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Updated: May 11, 2025
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."
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.
"You will have to cross below the flume where it stands, or you won't cross the ranch at all." McCloud was silent for a moment. "I am using a supported grade there for eight miles to get over the hill within a three-tenths limit. I can't drop back there.
Between the team and the cabin a hooded and coated figure was running in the direction of the danger signal on the sapling pole. With a cry of warning Philip darted in pursuit. He overtook the figure at the cabin door. His hand caught it by the arm. It turned and he stared into the white, terror-stricken face of Josephine McCloud! "Good God!" he cried, and that was all.
The door opened directly into the large room where they were. Katie went first, Donald hanging back behind. "I think I'll not go in," he was shamefacedly saying, and halting on the step, when above all the wheel-whirring and yarn-singing came a glad cry, "Why, there's Katie Katie McCloud! and Donald Mackintosh! For pity's sake!"
"Special Officer McCloud, on duty at the quarantined house of James Wilson, artist and clubman, on Ninety-fifth Street, reported this morning a daring attempt at escape, made at 3 A.M. It is in this house that some eight or nine members of the smart set were imprisoned during the course of a dinner party, when the Japanese butler developed smallpox.
"Into the claims or into the lake?" asked McCloud. "Into both; and, Mr. McCloud, I want to say I favor Mr. Dancing's idea, that's all. Right wrongs no man. Let Bill see Sinclair and see what they can figure out." And having spoken, the stranger sank back and tried to look comfortable. "I'll talk with you later about it, Bill," said McCloud briefly.
The Jeffrey variety attains its finest development in the northern portion of the Range, in the wide basins of the McCloud and Pitt Rivers, where it forms magnificent forests scarcely invaded by any other tree.
"I suppose you will, if she's a friend of his, and you're going to Paso Robles in his private car." "No. I won't be allowed. He's sending Mrs. Harland and me straight on to Del Monte, and then to San Francisco. He'll follow; and afterward he's going to take us to Shasta, and the McCloud River, where they say he has the most fascinating country house in the world.
Lance Dunning stood above six feet in height, and was a handsome man, in spite of the hard lines around his eyes, as he walked in; but neither his manner nor his expression was amiable. "Are you Mr. McCloud? I've been here three times this afternoon to see you," said he, ignoring McCloud's answer and a proffered chair. "This is your office, isn't it?"
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