 Chapter 33 The Laugh of a Woman Within an hour Marian, working overhead in the trimming-room, was startled to hear the cottage door open, and to see Dixie quite unconcernedly walk in. To Marian's exclamation of surprise she returned only a laugh. I've changed my mind, dear. I'm going to stay all night." Marian kissed her approvingly. "'Really, you're getting so sensible. I shan't know you, Dixie. In fact, I believe this is the most sensible thing you were ever guilty of.' "'Glad you think so,' returned Dixie, dryly, unpinning her hat. "'I certainly hope it is. Mr. MacLeod persuaded me it wasn't right for me to ride home alone, and I knew better than he what danger there was for him in riding with me. So here I am. He's coming over for supper, too, in a few minutes.' When MacLeod arrived he brought with him a porta-house stake, and Marian was again driven from the kitchen. At the end of an hour Dixie, engrossed over the broiler, was putting the finishing touches to the stake, and MacLeod more engrossed was watching her, when a diffident and surprised-looking person appeared in the kitchen doorway and put his hand undecidedly on the casing. While he stood, Dixie turned abruptly to MacLeod. "'Oh, by the way, I've forgotten something. Will you do me a favor?' "'Certainly. Do you want money or a pass?' "'No, not money,' said Dixie, lifting the stake on her forks, though you might give me a pass.' "'But I should hate to have you go away anywhere. I don't want to go anywhere. But I never had a pass, and I think it would be kind of nice to have one just to keep, don't you?' "'Why, yes, you might put it in the bank and have it drawing interest. This stake is—' "'Do you give interest on passes?' "'Well, a good deal of interest is felt in them, on this division, at least. "'What is the favor?' "'Yes. What is it?' "'How can I think? Oh, I know. If they don't put Jim in a box stall tonight, he will kill some of the horses over there. Will you telephone the stables?' "'Won't you give me the number, and let me telephone?' asked a voice behind them. They turned in astonishment and saw Whispering Smith. "'I'm surprised,' he added calmly. "'To see a man of your intelligence, George, trying to broil a stake with the lower door of your stove, wide open. Close the lower door and cut out the draft through the fire. "'Don't stare, George, put back the broiler. And haven't you made a radical mistake to start with?' he asked, stepping between the confused couple. "'Are you not trying to broil a roast of beef? Where did you come from?' demanded MacLeod as Marion came in from the dining-room. "'Don't search me, the very first thing,' protested Whispering Smith. "'But we've been frightened to death here for twenty-four hours. Are you really alive and unhurt?' This young lady rode in twenty miles this morning, and came to the office in tears to get news of you. Smith looked mildly at Dixie. "'Did you shed a tear for me? I should like to have seen just one.' "'Where did I come from?' I reported in a while over the telephone ten minutes ago. Didn't Marion tell you? She is so forgetful. That's what calls his wrecks, Marion. I've been in the saddle since three o'clock this morning, thank you, and have had nothing for five days but raw steer garnished with sunshine. The four sat down to supper, and Whispering Smith began to talk. He told the story of the chase to the cash, the defiance from Repstock, and the tardy appearance of the men he wanted. Desang meant to shoot his way through us and make a dash for it. There really was nothing else for him to do. Banks and Kennedy were up above, even if he could have ridden out through the Upper Canyon, which is very doubtful with all the water now. After a little talk, back and forth Desang drew, and of course then it was every man for himself. He was hit twice, and he died Sunday night. But the other two were not seriously hurt. What can you do? It's either kill or get kill with those fellows. And of course I talked plainly to Desang. He had butchered a man at Mission Springs just the night before, and deserved hanging a dozen times over. He meant from the start he told me afterward to get me. Oh, Miss Dunning, may I have some more coffee? Have an eye on a grible part of the railroad business, don't you think? I shouldn't have pushed in here tonight, but I saw the lights when I rode by a while ago. They looked so good I couldn't resist. The cloud leaned forward. You call it pushing in, do you, Gordon? Do you know what this young lady did this morning? One of her cowboys came down from the cache early with the word that you had been killed in the fight by Desang. You said he saw you drop from your saddle to the ground with Desang shooting at you. She ordered up her horse without a word and rode twenty miles in an hour and a half to find out here what we had heard. She pushed in at the wiki up, where she never had been before in her life, and wandered through it alone looking for my office to find out from me whether I hadn't something to contradict the bad news. While we talked, in came your dispatch from Sleepy Cat. Never was one better timed, and when she knew you were safe her eyes filled again. Whispering Smith looked at Dixie quizzically. Her confusion was delightful. He rose, lifted her hand in his own, and, bending, kissed it. They talked till late, and when Dixie walked out on the porch, MacLeod followed to smoke. Whispering Smith still sat at the table talking to Marion, and the two heard the sound of the low voices outside. At intervals Dixie's laugh came in through the open door. Whispering Smith, listening, said nothing for some time, but once she laughed peculiarly. He picked up his ears. What has been happening since I left town? What do you mean? asked Marion Sinclair. He nodded toward the porch. MacLeod and Dixie out there. They've been fixing things up. Nonsense! What do you mean? I mean they're engaged. Never in the world! I may be slow in reading a trail, said Smith, modestly, but when a woman laughs like that I think there's something doing. Don't you believe it? Call the men and ask them. You want? Well, I will. Take them in separate rooms. You ask her, and I'll ask him. In spite of Marion's protests the two were brought in. I'm required by Mr. Smith to ask you a very silly question, Dixie, said Marion, taking her into the living room. Answer yes or no. Are you engaged to anybody? What a question! Why, no. Marion Sinclair wants to know just one thing, George, said Whispering Smith to MacLeod after he had taken him into the dark shop. She feels she ought to know because she is in a way Dixie's chaperone, you know, and she feels that you are willing she should know. I don't want to be too serious, but answer yes or no. Are you engaged to Dixie? Why, yes, I—that's all. Go back to the porch, directed Whispering Smith. MacLeod obeyed orders. Marion, alone in the living room, was waiting for the Inquisitor, and her face wore a look of triumph. You're not such a mind-reader after all, are you? I told you they weren't. I told you they were, contented Whispering Smith. She says they are not, insisted Marion. He says they are, returned Whispering Smith, and, what's more, I'll bet my saddle against the shop they are. I could be mistaken in anything, but that laugh. CHAPTER 34 A MIDNIGHT VISIT The lights, but one, were out. MacLeod and Whispering Smith had gone, and Marion was locking up the house for the night, when she was halted by a knock at the shop door. It was a summons that she thought she knew, but the last in the world that she wanted to hear or to answer. Dixie had gone to the bedroom, and standing between the portiers that curtain the workroom from the shop, Marion in the half-light listened, hesitating whether to ignore or to answer the midnight intruder. But experience, and bitter experience, had taught her there was only one way to meet that particular summons, and that was to act whether at noon or at midnight without fear. She waited until the knocking had been twice repeated, turned up the light, and going to the door drew the bolt. Sinclair stood before her, and she drew back for him to enter. Dixie Dunning is with me tonight, said Marion with her hand on the latch, and we shall have to talk here. Sinclair took off his hat. I knew you had company. He returned in the low, gentle tone that Marion knew very well. So I came late, and I heard tonight for the first time that this railroad crowd is after me. God knows why, but they have to earn their salary somehow. I want to keep out of trouble if I can. I won't kill anybody if they don't force me to it. They've scared nearly all my men away from the ranch already. One crippled up cowboy is all I've got to help me look after the cattle. But I won't quarrel with them, Marion, if I can get away from here peaceably. So I've come to talk it over once more with you. I'm going away, and I want you to go with me. I've got enough to keep us as well as the best of them, and as long as we live. You've given me a good lesson. I needed it, girly. Don't call me that. He laughed kindly. Why? That's what it used to be. That's what I want it to be again. I don't blame you. You're worth all the women I ever knew, Marion. I've learned to appreciate some few things in the lonely months I've spent up on the Frenchman, but I felt while I was there that I was working for both of us. I've got a buyer in sight now for the cattle and the land. I'm ready to clean up and say goodbye to trouble. All I want is for you to give me the one chance I've asked for and go along. They stood facing each other under the dim light. She listened intently to every word, though in her terror she might not have heard or understood all of them. One thing she did very clearly understand, and that was why he had come and what he wanted. To that she held her mind tenaciously, and for that she shaped her answer. I cannot go with you. Now or ever. He waited a moment. We always got along, Marion, when I behaved myself. I hope you always will behave yourself, but I could no more go with you than I could make myself again what I was years ago, Murray. I wish you nothing but good, but our ways parted long ago. Stop and think a minute, Marion. I'll offer you more and offer it more honestly than I ever offered it before, because I know myself better. I'm alone in the world. Strong and better able to care for you than I was when I undertook it to—I've never complained. That's what makes me more anxious to show you now that I can and will do what's right. Oh, you multiply words! It's too late for you to be here. You're in danger, you say, for the love of heaven, leave me and go away. You know me, Marion, when my mind is made up. I won't leave without you. He leaned with one hand against the ribbon showcase. If you don't want to go, I will stay right here and pay off the scores I owe. Two men here have stirred this country up too long, anyway. I don't care much how soon anybody gets me after I round them up, but tonight I felt like this. You and I started out in life together, and we ought to live it out or die together, whether it's tonight, Marion, or twenty years from tonight. If you want to kill me tonight, I have no resistance to make. Sinclair sat down on a low counterstool and bending forward, held his head between his hands. It oughtn't alter in here. I know you and I know you want to do what's right. I couldn't kill you without killing myself, you know that. He straightened up slowly. Here! He slipped his revolver from his hip holster and held the grip of the gun toward her. Use it on me if you want to. It's your chance to end everything. It may save several lives, if you do. I won't leave McLeod here to crawl over me, and, by God, I won't leave you here for Whispering Smith. I'll settle with him anyhow. Take the pistol, what are you afraid of? Take it. Use it. I don't want to live without you. If you make me do it, you're to blame for the consequences. She stood with wide open eyes, but uttered no word. You won't touch it. Then you care a little for me yet, he murmured. No! Do not say so, but I will not do murder. Think about the other then. Go with me and everything will be all right. I'll come back some evening soon for my answer. And until then, if those two men have any use for life, let them keep in the clear. I heard tonight that Desang is killed. Do you know whether it's true? It is true. An oath half escaping showed how the confirmation cut him. And Whispering Smith got away. It is Desang's own fault. I told him to keep out of that trap. I stay in the open, and I'm not Desang. I'll choose my own ground for the finish when they want it with me, and when I go I'll take company. I'll promise you that. Good night, Marion. Will you shake hands? No. Damn it, I like your grit, girl. Well, good night, anyway. She closed the door. She had even strength enough to bolt it before the footsteps died away. She put out the light and felt her way blindly back to the workroom. She staggered through it, clutching at the curtains, and fell in the darkness into Dix's arms. Marion, dear, don't speak, Dixie whispered. I heard everything. Oh, Marion, she cried, suddenly conscious of the inertness of the burden in her arms. Oh, what shall I do? Moved by fright to her utmost strength, Dixie drew the unconscious woman back to her room and managed to lay her on the bed. Marion opened her eyes a few minutes later to see the lights burning, to hear the telephone bell ringing and to find Dixie on the edge of the bed beside her. Oh, Marion, thank heaven you are reviving. I've been frightened to death. Don't mind the telephone, it's Mr. McLeod. I didn't know what to do, so I telephoned him. But you'd better answer him, said Marion, faintly. The telephone bell was ringing wildly. Oh, no, he can wait. How are you, dear? I don't wonder you were frightened to death. Marion, he means to kill us. Every one. No, Dixie, he will kill me and kill himself. That's where it will end. Dixie do answer the telephone. What are you thinking of? Mr. McLeod will be at the door in five minutes. Do you want him in the street tonight? Dixie fled to the telephone and in an excited conference over the wire closed in seeming reassurance at both ends. At that time Marion had regained her steadiness, but she could not talk of what had passed. At times, as the two laid together in the darkness, Marion spoke, but it was not to be answered. I do not know, she murmured once, wearily. Perhaps I'm doing wrong. Perhaps I ought to go with him. I wish. Oh, I wish I knew what I ought to do. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This Liber-Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 35. The Call Beyond receiving reports from Kennedy and Banks, who in the interval rode into town and rode out again on their separate and silent ways, Whispering Smith for two days seemed to do nothing. Yet instinct keener than silence kept the people of Medicine been on edge during those two days, and when President Buck's car came in on the evening of the second day, the town knew from current rumors that Banks had gone to the Frenchman Ranch with a warrant on a serious charge for Sinclair. In the President's car, Buck's and McLeod, after a late dinner, were joined by Whispering Smith, and the President heard the first connected story of the events of the fortnight that had passed. Buck's made no comment until he had heard everything. And they rode Sinclair's horses, he said in conclusion. Sinclair's horses, returned Whispering Smith, and they are all accounted for. One horse, supplied by Redstock, was shot where they crossed Stampeed Creek. It had given out and they had a fresh horse in the Willows, where they shot the scrub half a mile up one of the canyons near the crossing. The magpies attracted my attention to it. A piece of skin, a foot square, had been cut out of the flank. You got there before the birds? It was about an even thing, said Smith. Anyway, we were there in time to see the horse. And Sinclair was away from the ranch from Saturday noon till Sunday night. A rancher living over on Stampeed Creek saw the five men when they crossed Saturday afternoon. The fellow was scared and lied to me about it, but he told Wickwire who they were. Now, who is Wickwire? asked Buck's. You ought to remember Wickwire, George, remarked Whispering Smith turning to MacLeod. You haven't forgotten the smoky creek wreck. Do you remember the tramp who had his legs crushed and lay in the sun all morning? You put him in your car and sent him down here to the railroad hospital, and Barnhart took care of him. That was Wickwire. Not a bad fellow, either. He can talk pretty straight and shoot pretty straight. How do I know? Because he has told me the story, and I've seen him shoot. There, you see, is one friend that you never reckoned on. He used to be a cowboy, and I got him a job working for Sinclair on the Frenchman. He has worked at Dunnings and other places on the Crawling Stone. He hates Sinclair with a deadly hatred for some reason. Just lately, Wickwire set up for himself on Little Crawling Stone. I've noticed that fellow's ranch, remarked MacLeod. I couldn't leave him at Sinclair's, continued Whispering Smith, frankly. The fellow was on my mind all the time. I felt certain he would kill Sinclair or get killed if he stayed there, and then, when I took him away, they sprang Tower W on me. That's the price, not of having a conscience for a haven any, but of listening to the voice that echoes where my conscience used to be, said the railroad man, moving uneasily in his chair. Bucks broke the ash from his cigar into the tray on the table. You're restless tonight, Gordon, and it isn't like you either. It's in the air. There's been a dead come for two days. Something is due to happen tonight. I wish I could hear from Banks. He started with the papers for Sinclair's yesterday while I went to Oroville to sweat karg. Blood poisoning has set in, it's rather important to us to get a confession. There's a horse. He stepped to the window. Coming fast, too. Now I wonder. No, he's gone by. Five minutes later a messenger came to the car from the wiki up with word that Kennedy was looking for Whispering Smith. Bucks, MacLeod, and Smith left the car together and walked up to MacLeod's office. Kennedy, sitting on the edge of the table, was tapping his leg nervously with a ruler. Bad news, Gordon, not from Ed Banks. Sinclair got him this morning. Whispering Smith sat down. Go on. Banks and I picked up Wickwire on the crawling stone early, and we rode over to the Frenchman. Wickwire, said Sinclair, had been up at Williams' cash the day before, and he didn't think he was home. Of course I knew the cash was watched, and he wouldn't be there long, so Ed asked me to stay in the cotton woods and watch the creek for him. He and Wickwire couldn't find anybody home when they got to the ranch house, and they rode down the corral together to look over the horses. Whispering Smith's hand fell helplessly to the table, rode down together. For God's sake, why didn't one of them stay at the house? Sinclair rode out from behind the barn and hit Wickwire in the arm before they saw him. Banks turned and opened on him and Wickwire ducked for the creek. Sinclair put a soft bullet through Banks' shoulder, tore it pretty bad, Gordon, and made his getaway before Wickwire and I could reach the barn again. I got Ed on his horse and back to Wickwire's, and we sent one of the boys to Orville for a doctor. After Banks fell out of the saddle and was helpless, Sinclair talked to him before I came up. You ought to have kept out of this, Ed, he said. This is a railroad fight. Why didn't they send the head of their own gang after me? Naming you. Kennedy nodded toward Whispering Smith. Naming me? Banks says I'm sheriff of this county and will be for a long time yet. I took the papers from his breast pocket, continued Kennedy. You can see where he was hit. Kennedy laid the sheriff's packet on the table. Banks drew his chair forward and with his cigar between his fingers picked the packet up and opened it. Kennedy went on. Ed told Sinclair if he couldn't land him himself that he knew a man who could and would before he was a week older. He meant you, Gordon, and the last thing Ed told me was that he wanted you to serve the papers on Sinclair. A silence fell on the company. One of the documents passing under Buck's hand caught his eye and he opened it. It was the warrant for Sinclair. He read it without comment, folded it, and looking at Whispering Smith pushed it toward him. Then this, I guess, Gordon belongs to you. Starting from a reverie, Whispering Smith reached for the warrant. He looked for a moment at the blood-stained caption. Yes, he said. This, I guess, belongs to me. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This Lebervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 36. Duty. The stir of the town of the shooting of Banks seemed to Marian in her distress to point an accusing finger at her. The disgrace of what she had felt herself powerless to prevent now weighed on her mind, and she asked herself whether, after all, the responsibility of this murder was not upon her. Even putting aside this painful doubt, she bore the name of the man who had savagely defied accountability and, now, it seemed to her, was dragging her with him through the slough of mud and dishonor into which she had plunged. The wretched thought would return that had she listened to him, had she consented to go away this outbreak might have been prevented, and what horror might not another day bring, what lives still closer to her life be taken. For herself she cared less, but she knew that Sinclair, now that he had begun, would not stop. In whichever way her thoughts turned, wretchedness was upon them, and the day went in one of those despairing and indecisive battles that each one within his own heart must fight at times with heaviness and doubt. MacLeod called her over the telephone in the afternoon to say that he was going west on the evening train and would not be over for supper. She wished she could have come, for her lonely loneliness began to be insupportable. Towards sunset she put on her hat and started for the post office. In the meantime Dixie, at home, had called MacLeod up and told him she was coming down for the night. He immediately canceled his plans for going west, and when Marion returned at dusk she found him with Dixie at the cottage. The three had supper, afterward Dixie and MacLeod went out for a walk, and Marion was alone in the house when the shop door opened and Whispering Smith walked in. It was dusk. Don't light the lamps, Marion, he said, sitting down on the counter stool as he took off his hat. I want to talk with you just a minute, if you don't mind. You know what has happened. I'm called on now to go after Sinclair. I've tried to avoid it, but my hand has been forced. Today I've been placing horses. I'm going to ride tonight with the warrant. I've given him a start of twenty-four hours, hoping he may get out of the country. To stay here means only death to him in the end, and what is worse, the killing of more and innocent men. But he won't leave the country. Do you think he will? Oh, I don't know. I'm afraid he will not. I don't think I have ever hesitated before at any call of this kind, nor at what such a call will probably some time mean. But this man I've known since we were boys, if I had never seen him, that brings up another point that has been worrying me all day. I could not help knowing what you have had to go through in this country. It is a tough country for any woman. Your people and mine were always close together, and I felt bound to do what I could to... Don't be afraid to say it. Make my path easier. Something like that, though there's been little real doing. What this situation in which Sinclair is now placed may still mean to you I do not know, but I would not add a straw to the weight of your troubles. I came tonight to ask a plain question. If he doesn't leave the country, I've got to meet him. You know what an all-human probability that will mean. For such a meeting only one of us can come back. Which shall it be? I'm afraid I don't understand you. Do you ask me this question? How can I know which it shall be? What is it you mean? I mean I will not take his life in a fight if it comes to that. If you would rather he should come back. A sob almost refused an answer to him. How can you ask me so terrible a question? It is a question that means a good deal to me, of course, and I don't know just what it means to you. But that's the point I'm up against. I may have no choice in the matter, but I must decide what to try to do if I have one. Am I to remember first that he is your husband? There was a silence. What shall I say? What can I say? God help me. How am I to answer a question like that? How am I to answer it? Her voice was low and pitiful when her answer came. You must do your duty. What is my duty then? To serve the paper that's been given to me, I know, but not necessarily to defend my life at the price of his. The play of a chance lies in deciding that. I can keep the chance or give it away. That is for you to say. Or take the question of duty again. You are alone and your friends are few. Have an eye any duty toward you, perhaps? I don't know a woman's heart. I used to think I did, but I don't. My duty to this company that I work for is only the duty of a servant. If I go, another takes my place. It means nothing except taking one name off the payroll and putting another on. Whatever he may have done, this man is your husband. If his death would cause you a pang, it shall not be late at my door. We ought to understand each other on that point fairly before I start tonight. Can you ask me whether you ought not to take every means to defend your own life? Or whether any consideration ought to come before that? I think not. I should be a wicked woman if I were to wish evil to him, wretched as he has made me. I am a wretched woman, whichever way I turn. But I should be less than human if I could say that to me your death would not be a cruel, cruel blow. There was a moment of silence. Dixie understood you to say that you were in doubt as to whether you ought to go away with him when he asked you to go. That is why I was unsettled in my mind. The only reason why I doubted was that I thought by going I might save better lives than mine. I could willingly give up my life to do that. But to stain it by going back to such a man, God help me. I think I understand if the unfortunate should happen before I come back, I hope only this, that you will not hate me because I am the man on whom the responsibility has fallen. I haven't sought it, and if I should not come back at all, it is only goodbye. He saw her clasp her hands convulsively. I will not say it. I will pray on my knees that you do come back. Good night, Marian. Someone is at the cottage door. It's probably MacLeod and Dixie. I will let them in. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 37 Wickwire MacLeod and Dixie met them at the porch door. Marian unnerved went directly to her room. Whispering Smith stopped to speak to Dixie and MacLeod, interposed. Bob Scott telephoned the office just now. He had a man from Oroville who wanted to see you right away, Gordon, said he. I told him to send him over here. It's Wickwire. Wickwire, repeated Whispering Smith. Wickwire has no business here that I know of. No doubt it is something I ought to know of. And by the way, you ought to see this man. He said turning again to Dixie. If MacLeod tells the story right, Wickwire is a sort of protege of yours, Miss Dixie, though neither of you seems to have known it. He's the tramped cowboy who was smashed up in the wreck at Smokey Creek. He's not a bad man, but whiskey, you know, beats some decent men. A footstep fell on the porch. There he comes now, I reckon. Shall I let him in in a minute? Oh, I should like to see him. He's been at the ranch at different times, you know. Smith opened the door and, stepping out on the porch, talked with the newcomer. In a moment he brought him in. Dixie had seated herself on the sofa. MacLeod stood in the doorway of the dining room and Whispering Smith laid one arm on the table as he sat down beside it with his face above the dark shade of the lamp. Before him stood Wickwire. The half-light threw him up tall and dark, but it showed the heavy shock of black hair falling over his forehead and the broad, thin face of a mountain man. He's just been telling me that Seagrew is loose, Whispering Smith explained pleasantly. Who turned the trick, Wickwire? Sheriff Coon and a deputy jailer started with Seagrew for Medicine Bend this morning. Coming through Horsley Canyon, Murray Sinclair and Barney Repstock got a clean drop on them took Seagrew and they all rode off together. They didn't make any bones about it either. Their gang has got lots of friends over there, you know. They rode into Atlantic City and stayed over an hour. Coon tracked them there and got up a posse of six men. The three were standing in front of the bank when the sheriff rode into town. Sinclair and Seagrew got on their horses and started off. Repstock went back to get another drink. When he came out of the saloon, he gave the posse a gunfight all by himself and wounded two men and made his getaway. Whispering Smith shook his head and his hand fell on the table with a tired laugh. Barney Repstock, you murmured, of all men, cowered skate, filler in, Barney Repstock, stale beer man, sneak, barnyard thief, hit two men. He turned to MacLeod. What kind of a wizard is Murray Sinclair? What sort of red blood toxin does he throw into his gang to draw out a spirit like that? Murray Sinclair belongs to the race of empire builders by heaven. It is pitiful a man like that should be out of a job. England MacLeod needs him and here he is holding up trains on the mountain division. They're all up in Oroville with the Williams cash gangs celebrating continued wickwire. Whispering Smith looked at the cowboy. Wickwire, you made a good ride and I thank you. You're all right. This is the young lady and this is the man who had sent you to the hospital from Smokey Creek. He added, rising. You can thank them for picking you up. When you leave here tell Bob Scott to meet me at the wiki up with the horses at 11 o'clock, will you? He turned to Dixie and a gentle aside. I'm riding north tonight. I wish you were going partway. Dixie looked at him intently. You are worried over something, she murmured. I can see it in your face. Nothing more than usual. I thrive, you know, on trouble and I'm sorry to say good night so early, but I have a long ride ahead. He stepped quietly past MacLeod and out of the door. Wickwire was thanking Dixie when unwillingly she let Whispering Smith's hand slip out of her own. I sure wouldn't have been here tonight if you two hadn't picked me up, left Wickwire speaking softly to Dixie when she turned to him. I've known my friends a long time, but I reckon they all didn't know me. I've known you longer than you think, returned Dixie with a smile. I've seen you at the ranch house. But now that we really do know each other, please remember you're always sure of a home at the ranch whenever you want one, Mr. Wickwire, and just as long as you want one. We never forget our friends on the Crawling Stone. If I may make so bold, I thank you kindly. And if you all will let me run away now, I want to catch Whispering Smith for just a minute. Wickwire overtook Smith in Fort Street. Talk quick, Wickwire, he said. I'm in a hurry. What do you want? Partner, I've always played fair with you. So far as I know, Wickwire, yes, why? I've got a favor to ask. What is it, money? No partner, not money this time. You've always been more than liberal with me. But so far I've had to keep undercover, you ask me to. I want to ask the privilege now of coming out into the open. The jig is up so far as watching anybody goes. Yes, there's nobody to watch anymore. They're all to chase, I reckon now. The open is my kind of a fight anyway. I want to ride out this manhut with you. How's your arm? My arms all right. And there ought to be a place for me in the chase now that Ed Banks is out of it. I want to cut loose up on the range anyhow. If I'm a man, I want to know it. And if I ain't, I want to know it. I want to ride with you after Seagrew and Sinclair and Barney Repstock. Whispering Smith spoke coldly. You mean Wickwire, you want to get killed? My partner, if it's coming to me, I don't mind. Yes. What's the use, Wickwire? If I'm a man, I want to know it. If I ain't, it's time my friends note it. Anyhow, I'm a man enough to work out with some of that gang. Most of them have put it over on me one time or another. Sinclair pasted me like a black bird only the other day. They all said I'm nothing but a damned tramp. You say I've done you service? Give me a show. Whispering Smith stopped a minute in the shadow of a tree and looked keenly at him. I'm too busy tonight to say much, Wickwire, he said after a moment. You go over to the barn and report to Bob Scott. If you want to take the chances, Bob Scott is up to you. And if Bob Scott is agreeable, I'll use you where I can. That's all I can promise. You will probably have more than one chance to get killed. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This Sleaver Fox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 38 Into the North The moon had not yet risen, and in the darkness of Boney Street, Smith walked slowly toward his room. The answer to his question had come. The rescue of Seagrew made it clear that Sinclair would not leave the country. He well knew that Sinclair cared no more for Seagrew than a prairie dog. It was only that he felt strong enough, with his friends and sympathizers, to defy the railroad force and Whispering Smith, and planned now probably to kill off his pursuers or wear them out. There was a second incentive for remaining. Nearly all the Tower W. Money had been hidden at Redstock's cabin by Du Sang. That Kennedy had already got hold of it, Sinclair could not know. But it was certain that he would not leave the country without an effort to recover the booty from Redstock. Whispering Smith turned the key in the door of his room as he revolved the situation in his mind. Within the dark was cheerless, but he made no effort to light a lamp. Groping his way to the side of the low bed, he sat down and put his head between his hands to think. There was no help for it that he could see. He must meet Sinclair. The situation he had dreaded most from the moment Bucks asked him to come back to the mountains had come. He thought of every phase of the outcome. If Sinclair should kill him the difficulties were less. It would be unpleasant, certainly, but something that might happen any time and at any man's hands. He had cut into the game too long ago, and with his eyes too wide open to complain at this time of the possibility of an accident. They might kill each other, but if escaping himself he should kill Sinclair he came back in the silence always to that if. It rose dark between him and the woman he loved, whom he had loved since she was a child with schoolgirl eyes and braided hair. After he had lost her, only to find years afterward that she was hardly less wretched in her life than he in his, he had dreamed of the day when she might again be free, and he free to win a love long hoped for. But to slay this man, her husband, in his inmost heart he felt it would mean the raising of a bar as impalpable as fate, and as undying to all his dreams. Deserved or not, whatever she should say or not say, what would she feel? How could her husband's death in that encounter, if it ever came, be other than a stain that must shock and wound her, no matter how much she should try not to see? Could either of them ever quite forget it? Kennedy and his men were guarding the cache. Could they be sent against Sinclair? That would be only a baser sort of murder, the murder of his friends. He himself was leader and so looked upon. The post of danger was his. He raised his head. Through the window came a faint light. The moon was rising, and against the inner wall of the room the straight hard lines of the old wardrobe rose dimly. The rifles were within. He must choose. He walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. It was dark everywhere across the upper town, but in the distance one light burned. It was in Marion's cottage. He had chosen this room because from the window he could see her home. He stood for a few moments with his hands in his pockets looking. When he turned away he drew the shade closely, lighted a lamp, and unlocked the wardrobe door. Scott left the barn at half-past ten with a lead horse for Whispering Smith. He rode past Smith's room in Fort Street, but the room was dark, and he jogged down to the wiki up square where he had been told to meet him. After waiting and riding about for an hour he tied the horses and went up to McLeod's office. McLeod was at his desk but knew nothing of Whispering Smith except that he was to come in before he started. He's a punctual man, murmured Bob Scott, who had the low voice of the Indian. Usually he's ahead of time. Is he in his room, do you think? Asked McLeod. I rode around that way about fifteen minutes ago. There was no light. He must be there, declared McLeod. Have you the horses below? We'll ride over and try the room again. Fort Street back up front is so quiet after eleven o'clock at night that a footfall echoes in it. McLeod dismounted in front of the bank building and, throwing the range to Bob Scott, walked upstairs and back toward Smith's room. In the hallway he paused. He heard faint strains of music. They came from within the room, fragments of old airs played on a violin and subdued by a mute in the darkness. McLeod's hand at the door. He stood until the music ceased and footsteps moved about in the room. Then he knocked and a light appeared within. Whispering Smith opened the door. He stood in his trousers and shirt with his cartridge belt in his hand. Come in, George. I'm just getting hooked up. Which way are you going tonight, Gordon? asked McLeod, sitting down on the chair. I'm going to Oroville. The crowd is celebrating there. It's a deafie, you know. Who are you going to take with you? Nobody. McLeod moved uneasily. I don't like that. There'll be nothing doing. Sinclair may be gone by the time I arrive. But I want to see Bob and Jean Johnson and to scare the Williams' cash-codes just to keep their tails between their legs. I'd like to kill off half a dozen of that gang. Whispering Smith said nothing for the moment. Did you ever have to kill a man, George? He asked, buckling his cartridge belt. No. Why? There was no reply. Smith had taken a rifle from the rack and was examining the firing mechanism. He worked the lever for a moment with lightning-like speed, laid the gun on the bed, and sat down beside it. You would hardly believe, George, how I hate to go after Murray Sinclair. I've known him all my life. His folks and mine lived across the street from one another for twenty years. Which is the older? Murray is five years older than I am. He was always a big, strong, good-looking fellow. With Spring Smith put his hands on the side of the bed. It is curious how you remember things that happened when you were a boy, isn't it? I thought of something tonight I hadn't thought of for twenty years. A little circus came to town. While they were setting up the tent, the lines for the gasoline tank got fouled in the block at the top of the center pole. The head canvas man offered a quarter to any boy that would climb the pole and free the block. One boy after another tried it, but they couldn't climb halfway up. Then Murray sailed in. I was seven years old, and Murray was twelve, and he wore a vest. He gave me the vest to hold while he went up. I felt like a king. There was a lead pencil in one pocket, beautifully sharpened, and I showed it to the other boys. Did he make good? He always made good, said Whispering Smith gloomily. The canvas man gave him the quarter in two tickets, and he gave one of the tickets to me. I got to thinking about that tonight. As boys, Murray and I never had a quarrel, he stopped. McLeod said nothing, and after an interval Smith spoke again. He was an oracle for all the small boys in town, and could advise us on any subject on earth, whether he knew anything about it or nothing about it made no difference. I told him once I wanted to be a California stage robber, and he replied without an instant hesitation that ought to begin to practice running. I was so upset at his grasp of the subject that I had in the nerve to ask him why I needed to practice running to be a stage robber. I was ashamed of appearing green, and to this day I've never understood what he meant. Whether it was to run after the stage or to run away from it, I couldn't figure out. Perhaps my being too proud to ask the question changed my career. He went away for a long time, and we heard he was in the Black Hills. When he came back, my God, what a hero he was. Bob Scott knocked at the door, and Whispering Smith opened it. Tired of waiting, Bob? Well, I guess I'm ready. Is the moon up? This is the rifle I'm going to take, Bob. Did Wickwire have a talk with you? He's all right. Suppose you send him to the mouth of Little Crawling Stone to watch things a day or two. They may try to work north that way or hide in the wash. Walking down the street, Whispering Smith continued his suggestions. By the way, Bob, I want you to pass the word for me up and down Front Street. Sinclair has his friends in town, and it's all right. I know them and expect them to stay by him. I expect Murray's friends to do what they can for him. I've got my friends and expect them to stay by me. That there's one thing that I will not stand for on any man's part, and that is hiding Sinclair anywhere in Medicine Bend. Do you keep him out of Medicine Bend, Bob? Will you do it? And remember, I will never let up on the man who hides him in town while this fight is on. There are good reasons for drawing the line on that point, and there I draw it hard and fast. Now Bob and Gene Johnson were at Oroville when you left, worthy Bob. He was fastening his rifle in the scabbard. Which is Deputy Sheriff this year, Bob or Gene? Gene, very good. He swung into the saddle. Have you got everything? Mermit, Scott. I think so. Stop. I'm riding away without my salt bag. That would be a pretty piece of business, wouldn't it? Take the key, Bob. It's hanging between the rifles and the clock. Here's the wardrobe key, too. There was some further talk when Scott came back with the salt chiefly about horses and directions as to telephoning. Whispering Smith took up a notch again in his belt, pulled down his hat, and bent over the neck of his horse to lay his hand a moment in my clouds. It was one o'clock. Across the foothills the moon was rising, and Whispering Smith, straightening up in the saddle, wheeled his horse and trotted swiftly up the street into the silent north. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This Librox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 39 Among the Couties Oroville once marked Fatherous North for the Peace River Gold camps, but with mining long ago abandoned it now marks Fatherous South for the Rustlers Camp, being a favorite resort for the people of the Williams-Cash country. Oroville boasts that it has never surrendered and that it has never been cleaned out. It has moved and been moved upstream and down and from bank to bank. It has been burned out and blown away and lived on wheels, but it has never suffered the loss of its identity. Oroville is said to have given to its river the name of Peace River, either wholly in irony or because in Oroville there were for so many years no peace saved in the river. However, that day too is passed, and Peace County has its sheriff and a few people who are not habitually wanted. Whispering Smith, well dusted with alkali, rode up to the Johnson Ranch, eight miles southwest of Oroville, in the afternoon of the day after he left Medicine Bend. The ranch lies in a valley watered by the rainbow, and it makes a pretty little oasis of green and a limitless waste of sagebrush. Gene and Bob Johnson were cutting alfalfa when Whispering Smith rode into the field, and stopping the mowers, the three men talked while the seven horses nibbled the clover. A manate a little help, Gene, to get him out of town, remarked Smith after he had told his story. That is, if there are too many cashmen there for me. Bob Johnson was stripping a stalk of alfalfa in his fingers. Them fellows are pretty sore. That comes of half doing a job, Bob. I was in too much of a hurry with the roundup. They haven't had dose enough yet, returned Whispering Smith. If you and Gene will join me sometime when I have a week to spare, we'll go in there, clean up the gang, and burn the hair off the roots of the chaperrill, what? I've hinted to Rev Stock that he could get ready for something like that. Tell us about that fight, Gordon. I will if you'll give me something to eat and have this horse taken care of. Then, Bob, I want you to ride into Oroville and wreck an order. This is mail day, and I understand some of the boys are buying postage stamps to put on my coffin. They went to the house where Whispering Smith talked as he ate. Bob took a horse and rode away, and Gene, with his guest, went back to the alfalfa, where Smith took Bob's place on the moor. When they saw Bob riding up the valley, Whispering Smith, bringing in the machine, mounted his horse. Your man is there, all right, said Bob, as he approached. He and John Rev Stock were in the Blackbird Saloon. Seagrew isn't there, but Barney Rev Stock and a lot of others are. I talked a few minutes with John and Murray. Sinclair didn't say much, only that the railroad gang was trying to run him out of the country, and he wanted to meet a few of them before he went. I just imagine he held up a little before me, maybe not. There's a dozen Williams Cashmen in town, but those fellas are not really dangerous, Bob, though they may be troublesome, observed Smith, reflectively. Well, what's your plan, blurted Gene Johnson? I haven't any Gene, returned Smith with perfect simplicity. My only plan is to ride into town and serve my papers, if I can. I've got a deputy ship, and that I'm going to do right away. If you, Bob, or both of you, will happen in about 30 minutes later, you'll get the news and perhaps see the fun. Much obliged for your feed, Gene. Come down to Medicine B at any time, and I'll fill you up. I want you both for that Elcont next fall. Remember that. Bucks is coming, and he's going to bring Brown and Henson and perhaps Atterbury and Gibbs and some New Yorkers. And McLeod's brother, the preacher, is coming out, and they're all right, all of them. The only street in Orville faces the river, and the buildings straying for two or three blocks along modest bluffs. Not a soul was anywhere in sight when Whispering Smith rode into town. Save that across the street from where he dismounted and tied his horse, three men stood in front of the blackbird. They watched the new arrival with languid interest. Smith walked stiffly over toward the saloon to size up the men before he should enter it. The middle man of the group with a thin red face and very blue eyes was chewing tobacco in an unpromising way. Before Smith was halfway across the street, he saw the hands of the three men falling to their hips. Taking care, however, only to keep the men between him and the saloon door, Smith walked directly toward them. Boys, have you happened to see Gene or Bob Johnson today, any of you? He threw back the brim of his stetson as he spoke. Hold your hand right there, right where it is, said the blue-eyed man sharply. Whispering Smith smiled, but held his hand rather awkwardly upon his hat brim. No, continued the spokesman, we ain't none of us happen to see Bob or Gene Johnson today, but we happen to see Whispering Smith and we'll blow your face off if you move at an inch, Smith laughed. I never quarreled with a man that's got to drop on me, boys. Now this is sudden but unexpected. Do I know any of you? He looked from one face to another before him, with a wide reach in his field of vision for the three hands that were fast on three pistol butts. Hold on, I've met you somewhere. He said with easy confidence to the blue-eyed man with a weather-split lip. Williams' cash, wasn't it? All right, we're placed. Now what have you got in for me? I've got 40 head of steer in for you, answered the man in the middle with a splitting oath. You stole 40 head of my steers in that roundup and I'm going to fill you so full of lead you'll never run off no more stock for nobody. Don't look over there to your horse or your rifle. Hold your hands right where they are. Certainly, certainly. When I pull, I shoot. I don't always do it, but it is business I acknowledge. When a man pulls, he ought to shoot. Very often it's the only chance he ever gets to shoot. Well, it isn't every man gets to drop on me that easy, but you boys have got it, continued Whispering Smith in frank admiration. Only I want to say you're after the wrong man. That roundup was all Redstock's fault, and Redstock is bound to make good all loss and damage. You'll make good my share of it right now and here, said the man with the wash-blue eyes. Well, of course, assented Whispering Smith, if I must, I must. I suppose I may light a cigarette, boys, before you turn loose the fireworks. Light it quick, laughing at the humor of the situation. Whispering Smith, his eyes beaming with good nature, put the finger and thumb of his right hand into his waistcoat pocket, drew out a package of cigarette paper, and, bantering his captors innocently the while, tore off a sheet and put the packet back. Folding the paper in his two hands, he declared he believed his tobacco was in his saddle pocket and asked to leave to step across the street to get it. The trick was too transparent, and leave was refused with scorn and some hard words. Whispering Smith begged the men in front of him in turn for tobacco. They cursed him and shook their heads. For an instant he looked troubled. Still appealing to them with his eyes, he tapped lightly the lower outside pockets of his coat with his fingers, shifting the cigarette paper from hand to hand as he hunted. The outside pocket seemed empty, but as he tapped the inside breast pocket on the left side of the coat, the three men, linkside, watching, his face brightened. Stop! said he, his voice sinking in a relieved whisper as his hand rested lightly on the treasure. There's the tobacco! I suppose one of you will give me a match. All that the three before him could ever afterward recollect, and for several years afterward they cauld their brains pretty thoroughly about that moment, was that Whispering Smith took hold of the left lapel of his coat to take the tobacco out of the breast pocket. An excuse to take that lapel in his left hand was, in fact, all that Whispering Smith needed to put not alone the three men before him but all Aureville at his mercy. The play of his right hand in crossing the corduroy waistcoat to pull his revolver from its scabbard and throw it into their faces was all too quick for better eyes than theirs. They saw only the muzzle of the heavy coats playing like a snake's tongue under their surprised noses with the good-natured smile still behind it. Or will one of you roll a cigarette, asked Whispering Smith without a break between the two questions. I don't smoke. Now don't make faces. Go right ahead. Do anything you want with your hands. I wouldn't ask a man to keep his hands or feet still on a hot day like this. He insisted the revolver playing all the time. You won't draw? You won't fight? Sure. Then disengage your hands gently from your guns. You fellas really ought not to attempt to pull a gun in Aureville, and I will tell you why. There's a reason for it. He looked confidential as he put his head forward to whisper among the crestfallen faces. At this altitude it's too fast work. I know you now, he went on as they continued to wilt. You are fatty filber, he said to the thin chap. Don't work your mouth like that at me. Don't do it. You seem surprised. Really? Have you the asthma? Get over it, because you were wanted in Pound County for horse-stealing. Why, hang it, fatty? You're good for ten years. And, of course, since you have reminded me of it, I'll see that you get it. And you, Baxter, said he to the man on the right, I know I spoke to you once when I was inspector about altering brands. That's five years, you know. You, he added, scrutinizing the third man to scare him to death. I think you were at Tower W. No? No matter. You two boys may go anyway. Fatty, you stay. We'll put some state cows on your ribs. By the way, are you a detective, Fatty? Aren't you? See here, I can get you into an association. For ten dollars they give you a German Silver Star and teach the Japanese method of pulling by correspondence. Or you might get an electric battery to handle your gun with. You can get pocket dynamos from the mail order houses. Sure. Read the big book. When Gene and Bob Johnson rode into town, Whispering Smith was sitting in a chair outside the Blackbird, still chatting with Thilber, who stood with his arms around a hitching post, holding fast a mail order house catalog. A modest crowd of hangers-own had gathered. Here we are, Gene, exclaimed Smith to the deputy sheriff. I was looking for steers, but some calves got in the drive. Take him away. While the Johnsons were laughing, Smith walked into the Blackbird. He had lost 30 minutes, and in losing them had lost his quarry. Sinclair had disappeared, and Whispering Smith made a virtue of necessity by taking the upsetting of his plans with an unruffled face. There was but one thing more indeed to do, and that was to eat his supper and ride away. The street encounter had made so much talk in Orville that Smith declined Gene Johnson's invitation to go back to the house. It seemed a convenient time to let any other ambitious rustlers make good if they were disposed to try, and Whispering Smith went for his supper to the hotel where the Williams Cashmen made their headquarters. There was a rise in the atmospheric pressure the moment he entered the hotel office door, and when he walked into the dining room, some minutes later the silence was oppressive. Smith looked for a seat. The only vacant place chance to be at a table were nine men from the Cash said busy with ham and eggs. It was a trifle awkward, but the only thing to do was to take the vacant chair. The nine men were actively engaged with knives and forks and spoons when Whispering Smith drew out the empty chair at the head of the table. But nine pairs of hands dropped modestly under the table when he sat down. Coughing slightly to hide his embarrassment and to keep his right hand in touch with his necktie, Whispering Smith looked around the table with the restrained air of a man who has bowed his head and resolved to ask the blessing, but wants to make reasonably sure that the family is listening. A movement at the other tables among the regular borders of the hostelry was apparent almost at once. Appetites began to fail all over the dining room, Whispering Smith gave his order genially to the confused waitress. Bring me two eggs, one fried on one side and one on the other and coffee. There was a general scraping of chairs on the floor as they were pushed back and guests not at the moment interested in the bill of fare started modestly but firmly to leave the dining room. At Whispering Smith's table there were no second calls for coffee. To stimulate the eating he turned the conversation into channels as reassuring as possible. Unfortunately for his endeavor the man at the far end of the table reached for a toothpick. It seemed a pleasant way out of the difficulty and when the run on toothpicks had once begun all Whispering Smith's cordiality could not check it. Every man appeared to want a toothpick and one after another of Whispering Smith's company deserted him. He was finally left alone with a physician known as Doc, a forger and bigamess from Denver. Smith tried to engage Doc in medical topics. The doctor was not alone frightened but tipsy and when Smith went so far as to ask him as a medical man, whether in his opinion the high water in the mountains had any direct connection with the prevalence of falling of the spine among old residenters in William's cache, the doctor felt of his head as if his brains were turning turtle. When Whispering Smith raised his knife ostentatiously to bring out a feature of his theory the doctor raised his knife higher to admit the force of it and when Whispering Smith leaned his head forward impressively to drive home a point in his assertion the doctor stretched his neck till his face grew apoplectic. Releasing him at length from the strain Whispering Smith begged of the staring maid servant the recipe for the biscuit. When she came back with it he said all alone, pouring ketchup over his griddle cakes in an abstracted manner and it so flurried her that she had to go out again to ask whether the gasoline went into the dough or under it. He played out the play to the end but when he rode away in the dusk his face was careworn. John Rebstock had told him why Sinclair dodged. There were others whom Sinclair wanted to meet first and Whispering Smith was again heading in a long hard ride and after a man on a better horse back to the crawling stone and medicine bin. There's others he wants to see first or you'd have no trouble in talking business today. You nor no other man will ever get him alive but Whispering Smith knew that. See that he doesn't get you alive, Rebstock, was his parting retort. If he finds out Kennedy has got the Tower W Money the first thing he does will be to put the doxology all over you. End of chapter 39 Chapter 40 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This Liber-Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 40 A Sympathetic Ear When Whispering Smith rode after Sinclair, Crawling Stone Ranch, in common with the whole countryside, had but one interest in life, and that was to hear of the meeting. Riders across the mountain valleys met with but one question. Mail carriers brought nothing in their pouches of interest equal to the last word concerning Sinclair or his pursuer. It was commonly agreed through the mountains that it would be a difficult matter to overhaul any good man riding Sinclair's steel dust horses, but with Sinclair himself in the saddle, unless it pleased him to pull up, the chase was sure to be a stern one. Against this defeat speculation stood one man's record, that of the man who had ridden alone across Deep Creek and had brought Chuck Williams out on a buckboard. Business and medicine bin, meantime, was practically suspended, as the center of all telephone lines, the big railroad town, was likewise the center of all rumors. Officers and soldiers to and from the fort, stage drivers and cowmen, homesteaders and rustlers discussed the apprehension of Sinclair. Moreover, behind this effort to arrest one man who had savagely defied the law, were ranged all of the prejudices, sympathies, and hatreds of the high country, and practically the whole population tributary to medicine bin and the Crawling Stone Valley were friends either to Sinclair or to his pursuer. Behind Sinclair were nearly all the cattlemen, not alone because he was on good terms with the rustlers and protected his friends, but because he warred openly on the sheepmen. The big-range interests, as a rule, were openly or covertly friendly to Sinclair. While against him were the homesteaders, the railroadmen, the common people, and the men who everywhere hated cruelty and outrage and the making of a lie. Lance Dunney had never concealed his friendliness for Sinclair. Even after hard stories about him were known to be true, and it was this confidence of fellowship that made Sinclair, twenty-four hours after he had left Oroville, ride down the hill trail to Crawling Stone Ranch House. The morning had been cold, with a heavy wind and a dull sky. In the afternoon the clouds lured over the valley and the misting rain set in. Dixie had gone into Medicine Bend on the stage in the morning, and after a stolen half hour with Macleod at Marion's had ridden home to escape the storm. Not less but much more than those about her she was alive to the situation in which Sinclair stood and its dangers to those closest to her. In the morning her one prayer to Macleod had been to have a care of himself and to Marion to have a care for herself. But even when Dixie left them it seemed as if neither quite felt the peril as she felt it. In the afternoon the rain falling steadily kept her in the house, and she sat in her room sowing until the light failed. She went downstairs. Puss had lighted the grate in the living room, and Dixie threw herself into a chair. The sound of hoofs aroused her and she went to a window. To her horror she saw Sinclair walking with her cousin up to the front door. She ran into the dining room, and the two men entered the hall and walked into the office. Choking with excitement, Dixie ran through the kitchen and upstairs to master her agitation. In the office Sinclair was sitting down before the hot stove with a tumbler of whiskey. Lats! he shook his head as he spoke hoarsely. I want to say my friends have stood by me to a man, but there's none of them treated me squirre through thick and thin than you have. Well, I've had some bad luck. It can't be helped. Regards! he drank and shook his wet hair again. Four days of hard riding had left no trace on his iron features. Wet to the bone, his eyes flashed with fire. He held the glass full of whiskey in a hand as steady as the spirit level, and tossed it down a throat as cool as dew. I want to say another thing, Lats. I had no more intention than a child of hurting Ed Banks. I warned Ed, months ago, to keep out of this fight, and I never knew he was in it till it was too late. But I'm hoping he will pull through yet if they don't kill him in the hospital despite me. I never recognized the men at all till it was too late. Why, one of them used to work for me. A man with the whole railroad gang in these mountains after him has got to look out for himself. Or his life ain't worth a glass of beer. Thank you, Lats. Not any more. I saw two men with their rifles in their hands looking for me. I hollered at them, but Lats, I'm rough and ready, as all my friends know, and I will let no man put a drop on me. That I will never do. Ed, before I ever recognized him, raised his rifle. That's the only reason I fired. Not so full, Lats. Not so full, if you please. Well, he shook his black hair as he threw back his head. Here's to better luck and worse countries, he paused as he swallowed and set the tumbler down. Lats, I'm saying goodbye to the mountains. You're not going away for good, Murray. I'm going away for good. What's the use? For two years, these railroad cutthroats have been trying to put something on me. You know that. They've been trying to mix me up with that bridge burning at Smoky Creek. Sugar Buttes, they've had me there, Tower W. Nothing would do, but I was there, and they've got one of the men in jail down there now, Lats, trying to sweat enough perjury out of him to send me up. What show has a poor man got against all the money there is in the country? I wouldn't be afraid of a jury of my own neighbors, the men that know me, Lats, any time. What show would I have with a packed jury and medicine bin? I could explain anything I've done to the satisfaction of any reasonable man. I'm human, Lats, that's all I say. I've been mistreated and I don't forget it. They've even turned my wife against me, as fine a woman as ever lived. Lats swore, sympathetically, there's good stuff in you yet, Murray. I'm going to say goodbye to the mountains, Sinclair went on grimly, but I'm going to medicine bin tonight and tell the man that has hounded me what I think of him before I leave. I'm going to give my wife a chance to do what is right and go with me. She's been poisoned against me, I know that. But if she does what's fair and square, there'll be no trouble. No trouble at all. All I want, Lats, is a square deal. What? Dixie, with her pulses, throbbing at fever heat, heard the words. She stood halfway down the stairs, trembling as she listened. Anger, hatred, the spirit of vengeance choked in her throat at the sinister words. She longed to stride into the room and confront the murderer and call down retribution on his head. It was no fear of him that restrained her, for the crawling stone girl never knew fear. She would have confronted him and denounced him, but prudence checked her angry impulse. She knew what he meant to do. To ride into Medicine Ben under cover of the storm, murder the two he hated and escape in the night, and, she resolved, he should never succeed if she could only get to the telephone. But the telephone was in the room where he sat. He was saying goodbye. Her cousin was trying to dissuade him from riding out into the storm, but he was going. The door opened. The men went out on the porch and it closed. Dixie, lightly as a shadow, ran into the office and began ringing Medicine Ben on the telephone. End of Chapter 40. Chapter 41 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 41. Dixie's ride. When Lance Dunning entered the room ten minutes later, Dixie stood at the telephone. But the ten minutes of that interval had made quite another creature of his cousin. The wires were down and no one from any quarter gave her response to her frantic ringing. Through the receiver she could hear only the sweep of the rain and the harsh crackle of the wind. Sometimes praying, sometimes fainting, and sometimes despairing, she stood clinging to the instrument, ringing and pounding upon it like one frenzied. Lance looked at her in amazement. Why, God Almighty Dixie, what's the matter? He called twice to her before she turned, and her words almost stunned him. Why did you not detain Sinclair here tonight? Why did you not arrest him? Lance's sombrero raked heavily to one side of his face, and one end of his moustache running up much higher on the other did not begin to express his astonishment. Arrest him? Arrest Sinclair? Dixie, are you crazy? Why the devil should I arrest Sinclair? Do you suppose I'm going to mix up in a fight like this? Do you think I want to get killed? The level-headed man in this country, just at present, is the man who can keep out of trouble, and the man who succeeds, let me tell you, has had more than plenty to do. Lance, getting no answer but a fierce searching gaze from Dixie's wild eyes, laid his hand on a chair, lighted a cigar and set down before the fire. Dixie dropped the telephone receiver, put her hand to her girdle, and looked at him. When she spoke, her tone was stinging. You know that man is going to medicine-bin to kill his wife. Lance took the cigar from his mouth and returned her look. I know no such thing, he growled curtly, and to kill George MacLeod if he can. He stared without reply. You heard him say so! Persisted Dixie vehemently. Lance crossed his legs and threw back the brim of his hat. MacLeod is nobody's fool. He'll look out for himself. These fiendish wires to medicine-bin her down. Why hasn't this line been repaired? She cried, wringing her hands. There's no way to give warning to anyone that he's coming, and you have let him go. Lance swirled in his chair. Damnation! Could I keep him from going? You did not want to. You're keeping out of trouble. What do you care whom he kills tonight? You've gone crazy, Dixie. Your imagination is upset your reason. Whether he kills anybody tonight or not, it's too late now to make a row about it. Exclaimed Lance, throwing his cigar angrily away, he won't kill us. And you expect me to sit by and fold my hands while that wretch shreds more blood, do you? It can be helped. I say it can be helped. I can help it. I will help it. As you could have done if you'd wanted to, I will ride to medicine bin tonight and help it. Lance jumped to his feet with a string of oats. Well, this is the limit. He pointed his finger at her. Dixie Dunning, you won't stir out of this house tonight. Her face hardened. How dare you speak in that way to me? Who are you that you ordered me what to do? Where to stay? Am I your cowboy to be defiled with your curses? He looked at her in amazement. She was only eighteen. He would still face her down. I'll tell you who I am. I am master here, and you will do as I tell you. You'll ride to medicine bin tonight, will you? You struck the table with this clenched fist. Do you hear me? I say by God, not a horse shall leave this ranch in this storm tonight to go anywhere for anybody or with anybody. Then I say to you, this ranch is my ranch, and these horses are my horses. From this hour forth I will order them to go and come, when, and where I please, she stepped toward him. Henceforward I am mistress here. Do you hear me? Henceforward I give orders in Crawling Stonehouse, and everyone under this roof takes orders from me. Dixie, what do you mean? For God's sake, you're not going to try to ride. She swept from the room. What happened afterward she could never recall. Who got Jim for her or whether she got the horse up herself, what was said to her in low, kindly words of warning by the man at Jim's neck when she sprang into the saddle? Who the man was, she could not have told. All she felt at last was that she was free, and out under the black sky with the rain beating her burning face and her horse leaping fearfully into the wind. No man could have kept the trail to the past that night. The horse took it as if the path flashed in sunshine and swung into the familiar stride that had carried her so many times over the twenty miles ahead of them. The storm driving into Dixie's face cooled her. Every moment she recollected herself better, and before her mind all the aspects of her venture ranged themselves. She had set herself to a race and against her rode the hardest rider in the mountains. She had set herself to what few men on the range would have dared and what no other woman on the range could do. Why have I learned to ride, went the question through her mind, if not for this, for those I love and for those who love me? Sinclair had a start, she well knew, but not so much for a night like this night. He would ride to kill those he hated. She would ride to save those she loved. Her horse already was on the elbow grade. She knew it from his shorter spring, a lithe creeping spring that had carried her out of deep canyons and up long draws, where other horses walked. The wind lessened and the rain drove less angrily in her face. She patted Jim's neck with her wet glove and checked him as tenderly as a lover to give him courage and breath. She wanted to be part of him as he strove, for the horror of the night began to steal on the edge of her thoughts. A gust drove into her face. They were already at the head of the pass, and the horse with level ground underfoot was falling into the long reach, but the wind was colder. Dixie lowered her head and gave Jim the rain. She realized how wet she was. Her feet and her knees were wet. She had no protection but her skirt, though the meanest rider on all her countless acres would not have braved a mile in such a night without leather and fur. The great lapels of her riding jacket reversed, were buttoned tight across her shoulders, and the double fold of fur lay warm and dry against her heart and lungs. But her hands were cold, and her skirt dragged leaden and cold from her waist, and water soaked in upon her chilled feet. She knew she ought to have thought of these things. She planned, as though swept in a moving picture across her brain, how she would have prepared again for such a ride, with her cowboy costume that she had once masqueraded in for Marion, with leggings of buckskin and chaps of long white silken wool. It was no masquerade now. She was riding in deadly earnest, and her lips closed to shut away a creeping feeling that had started from her heart and left her shivering. She became conscious of how fast she was going, instinct made keen by thousands of saddle miles, told Dixie of her terrific pace. She was riding faster than she would have dared go at noonday and without thought or fear of accident. In spite of the sliding and the plunging down the long hill, the storm and the darkness brought no thought of fear for herself. Her only fear was for those ahead. In supreme moments a horse, like a man when human efforts become superhuman, puts the lesser dangers out of reckoning, and the faculties set on a single purpose, though strained to the breaking point, never break. Low in her saddle, Dixie tried to reckon how far they had come and how much lay ahead. She could feel her skirt stiffening about her knees, and the rain beating at her face was sharper. She knew the sleet as it stung her cheeks, and she knew what next was coming—the snow. There was no need to urge Jim. He had the rain, and Dixie bent down to speak to him as she often spoke when they were alone on the road, when Jim, bolting, almost threw her. Recovering instantly she knew they were no longer alone. She rose alert in her seat. Her straining eyes could see nothing. Was there a sound in the wind? She held her breath to listen, but before she could apprehend Jim leaped violently ahead. Dixie screamed in an agony of terror. She knew then that she had passed another rider, and so close she might have touched him. Fear froze her to the saddle. It lent wings to her horse. The speed became wild. Dixie knit herself to her dumb companion, and a prayer choked in her throat. She crouched lest a bullet tear her from her horse. But through the darkness no bullet came, only the sleet stinging her face, stiffening her gloves, freezing her hair, chilling her limbs, and weighing her like lead on her struggling horse. She knew not even Sinclair could overtake her now, that no living man could lay a hand on her bridal reign, and she pulled Jim in down the winding hills to save him for the long flat. When they struck it they had but four miles to go. Across the flat the wind drove in fury. Reflection, thought, and reason were beginning to leave her. She was crying to herself quietly as she used to cry when she lost herself, a mere child riding among the hills. She was praying meaningless words. Snow purred softly on her cheeks. The cold was soothing her senses. Unable at last to keep her seat on the horse, she stopped him, slipped stiffly to the ground, and struggling through the wind as she held fast to the bridal and the horn, half walked and half ran to start the blood through her benumbed veins. She struggled until she could drag her marred feet no farther, and tried to draw herself back into the saddle. It was almost beyond her. She sobbed and screamed at her helplessness. At last she managed to climb flounderingly back into her seat, and, bending her stiffened arms to Jim's neck, she moaned and cried to him. When again she could hold her seat no longer, she fell to the horse's side, dragged herself along in the frozen slush, and, screaming with the pain of her freezing hands, drew herself up into the saddle. She knew that she dared not venture this again, that if she did so she could never remount. She felt now that she should never live to reach medicine, Ben. She rode on and on and on, would it never end. She begged God to send a painless death to those she rode to save, and when the prayer passed her failing senses, a new terror awakened her, for she found herself falling out of the saddle. With excruciating torment she recovered her poise, reeling from side to side she fought the torpor away. Her mind grew clearer and her tears had ceased. She prayed for a light. The word caught between her stiffened lips, and she mumbled it till she could open them wide and scream it out. Then came a sound like the beating of great drums in her ears. It was the crash of Jim's hoofs on the river bridge, and she was in medicine, Ben. A horse, galloping low and heavily, slewed through the snow from Fort Street into Boney, and, where it had so often stopped before, dashed up on the sidewalk in front of the little shop. The shock was too much for its unconscious rider, and shot headlong from her saddle, Dixie was flung bruised and senseless against Marion's door. End of Chapter 41 Chapter 42 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman This Lebervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 42 At the Door She woke in a dream of hoofs beating at her brain. Distracted words fell from her lips, and when she opened her swollen eyes and saw those about her, she could only scream. Marion had called up the stable, but the stablemen could only tell her that Dixie's horse, in terrible condition, had come in right or less. While Bernhard, the railway surgeon at the bedside, administered restoratives, Marion talked with him of Dixie's sudden and mysterious coming. Dixie, lying in pain and quite conscious, heard all, but unable to explain, moaned in her helplessness. She heard Marion at length tell the doctor that McLeod was out of town, and the news seemed to bring back her senses. Then, rising in the bed, while the surgeon and Marion coaxed her to lie down, she clutched at their arms, and looking from one to the other told her story. When it was done she swooned, but she woke to hear voices at the door of the shop. She heard as if she dreamed, but at the door the words were dead reality. Sinclair had made good his word, and had come out of the storm with the summons upon Marion, and it was the surgeon who threw open the door and saw Sinclair standing in the snow. No man in Medicine Bend knew Sinclair more thoroughly, or feared him less than Bernhardt. No man could better meet him or speak to him with less of hesitation. Sinclair, as he faced Bernhardt, was not easy in spite of his dogged self-control, and he was standing, much to his annoyance, in the glare of an arc light that swung across the street in front of the shop. He was well aware that no such light had ever swung within a block of the shop before, and in it he saw the hand of Whispering Smith. The light was unexpected, Bernhardt was a surprise, and even the falling snow, which protected him from being seen 20 feet away, angered him. He asked, curtly, who was ill, and without awaiting an answer, asked for his wife. The surgeon eyed him coldly. Sinclair, what are you doing in Medicine Bend? Have you come to surrender yourself? Surrender myself? Yes, I'm ready any time to surrender myself. Take me along yourself, Bernhardt. If you think I've done worse than any man would, that has been hounded as I've been hounded, I want to see my wife. Sinclair, you can't see your wife. What's the matter? Is she sick? No, but you can't see her. Who says I can't see her? I say so. Sinclair swept the ice furiously from his beard and his right hand fell to his hip as he stepped back. You've turned against me, too. Have you, you gray-haired wolf? Can't see her? Get out of that door. The surgeon pointed his finger at the murderer. No, I won't get out of this door. Shoot, you coward. Shoot an unarmed man. You will not live to get a hundred feet away. This place is watched for you. You could not have got within a hundred yards of it tonight except for this snow Bernhardt pointed through the storm. Sinclair, you will hang in the courthouse square and I will take the last beat of your pulse with these fingers. And when I pronounce you dead, they will cut you down. You want to see your wife? You want to kill her? Don't lie. You want to kill her. You were heard to say as much tonight at the Dunning Ranch. You were watched and tracked and you are expected and looked for here. Your best friends have gone back on you. I curse again and over again but that will not put Ed Banks on his feet. Sinclair stamped with frenzied oaths. You're too hard on me, he cried, clenching his hands. I say you're too hard. You've heard one side of it. Is that the way you put judgment on a man that's got no friends left because they start a new lie on him every day? Who is it that's watching me? Let them stand out like men in the open. If they want me, let them come like men and take me. Sinclair, this storm gives you a chance to get away. Take it. Bad as you are, there are men in Medicine Bend who knew you when you were a man. Don't stay here for some of them to sit on the jewelry that hangs you. If you can get away, get away. If I were your friend and God knows whom you can call a friend in Medicine Bend tonight, I couldn't say more. Get away before it's too late. He was never again seen alive in Medicine Bend. They tracked him next day over every foot of ground he had covered. They found where he had left his spent horse and where afterward he had got the fresh one. They learned how he had eluded all the picketing planned for precisely such a contingency. Got into the wiki-up, got upstairs, and burst open the very door of McLeod's room. But Dixie had on her side that night one greater than her invincible will or her faithful horse. McLeod was two hundred miles away. Bernhardt lost no time in telephoning the wiki-up that Sinclair was in town, but within an hour, while the two women were still under the surgeon's protection, a knock at the cottage door gave them a second fright. Bernhardt answered the summons. He opened the door, and as the man outside paused to shake the snow off his hat, the surgeon caught him by the shoulder and dragged into the house whispering Smith. Picking the icicles from his hair, Smith listened to all that Bernhardt said, his eyes roving meantime over everything within the room and mentally over many things outside it. He congratulated Bernhardt, and when Marion came into the room, he apologized for the snow he had brought in. Dixie heard his voice and cried out from the bedroom. They could not keep her away, and she ran out to catch his hands and plead with him not to go away. He tried to assure her that the danger was over, that guards were now outside everywhere and would be until morning. But Dixie clung to him and would take no refusal. Whispering Smith looked at her in amazement and in admiration. You're captain tonight, Ms. Dixie, by heaven. If you say the word, I'll lie here on a rug till morning. But that man will not be back tonight. You are a queen. If I had a mountain girl that would do as much as that for me, I would. What would you do? asked Marion. Say good-bye to this accursed country forever. End of Chapter 42 Chapter 43 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman This Liber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 43 Closing End In the morning the sun rose with a mountain smile. The storm had swept the air till the ranges shone blue and the plane sparkled under a cloudless sky. Bob Scott and Wickwire, riding at Daybreak, picked up a trail on the Fence River Road. The consultation was held at the bridge and within half an hour Whispering Smith, with unshaven patience, was in the saddle and following it. With him were Kennedy and Bob Scott. Sinclair had ridden into the lines and Whispering Smith, with his best two men, meant to put it up to him to ride out. They meant now to get him, with a trail or without, and were putting horse flesh against horse flesh and craft against craft. At the forks of the fence they picked up Wickwire, Kennedy taking him on the uproad while Scott with Whispering Smith crossed to the Crawling Stone. When Smith and Scott reached the Frenchman, they parted to cover in turn each of the trails by which it is possible to get out of the river country toward the park and William's Cache. By four o'clock in the afternoon they had all covered the ground so well that the four were able to make their rendezvous on the big fence divide south of Crawling Stone Valley. They then found, to their disappointment, that widely separated as they had been, both parties were following trails they believed to be good. They shot a steer, tagged it, ate dinner and supper in one, and separated under Whispering Smith's counsel that both the trails be followed into the next morning in the belief that one of them would run out or that the two would run together. At noon the next day Scott rode through the hills from the fence and Kennedy with Wickwire came through two feather paths from the Frenchman with the report that the game had left their valleys. Without rest they pushed on. At the foot of the Mission Mountains they picked up the tracks of a party of three horsemen. Twice within ten miles afterward the men they were following crossed the river. Each time their trail, with some little difficulty, was found again. At a little ranch in the Mission Foothills Kennedy and Scott, leaving Wickwire with Whispering Smith, took fresh horses and pushed ahead as far as they could ride before dark. But they brought back news. The trail had split again, with one man riding alone to the left, while two had taken the hills to the right, heading for Mission Pass and the cache. With Jane Johnson and Bob at the mouth of the cache, there was little fear for that outlet. The turn to the left was the unexpected. Over the little fire in the ranch kitchen where they ate supper, the four men were in conference twenty minutes. It was decided that Scott and Kennedy should head for the Mission Pass, while Whispering Smith, with Wickwire to trail with him, should undertake to cut off somewhere between Fent's River and the railroad. The man who had gone south, the man believed to be Sinclair. It was a late moon, and when Scott and Kennedy saddled their horses, Whispering Smith and Wickwire were asleep. With the cowboy, Whispering Smith started at daybreak. No one saw them again for two days. During those two days and nights, they were in the saddle almost continuously. For every mile, the men ahead of them rode, they were forced to ride two miles and often three. Late in the second night, they crossed the railroad, and the first word from them came in long dispatches sent by Whispering Smith to Medicine Bend and instructions to Kennedy and Scott in the north, which were carried by hard riders straight to Deep Creek. On the morning of the third day, Dixie Dunning, who had gone home from Medicine Bend and who had been telephoning Marion and George McLeod two days for news, was trying to get Medicine Bend again on the telephone when Puss came in to say that a man in the kitchen wanted to see her. Who is it, Puss? I don't know, Miss Dixie. Dita, I've never seen him before. Dixie walked around on the porch to the kitchen, a dust-covered man sitting on a limp horse threw back the brim of his hat as he touched it, lifted himself stiffly out of the saddle, and dropped to the ground. He laughed at Dixie's startled expression. Don't you know me? he asked, putting out his hand. It was Whispering Smith. He was a fearful sight, stained from head to foot with alkali. Saddle cramped and bent, his face scratched and stained. He stood with a smiling appeal in his bloodshot eyes. Dixie came a little uncertain cry, clasped her hands and, with a scream, threw her arms impulsively around his neck. Oh, I did not know you. What has happened? I'm so glad to see you. Tell me what has happened. Are you hurt? He stammered like a schoolboy. Nothing has happened. What's this? Don't cry. Nothing at all has happened. I didn't realize what a trap I look or I shouldn't have come, but I was only a mile away and I had heard nothing for four days from Medicine Ben. And how are you? Did your ride make you ill? No. By having you are a game girl. That was a ride. How are they all? Where's your cousin? In town, is he? I thought I might get some news, if I wrote up. That old Miss Dixie chimney, some coffee. But I've got only two minutes for it all. Only two minutes. Do you think Puss has any on the stove? Dixie with coaxing and pulling got him into the kitchen and Puss tumbled over herself to set out coffee and rolls. He showed himself ravenously hungry and ate with a simple directness that speedily accounted for everything in sight. You have saved my life. Now I'm going and thank you a thousand times. There by heaven I've forgotten Wickwire. He's with me, waiting down in the cotton woods at the fork. Could Puss put up a lunch I could take to him? He hasn't had a scrap for twenty-four hours. But Dixie, your tramp is a hummer. I've tried to ride him down and wear him out and lose him. And by heavens he turns up every time and has been a more used to me than two men. She put her hand on Whispering Smith's arm. I told him if he would stop drinking he could be foreman here next season. Puss was putting up the lunch. Why need you hurry away, persisted Dixie? I have a thousand things to say. He looked at her amiably. This is really a case of must. Then tell me, what favor may I do for you? She looked appealingly into his tired eyes. I want to do something for you. I must. Don't deny me. Only what shall it be? Something for me? What can I say? You'll be kind to Marion. I shouldn't have to ask that. What can I ask? Stop! There is one thing. I've got a poor little devil of an orphan up in the Deep Creek country. Desang murdered his father. You are rich and generous, Dixie. Do something for him, will you? Kennedy or Bob Scott will know all about him. Bring him down here, will you? And see he doesn't go to the dogs. You're a good girl. What's this, crying? Now you're frightened. Things are not so bad as that. You want to know everything. I see it in your eyes. Very well. Let's trade. You tell me everything and I'll tell you everything. Now then, are you engaged? They were standing under the low porch with the sunshine breaking through the trees. She turned away her face and threw all her happiness into a laugh. I won't tell. Oh, that's enough. You have told, declared Whispering Smith. I knew. Well, of course I knew. But I wanted to make you own up. Well, here's the way things are. Sinclair has run us all over God's creation for two days to give his pals a chance to break into Williams' cash to get the Tower W. Money they left with Redstock. For a fact, we've ridden completely around Sleepycat and down in the Spanish sinks since I saw you. He doesn't want to leave without the money, and he doesn't know it's in Kennedy's hands and can't get into the cash to find out. Now the three, whoever the other two are, and Sinclair are trying to join forces somewhere up this valley, and Kennedy, Scott, Wickwire, and I are after them. And every outlet is watched, and it must be over, my dear, before sunset tonight. Isn't that fine? I mean to have the thing wound up somehow. Don't look worried. Do not, do not let him kill you. She cried with a sob. He will not kill me. Don't be afraid. I am afraid. Remember what your life is to all of us. And of course I've got to think of what it is to myself, being the only one I've got. Sometimes I don't think much of it, but when I get a welcome like this it sets me up. If I can once get out of this accursed manslaughter business, Dixie, how old are you? Nineteen. Well, you've got the finest chap in all these mountains, and George McLeod has the finest with a bubbling laugh. She shook her finger at him. Now you're caught. Say the finest woman in these mountains, if you dare. Say the finest woman. The finest woman of nineteen in all creation. He swung with a laugh into the saddle and waved his hat. She watched him ride down the road and around the hill. When he reappeared she was still looking, and he was galloping along the lower road. A man rode out at the fort to meet him, and trotted with him over the bridge. Riding leisurely across the creek, their broad hats bobbing unevenly in the sunshine, they spurred swiftly past the grove of quaking asp, and in a moment were lost behind the trees. End of Chapter 43