Whispering Smith

by Frank H. Spearman

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE MAN ON THE FRENCHMAN

  Sinclair's place on the Frenchman backed up on a sharp rise againstthe foothills of the Bridger range, and the ranch buildings werestrung along the creek. The ranch-house stood on ground high enough tocommand the country for miles up and down the valley.

  Only two roads lead from Medicine Bend and the south into theFrenchman country: one a wagon-road following Smoky Creek and runningthrough Dale Canyon; the other a pack-road, known as the Gridleytrail, crossing the Topah Topah Hills and making a short cut from theDunning ranch on the Crawling Stone to the Frenchman. The entirevalley is, in fact, so difficult of access, save by the long androundabout wagon-road, that the sight of a complete outfit ofbuildings such as that put up by Sinclair always came as a surprise tothe traveller who, reaching the crest of the hills, looked suddenlydown a thousand feet on his well-ordered sheds and barns and corrals.

  The rider who reaches the Topah Topah crest on the Gridley trail nowsees in the valley below only traces of what was so laboriouslyplanned and perfectly maintained a few years ago. But even the ruinsleft on the Frenchman show the herculean labor undertaken by the manin setting up a comfortable and even an elaborate establishment in soinaccessible a spot. His defiance of all ordinary means of doingthings was shown in his preference for bringing much of hisbuilding-material over the trail instead of around by the Smoky Creekroad. A good part of the lumber that went into his house was packedover the Gridley trail. His piano was brought through the canyon on awagon, but the mechanical player for the piano and his wagonsthemselves were packed over the trail on the backs of mules. A heavysteel range for the kitchen had been brought over the same way. ForSinclair no work was hard enough, none went fast enough, and revelrynever rose high enough. During the time of his activity in theFrenchman Valley Sinclair had the best-appointed place betweenWilliams Cache and the Crawling Stone, and in the Crawling Stone onlythe Dunning ranch would bear comparison with his own. On the FrenchmanSinclair kept an establishment the fame of which is still foremost inmountain story. Here his cows ranged the canyons and the hills formiles, and his horses were known from Medicine Bend to Fort Tracy.Here he rallied his men, laid snares for his enemies, dispensed areckless hospitality, ruled his men with an oath and a blow, andcarried a six-shooter to explain orders and answer questions with.

  Over the Gridley trail from the Crawling Stone Marion and DicksieDunning rode early in the morning the day after McCloud and his menleft the Stone Ranch with their work done. The trail is a good threehours long, and they reached Sinclair's place at about ten o'clock. Hewas waiting for Marion--she had sent word she should come--and he cameout of the front door into the sunshine with a smile of welcome whenhe saw Dicksie with her. Dicksie, long an admirer of Sinclair's, aswomen usually were, had recast somewhat violently her opinions of him.She faced him now with a criminal consciousness that she knew toomuch. The weight of the dreadful secret weighed on her, and herresponsibility in the issue of the day ahead did not help to make hergreeting an easy one. One thing only was fixed in her mind andreflected in the tension of her lips and her eyes: the resolve to keepat every cost the promise she had given. For Dicksie had fallen underthe spell of a man even more compelling than Sinclair, and feltstrangely bounden to what she had said.

  Sinclair, however, had spirit enough to smooth quite away everyembarrassment. "Bachelor's quarters," he explained roughly andpleasantly, as he led the two women toward the house. "Cowmen makepoor housekeepers, but you must feel at home." And when Dicksie,looking at his Indian rugs on the floors, the walls, and the couches,said she thought he had little to apologize for, Sinclair lookedgratified and took off his hat again. "Just a moment," he said,standing at the side of the door. "I've never been able to get Marionover here before, so it happens that a woman's foot has never enteredthe new house. I want to watch one of you cross the threshold for thefirst time."

  Dicksie, moving ahead, retreated with a laugh. "You first, then,Marion."

  "No, Dicksie, you."

  "Never! you first." So Marion, quite red and wretchedly ill at ease,walked into the ranch-house first.

  Sinclair shone nowhere better than as a host. When he had placed hisguests comfortably in the living-room he told them the story of thebuilding of the house. Then he made a cicerone of himself, andexplained, with running comments, each feature of his plan as heshowed how it had been carried out through the various rooms.Surprised at the attractiveness of things, Dicksie found herselfmaking mental notes for her own use, and began asking questions.Sinclair was superb in answering, but the danger of admiring thingsbecame at once apparent, for when Dicksie exclaimed over a handsomebearskin, a rich dark brown grizzly-skin of unusual size, Sinclairtold the story of the killing, bared his tremendous forearm to showwhere the polished claws had ripped him, and, disregarding Dicksie'sprotests, insisted on sending the skin over to Crawling Stone Ranch asa souvenir of her visit.

  "I live a great deal alone over here," he said, waving Dicksie'scontinued refusal magnificently aside as he moved into the next room."I've got a few good dogs, and I hunt just enough to keep my hand inwith a rifle." Dicksie quailed a little at the smile that went withthe words. "The men, at least the kind I mix with, don't care forgrizzly-skins, and to enjoy anything you've got to have sympatheticcompany--don't you know that?" he asked, looking admiringly atDicksie. "I've got another skin for you--a silver-tip," he added indeep, gentle tones, addressing Marion. "It has a fine head, as fine asI ever saw in the Smithsonian. It is down at Medicine Bend now, beingdressed and mounted. By the way, I've forgotten to ask you, MissDicksie, about the high water. How did you get through at the ranch?"

  Dicksie, sitting on the piano-bench, looked up with resolution."Bravely!" she exclaimed. "Mr. McCloud came to our rescue with bagsand mattresses and a hundred men, and he has put in a revetement athousand feet long. Oh, we are regular river experts at our house now!Had you any trouble here, Mr. Sinclair?"

  "No, the Frenchman behaves pretty well in the rock. We had forty feetof water here one day, though; forty feet, that's right. McCloud, yes;able fellow, I guess, too, though he and I don't hit it off." Sinclairsat back in his chair, and as he spoke he spoke magnanimously. "Hedoesn't like me, but that is no fault of his; railroad men, and goodones, too, sometimes get started wrong with one another. Well, I'mglad he took care of you. Try that piano, Miss Dicksie, will you? Idon't know much about pianos, but that ought to be a good one. I wouldwheel the player over for you, but any one that plays as beautifullyas you do ought not to be allowed to use a player. Marion, I want totalk a few minutes with you, may I? Do you mind going out under thecottonwood?"

  Dicksie's heart jumped. "Don't be gone long, Marion," she exclaimedimpulsively, "for you know, Mr. Sinclair, we _must_ get back by twoo'clock." And Dicksie, pale with apprehension, looked at them both.Marion, quite composed, nodded reassuringly and followed Sinclair outof doors into the sunshine.

  For a few minutes Dicksie fingered wildly on the piano at somehalf-forgotten air, and in a fever of excitement walked out on theporch to see where they were. To her relief, she saw Marion sittingnear Sinclair under the big tree in front of the house, where thehorses stood. Dicksie, with her hands on her girdle, walked forlornlyback and forth, hummed a tune, sat down in a rocking-chair, fannedherself, rose, walked back and forth again, and reflected that she wasperfectly helpless, and that Sinclair might kill Marion a hundredtimes before she could reach her. And the thought that Marion wasperhaps wholly unconscious of danger increased her anxiety.

  She sat down in despair. How could Whispering Smith have allowed anyone he had a care for to be exposed in this dreadful way? Trying tothink what to do, Dicksie hurried back into the living-room, walked tothe piano, took the pile of sheet-music from the top, and sat down tothumb it over. She threw song after song on the chair beside her. Theywere sheets of gaudy coon songs and ragtime with flaring covers, andthey seemed to give off odors of cheap perfume. Dicksie hardly saw thetitles as she passed them over, but of
a sudden she stopped. Betweentwo sheets of the music lay a small handkerchief. It was mussed, andin the corner of it "Nellie" was written conspicuously in a laundrymark. The odor of musk became in an instant sickening. Dicksie threwthe music disdainfully aside, and sprang up with a flushed face toleave the room. Sinclair's remark about the first woman to cross histhreshold came back to her. From that moment Dicksie hated him. But nosooner had she seated herself on the porch than she remembered she hadleft her hat in the house, and rose to go in after it. She wasresolved not to leave it under the roof another moment, and she hadresolved to go over and wait where her horse was tied. As shereentered the doorway she stopped. In the room she had just left acowboy sat at the table, taking apart a revolver to clean it. Therevolver was spread in its parts before him, but across the table laya rifle. The man had not been in the room when she left it a momentbefore.

  Dicksie passed behind him. He paid no attention to her; he had notlooked up when she entered the room. Passing behind him once more togo out, Dicksie looked through the open window before which he sat.Sinclair and Marion sitting under the cottonwood tree were in plainsight, and the muzzle of the rifle where it lay covered them. Dicksiethrilled, but the man was busy with his work. Breathing deeply, shewalked out on the porch again. Sinclair, she thought, was lookingstraight at her, and in her anxiety to appear unconscious she turned,walked to the end of the house, and at the corner almost ran into aman sitting out of doors in the shade mending a saddle. He had removedhis belt to work, and his revolver lay in the holster on the bench,its grip just within reach of his hand. Dicksie walked in front ofhim, but he did not look up. She turned as if changing her mind, andwith a little flirt of her riding-skirt sat down in the porch chair,feeling a faint moisture upon her forehead.

  * * * * *

  "I am going to leave this country, Marion," Sinclair was saying."There's nothing here for me; I can see that. What's the use of myeating my heart out over the way I've been treated? I've given thebest years of my life to this railroad, and now they turn me down witha kick and a curse. It's the old story of the Indian and his dog, onlyI don't propose to let them make soup of me. I'm going to the coast,Marion. I'm going to California, where I wanted to go when we weremarried, and I wish to God we had gone there then. All our troublesmight never have been if I had got in with a different crowd fromthese cow-boozers on the start. And, Marion, I want to know whetheryou'll give me another chance and go with me."

  Sinclair, on the bench and leaning against the tree, sat with foldedarms looking at his wife. Marion in a hickory chair faced him.

  "No one would like to see you be all you ought to be more than I,Murray; but you are the only one in the world that can ever giveyourself another chance to be that."

  "The fellows in the saddle here now have denied me every chance tomake a man of myself again on the railroad--you know that, Marion. Infact, they never did give me the show I was entitled to. I ought tohave had Hailey's place. Bucks never treated me right in that; henever pushed me in the way he pushed other men that were just as badas I ever was. It discouraged me; that's the reason I went topieces."

  "It could be no reason for treating me as you treated me: for bringingdrunken men and drunken women into our house, and driving me out of itunless I would be what you were and what they were."

  "I know I haven't treated you right; I've treated you shamefully. Iwill do anything on earth you say to square it. I will! Recollect, Ihad lived among men and in the same country with women like that foryears before I knew you. I didn't know how to treat you; I admit it.Give me another chance, Marion."

  "I gave you all that I had when I married you, Murray. I haven'tanything more to give to any man. You would be disappointed in me if Icould ever live with you again, and I could not do that without livinga lie every day."

  He bent forward, looking at the ground. He talked of their firstmeeting in Wisconsin; of the happiness of their little courtship; hebrought up California again, and the Northwest coast, where, he toldher, a great railroad was to be built and he should find the chance heneeded to make a record for himself--it had been promised him--achance to be the man his abilities entitled him to be in railroading."And I've got a customer for the ranch and the cows, Marion. I don'tcare for this business--damn the cows! let somebody else chase after'em through the sleet. I've done well; I've made money--a lot ofmoney--the last two years in my cattle deals, and I've got it putaway, Marion; you need never lift your hand to work in our houseagain. We can live in California, and live well, under our own orangetrees, whether I work or not. All I want to know is, will you go withme?"

  "No! I will not go with you, Murray."

  He moved in his seat and threw his head up appealingly. "Why not?"

  "I will never be dishonest with you; I never have been and I neverwill be. I have nothing in my heart to give you, and I will not liveupon your money. I am earning my own living. I am as content as I evercan be, and I shall stay where I am and do what I am doing till I die,probably. And this is why I came when you asked me to; to tell you theexact truth. I am not a girl any longer--I never can be again. I am awoman. What I was before I married you I never can be again, and youhave no right to ask me to be a hypocrite and say I can love you--forthat is what it all comes to--when I have no such thing in my heart orlife for you. It is dead and gone, and I cannot help it."

  "That sounds pretty hard, Marion."

  "It is only the truth. It sounded fearfully hard to me when you toldme that woman was your friend--that you knew her before you knew meand would know her after I was dead; that she was as good as I, andthat if I didn't entertain her you would. But it was the truth; youtold me the truth, and it was better that you told it--as it is betternow that I tell it to you."

  "I was drunk. I didn't tell you the truth. A man is a pretty toughanimal sometimes, but you are a woman and a pure one, and I care morefor you than for all the other women in the world, and it is not yournature to be unforgiving."

  "It is to be honest."

  He looked suddenly up at her and spoke sharply: "Marion, I know whyyou won't go."

  "I have honestly told you."

  "No; you have not honestly told me. The real reason is Gordon Smith."

  "If he were I should not hesitate to tell you, Murray, but he is not,"she said coldly.

  Sinclair spoke harshly: "Do you think you can fool me? Don't yousuppose I know he spends his time loafing around your shop?"

  Marion flushed indignantly. "It is not true!"

  "Don't you suppose I know he writes letters back to Wisconsin to yourfolks?"

  "What have I to do with that? Why shouldn't he write to my mother? Whohas a better right?"

  "Don't drive me too far. By God! if I go away alone I'll never leaveyou here to run off with Whispering Smith--remember that!" She sat insilence. His rage left her perfectly quiet, and her unmoved expressionshamed and in part silenced him. "Don't drive me too far," he mutteredsullenly. "If you do you will be responsible, Marion."

  She did not move her eyes from the blue hills on the horizon. "Iexpect you to kill me sometime; I feel sure you will. And that you maydo." Then she bent her look on him. "You may do it now if you wantto."

  His face turned heavy with rage. "Marion," he cried, with an oath, "doyou know how close you are to death at this moment?"

  "You may do it now."

  He clinched the bench-rail and rose slowly to his feet. Marion satmotionless in the hickory chair; the sun was shining in her face andher hands were folded in her lap. Dicksie rocked on the porch. In theshadow of the house the man was mending the saddle.