A SYMPATHETIC EAR
When Whispering Smith rode after Sinclair, Crawling Stone Ranch, in
common with the whole countryside, had but one interest in life, and
that was to hear of the meeting. Riders across the mountain valleys
met with but one question; mail-carriers brought nothing in their
pouches of interest equal to the last word concerning Sinclair or his
pursuer. It was commonly agreed through the mountains that it would be
a difficult matter to overhaul any good man riding Sinclair's
steel-dust horses, but with Sinclair himself in the saddle, unless it
pleased him to pull up, the chase was sure to be a stern one. Against
this to feed speculation stood one man's record--that of the man who
had ridden alone across Deep Creek and brought Chuck Williams out on a
buckboard.
Business in Medicine Bend, meantime, was practically suspended. As the
centre of all telephone lines the big railroad town was likewise the
centre of all rumors. Officers and soldiers to and from the Fort,
stage-drivers and cowmen, homesteaders and rustlers, discussed the
apprehension of Sinclair. Moreover, behind this effort to arrest one
man who had savagely defied the law were ranged all of the prejudices,
sympathies, and hatreds of the high country, and practically the whole
population tributary to Medicine Bend and the Crawling Stone Valley
were friends either to Sinclair or to his pursuer. Behind Sinclair
were nearly all the cattlemen, not alone because he was on good terms
with the rustlers and protected his friends, but because he warred
openly on the sheepmen. The big range interests, as a rule, were
openly or covertly friendly to Sinclair, while against him were the
homesteaders, the railroad men, the common people, and the men who
everywhere hate cruelty and outrage and the making of a lie.
Lance Dunning had never concealed his friendliness for Sinclair, even
after hard stories about him were known to be true, and it was this
confidence of fellowship that made Sinclair, twenty-four hours after
he had left Oroville, ride down the hill trail to Crawling Stone
ranch-house.
The morning had been cold, with a heavy wind and a dull sky. In the
afternoon the clouds lowered over the valley and a misting rain set
in. Dicksie had gone into Medicine Bend on the stage in the morning,
and, after a stolen half-hour with McCloud at Marion's, had ridden
home to escape the storm. Not less, but much more, than those about
her she was alive to the situation in which Sinclair stood and its
danger to those closest to her. In the morning her one prayer to
McCloud had been to have a care of himself, and to Marion to have a
care of herself; but even when Dicksie left them it seemed as if
neither quite felt the peril as she felt it.
In the afternoon the rain, falling steadily, kept her in the house,
and she sat in her room sewing until the light failed. She went
downstairs. Puss had lighted the grate in the living-room, and Dicksie
threw herself into a chair. The sound of hoofs aroused her and she
went to a window. To her horror, she saw Sinclair walking with her
cousin up to the front door. She ran into the dining-room, and the two
men entered the hall and walked into the office. Choking with
excitement, Dicksie ran through the kitchen and upstairs to master her
agitation.
In the office Sinclair was sitting down before the hot stove with
a tumbler of whiskey. "Lance"--he shook his head as he spoke
hoarsely--"I want to say my friends have stood by me to a man, but
there's none of them treated me squarer through thick and thin than
you have. Well, I've had some bad luck. It can't be helped.
Regards!"
He drank, and shook his wet hair again. Four days of hard riding had
left no trace on his iron features. Wet to the bone, his eyes flashed
with fire. He held the glassful of whiskey in a hand as steady as a
spirit-level and tossed it down a throat as cool as dew.
"I want to say another thing, Lance: I had no more intention than a
child of hurting Ed Banks. I warned Ed months ago to keep out of this
fight; and I never knew he was in it till it was too late. But I'm
hoping he will pull through yet, if they don't kill him in the
hospital to spite me. I never recognized the men at all till it was
too late. Why, one of them used to work for me! A man with the whole
railroad gang in these mountains after him has got to look out for
himself or his life ain't worth a glass of beer. Thank you, Lance, not
any more. I saw two men, with their rifles in their hands, looking for
me. I hollered at them; but, Lance, I'm rough and ready, as all my
friends know, and I will let no man put a drop on me--that I will
never do. Ed, before I ever recognized him, raised his rifle; that's
the only reason I fired. Not so full, Lance, not so full, if you
please. Well," he shook his black hair as he threw back his head,
"here's to better luck in worse countries!" He paused as he
swallowed, and set the tumbler down. "Lance, I'm saying good-by to the
mountains."
"You're not going away for good, Murray?"
"I'm going away for good. What's the use? For two years these railroad
cutthroats have been trying to put something on me; you know that.
They've been trying to mix me up with that bridge-burning at Smoky
Creek; Sugar Buttes, they had me there; Tower W--nothing would do but
I was there, and they've got one of the men in jail down there now,
Lance, trying to sweat enough perjury out of him to send me up. What
show has a poor man got against all the money there is in the country?
I wouldn't be afraid of a jury of my own neighbors--the men that know
me, Lance--any time. What show would I have with a packed jury in
Medicine Bend? I could explain anything I've done to the satisfaction
of any reasonable man. I'm human, Lance; that's all I say. I've been
mistreated and I don't forget it. They've even turned my wife against
me--as fine a woman as ever lived."
Lance swore sympathetically. "There's good stuff in you yet, Murray."
"I'm going to say good-by to the mountains," Sinclair went on grimly,
"but I'm going to Medicine Bend to-night and tell the man that has
hounded me what I think of him before I leave. I'm going to give my
wife a chance to do what is right and go with me. She's been poisoned
against me--I know that; but if she does what's fair and square
there'll be no trouble--no trouble at all. All I want, Lance, is a
square deal. What?"
Dicksie with her pulses throbbing at fever-heat heard the words. She
stood half-way down the stairs, trembling as she listened. Anger,
hatred, the spirit of vengeance, choked in her throat at the sinister
words. She longed to stride into the room and confront the murderer
and call down retribution on his head. It was no fear of him that
restrained her, for the Crawling Stone girl never knew fear. She would
have confronted him and denounced him, but prudence checked her angry
impulse. She knew what he meant to do--to ride into Medicine Bend
under cover of the storm, murder the two he hated, and escape in the
night; and she resolved he should never succeed. If she could only get
to the telephone! But the telephone was in the room where he sat. He
was saying good-by. Her cousin was trying to dissuade him from riding
out into the storm, but he was going. The door opened; the men went
out on the porch, and it closed. Dicksie, lightly as a shadow, ran
into the office and began ringing Medicine Bend on the telephone.