AT THE RIVER
They found the ranch-house as Marion and Dicksie had left it,
deserted. Puss told them every one was at the river. McCloud did not
approve Dicksie's plan of going down to see her cousin first. "Why not
let me ride down and manage it without bringing you into it at all?"
he suggested. "It can be done." And after further discussion it was so
arranged.
McCloud and Smith had been joined by Dancing on horseback, and they
made their way around Squaw Lake and across the fields. The fog was
rolling up from the willows at the bend. Men were chopping in the
brush, and McCloud and his companion soon met Lance Dunning riding up
the narrow strip of sand that held the river off the ranch.
McCloud greeted Dunning, regardless of his amazement, as if he had
parted from him the day before. "How are you making it over here?" he
asked. "We are in pretty good shape at the moment down below, and I
thought I would ride over to see if we could do anything for you.
This is what you call pretty fair water for this part of the valley,
isn't it?"
Lance swallowed his astonishment. "This isn't water, McCloud; this is
hell." He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. "Well, I call this
white, anyway, and no mistake--I do indeed, sir! This is Whispering
Smith, isn't it? Glad to see you at Crawling Stone, sir." Which served
not only to surprise but to please Whispering Smith.
"Some of my men were free," continued McCloud; "I switched some
mattresses and sacks around the Y, thinking they might come in play
here for you at the bend. They are at your service if you think you
need them."
"Need them!" Lance swore fiercely and from the bottom of his heart. He
was glad to get help from any quarter and made no bones about it.
Moreover, McCloud lessened the embarrassment by explaining that he had
a personal interest in holding the channel where it ran, lest a change
above might threaten the approaches already built to the bridge; and
Whispering Smith, who would have been on terms with the catfish if he
had been flung into the middle of the Crawling Stone, contributed at
once, like a reenforced spring, to the ease of the situation.
Lance again took off his hat and wiped the sweat of anxiety from his
dripping forehead. "Whatever differences of opinion I may have with
your damned company, I have no lack of esteem personally, McCloud, for
you, sir, by Heaven! How many men did you bring?"
"And whatever wheels you Crawling Stone ranchers may have in your
heads on the subject of irrigation," returned McCloud evenly, "I have
no lack of esteem personally, Mr. Dunning, for you. I brought a
hundred."
"Do you want to take charge here? I'm frank, sir; you understand this
game and I don't."
"Suppose we look the situation over; meantime, all our supplies have
to be brought across from the Y. What should you think, Mr. Dunning,
of putting all the teams you can at that end of the work?"
"Every man that can be spared from the river shall go at it. Come over
here and look at our work and judge for yourself."
They rode to where the forces assembled by Lance were throwing up
embankments and riprapping. There was hurried running to and fro, a
violent dragging about of willows, and a good deal of shouting.
Dunning, with some excitement, watched McCloud's face to note the
effect of the activity on him, but McCloud's expression, naturally
reserved, reflected nothing of his views on the subject. Dunning
waved his hand at the lively scene. "They've been at it all night. How
many would you take away, sir?"
"You might take them all away, as far as the river is concerned," said
McCloud after a moment.
"What? Hell! All?"
"They are not doing anything, are they, but running around in a
circle? And those fellows over there might as well be making mud pies
as riprapping at that point. What we need there is a mattress and
sandbags--and plenty of them. Bill," directed McCloud in an even tone
of business as he turned to Dancing, "see how quick you can get your
gangs over here with what sacks they can carry and walk fast. If you
will put your men on horses, Mr. Dunning, they can help like
everything. That bank won't last a great while the way the river is
getting under it now." Dancing wheeled like an elephant on his bronco
and clattered away through the mud. Lance Dunning, recovering from his
surprise, started his men back for the wagons, and McCloud,
dismounting, walked with him to the water's edge to plan the fight for
what was left of the strip in front of the alfalfa fields.
When Whispering Smith got back to the house he was in good-humor. He
joined Dicksie and Marion in the dining-room, where they were
drinking coffee. Afterward Dicksie ordered horses saddled and the
three rode to the river. Up and down the bank as far as they could see
in the misty rain, men were moving slowly about--more men, it seemed
to Dicksie, than she had ever seen together in her life. The confusion
and the noise had disappeared. No one appeared to hurry, but every one
had something to do, and, from the gangs who with sledges were sinking
"dead-men" among the trees to hold the cables of the mattress that was
about to be sunk, and the Japs who were diligently preparing to float
and load it, to the men that were filling and wheeling the sandbags,
no one appeared excited. McCloud joined the visitors for a few moments
and then went back to where Dancing and his men on life-lines were
guiding the mattress to its resting-place. In spite of the gloom of
the rain, which Whispering Smith said was breaking, Dicksie rode back
to the house in much better spirits with her two guests; and when they
came from luncheon the sun, as Smith had predicted, was shining.
"Oh, come out!" cried Dicksie, at the door. Marion had a letter to
write and went upstairs, but Whispering Smith followed Dicksie. "Does
everything you say come true?" she demanded as she stood in the
sunshine.
She was demure with light-heartedness and he looked at her
approvingly. "I hope nothing I may say ever will come true unless it
makes you happy," he answered lightly. "It would be a shame if it did
anything else."
She pointed two accusing fingers at him. "Do you know what you
promised last night? You have forgotten already! You said you would
tell me why my leghorns are eating their feathers off."
"Let me talk with them."
"Just what I should like. Come on!" said Dicksie, leading the way to
the chicken-yard. "I want you to see my bantams too. I have three of
the dearest little things. One is setting. They are over the way. Come
see them first. And, oh, you must see my new game chickens. Truly, you
never saw anything as handsome as Caesar--he's the rooster; and I have
six pullets. Caesar is perfectly superb."
When the two reached the chicken-houses Dicksie examined the nest
where she was setting the bantam hen. "This miserable hen will not
set," she exclaimed in despair. "See here, Mr. Smith, she has left her
nest again and is scratching around on the ground. Isn't it a shame?
I've tied a cord around her leg so she couldn't run away, and she is
hobbling around like a scrub pony."
"Perhaps the eggs are too warm," suggested her companion. "I have had
great success in cases like this with powdered ice--not using too
much, of course; just shave the ice gently and rub it over the eggs
one at a time; it will often result in refreshing the attention of the
hen."
Dicksie looked grave. "Aren't you ashamed to make fun of me?"
Whispering Smith seemed taken aback. "Is it really serious business?"
"Of course."
"Very good. Let me watch this hen for a few minutes and diagnose her.
You go on to your other chickens. I'll stay here and think."
Dicksie went down through the yards. When she came back, Whispering
Smith was sitting on a cracker-box watching the bantam. The chicken
was making desperate efforts to get off Dicksie's cord and join its
companions in the runway. Smith was eying the bantam critically when
Dicksie rejoined him. "Do you usually," he asked, looking suddenly up,
"have success in setting roosters?"
"Now you are having fun with me again."
"No, by Heaven! I am not."
"Have you diagnosed the case?"
"I have, and I have diagnosed it as a case of mistaken identity."
"Identity?"
"And misapplied energy. Miss Dicksie, you have tied up the wrong bird.
This is not a bantam hen at all; this is a bantam rooster. Now that
is _my_ judgment. Compare him with the others. Notice how much darker
his plumage is--it's the rooster," declared Whispering Smith, wiping
the perplexity from his brow. "Don't feel bad, not at all. Cut him
loose, Miss Dicksie--don't hesitate; do it on my responsibility. Now
let's look at the cannibal leghorns--and great Caesar."