Whispering Smith/Chapter 32
CHAPTER XXXII
McLOUD AND DICKSIE
NEWS of the fight in Williams Cache reached Medicine Bend in the night. Horsemen, filling in the gaps between telephones leading to the north country, made the circuit complete, but the accounts, confused and colored in the repeating, came in a cloud of conflicting rumors. In the streets, little groups of men discussed the fragmentary reports as they came from the railroad offices. Toward morning, Sleepy Cat, nearer the scene of the fight, began sending in telegraphic reports in which truth and rumor were strangely mixed. McCloud waited at the wires all night, hoping for trustworthy advices as to the result, but received none. Even during the morning nothing came, and the silence seemed more ominous than the bad news of the early night. Routine business was almost suspended and McCloud and Rooney Lee kept the wires warm with inquiries, but neither the telephone nor the telegraph would yield any definite word as to what had actually happened in the Williams Cache fight. It was easy to fear the worst.
At the noon hour McCloud was signing letters when Dicksie Dunning walked hurriedly up the hall and hesitated in the passageway before the open door of his office. He gave an exclamation as he pushed back his chair. She was in her riding-suit just as she had slipped from her saddle. “Oh, Mr. McCloud, have you heard the awful news? Whispering Smith was killed yesterday in Williams Cache by Du Sang.”
McCloud stiffened a little. “I hope that can’t be true. We have had nothing here but rumors; perhaps it is these that you have heard.”
“No, no! Blake, one of our men, was in the fight and got back at the ranch at nine o’clock this morning. I heard the story myself, and I rode right in to—to see Marion, and my courage failed me—I came here first. Does she know, do you think? Blake saw him fall from the saddle after he was shot, and everybody ran away, and Du Sang and two other men were firing at him as he lay on the ground. He could not possibly have escaped with his life, Blake said; he must have been riddled with bullets. Isn’t it terrible?” She sobbed suddenly, and McCloud, stunned at her words, led her to his chair and bent over her.
“If his death means this to you, think of what it means to me!”
A flood of sympathy bore them together. The moment was hardly one for interruption, but the despatcher’s door opened and Rooney Lee halted, thunderstruck, on the threshold.
Dicksie’s hand disappeared in her handkerchief. McCloud had been in wrecks before, and gathered himself together unmoved. “What is it, Rooney?”
The very calmness of the two at the table disconcerted the despatcher. He held the message in his hand and shuffled his feet. “Give me your despatch,” said McCloud impatiently.
Quite unable to take his hollow eyes off Dicksie, poor Rooney advanced, handed the telegram to McCloud, and beat an awkward retreat.
McCloud devoured the words of the message at a glance.
“Ah!” he cried, “this is from Gordon himself, sent from Sleepy Cat. He must be safe and unhurt! Listen:
“Three of the Tower W men trailed into Williams Cache. In resisting arrest this morning, Du Sang was wounded and is dying to-night. Two prisoners, Karg and Seagrue. G. S.
“Those are Gordon’s initials; it is the signature over which he telegraphs me. You see, this was sent last night long after Blake left. He is safe; I will stake my life on it.”
Dicksie sank back while McCloud re-read the message. “Oh, isn’t that a relief?” she exclaimed. “But how can it be? I can’t understand it at all; but he is safe, isn’t he? I was heartbroken when I heard he was killed. Marion ought to know of this,” she said, rising. “I am going to tell her.”
“And may I come over after I tell Rooney Lee to repeat this to headquarters?”
“Why, of course, if you want to.”
When McCloud reached the cottage Dicksie met him. “Katie Dancing’s mother is sick, and she has gone home. Poor Marion is all alone this morning, and half dead with a sick headache,” said Dicksie. “But I told her, and she said she shouldn’t mind the headache now at all.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“I am going to get dinner; do you want to help?”
“I’m going to help.”
“Oh, you are? That would be very funny.”
“Funny or not, I’m going to help.”
“You would only be in the way.”
“You don’t know whether I should or not.”
“I know I should do much better if you would go back and run the railroad a few minutes.”
“The railroad be hanged. I am for dinner.”
“But I will get dinner for you.”
“You need not. I can get it for myself.”
“You are perfectly absurd, and if we stand here disputing, Marion won’t have anything to eat.”
They went into the kitchen disputing about what should be cooked. At the end of an hour they had two fires going—one in the stove and one in Dicksie’s cheeks. By that time it had been decided to have a luncheon instead of a dinner. Dicksie attempted some soup, and McCloud found a strip of bacon, and after he had cooked it, Dicksie, with her riding-skirt pinned up and her sleeves delightfully rolled back, began frying eggs. When Marion, unable longer to withstand the excitement, appeared, the engineer, flushed with endeavor, was making toast.
The three sat down at table together. They found they had forgotten the coffee, but Marion was not allowed to move from her chair. When the coffee was made ready the bacon had been eaten and more had to be fried. McCloud proved able for any part of the programme, and when they rose it was four o’clock and too late, McCloud declared, to go back to the office that afternoon.
Marion and Dicksie, after a time, attempted jointly to get rid of him, but they found they could not, so the three talked about Whispering Smith. When the women tried to discourage McCloud by talking hats he played the wheezy piano, and when Dicksie spoke about going home he declared he would ride home with her. But Dicksie had no mind that he should, and when he asked to know why, without realizing what a flush lingered in his face, she said only, no; if she had reasons she would give none. McCloud persisted, because under the flush about his eyes was the resolve that he would take one long ride that evening, in any event. He had made up his mind for that ride—a longer one than he had ever taken before or expected ever to take again—and would not be balked.
Dicksie, insisting upon going home, went so far as to have her horse brought from the stable. To her surprise, a horse for McCloud came over with it. Quiet to the verge of solemnity, but with McCloud following, Dicksie walked with admirable firmness out of the shop to the curb. McCloud gave her rein to her, and with a smile stood waiting to help her mount.
She was drawing on her second glove. “You are not going with me.”
“You’ll let me ride the same road, won’t you—even if I can’t keep up?”
Dicksie looked at his mount. “It would be difficult to keep up, with that horse.”
“Would you ride away from me just because you have a better horse?”
“No, not just because I have a better horse.”
He looked steadily at her without speaking.
“Why must you ride home with me when I don’t want you to?” she asked reproachfully. Fear had come upon her and she did not know what she was saying. She saw only the expression of his eyes and looked away, but she knew that his eyes followed her. The sun had set. The deserted street lay in the white half-light of a mountain evening, and the day’s radiance was dying in the sky. In lower tones he spoke again, and she turned deadly white.
“I’ve wanted so long to say this, Dicksie, that I might as well be dead as to try to keep it back any longer. That’s why I want to ride home with you if you are going to let me.” He turned to stroke her horse’s head. Dicksie stood seemingly helpless. McCloud slipped his finger into his waistcoat pocket and held something out in his hand. “This shell pin fell from your hair that night you were at camp by the bridge—do you remember? I couldn’t bear to give it back.”
Dicksie’s eyes opened wide. “Let me see it. I don’t think that is mine.”
“Great Heaven! Have I been carrying Marion Sinclair’s pin for a month?” exclaimed McCloud. “Well, I won’t lose any time in returning it to her, at any rate.”
“Where are you going?” Dicksie’s voice was faint.
“I’m going to give Marion her pin.”
“Do nothing of the sort! Come here! Give it to me.”
“Dicksie, dare you tell me, after a shock like that, it really is your pin?”
“Oh, I don’t know whose pin it is!”
“Why, what is the matter?”
“Give me the pin!” She put her hands unsteadily up under her hat. “Here, for Heaven’s sake, if you must have something, take this comb!” She slipped from her head the shell that held her knotted hair. He caught her hand and kissed it, and she could not get it away.
“You are dear,” murmured Dicksie, “if you are silly. The reason I wouldn’t let you ride home with me is because I was afraid you might get shot. How do you suppose I should feel if you were killed? Or don’t you think I have any feeling?”
“But, Dicksie, is it all right?”
“How do I know? What do you mean? I will not let you ride home with me, and you will not let me ride home alone. Tie Jim again. I am going to stay with Marion all night.”