AT THE WICKIUP
Two nights later Whispering Smith rode into Medicine Bend. "I've been
up around Williams Cache," he said, answering McCloud's greeting as he
entered the upstairs office. "How goes it?" He was in his riding rig,
just as he had come from a late supper.
When he asked for news McCloud told him the story of the trouble with
Lance Dunning over the survey, and added that he had referred the
matter to Glover. He told then of his unpleasant surprise when riding
home afterward.
"Yes," assented Smith, looking with feverish interest at McCloud's
head; "I heard about it."
"That's odd, for I haven't said a word about the matter to anybody but
Marion Sinclair, and you haven't seen her."
"I heard up the country. It is great luck that he missed you."
"Who missed me?"
"The man that was after you."
"The bullet went through my hat."
"Let me see the hat."
McCloud produced it. It was a heavy, broad-brimmed Stetson, with a
bullet-hole cut cleanly through the front and the back of the crown.
Smith made McCloud put the hat on and describe his position when the
shot was fired. McCloud stood up, and Whispering Smith eyed him and
put questions.
"What do you think of it?" asked McCloud when he had done.
Smith leaned forward on the table and pushed McCloud's hat toward him
as if the incident were closed. "There is no question in my mind, and
there never has been, but that Stetson puts up the best hat worn on
the range."
McCloud raised his eyebrows. "Why, thank you! Your conclusion clears
things so. After you speak a man has nothing to do but guess."
"But, by Heaven, George," exclaimed Smith, speaking with unaccustomed
fervor, "Miss Dicksie Dunning is a hummer, _isn't_ she? That child
will have the whole range going in another year. To think of her
standing up and lashing her cousin in that way when he was browbeating
a railroad man!"
"Where did you hear about that?"
"The whole Crawling Stone country is talking about it. You never told
me you had a misunderstanding with Dicksie Dunning at Marion's.
Loosen up!"
"I will loosen up in the way you do. What scared me most, Gordon, was
waiting for the second shot. Why didn't he fire again?"
"Doubtless he thought he had you the first time. Any man big enough to
start after you is not used to shooting twice at two hundred and fifty
yards. He probably thought you were falling out of the saddle; and it
was dark. I can account for everything but your reaching the pass so
late. How did you spend all your time between the ranch and the
foothills?"
McCloud saw there was no escape from telling of his meeting with
Dicksie Dunning, of her warning, and of his ride to the gate with her.
Every point brought a suppressed exclamation from Whispering Smith.
"So she gave you your life," he mused. "Good for her! If you had got
into the pass on time you could not have got away--the cards were
stacked for you. He overestimated you a little, George; just a little.
Good men make mistakes. The sport of circumstances that we are! The
sport of circumstances!"
"Now tell me how _you_ heard so much about it, Gordon, and where?"
"Through a friend, but forget it."
"Do you know who shot at me?"
"Yes."
"I think I do, too. I think it was the fellow that shot so well with
the rifle at the barbecue--what was his name? He was working for
Sinclair, and perhaps is yet."
"You mean Seagrue, the Montana cowboy? No, you are wrong. Seagrue is a
man-killer, but a square one."
"How do you know?"
"I will tell you sometime--but this was not Seagrue."
"One of Dunning's men, was it? Stormy Gorman?"
"No, no, a very different sort! Stormy is a wind-bag. The man that is
after you is in town at this minute, and he has come to stay until he
finishes his job."
"The devil! That's what makes your eyes so bright, is it? Do you know
him?"
"I have seen him. You may see him yourself if you want to."
"I'd like nothing better. When?"
"To-night--in thirty minutes." McCloud closed his desk. There was a
rap at the door.
"That must be Kennedy," said Smith. "I haven't seen him, but I sent
word for him to meet me here." The door opened and Kennedy entered the
room.
"Sit down, Farrell," said Whispering Smith easily. "_Ve gates?_"
"How's that?"
"_Wie geht es?_ Don't pretend you can't make out my German. He is
trying to let on he is not a Dutchman," observed Whispering Smith to
McCloud. "You wouldn't believe it, but I can remember when Farrell
wore wooden shoes and lighted his pipe with a candle. He sleeps under
a feather-bed yet. Du Sang is in town, Farrell."
"Du Sang!" echoed the tall man with mild interest as he picked up a
ruler and, throwing his leg on the edge of the table, looked cheerful.
"How long has Du Sang been in town? Visiting friends or doing
business?"
"He is after your superintendent. He has been here since four o'clock,
I reckon, and I've ridden a hard road to-day to get in in time to talk
it over with him. Want to go?"
Kennedy slapped his leg with the ruler. "I always want to go, don't
I?"
"Farrell, if you hadn't been a railroad man you would have made a
great undertaker, do you know that?" Kennedy, slapping his leg, showed
his ivory teeth. "You have such an instinct for funerals," added
Whispering Smith.
"Now, Mr. Smith! Well, who are we waiting for? I'm ready," said
Kennedy, taking out his revolver and examining it.
McCloud put on his new hat and asked if he should take a gun. "You are
really accompanying me as my guest, George," explained Whispering
Smith reproachfully. "Won't it be fun to shove this man right under Du
Sang's nose and make him bat his eyes?" he added to Kennedy. "Well,
put one in your pocket if you like, George, provided you have one that
will go off when sufficiently urged."
McCloud opened the drawer of the table and took from it a revolver.
Whispering Smith reached out his hand for the gun, examined it, and
handed it back.
"You don't like it."
Smith smiled a sickly approbation. "A forty-five gun with a
thirty-eight bore, George? A little light for shock; a _little_ light.
A bullet is intended to knock a man down; not necessarily to kill him,
but, if possible, to keep him from killing you. Never mind, we all
have our fads. Come on!"
At the foot of the stairs Whispering Smith stopped. "Now I don't know
where we shall find this man, but we'll try the Three Horses." As they
started down the street McCloud took the inside of the sidewalk, but
Smith dropped behind and brought McCloud into the middle. They failed
to find Du Sang at the Three Horses, and leaving started to round up
the street. They visited many places, but each was entered in the same
way. Kennedy sauntered in first and moved slowly ahead. He was to step
aside only in case he saw Du Sang. McCloud in every instance followed
him, with Whispering Smith just behind, amiably surprised. They spent
an hour in and out of the Front Street resorts, but their search was
fruitless.
"You are sure he is in town?" asked Kennedy. The three men stood
deliberating in the shadow of a side street.
"Sure!" answered Whispering Smith. "Of course, if he turns the trick
he wants to get away quietly. He is lying low. Who is that, Farrell?"
A man passing out of the shadow of a shade tree was crossing Fort
Street a hundred feet away.
"It looks like our party," whispered Kennedy. "No, stop a bit!" They
drew back into the shadow. "That is Du Sang," said Kennedy; "I know
his hobble."