“He must be there,” declared McCloud. “Have you the horses below? We will ride over and try the room again.”
Fort Street back of Front is so quiet after eleven o’clock at night that a footfall echoes in it. McCloud dismounted in front of the bank building and, throwing the reins to Bob Scott, walked upstairs and back toward Smith’s room. In the hallway he paused. He heard faint strains of music. They came from within the room––fragments of old airs played on a violin, and subdued by a mute, in the darkness. Instinct stayed McCloud’s hand at the door. He stood until the music ceased and footsteps moved about in the 356 room; then he knocked, and a light appeared within. Whispering Smith opened the door. He stood in his trousers and shirt, with his cartridge-belt in his hand. “Come in, George. I’m just getting hooked up.”
“Which way are you going to-night, Gordon?” asked McCloud, sitting down on the chair.
“I am going to Oroville. The crowd is celebrating there. It is a défi, you know.”
“Who are you going to take with you?”
“Nobody.”
McCloud moved uneasily. “I don’t like that.”
“There will be nothing doing. Sinclair may be gone by the time I arrive, but I want to see Bob and Gene Johnson, and scare the Williams Cache coyotes, just to keep their tails between their legs.”
“I’d like to kill off half a dozen of that gang.”
Whispering Smith said nothing for a moment. “Did you ever have to kill a man, George?” he asked buckling his cartridge-belt.