 44 Crawling Stone Wash Where the little Crawling Stone River tears out of the Mission Mountain, it has left a grayish-white gap that may be seen for many miles. This is the head of the North Crawling Stone Valley. Twenty miles to the right, the Big River itself bursts through the Mission Hills in the canyon known as the Box. Between the confluence of Big and Little Crawling Stone and on the east side of Little Crawling Stone lies a vast waste. Standing in the midst of this frightful eruption from the heart of the mountains, one sees, as far as the eye can reach, a landscape utterly forbidding. North, for sixty miles, lie the high chains of the Mission Range, and a cup-like configuration of the mountains close to the valley affords a resting place for the deepest snows of winter and a precipitous escape for the torrents of June. Here, when the sun reaches its summer height, or a sweet grass wind blows soft, or a cloud bursts above the peaks strikes the southerly face of the Range, winter unfrocks in a single night. A glacier of snow melts within twenty-four hours into a torrent of lava and bursts with incredible fury from a thousand gorges. When this happens nothing withstands. Whatever lies in the path of the flood is swept from the face of the earth. The mountains are sailed in a moment with the ferocity of a hundred storms or ripped and torn like hills of clay. The frosted scale of the granite, the desperate root of the cedar, the poised nest of the eagle, the clutch of the crannied vine, the split and start of the mountainside are all as one before the June thaw. At its height little crawling stone with a head of forty feet is a choking flood of rock. Mountains torn and bleeding, vomit boulders of thirty, sixty, a hundred tons like pebbles upon the valley. Even there they find no permanent resting place. Each succeeding ear sees them torn, groaning from their beds in the wash. New masses of rock are hurled upon them. New waters lift them in fresh caprice, and the crash and the grinding echo in the hills like a roar of mountain thunder. Where the wash covers the valley nothing lives. The fertile earth has long been buried under the mountain debris. It supports no plant life beyond the scantiest deposit of weed-plant seed, and the rocky scurff spreading like a leprosy over many miles scars the face of the green earth. This is the crawling stone wash. Exhausted by the fury of its few yearly weeks of activity, little crawling stone runs for the greater part of the year, a winding shallow stream through a bed of whiteen boulders where lizard sun themselves, and trout lurk in shaded pools. When Whispering Smith and his companions were fairly started on the last day of their ride, it was toward this rift in the mission range that the trail led them. Sinclair, with consummate cleverness, had rejoined his companions, but the attempt to get into the cash and his reckless ride into Medicine Bend had reduced their chances of escape to a single outlet, and that they must find up Crawling Stone Valley. The necessity of it was spelled in every move the pursued men had made for twenty-four hours. They were riding the pick of mountain horse-flesh and covering their tracks by every device known to the high country. Behind them, made prudent by unusual danger, rode the best men the mountain division could muster for the final effort to bring them to account. The fast riding of the early week had given way to the pace of caution. No trail sign was overlooked, no point of concealment directly approached, no hiding place left unsearched. The tension of a long day of this work was drawing to a close when the sun set and left the big wash in the shadow of the mountains. On the higher ground to the right, Kennedy and Scott were riding where they could command the gullies of the precipitous left bank of the river. High on the left bank itself, worming his way like a snake from point to point of concealment through the scanty brush of the mountainside, crawled wickwire, commanding the pockets in the right bank. Closer to the river on the right and following the trail itself over shale and rock in between scattered boulders, whispering Smith, low on his horse's neck, rode slowly. It was almost too dark to catch the slight discolorations where pebbles had been disturbed on a flat surface or the caulk of a horseshoe had slipped on the uneven face of a ledge, and he had halted under an uplift to wait for wickwire on the distance left to advance, when half a mile below him a horseman crossing the river slowly passed a gap in the rocks and disappeared below the next bend. He was followed in a moment by a second rider and a third. Whispering Smith knew he had not been seen. He had flushed the game and, wheeling his horse, rode straight up the river bank to high ground where he could circle around widely below them. They had slipped between his line and wickwires and were doubling back following the dry bed of the stream. It was impossible to recall Kennedy and Scott without giving an alarm, but by a quick detour he could at least hold the quarry back for twenty minutes with his rifle, and in that time Kennedy and Scott could come up. Less than half an hour of daylight remained. If the outlaws could slip down the wash and out into the Crawling Stone Valley, they had every chance of getting away in the night. And if the third man should be Barney Ripstock, Whispering Smith knew that Sinclair thought only of escape. Smith alone of their pursuers could now intercept them, but a second hope remained. On the left, wickwire was high enough to command every turn in the bed of the river. He might see them and could force them to cover with his rifle even at long range. Casting up the chances Whispering Smith riding faster over the uneven ground than anything but sheer recklessness would have prompted, hastened across the waist. His rifle lay in his hand, and he had pushed his horse to a run. A single fearful instinct crowded now upon the long strain of the week. A savage fascination burned like a fever in his veins, and he meant that they should not get away. Taking chances that would have shamed him in cooler moments, he forced his horse at the end of the long ride to within a hundred paces of the river, threw his lines, slipped like a lizard from the saddle, and, darting with incredible swiftness from rock to rock, gained the water's edge. From up the long shadows of the wash there came a wail of an owl. From it he knew that Wickwire had seen them and was warning him, but he had anticipated the warning and stood below where the hunted men must ride. He strained his eyes over the waist of rock above. For one half hour of daylight he would have sold in that moment ten years of his life. What could he do if they should be able to secrete themselves until dark between him and Wickwire? Gliding under cover of huge rocks up the dry water-course, he reached a spot where the floods had scooped a long hollow curve out of a soft ledge in the bank, leaving a stretch of smooth sand on the bed of the stream. At the upper point great boulders pushed out in the river. He could not inspect the curve from the spot he had gained without reckless exposure, but he must force the little daylight left to him. Climbing completely over the lower point he advanced cautiously and from behind a sheltering spur stepped out upon an overhanging table of rock and looked across the river-bottom. Three men had halted on the sand within the curve. Two lay on their rifles under the upper point, 120 paces from Whispering Smith. The third man, Seagrew, less than 50 yards away, had got off his horse and was laying down his rifle when the hood owl screeched again and he looked uneasily back. They had chosen for their halt a spot easily defended and needed only darkness to make them safe when Smith, stepping out into plain sight, threw forward his hand. They heard his sharp call to pitch up and the men under the point jumped. Seagrew had not yet taken his hand from his rifle. He threw it to his shoulder. As closely together as two fingers of the right hand can be struck twice in the palm of the left, two rifle shots cracked across the wash. Two bullets passed so close in flight they might have struck. One cut the dusty hair from Smith's temple and slit the brim of his hat above his ear. The other struck Seagrew under the left eye, plowed through the roof of his mouth and coming out below his ear, splintered the rock at his back. The shock alone would have staggered a bullock, but Seagrew, laughing, came forward pumping his gun. Sinclair, at 120 yards, cut instantly into the fight and the ball from his rifle creased the alkali that crusted with Spring Smith's unshaven cheek. As he fired, he sprang to cover. For Seagrew and Smith there was no cover. For one or both it was death in the open and Seagrew with his rifle at his cheek walked straight into it. Taking for a moment the fire of the three guns with Spring Smith stood a perfect target outlined against the sky. They whipped the dust from his coat toward the sleeve from his wrist and ripped the blouse collar from his neck, but he felt no bullet shock. He saw before him only the buckle of Seagrew's belt forty paces away and sent bullet after bullet at the gleam of brass between the sights. Both men were using high-pressure guns and the deadly shock of the slugs made Seagrew twitch and stagger. The man was dying as he walked. Smith's hand was racing with the lever and had a cartridge jammed the steel would have snapped like a match. It was beyond human endurance to support the leaden death. The little square of brass between the sights wavered. Seagrew stumbled, doubled on his knees and staggering plunged loosely forward on the sand. Which brings Smith through his rifle toward the boulder behind which Sinclair and Barney Redstock had disappeared. Suddenly he realized that the bullets from the point were not coming his way. He was aware of a second rifle duel above the bend. Wickwire, worming his way down the stream, had uncovered Sinclair and a young Redstock from behind. A yell between the shots rang across the wash and the cringing figure of a man ran out toward Whispering Smith with his hands high in the air and pitched headlong on the ground. It was the Sculker Barney Redstock driven out by Wickwire's fire. The shooting ceased. Silence fell upon the gloom of the dusk. Then came a calling between Smith and Wickwire and a signalling of pistol shots for their companions. Kennedy and Bob Scott dashed down toward the riverbed on their horses. Seagrew lay on his face. Young Redstock sat with his hands around his knees on the sand. Above him at some distance Wickwire and Smith stood before a man who leaned against the sharp cheek of the boulder at the point. In his hands his rifle was held across his lap just as he had dropped on his knee to fire. He had never moved after he was struck. His head, drooping a little, rested against the rock and his hat lay on the sand. His heavy beard had sunk into his chest and he kneeled in the shadow asleep. Scott and Kennedy knew him. In the mountains there was no double for Murray Sinclair. When he jumped behind the point to pick Whispering Smith off the ledge he had laid himself directly under Wickwire's fire across the wash. The first shot of the cowboy at two hundred yards had passed as he knelt through both temples. They laid him at Seagrew's side. The camp was made beside the dead men in the wash. You'd better not take him to Medicine Bend, said Whispering Smith, sitting late with Kennedy before the dying fire. It would only mean that much more unpleasant talk and notoriety for her. The inquest can be held on the Frenchman. Take him to his own ranch and telegraph the folks in Wisconsin. God knows whether they will want to hear. But his mother's there yet. But if half what Barney has told us tonight is true, it would be better if no one ever heard. End of Chapter 44 Chapter 45 of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 45. Back to the mountains. In the cottage on Boney Street one year later two women were waiting. It was ten o'clock at night. Isn't it a shame to be disappointed like this? complained Dixie, pushing her hair impatiently back. Really, poor George has worked to death. He was to be in at six o'clock, Mr. Lee said. And here it is ten and all your beautiful dinners spoiled. Marion, are you keeping something from me? Look me in the eye. Have you heard from Gordon Smith? No, Dixie. Not since he left the mountains a year ago? Not since he left the mountains a year ago. Dixie, sitting forward in her chair, bent her eyes upon the fire. It is so strange. I wonder where he is tonight. How he loves you, Marion. He told me everything when he said goodbye. He made me promise not to tell then, but I didn't promise to keep it forever. Marion smiled. A year isn't forever, Dixie. Well, it's pretty near forever when you're in love, declared Dixie energetically. I know just how he felt. She went on in a quieter tone. He felt that all the disagreeable excitement and talk we had here then bore heaviest on you. He said if he stayed in Medicine Bend, the newspapers never would cease talking and people never would stop annoying you. And, you know, George did say that we're asking to have passenger trains held here just so people could see Whispering Smith. And, Marion, think of it, he actually doesn't know yet that George and I are married. How could we notify him without knowing where he was? And he doesn't know that trains are running up the Crawling Stone Valley. Mercy, a year goes like an hour when you're in love, doesn't it? George said he knew we should hear from him within six months. And George has never yet been mistaken, accepting when he said I should grow to like the railroad business. And now it is a year and no news from him. Dixie sprang from her chair. I'm going to call up Mr. Rooney Lee and just demand my husband. I think Mr. Lee handles trains shockingly every time George tries to get home like this on Saturday nights. Now don't you? And passenger trains ought to get out of the way anyway when a division superintendent is trying to get home. What difference does it make to a passenger I'd like to know whether he's a few hours less or longer in getting to California or Japan or Manila or Hong Kong or Buzzard's Gulch provided he's safe. And you know there's not been an accident on the division for a year, Marion. There's a step now. I'll bet that's George. The door opened and it was, George. Oh, honey, cried Dixie softly, waving her arms as she stood an instant before she ran to him. But haven't I been awaiting for you? Too bad. And Marion, he exclaimed, turning without releasing his wife from his arms. How can I ever make good for all this delay? Oh yes, I've had dinner. Never for heaven's sake, wait dinner for me. But wait, both of you, till you hear the news. Dixie kept her hands on his shoulders. You have heard from Whispering Smith. I have. I knew it. Wait till I get it straight. Mr. Bucks is here. I came in with him in his car. He had news of Whispering Smith. One of our freight traffic men in the Puget Sound country, who's been in a hospital in Victoria, learned by the merest accident that Gordon Smith was lying in the same hospital with typhoid fever. Marion rose swiftly. Then the time has come, thank God, when I can do something for him. And I'm going to him tonight. Fine, cried MacLeod. So am I. And that's why I'm late. Then I'm going to, exclaimed Dixie solemnly. Do you mean it? Ask her husband. Shall we let her, Marion? Mr. Bucks says I'm to take his car and take Barnhart and keep the car there till I can bring Gordon back. Mr. Bucks and his secretary will ride tonight as far as Bear Dance with us. And in the morning they join Mr. Glover there. MacLeod looked at his watch. If you both are going, can you be ready by twelve o'clock for the China mail? We'll be ready in an hour, declared Dixie, throwing her arm half around Marion's neck. Can't we, Marion? I can be ready in thirty minutes. Then by heaven MacLeod studded his watch. What is it, George? We won't wait for the midnight train. We will take an engine, run special to Green River, overhaul the coast limited, and save a whole day. George, pack your suitcase, quick, dear, and you too, Marion. Suitcases are all we can take, cried Dixie, pushing her husband toward the bedroom. I'll telephone Rooney Lee for an engine myself right away. Dear me, it's kind of nice to be able to order up a train when you want one in a hurry, isn't it, Marion? Perhaps I shall come to like it if they ever make George a vice president. In half an hour they had joined Bucks in his car, and Bill Dancing was piling the baggage into the vestibule. Bucks was sitting down to coffee. Chairs had been provided at the table, and after the greetings Bucks, seating Marion Sinclair at his right, and Barn Hart and MacLeod at his left, asked Dixie to sit opposite and pour the coffee. You're a railroad man's wife now, and you must learn to assume responsibility. MacLeod looked apprehensively. I'm afraid she will be assuming the whole division if you encourage her too much, Mr. Bucks. Marrying a railroad man, continued Bucks, pursuing his own thought, is as bad as marrying into the army. If you have your husband half the time, you're lucky. Then too, in the railroad business, your husband may have to be set back when the traffic falls off. It's a little light at this moment, too. How should you take it if we had to put him on a freight train for a while, Mrs. MacLeod? Oh, Mr. Bucks! Or suppose he should be promoted and should have to go to headquarters. Some of us are getting old, you know. Really? Dixie looked most demure as she filled the President's cup. Really! I often say to Mr. MacLeod that I cannot believe Mr. Bucks is president of this great road. He always looks to me to be the youngest man on the whole executive staff. Two lumps of sugar, Mr. Bucks. The bachelor president rolled his eyes as he reached for his cup. Thank you, Mrs. MacLeod, only one after that. He looked toward Marion. All I can say is that if Mrs. MacLeod's husband had married her two years earlier, he might have been general manager by this time. Nothing could hold a man back, even a man of his modesty, whose wife can say as nice things as that. By the way, Mrs. Sinclair, does this man keep you supplied with transportation? Oh, I have my annual, Mr. Bucks. Marion opened her bag to find it. Bucks held out his hand. Let me see it a moment. He adjusted his eyeglasses, looked at the pass, and called for a pen. Bucks had never lost his gracious way of doing very little things. He laid the card on the table and rode across the back of it over his name, good on all passenger trains. When he handed the card back to Marion, he turned to Dixie. Understand you are laying out two or three towns on the ranch, Mrs. MacLeod. Two or three? Oh, no! Only one as yet, Mr. Bucks. They are laying out, oh, such a pretty town, because Enlats is super-intending the street work. And whom do you think I'm going to name it after? You. I think Bucks makes a dandy name for a town, don't you? And I'm going to have one town named Dunning. There will be two stations on the ranch, you know, and I think really there ought to be three. As many as that. I don't believe you can operate a line that long, Mr. Bucks, with stations fourteen miles apart. Bucks opened his eyes in benevolent surprise. Dixie, on a bash, kept right on. Well, do you know how traffic is increasing over there, with the trains running only two months now? Why, the settlers are fairly pouring into the country. Will you give me a corner lot if we put another station on the ranch? I will give you two if you will give us excursions and run some of the overland passenger trains through the valley. Bucks threw back his head and laughed in his tremendous way. I don't know about that. I dare not promise offhand Mrs. McLeod, but if you can get Whispering Smith to come back, he might lay the matter before him. He used to take charge of all the colonists of business when he returns. He promised to do that before he went away for his vacation. Whispering Smith is really the man you'll have to stand in with. Whispering Smith, lying on his iron bed in the hospital, professed not to be able quite to understand why they had made such a fuss about it. He underwent the excitement of the appearance of Bernhardt in the first talk with McLeod and Dixie with hardly a rise in his temperature, and, lying in the sunshine of the afternoon, he was waiting for Marion. When she opened the door, his face was turned wistfully toward it. He held out his hands with an old smile. She ran half-blinded across the room and dropped on her knee beside him. My dear Marion, why did they drag you away out here? They did not drag me away out here. Did you expect me to sit with folded hands when I heard you were ill anywhere in the wide world? He looked hungrily at her. I didn't suppose anyone in the wide world would take it very seriously. Mr. McLeod has crushed this afternoon to think you have said you would not go back with him. You would not believe how he misses you. It's been pretty lonesome for the last year. I didn't think it could be so lonesome anywhere. Or did I? Have you noticed it? I shouldn't think you could in the mountains. Was there much water last spring? Heavens, I'd like to see the crawling stone again. Why don't you come back? He folded her hands in his own. Marion, it's you. I've been afraid I couldn't stand it to be near you and not tell you what need you be afraid to tell me. That I've loved you so long. Her head sunk close to his. Don't you know you have said it to me many times without words? I've only been waiting for a chance to tell you how happy it makes me to think it is true. End of Whispering Smith by Frank Spearman