours later when MacLeod tapped on the door of Smith's room, and in a moment opened it. A wake, Gordon? Sure, come in, what is it? The second section of the passenger train, number three, with the express-cars, was stopped at Tower W. Tonight. Oliver Solers was pulling. He's badly shot up, and one of the messengers was shot all to pieces. They cracked the through-safe, emptied it, and made a clean getaway. Tower W? 276 miles? Have you ordered up an engine? Yes. Where's Kennedy? The second voice answered. Right here. Strike a light, Farrell. What about the horses? They're being loaded. Is the line clear? Rodney Lee's clearing it. Spike it, George, and leave every western-bound train in sighting with the engine cut loose and plenty of steam till we get by. It's now or never this time. 276 miles, they're giving us our money's worth. Who's going with us, Farrell? Bob Scott, Reed Young, and Brill, if Reed can get him at Sleepy Cat. Dancing is loading the horses. I want Ed Banks to lead a posse straight from here for William's cash. Dancing can go with him. And telephone Gene and Bob Johnson to sit down in Canadian past till they grow to the rocks, and not to let anybody through if they want to live after I see them. They've got all the instructions. All they need is the word. It's a long chance, but I think these are our friends. You can head Banks off by telephone somewhere if we change our minds when we get a trail. Start Brill Young and a good man from Sleepy Cat ahead of us, George, if you can, and a baggage car with any horses that they can get there. They can be a Tower W by daybreak and perhaps pick up a trail before we reach there, and we shall have fresh horses for them. I'm ready, I guess, let's go. Slam the door, George, in the hall Whispering Smith through a pocket light on his watch. I want you to put us there by seven o'clock. Charlie Solars is going to pull you, answered MacLeod. Have you got everything? Then we're off. The three men tiptoed down the dark hall, down the stairs, and across the street on a noiseless run for the railroad yard. The air was chill and the sky clear, with a moon more than half to the full. Lord what a night to ride! exclaimed Whispering Smith, looking mournfully at the stars. Well planned. Well planned, I must admit. The men hastened toward the yard, where the lanterns were moving about the car of the train guards near the blue front stables. The loading board had been lowered and the horses were being carefully led into the car. From a switch engine behind the car, a shrill cloud of steam billowed into the air. Across the yard a great passenger engine, its huge white side-rod rising and falling slowly in the still light of the moon. One of the mountain racers, thick-necked like an athlete and deep-chested, was backing down for the run with the single car almost across the west end of the division. Trainmen were running to and from the wiki-up platform. By the time the horses were loaded the conductor had orders, until the last minute Whispering Smith was in consultation with McLeod, and giving dancing precise instructions for the posse into the cash-country. They were still talking at the side door of the car, McLeod and dancing on the ground, and Whispering Smith squatting on his hunches inside the moving car, when the engine signaled and the special drew away from the chute, hounded up the long run of the ladder switch, and moved with gathering speed into the canyon. In the cab Charlie Solars, crushing in his hand the tissue that had brought the news of his brother's death, set at the throttle. He had no speed orders. They had only told him he had a clear track. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 27 Pursuit Brill Young picked up a trail Sunday morning at Tower W, before the special from Medicine Bend reached there. The wrecked express car, which had been set out, had no story to tell. The only story, said Whispering Smith as the men climbed into their saddles, is in the one from the hoofs, and the sooner we get after it the better. The country around Tower W, which is itself an operating point on the western end of the division, a mere speck on the desert, lies high and rolling. To the south, sixty miles away, rise the gross tear mountains, and to the north and west lie the solitudes of the heart range, while in the northeast are seen the three white saddle peaks of the missions. The cool bright sunshine of a far and lonely horizon greets the traveler here, and ten miles away from the railroad in any direction a man on horseback and unacquainted with the country would wish himself, mountain men will tell you, in hell, because it would be easier to ride out of. To the railroad men the country offered no unusual difficulties. The youngs were as much at home on a horse as on a hand car. Kennedy, though a large and powerful man, was a neward to hard riding, and Bob Scott and Whispering Smith and the saddle were merely a part, though an important part, of their horses. Without killing their mounts they could get out of them every mile in their legs. The five men covered twenty miles on a trail that read like print. One after another of the railroad party commented on the carelessness with which it had been left. But twenty miles south of the railroad, in an open and comparatively easy country, it was swallowed completely up in the tracks of a hundred horses. The railroad men circled far and wide, only to find the herd tracks everywhere ahead of them. This is a beautiful job, Mermit Whispering Smith, as the party rode together along the edge of a creek bottom. Now, who is their friend down in this country? What man would get out a bunch of horses like this and work them this hard so early in the morning? Let's hunt that man up. I like to meet a man that is a friend in need. Bob Scott spoke. I saw a man with some horses in a canyon across the creek a few minutes ago, and I saw a ranch house behind those buttes when I rode around them. Stop, here's a man riding right into our jaws, muttered Kennedy, divide up among the rocks. A horseman from the south came galloping up the creek, and Kennedy rode out with an ivory smile to meet him. The two men parlayed for a moment, disputed each other sharply, and rode together back to the railroad party. Haven't seen any men looking for horses this morning, have you? Ask Whispering Smith, eyeing the stranger, a squat square jawed fellow with a cataract eye. I'm looking for horses myself. I ain't seen anybody else. What are you looking for? Is this your bunch of horses that got loose here? Ask Smith. No. I thought, said Kennedy smiling. You said a minute ago they were. The stranger fixed his cataract on him like a flashlight. I chained to my mind. Whispering Smith's brows rose protestingly, but he spoke with perfect amiability as he raised his finger to bring the good eye his way. You ought to change your hat when you change your mind. I saw you driving a bunch of horses up that canyon a few minutes ago. Now, Rockstrode, you still drag your left leg? The rancher looked steadily at his new inquisitor, but blinked like a gopher at the sudden onslaught. Which are you fellows of Whispering Smith, he demanded. The man with the doe is Whispering Smith every time, was the answer from Smith himself. You have about seven years to serve, Rockstrode, haven't you? Seven, I think. Now what have I ever done to you that you should turn a trick like this on me? I knew you were here, and you knew I knew you were here, and I call this a pretty country. A little smooth right around here, like the people, but pretty. Have I ever bothered you? Now tell me one thing. What did you get for covering this trail? I stand to give you two dollars for every one you got last night for the job, if you'll put us right on the game. Which way did they go? What are you talking about? Get off your horse a minute, suggest it Whispering Smith dismounting, and step over here toward the creek. The man, afraid to refuse and unwilling to go, walked haltingly after Smith. What is it, Rockstrode? Ask his tormentor. Don't you like this country? What do you want to go back to the penitentiary for? Aren't you happy here? Now tell me one thing. Will you give up the trail? I don't know the trail. I believe you. We shouldn't follow it anyway. Were you paid last night or this morning? I ain't seen a man here about for a week. Then you can't tell me whether there were five men or six. You got one eye as good as mine, and one a whole lot better. So it was fixed up for cash a week ago. Everything is cash in this country. Well, Rockstrode, I'm sorry, but we'll have to take you back with us. The rancher whipped out a revolver. Whispering Smith caught his wrist. The struggle lasted only an instant. Rockstrode writhed, and the pistol fell to the ground. Now shall I break your arm? Asked Smith as the man cursed and resisted. Or will you behave? We are going right back, and you'll have to come with us. We'll send someone down to round up your horses and sell them, and you can serve out your time. With allowances, of course, for good conduct, which we'll cut it down. If I had ever done you a mean turn, I would not say a word. If you could name a friend of yours I had ever done a mean turn to, I would not say a word. Can you name one? I guess not. I've left you as free as the wind here, making only the rule I make for everybody, to let the railroad alone. This is my thanks. Now I'll ask you just one question. I haven't killed you, as I had a perfect right to, when you pulled. I haven't broken your arm as I would have done if there had been a doctor within twenty-five miles. And I haven't started you for the pen. Not yet. Now I ask you one fair question only. Did you need the money? Yes, I did need it. Whispering Smith dropped the man's wrist. Then I don't say a word. If you needed the money, I'm not going to send you back. Not for mine. How can a man make a living in this country, ask a rancher with a bitter oath, unless he picks up everything that's going? Pick up your gun, man. I'm not saying anything, am I? But I'm damned if I can give a double-cross to any man, added Rockstrow, stooping for his revolver. I should thank less of you Rockstrow if you did. You don't need money anyway, now. But sometime you may need a friend. I'm going to leave you here. You'll hear no more of this and I'm going to ask you a question. Why did you go against this when you knew you'd have to square yourself with me? They told me you would be taken care of before it was pulled off. They lied to you, didn't they? No matter, you've got their stuff. Now I'm going to ask you one question that I don't know the answer to. It's a fair question too. Was Dussain in the penitentiary with you at Fort City? Answer fair. Yes, thank you. Behave yourself and keep your mouth shut. I say nothing this time. You're after Leave Railroad Matters alone, and if the woman should fall sick, or you have to have a little money, come and see me. Smith led the way back to the horses. Look here, muttered Rockstrow, following with his good eye glued on his companion. I pulled on you too quick, I guess. Quicker than I ought to. Don't mention it. You didn't pull quick enough. It is humiliating to have a man that's as slow as you are. Pull on me. People that pull on me usually pull and shoot at the same time. Two distinct movements, Rockstrow, should be avoided. They're fatal to success. Come down to the bin sometimes, and I'll give you a decent gun and give you a few lessons. Whispering Smith drew his handkerchief as the one-eyed man rode away, and he rejoined his companions. He was resigned after a sickly fashion. I like to play Blind Man's Buff, he said, wiping his forehead, but not so far from good water. They've pulled us halfway to the gross tear mountains, on a beautiful trail. Too beautiful to be true, Farrell. Too beautiful to be true. They've been having fun with us, and they've doubled back through the topotopas toward the Mission Mountains and William's Cache. That's my judgment, and aren't we five able-bodied jays, gentlemen? Five strong-armed suckers. It is an inelegant word, it is an inelegant feeling. No matter, we know a few things. They're five good men and a lead horse. We can get out of here by Goose River, find out when we cross the river how much they got, and pick them up somewhere around the saddle peaks, if they've gone north. That's only a guess, and every man's guess is good now. What do you think, all of you? If it's a crowd we think it is, would they go straight home? That doesn't look reasonable, does it? Asked Brill Young. If they could put one day between them in pursuit, wouldn't they be safer at home than anywhere else? And haven't they laid out one day's workforce good and plenty? Farrell, remember one thing. There's sometimes a disadvantage in knowing too much about the man you're after. We'll try Goose River. It was noon when they struck the railroad. They halted long enough to stop a freight train, send some telegrams and ask for news. They got orders from Rodney Lee, had an empty box-car set behind the engine for a special, and loading their horses at the chute made a helter-skelter run for Sleepy Cat. At three o'clock they struck north for the Mission Mountains. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 The Sunday Murder Banks posse leaving Medicine Bend before daybreak headed northwest. Their instructions were explicit. To scatter after crossing the Frenchman, watch the trails from the Goose River country and through the Mission Mountains, and intercept everybody riding north until the posse from Sleepy Cat or Whispering Smith should communicate with them from the southwest. Nine men rode in the party that crossed the Crawling Stones Sunday morning at sunrise with Ed Banks. After leaving the river, the three white-capped saddles of the Mission Range afford a landmark for more than a hundred miles, and toward these the party pressed steadily all day. The southern pass of the missions opens on the north slope of the Range into a pretty valley known as Mission Springs Valley, and the springs are the headwaters of Deep Creek. The posse did not quite obey the instructions and following a natural instinct of safety, five of them, after Banks and his three deputies had scattered, bunched together, and at dark crossed Deep Creek at some distance below the springs. It was afterward known that these five men had been seen entering the valley from the east at sundown, just as four of the men they wanted rode down south Mission Pass toward the springs. That they knew they would soon be cut off, or must cut their way through the line which Ed Banks ahead of them was posting at every gateway to Williams Cash, was probably clear to them. Four men rode that evening from Tower W, through the south pass. The fifth man had already left the party. The four men were headed for Williams Cash and had reason to believe, until they cited Banks' men, that their path was open. They halted to take counsel on the suspicious looking posse far below them, and while their cruelly exhausted horses rested, Du Sang, always in Sinclair's absence the brains of the gang, planned the escape over Deep Creek at Banks' crossing. At dusk they divided. Two men, lurking in the brush along the creek, rode as close as they could, unobserved toward the crossing, while Du Sang and the other cowboy, Carg, known as Flatnose, rode down to Banks' ranch at the foot of the pass. At that point Dan Banks, an old locomotive engineer, had taken a homestead, got together a little bunch of cattle, and was living alone with his son, a boy of ten years. It was a hard country and too close to Williams' cash for comfort. But Dan got on with everybody because the toughest man in the cash country could get a meal, a feed for his horse, and a place to sleep at Banks without charge when he needed it. Ed Banks, by hard riding, got to the crossing at five o'clock, told Banks of the hold-up and the shooting of Oliver Solers. The news stirred the old Inchenman, and his excitement threw him off his guard. Banks rode straight on for the middle pass, leaving word that two of his men would be along within half an hour to watch the pass and the ranch crossing, and asking Banks to put up some kind of a fight for the crossing until more of the posse came up, at the least to make sure that nobody got any fresh horses. The boy was cooking supper in the kitchen, and Banks had done his milking and gone back to the corral when two men rode around the corner of the barn and asked if they could get something to eat. Poor Banks sold his life in six words. Why, yes! Be you Banks men? Dussang answered. No, we're from Sheriff Coon's office in Oroville. Looking up a bunch of duck-bar steers that's been run somewhere up Deep Creek. Can we stay here all night? They dismounted and disarmed Banks' suspicions, though the condition of their horses might have warned him had he had his senses. The unfortunate man had probably fixed it in his mind that a ride from Tower W to Deep Creek in sixteen hours was a physical impossibility. Stay here? Sure. I want you to stay, said Banks, bluffly. Looks to me like I've seen you down at Crawling Stone, ain't I? He asked of Karg. Karg was lighting a cigarette. I used to mark at the Dunning Ranch, he answered, throwing away his match. That's it! Good! The boy's cooking supper. Step up to the kitchen and tell him to cut ham for four more. Four? Two of Ed Banks' men will be here by six o'clock. Heard about the hold-up? They stopped number three at Tower W last night and shot Ollie Solers. As white a boy as ever pulled a throttle. Boy's a man that'll kill a locomotive engineer as worse than an Indian. I'd help skin him. The hell you would, cried to sing. Well, don't you want to start in on me? I killed Solers. Look at me. Ain't I handsome? What are you going to do about it? Before Banks could think, Desang was shooting him down. It was wanton. Desang stood in no need of the butchery. The escape could have been made without it. His victim had pulled an engine throttle too long to show the white feather, but he was dying by the time he had dragged a revolver from his pocket. Desang did the killing alone. At least flat-nose, who alone saw all of the murder afterward maintained that he did not draw because he had no occasion to, and that Banks was dead before he, Karg, had finished his cigarette. With his right arm broken and two bullets through his chest, Banks fell on his face. That, however, did not check his murderer. Rising to his knees, Banks begged for his life. For God's sake! I'm helpless, gentlemen! I'm helpless! Don't kill me like a dog!" But Desang, emptying his pistol, threw his rifle to his shoulder and sent bullet after bullet crashing through the shapeless form writhing and twitching before him, until he had beaten it in the dust, soft and flat and still. The sheriff's men came up within an hour to find the ranch house deserted. They saw a lantern in the yard below, and near the corral gate they found the little boy in the darkness screaming beside his father's body. The sheriff's men carried the old engineman to the house. Others of the posse crossed the creek during the evening, and at eleven o'clock Whispering Smith rode down from the south pass to find that four of the men they were after had taken fresh horses after killing bags and passed safely through the cordon Banks had drawn around the pass and along deep creek. Bill Dancing, who had ridden with Banks' men, was at the house when Whispering Smith arrived. He found some supper in the kitchen and the tired man and the giant ate together. Whispering Smith was too experienced a campaigner to complain. His party had struck a trail fifty miles north of Sleepy Cat and followed it to the missions. He knew now who he was after, and knew that they were bottled up in the cache for the night. The sheriff's men were sleeping on the floor of the living room when Smith came in from the kitchen. He sat down before the fire. At interval sobs came from the bedroom where the body lay, and after listening a moment Whispering Smith got stiffly up and, tiptoeing to still the jingle of his spurs, took the candle from the table, pushed aside the curtain, and entered the bedroom. The little boy was lying on his face with his arm around his father's neck, talking to him. Whispering Smith bent a moment over the bed, and, setting the candle on the table, put his hand on the boy's shoulder. He disengaged the hand from the cold neck and, sitting down, took it in his own. Talking low to the little fellow, he got his attention after much patient effort and got him to speak. He made him, though struggling with terror, to understand that he had come to be his friend, and after the child had sobbed his grief into a strange heart he ceased to tremble, and told his name and his story, and described the two horsemen and the horses they had left. Smith listened quietly. Have you had any supper, Danny? No? You must have something to eat. Can't you eat anything? But there's a nice pan of fresh milk in the kitchen. A burst of tears interrupted him. Daddy just brought in the milk and I was frying the ham and I heard them shooting. See how he took care of you till the last minute and left something for you after he was gone? Suppose he could speak now. Don't you think he would want you to do, as I say? I'm your next friend now, for you're going to be a railroad man, and have a big engine, Danny looked up. Dad wasn't afraid of those men. Wasn't he, Danny? He said we would be all right and not to be afraid. Did he? He said Whispering Smith was coming. My poor boy. He is coming. Don't be afraid. Don't you know Whispering Smith? He's coming. The men tonight all said he was coming. The little fellow for a long time could not be coaxed away from his father, but his companion at length got him to the kitchen. When they came back to the bedroom the strange man was talking to him once more about his father. We must try to think how he would like things done now, mustn't we? All of us felt so bad when we rode in and had so much to do we couldn't attend to taking care of your father. Did you know there are two men out at the crossing now guarding it with rifles? But if you and I keep real quiet we can do something for him while the men are asleep. They have to ride all day tomorrow. We must wash his face and hands, don't you think so? And brush his hair and his beard. If you could just find the basin in some water and a towel. You couldn't find a brush, could you? Could you? Honestly? Well, I call that a good boy. We shall have to have you on the railroad shore. We must try to find some fresh clothes. These are cut and stained. Then I will change his clothes and we shall all feel better. Don't disturb the men. They are tired. They worked together by the candlelight. When they had done the boy had a violent crying spell. But Whispering Smith got him to lie down beside him on a blanket spread on the floor where Smith got his back against the sod wall and took the boy's head in his arm. He waited patiently for the boy to go to sleep, but Dan was afraid the murderers would come back. Once he lifted his head in a confidence. Did you know my daddy used to run an engine? No, I did not, but in the morning you must tell me all about it. Whenever there was a noise in the next room the child roused. After some time a new voice was heard. Kennedy had come and was asking questions. Wake up here, somebody. Where's Whispering Smith? Dancing answered. He's right there in the bedroom, Farrell, staying with the boy. There was some stirring. Kennedy talked a little and at length stretched himself on the floor. When all was still again, Danny's hand crept slowly from the breast of his companion up to his chin, and the little hand, feeling softly every feature, stole over the strange face. What is it, Danny? Are you Whispering Smith? Yes, Danny. Shut your eyes. At three o'clock, when Kennedy lighted a candle and looked in, Smith was sitting with his back against the wall. The boy lay on his arm. Both were fast asleep. On the bed the dead man lay with a handkerchief over his face. CHAPTER XXIX Ed Banks had been recalled before daybreak from the Middle Pass. Two of the men wanted were now known to have crossed the creek, which meant they must work out of the country through William's cash. If you will take your best two men, Ed, said Whispering Smith, sitting down with Banks at breakfast, and strike straight for Canadian pass to help Jean and Bob Johnson, I'll undertake to ride in and talk to Rebstock, while Kennedy and Bob Scott watch a deep creek. The boy gives a good description, and the two men that did the job here are dosang and flat nose. Did I tell you how we picked up the trail yesterday? Magpies. They shot a scrub horse that gave out on them and skinned the brand. It hastened the banquet, but we got there before the birds were all seated. Good luck, wasn't it? And it gave us a beautiful trail. One of the party crossed the Goose River at American Fork, and Brill Young and Reed followed him. Four came through the Mission Mountains. That's a cinch, and they're in the cash. And if they get out, it's our own fault, personally, Ed, and not the lords. William's cash lies in the form of a great horn, with a narrow entrance at the lower end known as the door, and a rockfisher at the upper end leading into Canadian pass. But this fissure is so narrow that a man with a rifle could withstand a regiment. For a hundred miles east and west rise the granite walls of the Mission Range, broken nowhere saved by the formation known as the cash. Even this does not penetrate the range, it is a pocket, and runs not over half way into it and out again. But no man really knows the cash. The most that may be said is that the main valley is known, and it is known as the roughest mountain fissure between Spanish sinks and the man-trap country. William's cash lies between walls two thousand feet high, and within it is a small labyrinth of canyons. A generation ago when medicine been for one winter was the terminus of the Overland Railroad, vigilantes mercilessly cleaned out the town, and the few outlaws that escaped the shotgun in the noose at Medicine Bend found refuge in a faraway and unknown mountain gorge once named by French trappers as the cash. Years after these outcasts had come to infest it came one desperado more ferocious than all that had gone before. He made a frontier retreat of the cash, and left it to the legacy of his evil name, Williams. Since that day it has served, as it served before, for the haunt of outlawed men. No honest man lives in William's cash, and few men of any sort live there long, since their lives are lives of violence. Neither the law nor a woman crosses deep creek. For from the day of Williams to this day the cash has had its ruler, and when Whispering Smith rode with a little party through the door into the cash, the morning after the murder in Mission Valley, he sent an envoy to Repstock, whose success as a cattle thief had brought its inevitable penalty. It had made Repstock a man of consequence and of property, and a man subject to the anxieties and annoyances of such responsibility. Sitting once in the three horses at Medicine Bend, Repstock had talked with Whispering Smith. I used to have a good time, he growled. When I was rustling a little bunch of steers, just a small bunch all by myself, and had an ascent in the world, no place to sleep and nothing to eat, I had a good time. Now I have to keep my money in the bank. That ain't pleasant, you know that. Every man that brings a bunch of cattle across deep creek is stolen and expects me to buy him or lend him money. I'm busy with inspectors all the time, deviling with brands, standing off the stock association, and all kinds of trouble. I've got too many cows, too much money. I'm afraid somebody will shoot me if I go to sleep or poison me if I take a drink. Whispering Smith, I'd like to give you a half interest in my business. That's on the square. You're a young man and handy, it wouldn't cost you a cent, and you can have half of the whole shooting match if you cross deep creek and help me run the gang. Such was Repstock free from anxiety and in a confidential moment. Under pressure he was, like all men, different. Whispering Smith had acquaintance even in the cash, and after a little careful reconovering he found a crippled-up thief driving a milch cow down the cash. Who was willing to take a message to the boss? Whispering Smith gave his instructions explicitly, facing the messenger as the two sat in their saddles, with an importunate eye. Say to Repstock exactly these words, he insisted. This is from Whispering Smith. I want de Sang. He killed a friend of mine last night at Mission Springs. I happened to be near there and know he rode in last night. He can't get out. The Canadian is plugged. I won't stand for the killing, and it is de Sang or a clean-up in the cash all around. And then I'll get de Sang anyway, regards. Writing circumspectly in and out the entrance to the cash, the party waited an hour for an answer. When the answer came it was unsatisfactory. Repstock declined to appear upon so trivial a matter, and Whispering Smith refused to specify a further grievance. More parlay and stronger messages were necessary to stir the Deep Creek Monarch, but at last he sent word, asking Whispering Smith to come to his cabin, accompanied only by Kennedy. The two railroadmen rode up the canyon together. And now I will show you a lean and hungry thief grown monstrous and miserly, Farrell, said Whispering Smith. At the head of a short pocket between two sheer granite walls they saw Repstock's weather-beaten cabin, and he stood in front of it smoking. He looked moodily at his visitors out of eyes buried between rolls of fat. Whispering Smith was a little harsh as the two shook hands, but he dismounted and followed Repstock into the house. What are you so high and mighty about? He demanded, throwing his hat on the table near which Repstock had seated himself. Why don't you come out while I send a man to you, or send word what you'll do? What have you got to kick about? Haven't you been treated right? Being in no position to complain but shrewdly aware that much unpleasantness was in the wind, Repstock beat about the bush. He had had rheumatism. He couldn't ride. He had been in bed three weeks and hadn't seen Dussain for three months. You ain't chasing up here after Dussain because he killed a man at Mission Springs. I know better than that. That ain't the first man he's killed, and it ain't going to be the last. Whispering Smith lifted his finger and for the first time smiled. Now there you are, Repstock. It is going to be the last. So you think I'm after you, do you? Well, if I were, what are you going to do about it? Repstock, do you think, if I wanted you, I would send a message for you to come out and meet me? Not on your life. When I want you, I'll come to your shack and drag you out by the hair of the head. Sit down, roared Whispering Smith. Repstock, who weighed at least 275 pounds, had lifted himself up to glare and swear freely. Now he dropped angrily back into the chair. Well, who do you want, he bellowed in kind? The smile softened the asperity of the railroad man's face. That's a fairer question, and I will give you a straight answer. I'm not bluffing. I want Dussain, Repstock squirmed. He swore with shortened breath that he knew nothing about Dussain, that Dussain had stolen his cattle, that hanging was too good for him, that he would join any posse in searching for him, and that he had not seen him for three months. Likely enough, assented Whispering Smith, but this is wasting time. He rode in here last night after killing old Dan Bags. Your estimable nephew Barney is with him, and Karg is with him, and I want them, but in a special and particular I want Dussain. Repstock denied, protested, wheezed, and stormed, but Whispering Smith was immovable. He would not stir from the cash upon any promises. Repstock offered to surrender anyone else in the cash, hinted strongly at two different men for whom handsome rewards were out, but every compromise suggested was met with the same good-natured words. I WANT DUSSANGE At last the smile changed on Whispering Smith's face. It lighted his eyes still, but with a different expression. See here, Repstock, you and I have always got along, haven't we? I have no desire to crowd any man to the wall that is a man. Now I'm going to tell you the simple truth. Dussain has got you scared to death. That man is a faker, Repstock. Because he kills men right and left without any provocation you think he's dangerous. He isn't. There are a dozen men in the cash just as good with a gun as Dussain is. Don't shake your head. I know what I'm talking about. He is a J with a gun, and you may tell him I said so. Do you hear? Tell him to come out if he wants me to demonstrate it. He has got everybody, including you, scared to death. Now I say, don't be silly. I want Dussain. Repstock rose to his feet solemnly and pointed his finger at Whispering Smith. Whispering Smith, you know me. I know you for a fat rascal. That's all right. You know me. And just as you say, we always get along because we both got sense. You're hiding yours today, Repstock. No matter. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you all the horse flesh you can kill and all the men you can hire to go after him. And I'll bury your dead myself. Do you think he can't shoot? I'll give you a tip on the square Whispering Smith snorted. You'll shoot the four buttons off your coat in four shots. Smith kicked Repstock's dog contemptuously. And do it while you're falling down. I've seen him do it, persisted Repstock, moist with perspiration. I'm not looking for a chance to go against a sure thing. I wash my hands of the job. Whispering Smith rose. It was no trick to see he had you scared to death. You're losing your wits, old man. The albino is a faker, and I'll tell you I'm going to run him out of the country. Whispering Smith reached for his hat. Our treaty ends right here. You promised to harbor no man in your sink that ever went against our road. You know as well as I do that this man, with four others, held up our train night before last at Tower W., shot our engine man to death for mere delight, killed a messenger, took $65,000 out of the through safe, and made his good getaway. Now don't lie. You know every word of it, and you thought you could pull it out of me by a bluff. I tracked him to your door. He's inside the cash this minute. You know every curve in canyon and pocket and wash out in it, and every cutthroat and jailbird in it, and they pay you blood money and hush money every month. And when I ask you not to give up a dozen men the company's entitled to, but merely to send this pink-eyed lobster out with his guns to talk with me, you wash your hands of the job, do you? Now listen. If you don't send the sang into the open before noon to-morrow, I'll run every living steer and every living man out of William's cash before I cross the crawling stone again. So help me, God. And I'll sin for cowboys within thirty minutes to begin the job. I'll scrape your deep creek canyons to the rattlesnake squeal. I'll make William's cash so wild that a timber-wolf can't follow his own trail through it. You'll break with me, will you, Repstock? Then wind up your bank account. Before I finish with you I'll put you in stripes and feed buzzards off your table. Repstock's face was apoplectic. He choked with the torrent of oaths. Whispering Smith, paying no attention, walked out to where Kennedy was waiting. He swung into the saddle, ignoring Repstock's abjurations, and with Kennedy rode away. It's hard to do anything with a man that's scared to death, said Smith to his companion. Then too Repstock's nephew is probably in this, in any case, when Desang has got Repstock scared he's a dangerous man to be abroad. We've got to smoke him out, Farrell. Lance Dunning insisted the other day he wanted to do me a favor. I'll see if he'll lend me Stormy Gorman and sell him his cow-punchers for a roundup. We've got to smoke Desang out. A roundup is the thing, but by heaven if that roundup is actually pulled off it will be a classic when you and I are gone. Thirty minutes afterward messengers had taken the Frenchman trail for Lance Dunning's cowboys. CHAPTER 30 THE FIGHT IN THE CASH A clear night and a good moon made a long ride possible, and the crawling stone contingent, headed by Stormy Gorman, began coming into the railroad cap by three o'clock the next morning. With them rode the two youngs who had lost the trail they followed across Goose River and joined the cowboys on the road to the north. The party divided under Kennedy and Smith, who rode through the door into the cache just before daybreak. I don't know what I'm steering you against this morning, Farrell, said Whispering Smith. Certainly I should hate to run you into Desang, but we can't tell where we shall strike him. If we've laid out our work right, I ought to see him as soon as anybody does. Accidents do happen, but remember he will never be any more dangerous than he is at the first moment. Get him to talk. He gets nervous if he can't shoot right away. When you pull, get a bullet into his stomach at the start, if you possibly can, to spoil his aim. We mustn't make the mistake of underestimating him. Rebstock is right. He's a fright with a revolver, and Sinclair and Sigru are the only men in the mountains that can handle a rifle with him. Now we split here, and good luck. Don't you want to take Bill Young with you? You take both the Young's, Farrell. We shall be among rocks, and if he tries to rush us there is cover. Stormy Gorman with four crawling stone cowboys followed Whispering Smith. Every rider on the range had a grievance against William's cash, and any of them would be glad to undertake reprisals against the wrestlers under the wing of Whispering Smith. Just how in the mountains without telegraph newspapers and all ordinary means of publicity, news travels so fast may not certainly be said. The scattered lines of telephone wires help, but news outstrips the wires. Moreover there are no telephones in the mission mountains. But on the morning that the Roundup Party rode into the cash it was known in the streets of Medicine Bend that the Tower W. Min had been tracked into the North Country, that some, if not all, of them were in William's cash, that an ultimatum had been given, and that Whispering Smith and Kennedy had already ridden in with their men to make it good. Whispering Smith with the cowboys took the Rough Country to the left, and Kennedy and his party took the South Prong to the Cash Creek. The instructions were to make a clean sweep as the line advanced. In the center rode three men to take stock-driven in from the wings. Word that was brief but reasonable had been sent everywhere ahead. Every man it was promised they could prove property should have a chance to do so at the door that day and the next. But any brands that showed stolen cattle, or that had been skinned or tampered with in any way, were to be turned over to the stock association for the benefit of owners. The very first pocket-rated started a row and uncovered eighty-head of five-year-old steers bearing a mutilated duck-bar brand. It was like poking at rental snakes to undertake to clean out the grassy retreats of the cash, but the work was pushed on in spite of protest threats and resistance. Every man that rode out openly to make a protest was referred calmly to Rebstock, and before very long Rebstock's cabin had more men around it than had been seen together in the cash for years. The impression that the whole jig was up, and that the refugees had been sold out by their own boss, was one that no railroad man undertook to discourage. The cowboys insisted on the cattle, with the assurance that Rebstock could explain everything. By noon the cash was in an uproar. The cowboys were riding carefully, and their guards, rifles in hand, were watching the corners. The head of the slowly moving line with the growing bunch of cattle behind it, flourished as it were rather conspicuously, fugitive riders dashed back and forth with curses and yells across the narrow valley. If it had been Whispering Smith's intention to raise a large-sized row it was apparent that he had been successful. Rebstock, driven to desperation, held council after council to determine what to do. Sorties were discussed, ambushes considered, and a pitched battle was planned. But while ideas were plentiful, no one aspired to lead an attack on Whispering Smith. Moreover, William's cash, it was conceded, would in the end be worsted if the company and the cowmen together seriously undertook with men an unlimited money to clean it out. Whispering Smith's party had no explanation to offer for the roundup, but when Rebstock made it known that the fight was over-sending out Dussang, the rage of the wrestlers turned on Dussang. Then however no man wanted to take up personally with Dussang the question of the reasonableness of Whispering Smith's demand. Instead of doing so they fell on Rebstock and demanded that if he were boss he may good and send Dussang out. Of all this commotion the railroad men saw only the outward indications. As the excitement grew on both sides there was perhaps a little more of display in the way the cattle were run in, especially when some long lost bunch was brought to light and welcomed with yells from the center. The steer was killed at noon, everybody fed, and the line moved forward. The wind which had slept in the sunshine of the morning rose in the afternoon and the dust whirled with little clouds where men or animals moved. From the center two men had gone back with the cattle gathered up to that time, and Bill Dancing with Smith, Stormy Gorman, and two of the cowboys, were heading a draw to cross to the north side of the cache when three men rode out into the road five hundred yards ahead and halted. Whispering Smith spoke. Look, there come our men. Stop here. This ground in front of us looks good to me. They may have chosen something over there that suits them better. Feel your guns and we'll start forward slowly. Don't take your eyes off the bunch, whatever you do. Bill you go back and help them in with the cattle. There will be four of us against three then. Not for mine, said Bill Dancing bluntly. You may need help from an old fool yet. I'll see you through this and look after the cattle afterward. Then, Stormy, one or two of you go back, urged with Spring Smith, speaking to the cowboy foreman without turning his eyes. There's no need of five of us in this, but Stormy swore violently. You go back yourself, exclaimed Stormy, when he could control his feelings. We'll bring them fellas in for you in ten minutes with their hands in the air. I know you would, I know it, but I'm paid for this sort of thing and you are not, and I advise no man to take unnecessary chances. If you all want to stay, why stay, but don't ride ahead of the line and let me do all the talking. See that your guns are loose, you'll never have but one chance to pull, and don't pull till you're ready. The albino is riding in the middle now, isn't he, and a little back, playing for a quick drop. Watch him. Who's that on the right? Can it be George Sigru? Well, this is a bunch, and I guess Carg is with them. Holding their horses to a slow walk the two parties gingerly approached each other. When the cash-riders halted, the railroad-riders halted, and when the three rode, the five rode. But the three rode with absolute alignment and acted as one, while Whispering Smith had trouble in holding his men back until the two lines were fifty feet apart. By this time the youngest of the cowboys had stetted and was thinking hard. Whispering Smith halted. In perfect order and sitting their horses as if they were riding parade, the horses ambling at a snail's pace, the cash-riders advanced in the sunshine like one man. When Dussang and his companions rained up, less than twelve feet separated the two lines. In his tan shirt Dussang, with his yellow hair, his white eyelashes, and his narrow face, was the least impressive of the three men. The Norwegian Sigru rode on the right, his florid blood showing under the tan of his neck and arms. He spoke to the cowboys from the ranch, and on the left the young fellow Carg, with the broken nose, black-eyed and alert, looked the men over in front of him and nodded to dancing. Dussang and his companions were short armed at shirts. Rifles were slung at their pommels, and revolvers stuck in their hip scabbards. Whispering Smith, in his dusty suit of khaki, was the only man in either line who showed no revolver, but a hammerless or muley savage rifle hung beside his pommel. Dussang, blinking, spoke first. Which of you fellows is hidden this roundup? I'm heading the roundup, said Whispering Smith. Why? Have we got some of your cattle? The two men spoke as quietly as school teachers. Whispering Smith's expression in no way changed, except that as he spoke he lifted his eyebrows a little more than usual. Dussang looked at him closely as he went on. What kind of a way is this to treat anybody? To ride into a valley like this and drive a man's cows away from his door without notice or papers. Is your name Smith? My name is Smith. Yours is Dussang. Yes, I'll tell you, Dussang. I carry an inspector's card from the Mountain Stock Association. Do you want to see it? When we get these cattle to the door, any man in the cash may come forward and prove his property. I shall leave instructions to that effect when we go, for I want you to go to Medicine Bend with me, Dussang, as soon as convenient, and the men that are with me will finish the roundup. What do you want me for? There's no papers out against me, is there? No, but I'm an officer, Dussang. I'll see to the papers. I want you for murder. So they tell me, well, you're after the wrong man. But I'll go with you. I don't care about that. Neither do I, Dussang, and as you have some friends along, I won't break up the party. They may come, too. What for? For stopping a train at Tower W. Saturday night. The three men looked at one another and laughed. Dussang, with an oath, spoke again. The men you want are in Canada by this time. I can't speak for my friends. I don't know whether they want to go or not. As far as I'm concerned, I haven't killed anybody that I know of. I suppose you'll pay my expenses back. Why, yes, Dussang, if you were coming back I would pay your expenses, but you're not coming back. You're riding down Williams' cash for the last time. You've ridden down it too many times already. This roundup is especially for you. Don't deceive yourself. When you ride with me this time out of the cash, you won't come back. Dussang laughed, but his blinking eyes were as steady as a cat's. It did not escape Whispering Smith's notice that the meddlesome horses ridden by the outlaws were continually working around to the right of his party. He spoke amiably to Carg. If you can't manage that horse-carg, I can. Play fair. It looks to me as if you and Dussang are getting ready to run for it, and leave George Siegrew to shoot his way through alone. Dussang, with some annoyance, intervened. That's all right. I'll go with you. I'd rather see your papers, but if you're Whispering Smith it's all right. I'm due to shoot out a little game sometime with you at Medicine Bend anyway. Any time, Dussang, only don't let your hand wobble next time. It's too close to your gun now to pull, right? Well, I told you I was going to come, didn't I? And I'm coming. Now! With the last word he whipped out his gun. There was a crash of bullets. Questioned once by McLeod, and reproached for taking chances, Whispering Smith answered simply, I have to take chances, he said. All I ask is an even break. But Kennedy had said there was no such thing as an even break with Whispering Smith. A few men in a generation amuse, baffle, and mystify other men with an art based on the principle that the action of the hand is quicker than the action of the eye. With Whispering Smith the drawing of a revolver in the art of throwing his shots instantly from wherever his hand rested was pure smite of hand. To a dexterity so fatal he added a judgment that had not failed when confronted with deceit. From the moment that Dussang first spoke Smith convinced that he meant to shoot his way through the line, waited only for the moment to come. When Dussang's hand moved like a flash of light Whispering Smith, who was holding his coat lapels in his hands, struck his pistol from the scabbard over his heart and threw a bullet at him before he could fire as a conjurer throws a vanishing coin into the air. Spurring his horse fearfully as he did so, he dashed at Dussang in carg, leaped his horse through their line, and, wheeling at arm's length, shot again. Bill dancing jumped in his saddle, swayed and toppled to the ground. Stormy Gorman gave a single whoop at the spectacle and with his two cowboys at his heels fled for life. For serious than all Smith found himself among three fast revolvers, working from an unmanageable horse. The beast tried to follow the fleeing cowboys and when faced sharply about showed temper. The trained horses of the outlaws stood like statues, but Smith had to fight with his horse bucking at every shot. He threw his bullets as best he could, first over one shoulder then over the other, and used the last cartridge in his revolver with Dussang, Siegru and carg shooting at him every time they could fire without hitting one another. It was not the first time the Williams-Cash gang had sworn to get him and had worked together to do it, but for the first time it looked as if they might do it. A single chance was left with Spring Smith for his life, and with his coat slashed with bullets he took it. For an instant his life hung on the success of a trick so appallingly awkward that a cleverer man might have failed in turning it. If his rifle should play free in the scabbard as he reached for it he could fall to the ground, releasing it as he plunged from the saddle and make a fight on his feet. If the rifle failed to release he was a dead man. To so narrow an issue are the cleverest combinations sometimes brought by chance. He dropped his empty revolver, ducked like a mud hen on his horse's neck, threw back his leg, and with all the precision he could summon caught the grip of his muley in both hands. He made his fall heavily to the ground, landing on his shoulder. But as he keeled from the saddle the last thing that rolled over the saddle, like the flash of a porpoise fin, was the barrel of the rifle, secure in his hands. Carg on horseback was already bending over him, revolver in hand, but the shot was never fired. A thirty-thirty bullet from the ground knocked the gun into the air and tore every knuckle from Carg's hand. Du Sang spurred in from the right. A rifle slug like an axe at the root caught him through the middle. His fingers stiffened, his six-shooter fell to the ground and he clutched his side. Sigru, ducking low, put spurs to his horse and Whispering Smith covered with dust rose on the battlefield alone. Hats, revolvers, and coats lay about him. Face downward the huge bulk of bill dancing was stretched motionless in the road. Carg, crouching beside his fallen horse, held up the bloody stump of his gun-hand. And Du Sang, fifty yards away, reeling like a drunken man in his saddle, spurred his horse in an aimless circle. Whispering Smith, running softly to the side of his own trembling animal, threw himself into the saddle and adjusting his rifle sights as the beast plunged down the drawl, gave chase to Sigru. CHAPTER 31 THE DEATH OF DU SANG Whispering Smith with his horse in a lather rode slowly back twenty minutes later with Sigru disarmed ahead of him. The deserted battleground was alive with men. Stormy Gorman, hot for blood, had come back, captured Carg, and begun swearing all over again. And Smith listened with amiable surprise while he explained that seeing dancing killed and not being able to tell from whispering Smith peculiar tactics which side he was shooting at, Gorman and his companions had gone for help. While they angrily surrounded Carg and Sigru, Smith slipped from his horse where Bill dancing lay, lifted the huge head from the dust, and tried to turn the giant over. A groan greeted the attempt. Bill, open your eyes. Why would you not do as I wanted you to? He murmured bitterly to himself. A second groan answered him. Smith called for water and from a canteen drenched the pallid forehead, talking softly meanwhile, but his efforts to restore consciousness were unavailing. He turned to where two of the cowboys had dragged Carg to the ground and three others had their old companion Sigru in hand. While two held huge revolvers within six inches of his head, the third was adjusting a rope knot under his ear. Whispering Smith became interested. Hold on, said he, mildly. What is loose? What are you going to do? We're going to hang these fellows, answered Stormy, with the volley of hair-raising imprecations. Oh, no! Just put them on horses under guard. That's what we're going to do, exclaimed the foreman. Only we're going to run them over to those cottonwoods and drive the horses out from Undrum. Stand still, you tow-headed cow-thief! He cried, slipping the new sub-tight on George Sigru's neck. See here, returned Whispering Smith, showing some annoyance. You may be joking, but I'm not. Either do as I tell you or release those men. Well, I guess you're not joking very much. You heard me, didn't you? Demanded Stormy, anchorly. We're going to string these damned critters up right here in the draw on the first tree. Whispering Smith drew a pocket-knife and walked to Flatnose, slit the rope around his neck, pushed him out of the circle and stood in front of him. You can't play horse with my prisoners, he said curtly. Get over here, Carg. Come now. Who's going to walk in first? You act like a schoolboy gourmand. Hard words and a wrangle followed, but Smith did not change expression, and there was a back down. Have you fellows let Desang get away while you were playing food here? He asked. Desang's over the hill there on his horse, and full of fight yet, exclaimed one. Then we will look him up, suggested Smith. Come, see, grew. Don't go over there, he'll get you if you do, cried Gorman. Let us see about that, see, grew. You and Carg walk ahead. Don't duck or run, either of you. Go on. Just over the brow of the hill near which the fight had taken place, a man lay below a ledge of granite. The horse from which he had fallen was grazing close by, but the man had dragged himself out of the blinding sun to the shade of the sage-brush above the rock. The trail of it all lay very plain on the hard ground. Watching him narrowly, Smith, with his prisoners ahead and the cowboys riding in a circle behind, approached. Desang! The man in the sage-brush turned his head. Smith walked to him and bent down. Are you suffering much, Desang? The wounded man, sinking with shock and internal hemorrhage, uttered a string of oats. Smith listened quietly till he had done. Then he knelt beside him and put his hand on Desang's hand. Tell me where you're hit, Desang. Put your hand to it. Is it the stomach? Let me turn you on your side. Easy. Does your belt hurt? Just a minute now. I can loosen that. I know you, muttered Desang, thickly. Then his eyes, terrible, rolling, pink eyes, brightened, and he swore violently. Desang, you're not bleeding much, but I'm afraid you're badly hit, said Whispering Smith. Is there anything I can do for you? Get me some water. A creek flowed at no great distance below the hill, but the cowboys refused to go for water. Whispering Smith would have gone with seagrew and karg, but Desang begged him not to leave him alone lest Gorman should kill him. Smith canvassed the situation a moment. I'll put you on my horse, said he, at length, and take you down to the creek. He turned to the cowboys and asked them to help, but they refused to touch Desang. Whispering Smith kept his patience. Karg, take that horse's head, said he. Come here, seagrew. Help me lift Desang on the horse. The boys seemed to be afraid of getting blood on their hands. With Whispering Smith and seagrews supporting Desang in the saddle and Karg leading the horse, the cavalcade moved slowly down to the creek where a tiny stream purled among the rocks. The water revived the injured man for a moment. He had even strengthened enough with some help to ride again, and, moving in the same halting order, they took him to Rebstock's cabin. Rebstock, at the door, refused to let the sinking man be brought into the house. He cursed Desang as the cause of all the trouble. But Desang cursed him with usury, and while Whispering Smith listened, told Rebstock with bitter oaths that if he had given the boy Barney anything but a scrub horse they never would have been trailed. More than this concerning the affair Desang would not say, and never said. The procession turned from the door. Seagrew led the way to Rebstock's stable, and they laid Desang on some hay. Afterward they got a cot under him. With surprising vitality he talked a long time to Whispering Smith, but at last fell into a stupor. At nine o'clock that night he set up. Ed Banks and Kennedy were standing beside the cot. Desang became delirious, and in his delirium called the name of Whispering Smith. But Smith was at Banks' cabin with Bill Dancing. In a spasm of pain Desang, opening his eyes, suddenly threw himself back. The cot broke, and the dying man rolled under the feet of the frightened horses. In the light of the lanterns they lifted him back, but he was bleeding slowly at the mouth. Quite dead. The surgeon, afterward, found two fatal wounds upon him. The first shot, passing through the stomach, explained Desang's failure to kill at a distance in which, un-injured, he could have placed five shots within the compass of a silver dollar. Firing for Whispering Smith's heart he had, despite the fearful shock, put four bullets through his coat before the rifle ball from the ground. Tearing at right angles across the path of the first bullet had cut down his life to a question of hours. Bill Dancing, who had been hit in the head and stunned, had been moved back to the cabin at Mission Spring and lay in the little bedroom. The doctor at Oroville had been sent for but had not come. At midday of the second day Smith, who was beside his bed, saw him rouse up and noted the brightness of his eyes as he looked around. "'Bill,' he declared, hopefully, as he said beside the bed, "'you're better, hang it. I know you are. How do you feel? Ain't that blamed Dr. here yet? And give him my boots. I'm going back to Medicine Bend to Dr. Torpy.' In the morning Whispering Smith, who had cleansed and dressed the wound and felt sure the bullet had not penetrated the skull, offered no objection to the proposal beyond cautioning him to ride slowly. "'You can go down partway with the prisoner's bill,' suggested Whispering Smith. "'Brill Young is going to take them to Oroville, and you can act as Chairman of the Guard.' Before the party started Smith called Sigru to him. "'George, you saved my life once. Do you remember in the panhandle? Well, I gave you yours twice in the cash, day before yesterday. I don't know how badly you are into this thing. If you kept clear the killing at Tower W. I will do what I can for you. Don't talk to anybody.' End of Chapter 31 CHAPTER 32 MacLeod and Dixie News of the fight in Williams' cash reached Medicine Bend in the night. Horsemen, filling in the gaps between telephones leading to the North Country, made the circuit complete. But the accounts confused and colored in the repeating came in a cloud of conflicting rumors. In the streets little groups of men discussed the fragmentary reports as they came from the railroad offices. Toward morning Sleepy Cat, nearer the scene of the fight, began sending in telegraphic reports in which truth and rumor were strangely mixed. MacLeod waited at the wires all night, hoping for trustworthy advices as to the result, but received none. Even during the morning nothing came, and the silence seemed more ominous than the bad news of the early night. Routine business was almost suspended, and MacLeod and Rooney Lee kept the wires warm with inquiries, but neither the telephone or the telegraph would yield any definite word as to what had actually happened in the Williams' cash fight. It was easy to fear the worst. At the noon hour MacLeod was signing letters when Dixie Dunning walked hurriedly up the hall and hesitated in the passageway before the open door of his office. He gave an exclamation as he pushed back his chair. She was in her riding suit just as she had slipped from her saddle. Oh, Mr. MacLeod, have you heard the awful news? Whispering Smith was killed yesterday in Williams' cash by Du Sang. MacLeod stiffened a little. I hope that can't be true. We have had nothing here but rumors. Perhaps it is these that you have heard. No, no, Blake, one of our men, was in the fight and got back at the ranch at nine o'clock this morning. I heard the story myself and I rode right in to see Marion and my courage failed me. I came here first. Does she know, do you think? Blake saw him fall from the saddle after he was shot and everybody ran away and Du Sang and two other men were firing at him as he lay on the ground. He could not possibly have escaped with his life, Blake said. He must have been riddled with bullets. Isn't it terrible? She sobbed suddenly and MacLeod stunned at her words, led her to his chair, and bent over her. If this death means this to you, think of what it means to me. A flood of sympathy bore them together. The moment was hardly one for interruption, but the dispatcher's door opened and Rodney Lee halted, thunderstruck on the threshold. Dixie's hand disappeared in her handkerchief. MacLeod had been in wrecks before and gathered himself together unmoved. What is it, Rooney? The very calmness of the two at the table disconcerted the dispatcher. He held a message in his hand and shuffled his feet. Give me your dispatch, said MacLeod impatiently. Quite unable to take his hollow eyes off Dixie, poor Rooney advanced, handed the telegram to MacLeod, and beat an awkward retreat. MacLeod devoured the words of the message at a glance. Ah, he cried. This is from Gordon himself, sent from sleepy cat. He must be safe and unhurt. Listen. Three of the tower men trailed into Williams' cache in resisting a rest this morning doosang was wounded and is dying tonight. Two prisoners, Carg and Seagroove. G.S. Those are Gordon's initials. It is the signature of which he telegraphed me. You see, this was sent last night long after Blake left. He is safe, and I will stake my life on it. Dixie sank back while MacLeod re-read the message. Oh, isn't that a relief, she exclaimed. But how can it be? I can't understand it at all. But he is safe, isn't he? I was heartbroken when I heard he was killed. Marion, all to know of this, she said, rising. I'm going to tell her. And may I come over after I tell Rodney Lee to repeat this to headquarters? Why, of course, if you want to. When MacLeod reached the cottage, Dixie met him. Katie Dancing's mother is sick and she's gone home. Poor Marion is all alone this morning and half dead with a sick headache, said Dixie. But I told her, and she said she shouldn't mind the headache now at all. But what are you going to do? I'm going to get dinner. Do you want to help? I'm going to help. Oh, you are? That would be very funny. Funny or not, I'm going to help. You would only be in the way. You don't know whether I should or not. I know I should do much better if you would go back and run the railroad a few minutes. The railroad be hanged. I'm for dinner. But I will get dinner for you. You need not, I can get it for myself. You are perfectly absurd and if we stand here disputing, Marion won't have anything to eat. They went into the kitchen disputing about what should be cooked. At the end of an hour they had two fires going, one in the stove and one in Dixie's cheeks. By that time it had been decided to have a luncheon instead of a dinner. Dixie attempted some soup and McLeod found a strip of bacon, and after he had cooked it, Dixie, with her riding skirt pinned up and her sleeves delightfully rolled back, began frying eggs. When Marion unable longer to withstand the excitement appeared, the engineer, flushed with endeavor, was making toast. The three sat down at table together. They found they had forgotten the coffee but Marion was not allowed to move from her chair. When the coffee was made ready the bacon had been eaten and more had to be fried. McLeod proved able at any part of the program and when he closed it was four o'clock and too late McLeod declared to go back to the office that afternoon. Marion and Dixie after a time attempted jointly to get rid of him, but they found they could not, so the three talked about whispering Smith. When the women tried to discourage McLeod by talking hats he played the wheezy piano, and when Dixie spoke about going home he declared he would ride home with her. But Dixie had no mind that he should, and when he asked to know why, without realizing what a flush lingered in his face, she said only, no, if she had reasons she would give none. McLeod persisted because under the flush of his eyes was the resolve that he would take one long ride that evening in any event. He had made up his mind for that ride, a longer one than he had ever taken before or expected ever to take again, and would not be balked. Dixie, insisting upon going home, went so far as to have her horse brought from the stable. To her surprise a horse for McLeod came over with it, quiet to the verge of solemnity. But with McLeod following, Dixie walked with admirable firmness out of the shop to the curb. McLeod gave her reign to her, and with the smiles stood waiting to help her mount. She was drawing on her second glove. You're not going with me. You'll let me ride the same road, won't you, even if I can't keep up?" Dixie looked at his mount. It would be difficult to keep up with that horse. Would you ride away from me just because you have a better horse? No, not just because I have a better horse. He looked steadily at her without speaking. Why must you ride home with me when I don't want you to? She asked reproachfully. Fear had come upon her and she did not know what she was saying. She saw only the expression of his eyes and looked away, but she knew that his eyes followed her. The sun had set. The deserted street lay in the white half-light of a mountain evening, and the day's radiance was dying in the sky. In lower tones he spoke again, and she turned deadly white. I've wanted so long to say this, Dixie, that I might as well be dead as to try to keep it back any longer. That's why I want to ride home with you if you're going to let me. He turned to stroke her horse's head. Dixie stood seemingly helpless. McLeod slipped his finger into his waistcoat pocket and held something out in his hand. The shell-pin fell from your hair that night you were at camp by the bridge. Do you remember? I couldn't bear to give it back. Dixie's eyes opened wide. Let me see it. I don't think that's mine. Great heavens have I been carrying Marion Sinclair's pen for a month, exclaimed McLeod. Well, I won't lose any time in returning it to her at any rate. Where are you going? Dixie's voice was faint. I'm going to give Marion her pen. Do nothing of the sort. Come here. Give it to me. Dixie, dare you tell me, after a shock like that it really is your pen? Oh, I don't know whose pen it is. Well, what's the matter? Give me the pen, she put her hands unsteadily up under her hat. Here, for heaven's sake, if you must have something take this comb. She slipped from her head the shell that held her knotted hair. He caught her hand and kissed it, and she could not get it away. You are dear, Mermaid Dixie, if you are silly. The reason I wouldn't let you ride home with me is because I was afraid you might get shot. How do you suppose I should feel if you were killed? Or don't you think I have any feeling? But Dixie, is it all right? How do I know? What do you mean? I will not let you ride home with me, and you will not let me ride home alone. Tie-jam again. I'm going to stay with Marian all night.