Whispering Smith

by Frank H. Spearman

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  AMONG THE COYOTES

  Oroville once marked farthest north for the Peace River gold camps,but with mining long ago abandoned it now marks farthest south for arustler's camp, being a favorite resort for the people of the WilliamsCache country. Oroville boasts that it has never surrendered and thatit has never been cleaned out. It has moved, and been moved, up streamand down, and from bank to bank; it has been burned out and blown awayand lived on wheels: but it has never suffered the loss of itsidentity. Oroville is said to have given to its river the name ofPeace River--either wholly in irony or because in Oroville there wasfor many years no peace save in the river. However, that day, too, ispast, and Peace County has its sheriff and a few people who are nothabitually "wanted."

  Whispering Smith, well dusted with alkali, rode up to the Johnsonranch, eight miles southwest of Oroville, in the afternoon of the dayafter he left Medicine Bend. The ranch lies in a valley watered bythe Rainbow, and makes a pretty little oasis of green in a limitlesswaste of sagebrush. Gene and Bob Johnson were cutting alfalfa whenWhispering Smith rode into the field, and, stopping the mowers, thethree men talked while the seven horses nibbled the clover.

  "I may need a little help, Gene, to get him out of town," remarkedSmith, after he had told his story; "that is, if there are too manyCache men there for me."

  Bob Johnson was stripping a stalk of alfalfa in his fingers. "Themfellows are pretty sore."

  "That comes of half doing a job, Bob. I was in too much of a hurrywith the round-up. They haven't had dose enough yet," returnedWhispering Smith. "If you and Gene will join me sometime when I have aweek to spare, we will go in there, clean up the gang and burn thehair off the roots of the chapparal--what? I've hinted to Rebstock hecould get ready for something like that."

  "Tell us about that fight, Gordon."

  "I will if you will give me something to eat and have this horse takencare of. Then, Bob, I want you to ride into Oroville and reconnoitre.This is mail day and I understand some of the boys are buying postagestamps to put on my coffin."

  They went to the house, where Whispering Smith talked as he ate. Bobtook a horse and rode away, and Gene, with his guest, went back to thealfalfa, where Smith took Bob's place on the mower. When they saw Bobriding up the valley, Whispering Smith, bringing in the machine,mounted his horse.

  "Your man is there all right," said Bob, as he approached. "He andJohn Rebstock were in the Blackbird saloon. Seagrue isn't there, butBarney Rebstock and a lot of others are. I talked a few minutes withJohn and Murray. Sinclair didn't say much; only that the railroad gangwas trying to run him out of the country, and he wanted to meet a fewof them before he went. I just imagined he held up a little before me;maybe not. There's a dozen Williams Cache men in town."

  "But those fellows are not really dangerous, Bob, though they may betroublesome," observed Smith reflectively.

  "Well, what's your plan?" blurted Gene Johnson.

  "I haven't any, Gene," returned Smith, with perfect simplicity. "Myonly plan is to ride into town and serve my papers, if I can. I've gota deputyship--and that I'm going to do right away. If you, Bob, orboth of you, will happen in about thirty minutes later you'll get thenews and perhaps see the fun. Much obliged for your feed, Gene; comedown to Medicine Bend any time and I'll fill you up. I want you bothfor the elk hunt next fall, remember that. Bucks is coming, and isgoing to bring Brown and Henson and perhaps Atterbury and Gibbs andsome New Yorkers; and McCloud's brother, the preacher, is coming outand they are all right--all of them."

  The only street in Oroville faces the river, and the buildings stringfor two or three blocks along modest bluffs. Not a soul was anywherein sight when Whispering Smith rode into town, save that across thestreet from where he dismounted and tied his horse three men stood infront of the Blackbird.

  They watched the new arrival with languid interest. Smith walkedstiffly over toward the saloon to size up the men before he shouldenter it. The middle man of the group, with a thin red face and veryblue eyes, was chewing tobacco in an unpromising way. Before Smith washalf-way across the street he saw the hands of the three men fallingto their hips. Taking care, however, only to keep the men between himand the saloon door, Smith walked directly toward them. "Boys, haveyou happened to see Gene or Bob Johnson to-day, any of you?" He threwback the brim of his Stetson as he spoke.

  "Hold your hand right there--right where it is," said the blue-eyedman sharply.

  Whispering Smith smiled, but held his hand rather awkwardly upon hishat-brim.

  "No," continued the spokesman, "we ain't none of us happened to seeBob or Gene Johnson to-day; but we happen to seen Whispering Smith,and we'll blow your face off if you move it an inch."

  Smith laughed. "I never quarrel with a man that's got the drop on me,boys. Now, this is sudden but unexpected. Do I know any of you?" Helooked from one face to another before him, with a wide reach in hisfield of vision for the three hands that were fast on threepistol-butts. "Hold on! I've met you somewhere," he said with easyconfidence to the blue-eyed man with the weather-split lip. "WilliamsCache, wasn't it? All right, we're placed. Now what have you got infor me?"

  "I've got forty head of steers in for you," answered the man in themiddle, with a splitting oath. "You stole forty head of my steers inthat round-up, and I'm going to fill you so full of lead you'll neverrun off no more stock for nobody. Don't look over there to your horseor 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 manpulls he ought to shoot--very often it's the only chance he ever getsto shoot. Well, it isn't every man gets the drop on me that easy, butyou boys have got it," continued Whispering Smith in frank admiration."Only I want to say you're after the wrong man. That round-up was allRebstock's fault, and Rebstock is bound to make good all loss anddamage."

  "You'll make good my share of it right now and here," said the manwith the wash-blue eyes.

  "Why, of course," assented Whispering Smith, "if I must, I must. Isuppose I may light a cigarette, boys, before you turn loose thefireworks?"

  "Light it quick!"

  Laughing at the humor of the situation, Whispering Smith, his eyesbeaming with good-nature, put the finger and thumb of his right handinto his waistcoat pocket, drew out a package of cigarette paper, and,bantering his captors innocently the while, tore out a sheet and putthe packet back. Folding the paper in his two hands, he declared hebelieved his tobacco was in his saddle-pocket, and asked leave to stepacross the street to get it. The trick was too transparent, and leavewas refused with scorn and some hard words. Whispering Smith beggedthe men in front of him in turn for tobacco. They cursed him and shooktheir heads.

  For an instant he looked troubled. Still appealing to them with hiseyes, he tapped lightly the lower outside pockets of his coat with hisfingers, shifting the cigarette paper from hand to hand as he hunted.The outside pockets seemed empty. But as he tapped the inside breastpocket on the left side of the coat--the three men, lynx-eyed,watching--his face brightened. "Stop!" said he, his voice sinking to arelieved whisper as his hand rested lightly on the treasure. "There'sthe tobacco. I suppose one of you will give me a match?"

  All that the three before him could ever afterward recollect--and forseveral years afterward they cudgelled their brains pretty thoroughlyabout that moment--was that Whispering Smith took hold of the leftlapel of his coat to take the tobacco out of the breast pocket. Anexcuse to take that lapel in his left hand was, in fact, all thatWhispering Smith needed to put not alone the three men before him butall Oroville at his mercy. The play of his right hand in crossing thecorduroy waistcoat to pull his revolver from its scabbard and throw itinto their faces was all too quick for better eyes than theirs. Theysaw only the muzzle of the heavy Colt's playing like a snake's tongueunder their surprised noses, with the good-natured smile still behindit. "Or will one of you roll a cigarette?" asked Whispe
ring Smith,without a break between the two questions. "I don't smoke. Now don'tmake faces; go right ahead. Do anything you want to with your hands. Iwouldn't ask a man to keep his hands or feet still on a hot day likethis," he insisted, the revolver playing all the time. "You won'tdraw? You won't fight? Pshaw! Then disengage your hands gently fromyour guns. You fellows really ought not to attempt to pull a gun inOroville, and I will tell you why--there's a reason for it." He lookedconfidential as he put his head forward to whisper among thecrestfallen faces. "At this altitude it is too fast work. I know younow," he went on as they continued to wilt. "You are Fatty Filber," hesaid to the thin chap. "Don't work your mouth like that at me; don'tdo it. You seem surprised. Really, have you the asthma? Get over it,because you are wanted in Pound County for horse-stealing. Why, hangit, Fatty, you're good for ten years, and of course, since you havereminded me of it, I'll see that you get it. And you, Baxter," said heto the man on the right, "I know I spoke to you once when I wasinspector about altering brands; that's five years, you know. You," headded, scrutinizing the third man to scare him to death--"I think youwere at Tower W. No? No matter; you two boys may go, anyway. Fatty,you stay; we'll put some state cow on your ribs. By the way, are you adetective, Fatty? Aren't you? See here! I can get you into anassociation. For ten dollars, they give you a German-silver star, andteach the Japanese method of pulling, by correspondence. Or you mightget an electric battery to handle your gun with. You can get pocketdynamos from the mail-order houses. Sure! Read the big book!"

  When Gene and Bob Johnson rode into town, Whispering Smith was sittingin a chair outside the Blackbird, still chatting with Filber, whostood with his arms around a hitching-post, holding fast a mail-orderhouse catalogue. A modest crowd of hangers-on had gathered.

  "Here we are, Gene," exclaimed Smith to the deputy sheriff. "I waslooking for steers, but some calves got into the drive. Take himaway."

  While the Johnsons were laughing, Smith walked into the Blackbird. Hehad lost thirty minutes, and in losing them had lost his quarry.Sinclair had disappeared, and Whispering Smith made a virtue ofnecessity 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 hissupper and ride away. The street encounter had made so much talk inOroville that Smith declined Gene Johnson's invitation to go back tothe house. It seemed a convenient time to let any other ambitiousrustlers make good if they were disposed to try, and Whispering Smithwent for his supper to the hotel where the Williams Cache men madetheir headquarters.

  There was a rise in the atmospheric pressure the moment he entered thehotel office door, and when he walked into the dining-room, someminutes later, the silence was oppressive. Smith looked for a seat.The only vacant place chanced to be at a table where nine men from theCache sat busy with ham and eggs. It was a trifle awkward, but theonly thing to do was to take the vacant chair.

  The nine men were actively engaged with knives and forks and spoonswhen Whispering Smith drew out the empty chair at the head of thetable; but nine pairs of hands dropped modestly under the table whenhe sat down. Coughing slightly to hide his embarrassment and to keephis right hand in touch with his necktie, Whispering Smith lookedaround the table with the restrained air of a man who has bowed hishead and resolved to ask the blessing, but wants to make reasonablysure that the family is listening. A movement at the other tables,among the regular boarders of the hostelry, was apparent almost atonce. Appetites began to fail all over the dining-room. WhisperingSmith gave his order genially to the confused waitress:

  "Bring me two eggs--one fried on one side and one on the other--andcoffee."

  There was a general scraping of chairs on the floor as they werepushed back and guests not at the moment interested in the bill offare started, modestly but firmly, to leave the dining-room. AtWhispering Smith's table there were no second calls for coffee. Tostimulate the eating he turned the conversation into channels asreassuring as possible. Unfortunately for his endeavor, the man at thefar end of the table reached for a toothpick. It seemed a pleasant wayout of the difficulty, and when the run on toothpicks had once begun,all Whispering Smith's cordiality could not check it. Every manappeared to want a toothpick, and one after another of WhisperingSmith's company deserted him. He was finally left alone with aphysician known as "Doc," a forger and a bigamist from Denver. Smithtried to engage Doc in medical topics. The doctor was not alonefrightened but tipsy, and when Smith went so far as to ask him, as amedical man, whether in his opinion the high water in the mountainshad any direct connection with the prevalence of falling of the spineamong old "residenters" in Williams Cache, the doctor felt of his headas if his brain were turning turtle.

  When Whispering Smith raised his knife ostentatiously to bring out afeature of his theory, the doctor raised his knife higher to admit theforce of it; and when Whispering Smith leaned his head forwardimpressively to drive home a point in his assertion, the doctorstretched his neck till his face grew apoplectic. Releasing him atlength from the strain, Whispering Smith begged of the staringmaid-servant the recipe for the biscuit. When she came back with it hesat all alone, pouring catsup over his griddle-cakes in an abstractedmanner, and it so flurried her that she had to go out again to askwhether the gasolene went into the dough or under it.

  He played out the play to the end, but when he rode away in the duskhis face was careworn. John Rebstock had told him why Sinclair dodged:there were others whom Sinclair wanted to meet first; and WhisperingSmith was again heading on a long, hard ride, and after a man on abetter horse, back to the Crawling Stone and Medicine Bend. "There'sothers he wants to see first or you'd have no trouble in talkingbusiness to-day. You nor no other man will ever get him alive." ButWhispering 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 hedoes will be to put the Doxology all over you."