Whispering Smith
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 reënforced spring, to the ease of the situation.
Lance again took off his hat and wiped the sweat of anxiety from his dripping forehead. “What-
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