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Smith walked to him and bent down. "Are you suffering much, Du Sang?" The wounded man, sinking with shock and internal hemorrhage, uttered a string of oaths. Smith listened quietly till he had done; then he knelt beside him and put his hand on Du Sang's hand. "Tell me where you are hit, Du Sang. Put your hand to it. Is it the stomach? Let me turn you on your side. Easy. Does your belt hurt?
When Du Sang's hand moved like a flash of light, Whispering Smith, who was holding his coat lapels in his hands, struck his pistol from the scabbard over his heart and threw a bullet at him before he could fire, as a conjurer throws a vanishing coin into the air.
Come, now, who is going to walk in first? You act like a school-boy, Gorman." Hard words and a wrangle followed, but Smith did not change expression, and there was a backdown. "Have you fellows let Du Sang get away while you were playing fool here?" he asked. "Du Sang's over the hill there on his horse, and full of fight yet," exclaimed one. "Then we will look him up," suggested Smith.
The night gloom in the hall brings back to me the 'tween-decks of the old tub of a boat; the green-plush seats of a sleeping-car remind me of the Kut Sang's dining-saloon, and even a bonfire in an adjacent yard recalls the odour of burned rice on the galley fire left by the panic-stricken Chinese cook. I know the very smell of the Kut Sang.
I'm ready," said Kennedy, taking out his revolver and examining it. McCloud put on his new hat and asked if he should take a gun. "You are really accompanying me as my guest, George," explained Whispering Smith reproachfully. "Won't it be fun to shove this man right under Du Sang's nose and make him bat his eyes?" he added to Kennedy.
Really, you and Trego did well." "I think Trego made rather a mess of it," I said. "If I had been in his boots I would have told the captain what it was all about." "Why didn't you tell him? You could have told him about the gold as well as Mr. Trego." "Indeed! Then, you believe I knew about the Kut Sang's cargo." "I don't believe it, my dear Mr. Trenholm. I never accept a theory as a fact.
Ay, yer sang's the sang o' an angel For a sinfu' thrapple no meet, Like the pipes til a heavenly braingel Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet! But though ye canna behaud, birdie, Ye needna gar a'thing wheesht! I'm noucht but a herplin herdie, But I hae a sang i' my breist!
She patted the stag hounds and inspected the garden. Then, confessing herself hungry, she obeyed with alacrity Sang's call to an early meal. At the table she ate coquettishly, throwing her birdlike side glances at the man opposite. "I want to see a real cowboy," she announced, as she pushed her chair back. "Why, sure!" cried Senor Johnson joyously. "Sang! hi, Sang!
"It is true." An oath half escaping showed how the confirmation cut him. "And Whispering Smith got away! It is Du Sang's own fault; I told him to keep out of that trap. I stay in the open; and I'm not Du Sang. I'll choose my own ground for the finish when they want it with me, and when I go I'll take company I'll promise you that. Good-night, Marion. Will you shake hands?" "No."
With his right hand he snapped the dice under Du Sang's nose and looked squarely into his eyes. "Got any Sugar Buttes money?" Du Sang for an instant looked keenly back; his eyes contracted in that time to a mere narrow slit; then, sudden as thought, he sprang back into the corner. He knew now. This was the man who held the aces at the barbecue, the railroad man Whispering Smith.
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