“I have never complained.”
“That’s what makes me more anxious to show you now that I can and will do what’s right.”
“Oh, you multiply words! It is too late for you to be here. You are in danger, you say; for the love of Heaven, leave me and go away!”
“You know me, Marion, when my mind is made up. I won’t leave without you.” He leaned with one hand against the ribbon showcase. “If you don’t want to go I will stay right here and pay off the scores I owe. Two men here have stirred this country up too long, anyway. I don’t care much how soon anybody gets me after I round them up. But to-night I felt like this: you and I started out in life together, and we ought to live it out or die together, whether it’s to-night, Marion, or twenty years from to-night.”
“If you want to kill me to-night, I have no resistance to make.”
Sinclair sat down on a low counter-stool, and, bending forward, held his head between his hands. “It oughtn’t all to end here. I know you, and I know you want to do what’s right. I couldn’t kill you without killing myself; you know that.” He straightened up slowly. “Here!” He slipped his revolver from his hip-holster and held the grip of the gun toward her. “Use it on me if you want to. It is your chance to end everything; it may save several lives if you do. I won’t leave McCloud here to crow over me, and, by God, I won’t leave you here for Whispering Smith! I’ll settle with him anyhow. Take the pistol! What are you afraid of? Take it! Use it! I don’t want to live without you. If you make me do it, you’re to blame for the consequences.”
She stood with wide-open eyes, but uttered no word.
“You won’t touch it––then you care a little for me yet,” he murmured.
“No! Do not say so. But I will not do murder.”
“Think about the other, then. Go with me and everything will be all right. I will come back some evening soon for my answer. And until then, if those two men have any use for life, let them keep in the clear. I heard to-night that Du Sang is killed. Do you know whether it is true?”
“It is true.”
An oath half escaping showed how the confirmation cut him. “And Whispering Smith got away! It is Du Sang’s own fault; I told him to keep out of that trap. I stay in the open; and I’m not Du Sang. I’ll choose my own ground for the finish when they want it with me, and when I go I’ll take company––I’ll promise you that. Good-night, Marion. Will you shake hands?”
“No.”
“Damn it, I like your grit, girl! Well, good-night, anyway.”
She closed the door. She had even strength enough to bolt it before his footsteps died away. She put out the light and felt her way blindly back to the work-room. She staggered through it, clutching at the curtains, and fell in the darkness into Dicksie’s arms.
“Marion dear, don’t speak,” Dicksie whispered. “I heard everything. Oh, Marion!” she cried, suddenly conscious of the inertness of the burden in her arms. “Oh, what shall I do?”
Moved by fright to her utmost strength, Dicksie drew the unconscious woman back to her room and managed to lay her on the bed. Marion opened her eyes a few minutes later to see the lights burning, to hear the telephone bell ringing, and to find Dicksie on the edge of the bed beside her.
“Oh, Marion, thank Heaven, you are reviving! I have been frightened to death. Don’t mind the telephone; it is Mr. McCloud. I didn’t know what to do, so I telephoned him.”
“But you had better answer him,” said Marion faintly. The telephone bell was ringing wildly.
“Oh, no! he can wait. How are you, dear? I don’t wonder you were frightened to death. Marion, he means to kill us––every one!”
“No, Dicksie. He will kill me and kill himself; that is where it will end. Dicksie, do answer the telephone. What are you thinking of? Mr. McCloud will be at the door in five minutes. Do you want him in the street to-night?”
Dicksie fled to the telephone, and an excited conference over the wire closed in seeming reassurance at both ends. By that time Marion had regained her steadiness, but she could not talk of what had passed. At times, as the two lay together in the darkness, Marion spoke, but it was not to be answered. “I do not know,” she murmured once wearily. “Perhaps I am doing wrong; perhaps I ought to go with him. I wish, oh, I wish I knew what I ought to do!”
* * *
CHAPTER XXXV
THE CALL
Beyond receiving reports from Kennedy and Banks, who in the interval rode into town and rode out again on their separate and silent ways, Whispering Smith for two days seemed to do nothing. Yet instinct keener than silence kept the people of Medicine Bend on edge during those two days, and when President Bucks’s car came in on the evening of the second day, the town knew from current rumors that Banks had gone to the Frenchman ranch with a warrant on a serious charge for Sinclair. In the president’s car Bucks and McCloud, after a late dinner, were joined by Whispering Smith, and the president heard the first connected story of the events of the fortnight that had passed. Bucks made no comment until he had heard everything. “And they rode Sinclair’s horses,” he said in conclusion.
“Sinclair’s horses,” returned Whispering Smith, “and they are all accounted for. One horse supplied by Rebstock was shot where they crossed Stampede Creek. It had given out and they had a fresh horse in the willows, for they shot the scrub half a mile up one of the canyons near the crossing. The magpies attracted my attention to it. A piece of skin a foot square had been cut out of the flank.”
“You got there before the birds.”
“It was about an even thing,” said Smith. “Anyway, we were there in time to see the horse.”
“And Sinclair was away from the ranch from Saturday noon till Sunday night?”
“A rancher living over on Stampede Creek saw the five men when they crossed Saturday afternoon. The fellow was scared and lied to me about it, but he told Wickwire who they were.”
“Now, who is Wickwire?” asked Bucks.
“You ought to remember Wickwire, George,” remarked Whispering Smith, turning to McCloud. “You haven’t forgotten the Smoky Creek wreck? Do you remember the tramp who had his legs crushed and lay in the sun all morning? You put him in your car and sent him down here to the railroad hospital and Barnhardt took care of him. That was Wickwire. Not a bad fellow, either; he can talk pretty straight and shoot pretty straight. How do I know? Because he has told me the story and I’ve seen him shoot. There, you see, is one friend that you never reckoned on. He used to be a cowboy, and I got him a job working for Sinclair on the Frenchman; he has worked at Dunning’s and other places on the Crawling Stone. He hates Sinclair with a deadly hatred for some reason. Just lately Wickwire set up for himself on Little Crawling Stone.”
“I have noticed that fellow’s ranch,” remarked McCloud.
“I couldn’t leave him at Sinclair’s,” continued Whispering Smith frankly. “The fellow was on my mind all the time. I felt certain he would kill Sinclair or get killed if he stayed there. And then, when I took him away they sprang Tower W on me! That is the price, not of having a conscience, for I haven’t any, but of listening to the voice that echoes where my conscience used to be,” said the railroad man, moving uneasily in his chair.
Bucks broke the ash from his cigar into the tray on the table. “You are restless to-night, Gordon––and it isn’t like you, either.”
“It is in the air. There has been a dead calm for two days. Something is due to happen to-night. I wish I could hear from Banks; he started with the papers for Sinclair’s yesterday while I went to Oroville to sweat Karg. Blood-poisoning has set in and it is rather important to us to get a confession. There’s a horse!” He stepped to the window. “Coming fast, too. Now, I wonder––no, he’s gone by.”
Five minutes later a messenger came to the car from the Wickiup with word that Kennedy was looking for Whispering Smith. Bucks, McCloud, and Smith left the car together and walked up to McCloud’s office.
Kennedy, sitting on the edge
of the table, was tapping his leg nervously with a ruler. “Bad news, Gordon.”
“Not from Ed Banks?”
“Sinclair got him this morning.”
Whispering Smith sat down. “Go on.”
“Banks and I picked up Wickwire on the Crawling Stone early, and we rode over to the Frenchman. Wickwire said Sinclair had been up at Williams Cache the day before, and he didn’t think he was home. Of course I knew the Cache was watched and he wouldn’t be there long, so Ed asked me to stay in the cottonwoods and watch the creek for him. He and Wickwire couldn’t find anybody home when they got to the ranch-house and they rode down the corral together to look over the horses.”
Whispering Smith’s hand fell helplessly on the table. “Rode down together! For God’s sake, why didn’t one of them stay at the house?”
“Sinclair rode out from behind the barn and hit Wickwire in the arm before they saw him. Banks turned and opened on him, and Wickwire ducked for the creek. Sinclair put a soft bullet through Banks’s shoulder––tore it pretty bad, Gordon––and made his get-away before Wickwire and I could reach the barn again. I got Ed on his horse and back to Wickwire’s, and we sent one of the boys to Oroville for a doctor. After Banks fell out of the saddle and was helpless Sinclair talked to him before I came up. ‘You ought to have kept out of this, Ed,’ he said. ‘This is a railroad fight. Why didn’t they send the head of their own gang after me?’––naming you.” Kennedy nodded toward Whispering Smith.
“Naming me.”
“Banks says, ‘I’m sheriff of this county, and will be a long time yet!’ I took the papers from his breast pocket,” continued Kennedy. “You can see where he was hit.” Kennedy laid the sheriff’s packet on the table. Bucks drew his chair forward and, with his cigar between his fingers, picked the packet up and opened it. Kennedy went on: “Ed told Sinclair if he couldn’t land him himself that he knew a man who could and would before he was a week older. He meant you, Gordon, and the last thing Ed told me was that he wanted you to serve the papers on Sinclair.”
A silence fell on the company. One of the documents passing under Bucks’s hand caught his eye and he opened it. It was the warrant for Sinclair. He read it without comment, folded it, and, looking at Whispering Smith, pushed it toward him. “Then this, I guess, Gordon, belongs to you.”
Starting from a revery, Whispering Smith reached for the warrant. He looked for a moment at the blood-stained caption. “Yes,” he said, “this, I guess, belongs to me.”
* * *
CHAPTER XXXVI
DUTY
The stir of the town over the shooting of Banks seemed to Marion, in her distress, to point an accusing finger at her. The disgrace of what she had felt herself powerless to prevent now weighed on her mind, and she asked herself whether, after all, the responsibility of this murder was not upon her. Even putting aside this painful doubt, she bore the name of the man who had savagely defied accountability and now, it seemed to her, was dragging her with him through the slough of blood and dishonor into which he had plunged.
The wretched thought would return that had she listened to him, had she consented to go away, this outbreak might have been prevented. And what horror might not another day bring––what lives still closer to her life be taken? For herself she cared less; but she knew that Sinclair, now that he had begun, would not stop. In whichever way her thoughts turned, wretchedness was upon them, and the day went in one of those despairing and indecisive battles that each one within his own heart must fight at times with heaviness and doubt.
McCloud called her over the telephone in the afternoon to say that he was going West on the evening train and would not be over for supper. She wished he could have come, for her loneliness began to be insupportable.
Toward sunset she put on her hat and started for the post-office. In the meantime, Dicksie, at home, had called McCloud up and told him she was coming down for the night. He immediately cancelled his plans for going West, and when Marion returned at dusk she found him with Dicksie at the cottage. The three had supper. Afterward Dicksie and McCloud went out for a walk, and Marion was alone in the house when the shop door opened and Whispering Smith walked in. It was dusk.
“Don’t light the lamps, Marion,” he said, sitting down on a counter-stool as he took off his hat. “I want to talk to you just a minute, if you don’t mind. You know what has happened. I am called on now to go after Sinclair. I have tried to avoid it, but my hand has been forced. To-day I’ve been placing horses. I am going to ride to-night with the warrant. I have given him a start of twenty-four hours, hoping he may get out of the country. To stay here means only death to him in the end, and, what is worse, the killing of more and innocent men. But he won’t leave the country; do you think he will?”
“Oh, I do not know! I am afraid he will not.”
“I do not think I have ever hesitated before at any call of this kind; nor at what such a call will probably sometime mean; but this man I have known since we were boys.”
“If I had never seen him!”
“That brings up another point that has been worrying me all day. I could not help knowing what you have had to go through in this country. It is a tough country for any woman. Your people and mine were always close together and I have felt bound to do what I could to–––”
“Don’t be afraid to say it––make my path easier.”
“Something like that, though there’s been little real doing. What this situation in which Sinclair is now placed may still mean to you I do not know, but I would not add a straw to the weight of your troubles. I came to-night to ask a plain question. If he doesn’t leave the country I have got to meet him. You know what, in all human probability, that will mean. From such a meeting only one of us can come back. Which shall it be?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you––do you ask me this question? How can I know which it shall be? What is it you mean?”
“I mean I will not take his life in a fight––if it comes to that––if you would rather he should come back.”
A sob almost refused an answer to him. “How can you ask me so terrible a question?”
“It is a question that means a good deal to me, of course, and I don’t know just what it means to you: that is the point I am up against. I may have no choice in the matter, but I must decide what to try to do if I have one. Am I to remember first that he is your husband?”
There was a silence. “What shall I say––what can I say? God help me, how am I to answer a question like that?”
“How am I to answer it?”
Her voice was low and pitiful when her answer came: “You must do your duty.”
“What is my duty then? To serve the paper that has been given to me, I know––but not necessarily to defend my life at the price of his. The play of a chance lies in deciding that; I can keep the chance or give it away; that is for you to say. Or take the question of duty again. You are alone and your friends are few. Haven’t I any duty toward you, perhaps? I don’t know a woman’s heart. I used to think I did, but I don’t. My duty to this company that I work for is only the duty of a servant. If I go, another takes my place; it means nothing except taking one name off the payroll and putting another on. Whatever he may have done, this man is your husband; if his death would cause you a pang, it shall not be laid at my door. We ought to understand each other on that point fairly before I start to-night.”
“Can you ask me whether you ought not to take every means to defend your own life? or whether any consideration ought to come before that? I think not. I should be a wicked woman if I were to wish evil to him, wretched as he has made me. I am a wretched woman, whichever way I turn. But I should be less than human if I could say that to me your death would not be a cruel, cruel blow.”
There was a moment of silence. “Dicksie understood you to say that you were in doubt as to whether you ought to go away with him when he asked you to go. That is why I was unsettled in my mind.”
“The on
ly reason why I doubted was that I thought by going I might save better lives than mine. I could willingly give up my life to do that. But to stain it by going back to such a man––God help me!”
“I think I understand. If the unfortunate should happen before I come back I hope only this: that you will not hate me because I am the man on whom the responsibility has fallen. I haven’t sought it. And if I should not come back at all, it is only––good-by.”
He saw her clasp her hands convulsively. “I will not say it! I will pray on my knees that you do come back.”
“Good-night, Marion. Some one is at the cottage door.”
“It is probably Mr. McCloud and Dicksie. I will let them in.”
* * *
CHAPTER XXXVII
WICKWIRE
McCloud and Dicksie met them at the porch door. Marion, unnerved, went directly to her room. Whispering Smith stopped to speak to Dicksie and McCloud interposed. “Bob Scott telephoned the office just now he had a man from Oroville who wanted to see you right away, Gordon,” said he. “I told him to send him over here. It is Wickwire.”
“Wickwire,” repeated Whispering Smith. “Wickwire has no business here that I know of; no doubt it is something I ought to know of. And, by the way, you ought to see this man,” he said, turning again to Dicksie. “If McCloud tells the story right, Wickwire is a sort of protégé of yours, Miss Dicksie, though neither of you seems to have known it. He is the tramp cowboy who was smashed up in the wreck at Smoky Creek. He is not a bad man, but whiskey, you know, beats some decent men.” A footstep fell on the porch. “There he comes now, I reckon. Shall I let him in a minute?”
“Oh, I should like to see him! He has been at the ranch at different times, you know.”
Whispering Smith Page 22
