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Updated: May 17, 2025
Whispering Smith stopped a minute in the shadow of a tree and looked keenly at him. "I'm too busy to-night to say much, Wickwire," he said after a moment. "You go over to the barn and report to Bob Scott. If you want to take the chances, it is up to you; and if Bob Scott is agreeable, I'll use you where I can that's all I can promise. You will probably have more than one chance to get killed."
By Heaven, it is pitiful a man like that should be out of a job! England, McCloud, needs him. And here he is holding up trains on the mountain division!" "They are all up at Oroville with the Williams Cache gang, celebrating," continued Wickwire. Whispering Smith looked at the cowboy. "Wickwire, you made a good ride and I thank you. You are all right.
It was almost too dark to catch the slight discolorations where pebbles had been disturbed on a flat surface or the calk of a horseshoe had slipped on the uneven face of a ledge, and he had halted under an uplift to wait for Wickwire on the distant left to advance, when, half a mile below him, a horseman crossing the river rode slowly past a gap in the rocks and disappeared below the next bend.
The half-light threw him up tall and dark, but it showed the heavy shock of black hair falling over his forehead, and the broad, thin face of a mountain man. "He has just been telling me that Seagrue is loose," Whispering Smith explained pleasantly. "Who turned the trick, Wickwire?" "Sheriff Coon and a deputy jailer started with Seagrue for Medicine Bend this morning.
He doesn't want to leave without the money, and doesn't know it is in Kennedy's hands, and can't get into the Cache to find out. Now the three whoever the other two are and Sinclair are trying to join forces somewhere up this valley, and Kennedy, Scott, Wickwire, and I are after them; and every outlet is watched, and it must all be over, my dear, before sunset to-night. Isn't that fine?
From it he knew that Wickwire had seen them and was warning him, but he had anticipated the warning and stood below where the hunted men must ride. He strained his eyes over the waste of rock above. For one half-hour of daylight he would have sold, in that moment, ten years of his life. What could he do if they should be able to secrete themselves until dark between him and Wickwire?
I want to cut loose up on the range, anyhow; if I'm a man I want to know it, and if I ain't I want to know it. I want to ride with you after Seagrue and Sinclair and Barney Rebstock." Whispering Smith spoke coldly: "You mean, Wickwire, you want to get killed." "Why, partner, if it's coming to me, I don't mind yes." "What's the use, Wickwire?"
Wickwire, worming his way down the stream, had uncovered Sinclair and young Rebstock from behind. A yell between the shots rang across the wash, and the cringing figure of a man ran out toward Whispering Smith with his hands high in the air, and pitched headlong on the ground. It was the skulker, Barney Rebstock, driven out by Wickwire's fire. The, shooting ceased.
Each time their trail, with some little difficulty, was found again. At a little ranch in the Mission foothills, Kennedy and Scott, leaving Wickwire with Whispering Smith, took fresh horses and pushed ahead as far as they could ride before dark, but they brought back news.
"Say good-by to this accursed country forever." In the morning the sun rose with a mountain smile. The storm had swept the air till the ranges shone blue and the plain sparkled under a cloudless sky. Bob Scott and Wickwire, riding at daybreak, picked up a trail on the Fence River road.
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