r crushed
boot rested easily for a moment in his hand. She rose in the air above
him before he could well comprehend. He felt the quick spring from his
supporting hand, and it was an instant of exhilaration. Then she
balanced herself with a flushed laugh in the saddle, and he guided her
ahead among the loose rocks, the horse nosing at his elbow as they
picked their way.

Crossing the track, they gained better ground. As they reached the
switch and passed a box car, Jim shied, and Dicksie spoke sharply to
him. McCloud turned.

In the shade of the car lay the tramp.

"That man lying there frightened him," explained Dicksie. "Oh," she
exclaimed suddenly, "he has been hurt!" She turned away her head. "Is
that the man who was in the wreck?"

"Yes."

"Do something for him. He must be suffering terribly."

"The men gave him some water awhile ago, and when we moved him into
the shade we thought he was dead."

"He isn't dead yet!" 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."

"What can you do with him?"

"I'll have the men put him in the caboose and send him to Barnhardt's
hospital at Medicine Bend when the engine comes back. He may live yet.
If he does, he can thank you for it."

[Illustration: J. P. McGOWAN IN THE TITLE ROLE OF THE PHOTO-PLAY
PRODUCTION OF "WHISPERING SMITH." (C) _American Mutual Studio_.]

CHAPTER IV

GEORGE McCLOUD

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

There were just two boys in the McCloud family--John and George. One
had always been intended for the church, the other for science.
Somehow the boys got mixed in their cradles, or, what is the same
matter, in their assignments, and John got into the church. For
George, wh