Whispering Smith
Page 39
CHAPTER XXXVIII
INTO THE NORTH
The moon had not yet risen, and in the darkness of Boney Street Smithwalked slowly toward his room. The answer to his question had come.The rescue of Seagrue made it clear that Sinclair would not leave thecountry. He well knew that Sinclair cared no more for Seagrue than fora prairie-dog. It was only that he felt strong enough, with hisfriends and sympathizers, to defy the railroad force and WhisperingSmith, and planned now, probably, to kill off his pursuers or wearthem out. There was a second incentive for remaining: nearly all theTower W money had been hidden at Rebstock's cabin by Du Sang. ThatKennedy had already got hold of it Sinclair could not know, but it wascertain that he would not leave the country without an effort torecover the booty from Rebstock.
Whispering Smith turned the key in the door of his room as he revolvedthe situation in his mind. Within, the dark was cheerless, but he madeno effort to light a lamp. Groping his way to the side of the lowbed, 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. Thesituation he had dreaded most, from the moment Bucks asked him to comeback to the mountains, had come.
He thought of every phase of the outcome. If Sinclair should killhim 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 wideopen to complain at this time of the possibility of an accident. Theymight kill each other; but if, escaping himself, he should killSinclair----
He came back in the silence always to that if. It rose dark betweenhim and the woman he loved--whom he had loved since she was a childwith school-girl eyes and braided hair. After he had lost her, only tofind years afterward that she was hardly less wretched in her lifethan he in his, he had dreamed of the day when she might again be freeand he free to win a love long hoped for.
But to slay this man--her husband--in his inmost heart he felt itwould 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 notsay, what would she feel? How could her husband's death in thatencounter, if it ever came, be other than a stain that must shock andwound her, no matter how much she should try not to see. Could eitherof them ever quite forget it?
* * * * *
Kennedy and his men were guarding the Cache. Could they be sentagainst Sinclair? That would be only a baser sort of murder--themurder of his friends. He himself was leader, and so looked upon; thepost of danger was his.
He raised his head. Through the window came a faint light. The moonwas rising, and against the inner wall of the room the straight, hardlines of the old wardrobe rose dimly. The rifles were within. He mustchoose.
He walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. It was darkeverywhere across the upper town, but in the distance one lightburned. It was in Marion's cottage. He had chosen this room becausefrom the window he could see her home. He stood for a few moments withhis hands in his pockets, looking. When he turned away he drew theshade closely, lighted a lamp, and unlocked the wardrobe door.
* * * * *
Scott left the barn at half-past ten with a led horse for WhisperingSmith. He rode past Smith's room in Fort Street, but the room wasdark, and he jogged down to the Wickiup square, where he had been toldto meet him. After waiting and riding about for an hour, he tied thehorses and went up to McCloud's office. McCloud was at his desk, butknew nothing of Whispering Smith except that he was to come in beforehe started. "He's a punctual man," murmured Bob Scott, who had the lowvoice of the Indian. "Usually he is ahead of time."
"Is he in his room, do you think?" asked McCloud.
"I rode around that way about fifteen minutes ago; there was nolight."
"He must be there," declared McCloud. "Have you the horses below? Wewill ride over and try the room again."
Fort Street back of Front is so quiet after eleven o'clock at nightthat a footfall echoes in it. McCloud dismounted in front of the bankbuilding and, throwing the reins to Bob Scott, walked upstairs andback toward Smith's room. In the hallway he paused. He heard faintstrains of music. They came from within the room--fragments of oldairs played on a violin, and subdued by a mute, in the darkness.Instinct stayed McCloud's hand at the door. He stood until the musicceased and footsteps moved about in the room; then he knocked, and alight appeared within. Whispering Smith opened the door. He stood inhis trousers and shirt, with his cartridge-belt in his hand. "Come in,George. I'm just getting hooked up."
"Which way are you going to-night, Gordon?" asked McCloud, sittingdown on the chair.
"I am going to Oroville. The crowd is celebrating there. It is a defi,you know."
"Who are you going to take with you?"
"Nobody."
McCloud moved uneasily. "I don't like that."
"There will be nothing doing. Sinclair may be gone by the time Iarrive, but I want to see Bob and Gene Johnson, and scare the WilliamsCache coyotes, 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 a moment. "Did you ever have to killa man, George?" he asked buckling his cartridge-belt.
"No. Why?"
There was no reply. Smith had taken a rifle from the rack and wasexamining the firing mechanism. He worked the lever for a moment withlightning-like speed, laid the gun on the bed, and sat down besideit.
"You would hardly believe, George, how I hate to go after MurraySinclair. I've known him all my life. His folks and mine lived acrossthe 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." Whispering Smith put his hands on the side ofthe bed. "It is curious how you remember things that happened when youwere a boy, isn't it? I thought of something to-night I hadn't thoughtof for twenty years. A little circus came to town. While they weresetting up the tent the lines for the gasolene tank got fouled in theblock at the top of the centre pole. The head canvasman offered aquarter to any boy that would climb the pole and free the block. Oneboy after another tried it, but they couldn't climb half-way up. ThenMurray sailed in. I was seven years old and Murray was twelve, and hewore a vest. He gave me the vest to hold while he went up. I felt likea 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 madegood," said Whispering Smith gloomily. "The canvasman gave him thequarter and two tickets, and he gave one of the tickets to me. I gotto thinking about that to-night. As boys, Murray and I never had aquarrel." He stopped. McCloud said nothing, and, after an interval,Smith spoke again:
"He was an oracle for all the small boys in town, and could advise uson any subject on earth--whether he knew anything about it or nothingabout it made no difference. I told him once I wanted to be aCalifornia stage-robber, and he replied without an instant'shesitation that I ought to begin to practise running. I was so upsetat his grasp of the subject that I hadn't the nerve to ask him why Ineeded to practise running to be a stage-robber. I was ashamed ofappearing 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 Icouldn't figure out. Perhaps my being too proud to ask the questionchanged my career. He went away for a long time, and we heard he wasin 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. "Tiredof waiting, Bob? Well, I guess I'm ready. Is the moon up? This is therifle I'm going to take, Bob. Did Wickwire have a talk with you? He'sall right. Suppose you send him to the mouth of Little Crawling Stoneto watch things a day or two. They may try to work north that way orhide in the wash."
Walking down to the street, Whispering Smith continued his suggestions."And by the way, Bob, I want you to pass this word for me up anddown Front Street. Sinclair h
as his friends in town and it's allright--I know them and expect them to stay by him. I expect Murray'sfriends to do what they can for him. I've got my friends and expectthem to stay by me. But there is one thing that I will not stand foron any man's part, and that is hiding Sinclair anywhere in MedicineBend. You keep him out of Medicine Bend, Bob; will you do it? Andremember, I will never let up on the man who hides him in town whilethis fight is on. There are good reasons for drawing the line onthat point, and there I draw it hard and fast. Now Bob and Gene Johnsonwere at Oroville when you left, were they, Bob?" He was fastening hisrifle in the scabbard. "Which is deputy sheriff this year, Bob orGene? Gene--very good." He swung into the saddle.
"Have you got everything?" murmured Scott.
"I think so. Stop! I'm riding away without my salt-bag. That would bea pretty piece of business, wouldn't it? Take the key, Bob. It'shanging 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. WhisperingSmith took up a notch again in his belt, pulled down his hat, and bentover the neck of his horse to lay his hand a moment in McCloud's. Itwas one o'clock. Across the foothills the moon was rising, andWhispering Smith straightening up in the saddle wheeled his horse andtrotted swiftly up the street into the silent north.