he door and Whispering Smith opened it. "Tired
of waiting, Bob? Well, I guess I'm ready. Is the moon up? This is the
rifle I'm going to take, Bob. Did Wickwire have a talk with you? He's
all right. Suppose you send him to the mouth of Little Crawling Stone
to watch things a day or two. They may try to work north that way or
hide in the wash."

Walking down to the street, Whispering Smith continued his suggestions.
"And by the way, Bob, I want you to pass this word for me up and
down Front Street. Sinclair has his friends in town and it's all
right--I know them and expect them to stay by him. I expect Murray's
friends to do what they can for him. I've got my friends and expect
them to stay by me. But there is one thing that I will not stand for
on any man's part, and that is hiding Sinclair anywhere in Medicine
Bend. You keep him out of Medicine Bend, Bob; will you do it? And
remember, I will never let up on the man who hides him in town while
this fight is on. There are good reasons for drawing the line on
that point, and there I draw it hard and fast. Now Bob and Gene Johnson
were at Oroville when you left, were they, Bob?" He was fastening his
rifle in the scabbard. "Which is deputy sheriff this year, Bob or
Gene? Gene--very good." He swung into the saddle.

"Have you got everything?" murmured Scott.

"I think so. Stop! I'm riding away without my salt-bag. That would be
a pretty piece of business, wouldn't it? Take the key, Bob. It's
hanging between the rifles and the clock. Here's the wardrobe key,
too."

There was some further talk when Scott came back with the salt,
chiefly about horses and directions as to telephoning. Whispering
Smith took up a notch again in his belt, pulled down his hat, and bent
over the neck of his horse to lay his hand a moment in McCloud's. It
was one o'clock. Across the foothills the moon was rising, and
Whispering Smith straightening up in the saddle wheeled his horse and
trotted swiftly up the street into the silent north.

CHAPTER XXXIX

AMONG THE COYOTES

Oroville once marked farthest north for the Peace River gold camps,
but with mining long ago abandoned it now marks farthest south for a
rustler's camp, being a favorite resort for the people of the Williams
Cache country. Oroville boasts that it has never surrendered and that
it has never been cleaned out. It has moved, and been moved, up stream
and down, and from bank to bank; it has been burned out and blown away