CHAPTER III
DICKSIE
The wreckers, drifting in the blaze of the sun across the broad alkalivalley, saw the smoke of the wreck-fire behind them. No breath of windstirred it. With the stillness of a signal column it rose, thin andblack, and high in the air spread motionless, like a huge umbrella,above Smoky Creek. Reed Young had gone with an engine to wirereenforcements, and McCloud, active among the trackmen until theconflagration spent itself, had retired to the shade of the hill.
Reclining against a rock with his legs crossed, he had clasped hishands behind his head and sat looking at the iron writhing in thedying heat of the fire. The sound of hoofs aroused him, and lookingbelow he saw a horsewoman reining up near his men at the wreck. Sherode an American horse, thin and rangy, and the experienced way inwhich she checked him drew him back almost to his haunches. ButMcCloud's eyes were fixed on the slender figure of the rider. He waswholly at a loss to account, at such a time and in such a place, fora visitor in gauntleted gloves and a banded Panama hat. He studied herwith growing amazement. Her hair coiled low on her neck supported thevery free roll of the hat-brim. Her black riding-skirt clung to herwaist to form its own girdle, and her white stock, rolled high on herneck, rose above a heavy shirtwaist of white linen, and gave her anair of confident erectness. The trackmen stopped work to look, but herattitude in their gaze was one of impatience rather than ofembarrassment. Her boot flashed in the stirrup while she spoke to thenearest man, and her horse stretched his neck and nosed the brownalkali-grass that spread thinly along the road.
To McCloud she was something like an apparition. He sat spellbounduntil the trackman indiscreetly pointed him out, and the eyes of thevisitor, turning his way, caught him with his hands on the rock in anattitude openly curious. She turned immediately away, but McCloud roseand started down the hill. The horse's head was pulled up, and therewere signs of departure. He quickened his steps. Once he saw, orthought he saw, the rider's head so turned that her eyes might havecommanded one approaching from his quarter; yet he could catch nofurther glimpse of her face. A second surprise awaited him. Just asshe seemed about to ride away, she dropped lightly from the horse tothe ground, and he saw how confident in figure she was. As she beganto try her saddle-girths, McCloud attempted a greeting. She could notignore his hat, held rather high above his head as he approached, butshe gave him the slightest nod in return--one that made no attempt toexplain why she was there or where she had come from.
"Pardon me," ventured McCloud, "have you lost your way?"
He was immediately conscious that he had said the wrong thing. Theexpression of her eyes implied that it was foolish to suppose she waslost but she only answered, "I saw the smoke and feared the bridge wason fire."
Something in her voice made him almost sorry he had intervened; if shestood in need of help of any sort it was not apparent, and her gazewas confusing. He became conscious that he was at the worst for aninspection; his face felt streaky with smoke, his hat and shirt hadsuffered severely in directing the fire, and his hands were black. Hesaid to himself in revenge that she was not pretty, despite the factthat she seemed completely to take away his consequence. He felt,while she inspected him, like a brakeman.
"I presume Mr. Sinclair is here?" she said presently.
"I am sorry to say he is not."
"He usually has charge of the wrecks, I think. What a dreadful fire!"she murmured, looking down the track. She stood beside the horse withone hand resting on her girdle. Around the hand that held the bridleher quirt lay coiled in the folds of her glove, and, though seeminglyundecided as to what to do, her composure did not lessen. As shelooked at the wreckage, a breath of wind lifted the hair that curledaround her ear. The mountain wind playing on her neck had left itbrown, and above, the pulse of her ride rose red in her cheek. "Was ita passenger wreck?" She turned abruptly on McCloud to ask thequestion. Her eyes were brown, too, he saw, and a doubt assailed him.Was she pretty?
"Only a freight wreck," he answered.
"I thought if there were passengers hurt I could send help from theranch. Were you the conductor?"
"Fortunately not."
"And no one was hurt?"
"Only a tramp. We are burning the wreck to clear the track."
"From the divide it looked like a mountain on fire. I'm sorry Mr.Sinclair is not here."
"Why, indeed, yes, so am I."
"Because I know him. You are one of his men, I presume."
"Not exactly; but is there anything I can do----"
"Oh, thank you, nothing, except that you might tell him the pretty baycolt he sent over to us has sprung his shoulder."
"He will be sorry to hear it, I'm sure."
"But we are doing everything possible for him. He is going to make aperfectly lovely horse."
"And whom may I say the message is from?" Though disconcerted, McCloudwas regaining his wits. He felt perfectly certain there was no danger,if she knew Sinclair and lived in the mountains, but that she wouldsometime find out he was not a conductor. When he asked his questionshe appeared slightly surprised and answered easily, "Mr. Sinclairwill know it is from Dicksie Dunning."
McCloud knew her then. Every one knew Dicksie Dunning in the highcountry. This was Dicksie Dunning of the great Crawling Stone ranch,most widely known of all the mountain ranches. While his stupidity innot guessing her identity before overwhelmed him, he resolved toexhaust the last effort to win her interest.
"I don't know just when I shall see Mr. Sinclair," he answeredgravely, "but he shall certainly have your message."
A doubt seemed to steal over Dicksie at the change in McCloud'smanner. "Oh, pardon me--I thought you were working for the company."
"You are quite right, I am; but Mr. Sinclair is not."
Her eyebrows rose a little. "I think you are mistaken, aren't you?"
"It is possible I am; but if he is working for the company, it ispretty certain that I am not," he continued, heaping mystification onher. "However, that will not prevent my delivering the message. By theway, may I ask which shoulder?"
"Shoulder!"
"Which shoulder is sprung."
"Oh, of course! The right shoulder, and it is sprung pretty badly,too, Cousin Lance says. How very stupid of me to ride over here for afreight wreck!"
McCloud felt humiliated at having nothing better worth while to offer."It was a very bad one," he ventured.
"But not of the kind I can be of any help at, I fear."
McCloud smiled. "We are certainly short of help."
Dicksie brought her horse's head around. She felt again of the girthas she replied, "Not such as I can supply, I'm afraid." And with thewords she stepped away, as if preparing to mount.
McCloud intervened. "I hope you won't go away without restingyour horse. The sun is so hot. Mayn't I offer you some sort ofrefreshment?"
Dicksie Dunning thought not.
"The sun is very warm," persisted McCloud.
Dicksie smoothed her gauntlet in the assured manner natural to her. "Iam pretty well used to it."
But McCloud held on. "Several cars of fruit were destroyed in thewreck. I can offer you any quantity of grapes--crates of them arespoiling over there--and pears."
"Thank you, I am just from luncheon."
"And I have cooled water in the car. I hope you won't refuse that, sofar out in the desert."
Dicksie laughed a little. "Do you call this far? I don't; and I don'tcall this desert by any means. Thank you ever so much for the water,but I'm not in the least thirsty."
"It was kind of you even to think of extending help. I wish you wouldlet me send some fruit over to your ranch. It is only spoiling here."
Dicksie stroked the neck of her horse. "It is about eighteen miles tothe ranch house."
"I don't call that far."
"Oh, it isn't," she returned hastily, professing not to notice thelook that went with the words, "except for perishable things!" Then,as if acknowledging her disadvantage, she added, swinging herbridle-rein around
, "I am under obligations for the offer, just thesame."
"At least, won't you let your horse drink?" McCloud threw the force ofan appeal into his words, and Dicksie stopped her preparations andappeared to waver.
"Jim is pretty thirsty, I suppose. Have you plenty of water?"
"A tender full. Had I better lead him down while you wait up on thehill in the shade?"
"Can't I ride him down?"
"It would be pretty rough riding."
"Oh, Jim goes anywhere," she said, with her attractive indifference tosituations. "If you don't mind helping me mount."
"With pleasure."
She stood waiting for his hand, and McCloud stood, not knowing justwhat to do. She glanced at him expectantly. The sun grew intenselyhot.
"You will have to show me how," he stammered at last.
"Don't you know?"
He mentally cursed the technical education that left him helpless atsuch a moment, but it was useless to pretend. "Frankly, I don't!"
"Just give me your hand. Oh, not in that way! But never mind, I'llwalk," she suggested, catching up her skirt.
"The rocks will cut your boots all to pieces. Suppose you tell me whatto do this once," he said, assuming some confidence. "I'll neverforget."
"Why, if you will just give me your hand for my foot, I can manage,you know."
He did not know, but she lifted her skirt graciously, and her crushedboot rested easily for a moment in his hand. She rose in the air abovehim before he could well comprehend. He felt the quick spring from hissupporting hand, and it was an instant of exhilaration. Then shebalanced herself with a flushed laugh in the saddle, and he guided herahead among the loose rocks, the horse nosing at his elbow as theypicked their way.
Crossing the track, they gained better ground. As they reached theswitch and passed a box car, Jim shied, and Dicksie spoke sharply tohim. McCloud turned.
In the shade of the car lay the tramp.
"That man lying there frightened him," explained Dicksie. "Oh," sheexclaimed suddenly, "he has been hurt!" She turned away her head. "Isthat the man who was in the wreck?"
"Yes."
"Do something for him. He must be suffering terribly."
"The men gave him some water awhile ago, and when we moved him intothe shade we thought he was dead."
"He isn't dead yet!" Dicksie's face, still averted, had grown white."I saw him move. Can't you do something for him?"
She reined up at a little distance. McCloud bent over the man a momentand spoke to him. When he rose he called to the men on the track. "Youare right," he said, rejoining Dicksie; "he is very much alive. Hisname is Wickwire; he is a cowboy."
"A cowboy!"
"A tramp cowboy."
"What can you do with him?"
"I'll have the men put him in the caboose and send him to Barnhardt'shospital at Medicine Bend when the engine comes back. He may live yet.If he does, he can thank you for it."
J. P. McGOWAN IN THE TITLE ROLE OF THE PHOTO-PLAYPRODUCTION OF "WHISPERING SMITH." (C) _American Mutual Studio_.]
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