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Whispering Smith

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<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> <h3>DICKSIE</h3></div> The wreckers, drifting in the blaze of the sun across the broad alkali valley, saw the smoke of the wreck-fire behind them. No breath of wind stirred it. With the stillness of a signal column it rose, thin and black, and high in the air spread motionless, like a huge umbrella, above Smoky Creek. Reed Young had gone with an engine to wire reënforcements, and McCloud, active among the trackmen until the conflagration spent itself, had retired to the shade of the hill. Reclining against a rock with his legs crossed, he had clasped his hands behind his head and sat looking at the iron writhing in the dying heat of the fire. The sound of hoofs aroused him, and looking below he saw a horsewoman reining up near his men at the wreck. She rode an American horse, thin and rangy, and the experienced way in which she checked him drew him back almost to his haunches. But McCloud’s eyes were fixed on the slender figure of the rider. He was wholly at a loss to account, at such a time and in such a 24 place, for a visitor in gauntleted gloves and a banded Panama hat. He studied her with growing amazement. Her hair coiled low on her neck supported the very free roll of the hat-brim. Her black riding-skirt clung to her waist to form its own girdle, and her white stock, rolled high on her neck, rose above a heavy shirtwaist of white linen, and gave her an air of confident erectness. The trackmen stopped work to look, but her attitude in their gaze was one of impatience rather than of embarrassment. Her boot flashed in the stirrup while she spoke to the nearest man, and her horse stretched his neck and nosed the brown alkali-grass that spread thinly along the road. To McCloud she was something like an apparition. He sat spellbound until the trackman indiscreetly pointed him out, and the eyes of the visitor, turning his way, caught him with his hands on the rock in an attitude openly curious. She turned immediately away, but McCloud rose and started down the hill. The horse’s head was pulled up, and there were signs of departure. He quickened his steps. Once he saw, or thought he saw, the rider’s head so turned that her eyes might have commanded one approaching from his quarter; yet he could catch no further glimpse of her face. A second surprise awaited him. Just as she seemed about to ride away, she dropped lightly from the 25 horse to the ground, and he saw how confident in figure she was. As she began to try her saddle-girths, McCloud attempted a greeting. She could not ignore his hat, held rather high above his head as he approached, but she gave him the slightest nod in return––one that made no attempt to explain why she was there or where she had come from. “Pardon me,” ventured McCloud, “have you lost your way?” He was immediately conscious that he had said the wrong thing. The expression of her eyes implied that it was foolish to suppose she was lost but she only answered, “I saw the smoke and feared the bridge was on fire.” Something in her voice made him almost sorry he had intervened; if she stood in need of help of any sort it was not apparent, and her gaze was confusing. He became conscious that he was at the worst for an inspection; his face felt streaky with smoke, his hat and shirt had suffered severely in directing the fire, and his hands were black. He said to himself in revenge that she was not pretty, despite the fact that she seemed completely to take away his consequence. He felt, while she inspected him, like a brakeman. “I presume Mr. Sinclair is here?” she said presently. “I am sorry to say he is not.” <div>26</div> “He usually has charge of the wrecks, I think. What a dreadful fire!” she murmured, looking down the track. She stood beside the horse with one hand resting on her girdle. Around the hand that held the bridle her quirt lay coiled in the folds of her glove, and, though seemingly undecided as to what to do, her composure did not lessen. As she looked at the wreckage, a breath of wind lifted the hair that curled around her ear. The mountain wind playing on her neck had left it brown, and above, the pulse of her ride rose red in her cheek. “Was it a passenger wreck?” She turned abruptly on McCloud to ask the question. Her eyes were brown, too, he saw, and a doubt assailed him. Was she pretty? “Only a freight wreck,” he answered. “I thought if there were passengers hurt I could send help from the ranch. Were you the conductor?” “Fortunately not.” “And no one was hurt?” “Only a tramp. We are burning the wreck to clear the track.” “From the divide it looked like a mountain on fire. I’m sorry Mr. Sinclair is not here.” “Why, indeed, yes, so am I.” “Because I know him. You are one of his men, I presume.” <div>27</div> “Not exactly; but is there anything I can do–––” “Oh, thank you, nothing, except that you might tell him the pretty bay colt he sent over to us has sprung his shoulder.” “He will be sorry to hear it, I’m sure.” “But we are doing everything possible for him. He is going to make a perfectly lovely horse.” “And whom may I say the message is from?” Though disconcerted, McCloud was regaining his wits. He felt perfectly certain there was no danger, if she knew Sinclair and lived in the mountains, but that she would sometime find out he was not a conductor. When he asked his question she appeared slightly surprised and answered easily, “Mr. Sinclair will know it is from Dicksie Dunning.” McCloud knew her then. Every one knew Dicksie Dunning in the high country. This was Dicksie Dunning of the great Crawling Stone ranch, most widely known of all the mountain ranches. While his stupidity in not guessing her identity before overwhelmed him, he resolved to exhaust the last effort to win her interest. “I don’t know just when I shall see Mr. Sinclair,” he answered gravely, “but he shall certainly have your message.” A doubt seemed to steal over Dicksie at the 28 change in McCloud’s manner. “Oh, pardon me––I thought you were working for the company.” “You are quite right, I am; but Mr. Sinclair is not.” Her eyebrows rose a little. “I think you are mistaken, aren’t you?” “It is possible I am; but if he is working for the company, it is pretty certain that I am not,” he continued, heaping mystification on her. “However, that will not prevent my delivering the message. By the way, may I ask which shoulder?” “Shoulder!” “Which shoulder is sprung.” “Oh, of course! The right shoulder, and it is sprung pretty badly, too, Cousin Lance says. How very stupid of me to ride over here for a freight wreck!” McCloud felt humiliated at having nothing better worth while to offer. “It was a very bad one,” he ventured. “But not of the kind I can be of any help at, I fear.” McCloud smiled. “We are certainly short of help.” Dicksie brought her horse’s head around. She felt again of the girth as she replied, “Not such as I can supply, I’m afraid.” And with the words she stepped away, as if preparing to mount. <div>29</div> McCloud intervened. “I hope you won’t go away without resting your horse. The sun is so hot. Mayn’t I offer you some sort of refreshment?” Dicksie Dunning thought not. “The sun is very warm,” persisted McCloud. Dicksie smoothed her gauntlet in the assured manner natural to her. “I am pretty well used to it.” But McCloud held on. “Several cars of fruit were destroyed in the wreck. I can offer you any quantity of grapes––crates of them are spoiling over there––and pears.” “Thank you, I am just from luncheon.” “And I have cooled water in the car. I hope you won’t refuse that, so far out in the desert.” Dicksie laughed a little. “Do you call this far? I don’t; and I don’t call this desert by any means. Thank you ever so much for the water, but I’m not in the least thirsty.” “It was kind of you even to think of extending help. I wish you would let me send some fruit over to your ranch. It is only spoiling here.” Dicksie stroked the neck of her horse. “It is about eighteen miles to the ranch house.” “I don’t call that far.” “Oh, it isn’t,” she returned hastily, professing not to notice the look that went with the words, 30 “except for perishable things!” Then, as if acknowledging her disadvantage, she added, swinging her bridle-rein around, “I am under obligations for the offer, just the same.” “At least, won’t you let your horse drink?” McCloud threw the force of an appeal into his words, and Dicksie stopped her preparations and appeared to waver. “Jim is pretty thirsty, I suppose. Have you plenty of water?” “A tender full. Had I better lead him down while you wait up on the hill in the shade?” “Can’t I ride him down?” “It would be pretty rough riding.” “Oh, Jim goes anywhere,” she said, with her attractive indifference to situations. “If you don’t mind helping me mount.” “With pleasure.” She stood waiting for his hand, and McCloud stood, not knowing just what to do. She glanced at him expectantly. The sun grew intensely hot. “You will have to show me how,” he stammered at last. “Don’t you know?” He mentally cursed the technical education that left him helpless at such a moment, but it was useless to pretend. “Frankly, I don’t!” “Just give me your hand. Oh, not in that way! 31 But never mind, I’ll walk,” she suggested, catching up her skirt. “The rocks will cut your boots all to pieces. Suppose you tell me what to do this once,” he said, assuming some confidence. “I’ll never forget.” “Why, if you will just give me your hand for my foot, I can manage, you know.” He did not know, but she lifted her skirt graciously, and her crushed boot rested easily for a moment in his hand. She rose in the air above him before he could well comprehend. He felt the quick spring from his supporting hand, and it was an instant of exhilaration. Then she balanced herself with a flushed laugh in the saddle, and he guided her ahead among the loose rocks, the horse nosing at his elbow as they picked their way. Crossing the track, they gained better ground. As they reached the switch and passed a box car, Jim shied, and Dicksie spoke sharply to him. McCloud turned. In the shade of the car lay the tramp. “That man lying there frightened him,” explained Dicksie. “Oh,” she exclaimed suddenly, “he has been hurt!” She turned away her head. “Is that the man who was in the wreck?” “Yes.” “Do something for him. He must be suffering terribly.” <div>32</div> “The men gave him some water awhile ago, and when we moved him into the shade we thought he was dead.” “He isn’t dead yet!” Dicksie’s face, still averted, had grown white. “I saw him move. Can’t you do something for him?” She reined up at a little distance. McCloud bent over the man a moment and spoke to him. When he rose he called to the men on the track. “You are right,” he said, rejoining Dicksie; “he is very much alive. His name is Wickwire; he is a cowboy.” “A cowboy!” “A tramp cowboy.” “What can you do with him?” “I’ll have the men put him in the caboose and send him to Barnhardt’s hospital at Medicine Bend when the engine comes back. He may live yet. If he does, he can thank you for it.” <div class='figtag'> </div> <div class='figcenter'> <ANTIMG src='images/p0032-insert.jpg' alt='' title='' width-obs='277' height-obs='407' /> J. P. McGOWAN IN THE TITLE ROLE OF THE PHOTO-PLAY PRODUCTION OF “WHISPERING SMITH.” © American Mutual Studio. </div> <div>33</div> <hr class='toprule' /> <div class='chsp'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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