Whispering Smith Read online

  CHAPTER IV

  GEORGE McCLOUD

  McCloud was an exception to every tradition that goes to make up amountain railroad man. He was from New England, with a mild voice anda hand that roughened very slowly. McCloud was a classmate of MorrisBlood's at the Boston "Tech," and the acquaintance begun therecontinued after the two left school, with a scattering fire of lettersbetween the mountains and New England, as few and as far between asmen's letters usually scatter after an ardent school acquaintance.

  There were just two boys in the McCloud family--John and George. Onehad always been intended for the church, the other for science.Somehow the boys got mixed in their cradles, or, what is the samematter, in their assignments, and John got into the church. ForGeorge, who ought to have been a clergyman, nothing was left but along engineering course for which, after he got it, he appeared tohave no use. However, it seemed a little late to shift the lifealignments. John had the pulpit and appeared disposed to keep it, andGeorge was left, like a New England farm, to wonder what had become ofhimself.

  It is, nevertheless, odd how matters come about. John McCloud, aprosperous young clergyman, stopped on a California trip at MedicineBend to see brother George's classmate and something of a real Westerntown. He saw nothing sensational--it was there, but he did not seeit--but he found both hospitality and gentlemen, and, if surprised,was too well-bred to admit it. His one-day stop ran on to severaldays. He was a guest at the Medicine Bend Club, where he found men whohad not forgotten the Harvard Greek plays. He rode in private cars andate antelope steak grilled by Glover's own darky boy, who had roastedbuffalo hump for the Grand Duke Alexis as far back as 1871, and stillhashed his browned potatoes in ragtime; and with the sun breakingclear over the frosty table-lands, a ravenous appetite, and a day'sshooting in prospect, the rhythm had a particularly cheerful sound.John was asked to occupy a Medicine Bend pulpit, and before Sunday thefame of his laugh and his marksmanship had spread so far that HenryMarkover, the Yale cowboy, rode in thirty-two miles to hear himpreach. In leaving, John McCloud, in a seventh heaven of enthusiasmover the high country, asked Morris Blood why he could not findsomething for George out there; and Blood, not even knowing the boywanted to come, wrote for him, and asked Bucks to give him a job.Possibly, being over-solicitous, George was nervous when he talked toBucks; possibly the impression left by his big, strong, bluff brotherJohn made against the boy; at all events, Bucks, after he talked withGeorge, shook his head. "I could make a first-class railroad man outof the preacher, Morris, but not out of the brother. Yes, I've talkedwith him. He can't do anything but figure elevations, and, by heaven,we can't feed our own engineers here now." So George found himselfstranded in the mountains.

  Morris Blood was cut up over it, but George McCloud took it quietly."I'm no worse off here than I was back there, Morris." Blood, at that,plucked up courage to ask George to take a job in the Cold Springsmines, and George jumped at it. It was impossible to get a white manto live at Cold Springs after he could save money enough to get away,so George was welcomed as assistant superintendent at the Number EightMine, with no salary to speak of and all the work.

  In one year everybody had forgotten him. Western men, on the average,show a higher heart temperature than Eastern men, but they aretolerably busy people and have their own troubles. "Be patient,"Morris Blood had said to him. "Sometime there will be more railroadwork in these mountains; then, perhaps, your darned engineering maycome into play. I wish you knew how to sell cigars."

  Meantime, McCloud stuck to the mine, and insensibly replaced hisEastern tissue with Western. In New England he had been carefullymoulded by several generations of gentlemen, but never baked hard. Themountains put the crust on him. For one thing, the sun and wind, bestof all hemlocks, tanned his white skin into a tough all-Americanleather, seasoned his muscles into rawhide sinews, and, withoutburdening him with an extra ounce of flesh, sprinkled the red throughhis blood till, though thin, he looked apoplectic.

  Insensibly, too, something else came about. George McCloud developedthe rarest of all gifts of temperament, even among men of action--theability to handle men. In Cold Springs, indeed, it was a case eitherof handling or of being handled. McCloud got along with his men and,with the tough element among them, usually through persuasion; but heproved, too, that he could inspire confidence even with a club.

  One day, coming down "special" from Bear Dance, Gordon Smith, who borethe nickname Whispering Smith, rode with President Bucks in theprivacy of his car. The day had been long, and the alkali lay light onthe desert. The business in hand had been canvassed, and the troublesput aside for chicken, coffee, and cigars, when Smith, who did notsmoke, told the story of something he had seen the day before at ColdSprings that pleased him.

  The men in the Number Eight Mine had determined to get rid of someItalians, and after a good deal of rowing had started in to catch oneof them and hang him. They had chosen a time when McCloud, theassistant superintendent of the mine, was down with mountain fever. Itwas he who had put the Italians into the mine. He had already defendedthem from injury, and would be likely, it was known, to do so again ifhe were able. On this day a mob had been chasing the Dagos, and had atlength captured one. They were running him down street to a telegraphpole when the assistant superintendent appeared in scant attire andstopped them. Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, he hustledtheir victim into the only place of refuge at hand, a billiard hall.The mob rushed the hall. In the farthest corner the unlucky Italian,bleeding like a bullock and insane with fright, knelt, clinging toMcCloud's shaky knees. In trying to make the back door the two hadbeen cut off, and the sick boss had got into a corner behind apool-table to make his stand. In his pocket he had a pistol, knowingthat to use it meant death to him as well as to the wretch he wastrying to save. Fifty men were yelling in the room. They had rope,hatchets, a sprinkling of guns, and whiskey enough to burn the town,and in the corner behind a pool-table stood the mining boss withmountain fever, the Dago, and a broken billiard-cue.

  Bucks took the cigar from his mouth, leaned forward in his chair, andstretched his heavy chin out of his neck as if the situation nowpromised a story. The leader, Smith continued, was the mineblacksmith, a strapping Welshman, from whom McCloud had taken theItalian in the street. The blacksmith had a revolver, and was crazywith liquor. McCloud singled him out in the crowd, pointed a finger athim, got the attention of the men, and lashed him across the tablewith his tongue until the blacksmith opened fire on him with hisrevolver, McCloud all the while shaking his finger at him and abusinghim like a pickpocket. "The crowd couldn't believe its eyes," GordonSmith concluded, "and McCloud was pushing for the blacksmith with hiscue when Kennedy and I squirmed through to the front and relieved thetension. McCloud wasn't hit."

  "What is that mining man's name?" asked Bucks, reaching for a messageclip.

  "McCloud."

  "First name?" continued Bucks mechanically.

  "George."

  Bucks looked at his companion in surprise. Then he spoke, and afeeling of self-abasement was reflected in his words. "GeorgeMcCloud," he echoed. "Did you say George? Why, I must know that man. Iturned him down once for a job. He looked so peaceable I thought hewas too soft for us." The president laid down his cigar with a gestureof disgust. "And yet there really are people along this line thatthink I'm clever. I haven't judgment enough to operate a trolley car.It's a shame to take the money they give me for running this system,Gordon. Hanged if I didn't think that fellow was too soft." He calledthe flagman over. "Tell Whitmyer we will stay at Cold Springsto-night."

  "I thought you were going through to Medicine Bend," suggested Smithas the trainman disappeared.

  "McCloud," repeated Bucks, taking up his cigar and throwing back hishead in a cloud of smoke.

  "Yes," assented his companion; "but I am going through to MedicineBend, Mr. Bucks."

  "Do."

  "How am I to do it?"

  "Take the car and send it back to-morrow on Number Three."

  "Th
ank you, if you won't need it to-night."

  "I sha'n't. I am going to stay at Cold Springs to-night and hunt upMcCloud."

  "But that man is in bed in a very bad way; you can't see him. He isgoing to die."

  "No, he isn't. I am going to hunt him up and have him taken care of."

  That night Bucks, in the twilight, was sitting by McCloud's bed,smoking and looking him over. "Don't mind me," he said when he enteredthe room, lifted the ill-smelling lamp from the table, and, withouttaking time to blow it out, pitched it through the open window. "Iheard you were sick, and just looked in to see how they were takingcare of you. Wilcox," he added, turning to the nurse he had broughtin--a barber who wanted to be a railroad man, and had agreed to stepinto the breach and nurse McCloud--"have a box of miner's candles sentup from the roundhouse. We have some down there; if not, buy a box andsend me the bill."

  McCloud, who after the rioting had crawled back to bed with atemperature of 105 degrees, knew the barber, but felt sure that alunatic had wandered in with him, and immediately bent his feeblemental energies on plans for getting rid of a dangerous man. WhenBucks sat down by him and continued talking at the nurse, McCloudcaught nothing of what was said until Bucks turned quietly toward him."They tell me, McCloud, you have the fever."

  The sick man, staring with sunken eyes, rose half on his elbow inastonishment to look again at his visitor, but Bucks eased him backwith an admonition to guard his strength. McCloud's temperature hadalready risen with the excitement of seeing a man throw his lamp outof the window. Bucks, meantime, working carefully to seem unconcernedand incensing McCloud with great clouds of smoke, tried to discuss hiscase with him as he had already done with the mine surgeon. McCloud,thinking it best to humor a crazy man, responded quietly. "The doctorsaid yesterday," he explained, "it was mountain fever, and he wants toput me into an ice-pack."

  Bucks objected vigorously to the ice-pack.

  "The doctor tells me that it is the latest treatment for that class offevers in the Prussian army," answered McCloud feebly, but gettinginterested in spite of himself.

  "That's a good thing, no doubt, for the Prussian army," replied Bucks,"but, McCloud, in the first place, you are not a Dutchman; in thesecond, you have not got mountain fever--not in my judgment."

  McCloud, confident now that he had an insane man on his hands, heldhis peace.

  "Not a symptom of mountain fever," continued Bucks calmly; "you havewhat looks to me like gastritis, but the homeopaths," he added, "havea better name for it. Is it stomatitis, McCloud? I forget."

  The sick man, confounded by such learning, determined to try onequestion, and, if he was at fault, to drag his gun from under hispillow and sell his life as dearly as possible. Summoning his waningstrength, he looked hard at Bucks. "Just let me ask you one question.I never saw you before. Are you a doctor?"

  "No, I'm a railroad man; my name is Bucks." McCloud rose half up inbed with amazement. "They'll kill you if you lie here a week,"continued Bucks. "In just a week. Now I'll tell you my plan. I'll takeyou down in the morning in my car to Medicine Bend; this barber willgo with us. There in the hospital you can get everything you need, andI can make you comfortable. What do you say?"

  McCloud looked at his benefactor solemnly, but if hope flickered foran instant in his eyes it soon died. Bucks said afterward that helooked like a cold-storage squab, just pinfeathers and legs. "Shavehim clean," said he, "and you could have counted his teeth through hischeeks."

  The sick man turned his face to the wall. "It's kind enough," hemuttered, "but I guess it's too late."

  Bucks did not speak for some time. Twilight had faded above the hills,and only the candle lighted the room. Then the master of mountain men,grizzled and brown, turned his eyes again to the bed. McCloud wasstaring at the ceiling.

  "We have a town of your name down on the plains, McCloud," said Bucks,blowing away the cigar smoke after the long silence. "It is one of ourdivision points, and a good one."

  "I know the town," responded McCloud. "It was named after one of ourfamily."

  "I guess not."

  "It was, though," said McCloud wearily.

  "I think," returned Bucks, "you must be mistaken. The man that townwas named after belonged to the fighting McClouds."

  "That is my family."

  "Then where is your fight? When I propose to put you into my car andpull you out of this, why do you say it is too late? It is never toolate."

  McCloud made no answer, and Bucks ran on: "For a man that worked outas well as you did yesterday in a trial heat with a billiard-cue, Ishould say you could turn a handspring or two yet if you had to. Forthat matter, if you don't want to be moved, I can run a spur in hereto your door in three hours in the morning. By taking out theside-wall we can back the car right up to the bed. Why not? Or we canstick a few hydraulic jacks under the sills, raise the house, and pushyour bed right on the observation platform." He got McCloud tolaughing, and lighted a fresh cigar. A framed photograph hung on oneof the bare walls of the room, and it caught the eye of the railroadman. He walked close to it, disinfected it with smoke, brushed thedust from the glass, and examined the print. "That looks like old VanDyne College campus, hanged if it doesn't!"

  McCloud was watching him. "It is a photograph of the campus."

  "McCloud, are you a Van Dyne man?"

  "I did my college work there before I went to Boston."

  Bucks stood motionless. "Poor little old Van Dyne! Why, my brother Samtaught at Van Dyne. No, you would not have known him; he's dead. Neverbefore west of the Missouri River have I seen a Van Dyne man. You arethe first." He shook his head as he sat down again. "It is crowded outnow: no money, no prestige, half-starved professors with their elbowsout, the president working like a dog all the week and preachingsomewhere every Sunday to earn five dollars. But, by Heaven, theyturned out men! Did you know Bug Robinson?" he asked suddenly.

  "He gave me my degree."

  "Old Bug! He was Sam's closest friend, McCloud. It's good to see himgetting the recognition he deserves, isn't it? Do you know, I send himan annual every year? Yes, sir! And one year I had the whole bloomingfaculty out here on a fossil expedition; but, by Heaven, McCloud, someof them looked more like megatheriums than what they dug up did."

  "I heard about that expedition."

  "I never got to college. I had to hustle. I'll get out of here beforeI tire you. Wilcox will be here all night, and my China boy is makingsome broth for you now. You'll feel better in the morning."

  Ten weeks later McCloud was sent from Medicine Bend up on the ShortLine as trainmaster, and on the Short Line he learned railroading.

  "That's how I came here," said George McCloud to Farrell Kennedy along time afterward, at Medicine Bend. "I had shrivelled and starvedthree years out there in the desert. I lived with those cattleunderground till I had forgotten my own people, my own name, my ownface--and Bucks came along one day with Whispering Smith and draggedme out of my coffin. They had it ordered, and it being a small sizeand 'onhandy,' as the undertaker said, I paid for it and told him tostore it for me. Well, do you think I ever could forget either ofthose men, Farrell?"

  McCloud's fortunes thus threw him first into the operating departmentof the mountain lines, but his heart was in the grades and the curves.To him the interest in the trainwork was the work of the locomotivestoiling with the heavy loads up the canyons and across the unevenplateaus and through the deep gorges of the inner range, where thepanting exhaust, choked between sheer granite walls, roared in amighty protest against the burden put by the steep grades on thepatient machines.

  In all the group of young men then on the mountain division, obscureand unknown at the time, but destined within so few years to bescattered far and wide as constructionists with records made in therebuilding operations through the Rocky Mountains, none was lesslikely to attract attention than McCloud. Bucks, who, indeed, couldhardly be reckoned so much of the company as its head, was a man ofcommanding proportions physically. Like Glover, Bucks was a gian
t instature, and the two men, when together, could nowhere escape notice;they looked, in a word, their part, fitted to cope with the tremendousundertakings that had fallen to their lot. Callahan, the chess-playeron the Overland lines, the man who could hold large combinations oftraffic movement constantly in his head and by intuition reach theresult of a given problem before other men could work it out, was,like Morris Blood, the master of tonnage, of middle age. But McCloud,when he went to the mountain division, in youthfulness of features wasboyish, and when he left he was still a boy, bronzed, but young offace in spite of a lifetime's pressure and worry crowded into threeyears. He himself counted this physical make-up as a disadvantage. "Ithas embroiled me in no end of trouble, because I couldn't convince menI was in earnest until I made good in some hard way," he complainedonce to Whispering Smith. "I never could acquire even a successfulhabit of swearing, so I had to learn to fight."

  When, one day in Boney Street in Medicine Bend, he threw open the doorof Marion Sinclair's shop, flung his hat sailing along the showcasewith his war-cry, and called to her in the back rooms, she thought hehad merely run in to say he was in town.

  "How do you do? What do you think? You're going to have an old boarderback," he cried. "I'm coming to Medicine Bend, superintendent of thedivision!"

  "Mr. McCloud!" Marion Sinclair clasped her hands and dropped into achair. "Have they made you superintendent already?"

  "Well, I like that! Do you want them to wait till I'm gray-headed?"

  Marion threw her hands to her own head. "Oh, don't say anythingabout gray hairs. My head won't bear inspection. But I can't get overthis promotion coming so soon--this whole big division! Well, Icongratulate you very sincerely----"

  "Oh, but that isn't it! I suppose anybody will congratulate me. Butwhere am I to board? Have you a cook? You know how I went from bad toworse after you left Cold Springs. May I have my meals here with youas I used to there?"

  "Why, I suppose you can, yes, if you can stand the cooking. I have anapprentice, Mr. Dancing's daughter, who does pretty well. She liveshere with me, and is learning the business. But I sha'n't take as muchas you used to pay me, for I'm doing so much better down here."

  "Let me run that end of it, will you? I shall be doing better downhere myself."

  They laughed as they bantered. Marion Sinclair wore gold spectacles,but they did not hide the delightful good-nature in her eyes. On thethird finger of her slender left hand she wore, too, a gold band thatexplained the gray in her hair at twenty-six.

  This was the wife of Murray Sinclair, whom he had brought to themountains from her far-away Wisconsin home. Within a year he hadbroken her heart so far as it lay in him to do it, but he could notbreak her charm nor her spirit. She was too proud to go back, whenforced to leave him, and had set about earning her own living in thecountry to which she had come as a bride. She put on spectacles, shemutilated her heavy brown hair and to escape notice and secure theobscurity that she craved, her name, Marion, became, over the door ofher millinery shop and in her business, only "M. Sinclair."

  Cold Springs, where Sinclair had first brought her when he hadheadquarters there as foreman of bridges, had proved a hopeless placefor the millinery business--at least, in the way that Marion ran it.The women that had husbands had no money to buy hats with, and thewomen without husbands wore gaudy headgear, and were of the kind thatmade Marion's heart creep when they opened the shop door. What wasworse, they were inclined to joke with her, as if there must be acommunity of interest between a deserted woman and women who haddeserted womanhood. To this business Marion would not cater, and inconsequence her millinery affairs sometimes approached collapse. Shecould, however, cook extraordinarily well, and, with the aid of aservant-maid, could always provide for a boarder or two--perhaps arailroad man or a mine superintendent to whom she could serve meals,and who, like all mountain men, were more than generous in theiraccounting with women. Among these standbys of hers was McCloud.McCloud had always been her friend, and when she left Cold Springs andmoved to Medicine Bend to set up her little shop in Boney Street nearFort, she had lost him. Yet somehow, to compensate Marion for othercruel things in the mountains, Providence seemed to raise up a newfriend for her wherever she went. In Medicine Bend she did not know asoul, but almost the first customer that walked into her shop--and shewas a customer worth while--was Dicksie Dunning of the CrawlingStone.