Whispering Smith
room; then he knocked, and a light appeared within. Whispering Smith opened the door. He stood in his trousers and shirt, with his cartridge-belt in his hand. “Come in, George. I’m just getting hooked up.”
“Which way are you going to-night, Gordon?” asked McCloud, sitting down on the chair.
“I am going to Oroville. The crowd is celebrating there. It is a défi, you know.”
“Who are you going to take with you?”
“Nobody.”
McCloud moved uneasily. “I don’t like that.”
“There will be nothing doing. Sinclair may be gone by the time I arrive, but I want to see Bob and Gene Johnson, and scare the Williams Cache coyotes, just to keep their tails between their legs.”
“I’d like to kill off half a dozen of that gang.”
Whispering Smith said nothing for a moment. “Did you ever have to kill a man, George?” he asked buckling his cartridge-belt.
“No. Why?”
There was no reply. Smith had taken a rifle from the rack and was examining the firing mechanism. He worked the lever for a moment with lightning-like speed, laid the gun on the bed, and sat down beside it.
“You would hardly believe, George, how I hate to go after Murray Sinclair. I’ve known him all
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