"'Tom!' she breathed. 'Tom! you do think I betrayed you after all...'"

PARADISE BEND

BY

WILLIAM PATTERSON WHITE

Author of
"Hidden Trails," "The Owner of the Lazy D," "Lynch Lawyers."

FRONTISPIECE BY
RALPH PALLEN COLEMAN

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF
TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES,
INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

TO MY CAPE MAY COUSINS
DOROTHY, BESS, AND MARION

CONTENTS

PARADISE BEND

CHAPTER I

TOM LOUDON

"And don't forget that ribbon!" called Kate Saltoun from the ranch-house door. "And don't lose the sample!"

"I won't!" shouted Tom Loudon, turning in his saddle. "I'll get her just like you said! Don't you worry any!"

He waved his hat to Kate, faced about, and put his horse to a lope.

"Is it likely now I'd forget?" he muttered. "We'd do more'n that for her, wouldn't we, fellah?"

The horse, a long-legged chestnut named Ranger, turned back one ear. He was accustomed to being questioned, was Ranger. Tom Loudon loved him. He had bought him a five-year-old from the 88 ranch the year before, and he would allow no one save Kate Saltoun to ride him. For the sun and the moon, in the estimation of Tom Loudon, rose and set in the black eyes of Kate Saltoun, the exceedingly handsome daughter of John T. Saltoun, the owner of the great Bar S ranch.

This day Loudon was riding into Farewell for the ranch mail, and Kate had commissioned him to do an errand for her. To serve his lady was joy to Loudon. He did not believe that she was aware of his state of mind. A flirt was Kate, and a charming one. She played with a man as a cat plays with a mouse. At which pleasant sport Kate was an adept. But Loudon realized nothing of all this. Shrewd and penetrative in his business, where Kate was concerned he saw nothing but the obvious.

Where the trail snaked over Indian Ridge, ten miles from the ranch house, Loudon pulled up in front of a lone pine tree. On the trunk of the pine a notice was tacked. Which notice set forth briefly that two hundred dollars' reward was offered for the person or persons of the unknown miscreant or miscreants who were depleting the herds of the Bar S and the Cross-in-a-box outfits. It was signed by Sheriff Block.

Who the miscreants were no one knew with certainty. But strange tales were told of the 88 punchers. It was whispered that they carried running-irons on their saddles. Certainly they displayed, when riding the range, a marked aversion to the company of men from the other ranches.

The remains of small fires had been found time and again in draws bordering the 88 range, and once a fire-marked cinch-ring had been picked up. As the jimmy and bunch of skeleton keys in a man's pocket so are the running-iron and the extra cinch-ring under a puncher's saddle-skirts. They indicate a criminal tendency; specifically, in the latter case, a whole-hearted willingness to brand the cattle of one's neighbour.

Loudon read the notice of reward, slow contempt curling his lips.

"Signs," he said, gently. "Signs——! What we need is Vigilantes—Vigilantes an' a bale o' rope!"

He turned in his saddle and looked back over the way he had come. Fifty miles to the south the Frying Pan Mountains lay in a cool, blue, tumbling line.

From where Loudon sat on his horse to the Frying Pans stretched the rolling range, cut by a thin, kinked strip of cottonwoods marking the course of a wandering river, pockmarked with draws and shallow basins, blotched with clumps of pine and tamarack, and humped with knolls and sprawling hills. The meandering stream was the Lazy, and all the land in sight, and beyond for that matter, was the famous Lazy River country held by three great ranches, the Cross-in-a-box, the Bar S, and the 88.

Of these the 88 was the largest and the farthest west of the three, its eastern line running along the high-bluffed banks of the Falling Horse, which emptied into the Lazy some ten miles from the 88 ranch house. East of the 88 lay the Bar S, and east of the Bar S was the Cross-in-a-box. The two latter ranches owned the better grazing, the more broken country lying within the borders of the 88 ranch.

Beyond the 88 range, across the Falling Horse, were the Three Sisters Mountains, a wild and jumbled tangle of peaks and narrow valleys where the hunter and the bear and the mountain lion lived and had their beings. East of the Lazy River country lay the Double Diamond A and the Hog-pen outfits; north and south stretched other ranches, but all the ranges ended where the Three Sisters began.

Loudon swung his gaze westward, then slowly his eyes slid around and fastened on the little brown dots that were the ranch buildings of the Bar S. He shook his head gently and sighed helplessly.

He was thinking partly of Kate and partly of her father, the gray old man who owned the Bar S and would believe nothing evil of his neighbours, the hard-riding 88 boys. Loudon was morally certain that forty cows within the last three months had transferred their allegiance from Bar S to 88, and he had hinted as much to Mr. Saltoun. But the latter had laughed him to scorn and insisted that only a few cows had been taken and that the lifting was the work of independent rustlers, or perhaps of one of the other ranches. Nevertheless, in response to the repeated urging of his foreman, Bill Rainey, Mr. Saltoun had joined with the Cross-in-a-box in offering a reward for the rustlers.

Loudon was well aware of the reason for Mr. Saltoun's fatuous blindness. That reason was Sam Blakely, the 88 manager, who came often to the Bar S ranch and spent many hours in the company of Kate. Mr. Saltoun did not believe that a dog would bite the hand that fed him. But it all depends on the breed of dog. And Blakely was the wrong breed.

"He shore is a pup," Loudon said, softly, "an' yellow at that. He'd steal the moccasins off a dead Injun. An' Block would help him, the cow-thief."

Then, being young, Loudon practised the road-agent's spin on the notice of reward tacked on the pine tree, and planted three accurate bullets in the same spot.

"Here, you! What yuh doin'?" rasped a grating voice in Loudon's immediate rear.

Loudon turned an unhurried head. Ten yards distant a tall man, black-bearded, of a disagreeable cast of countenance, was leaning forward across an outcrop.

"I asked yuh what yuh was doin'?" repeated the peevish individual, glaring at Loudon.

"I heard yuh the first time, Sheriff," replied Loudon, placidly. "I was just figurin' whether to tell yuh I was shoein' a horse or catchin' butterflies. Which answer would yuh like best?"

"Yuh think yo're mighty funny, Tom Loudon, but I tell yuh flat if yuh don't go slow 'round here I'll find a quick way o' knockin' yore horns off."

"Yuh don't say. When yuh goin' to begin?"

Loudon beamed upon the sheriff, his gun held with studied carelessness. Sheriff Block walked from behind his breastwork, his eyes watchful, his thumbs carefully hooked in the armholes of his vest.

"That notice ain't no target," he grunted, halting beside the pine tree.

"It is now," remarked Loudon, genially.

"It won't be no more."

"O' course not, Sheriff. I wouldn't think o' shootin' at it if you say no. It's a right pretty piece o' readin'. Did yuh write it all yoreself?"

The sheriff's eyes became suddenly blank and fixed. His right thumb slowly unhooked.

"I only fired three shots," observed Loudon, the muzzle of his six-shooter bearing on the pit of the sheriff's stomach.

The sheriff's right thumb rehooked itself hurriedly. His frame relaxed.

"Yuh shouldn't get mad over a joke," continued Loudon. "It's plumb foolish. Been hidin' behind that rock long?"

"I wasn't hidin' behind it. I was down in the draw, an' I seen you a-readin' the notice, an' I come up."

Loudon's gray eyes twinkled. He knew that the sheriff lied. He knew that Block had heard his comments on Blakely and his own worshipful person, but evidently the sheriff did not consider this an opportune time for taking umbrage.

"So yuh come up, did yuh? Guess yuh thought it was one o' the rustlers driftin' in to see what reward was out for him, didn't yuh? But don't get downhearted. Maybe one'll come siftin' along yet. Why don't yuh camp here, Sheriff? It'll be easier than ridin' the range for 'em, an' a heap healthier. Now, Sheriff, remember what I said about gettin' red-headed. Say, between friends, an' I won't tell even the little hoss, who do you guess is doin' the rustlin'?"

"If I knowed," growled the sheriff, "his name'd be wrote on the notice."

"Would it? I was just wonderin'. Habit I got."

"Don't you fret none about them rustlers. I'll get 'em if it takes ten years."

"Make it twenty, Sheriff. They'll keep right on electin' yuh."

"Do yuh mean to say the rustlers elected me?" exploded the sheriff.

"O' course not," chided Loudon, gently. "Now what made yuh think I meant that?"

"Well, yuh said——" began the sheriff.

"I said 'they,'" interrupted Loudon. "You said 'rustlers'. Stay in the saddle, Sheriff. You'll stub your toe sometime if yuh keep on a-travellin' one jump ahead o' the hoss."

"Yo're —— smart for a cow-punch."

"It is a cinch to fool most of 'em, ain't it—especially when yo're a sheriff?"

Loudon's eyes were wide open and child-like in their gray blandness. But the sheriff did not mistake his man. Block knew that if his hand dropped, a bullet would neatly perforate his abdomen. The sheriff was not a coward, but he had sense enough not to force an issue. He could afford to wait.

"I'll see yuh again," said the sheriff, harshly, and strode diagonally down the slope.

Loudon watched him until he vanished among the pines a hundred yards below. Then Loudon touched his horse with the spur and rode on, chin on shoulder, hands busy reloading his six-shooter. Three minutes later Loudon saw the sheriff, mounted on his big black stallion, issue from the wood. The great horse scrambled up the hillside, gained the trail, and headed south.

"Bet he's goin' to the 88," said Loudon. "I'd give ten dollars to know what Block was roostin' behind that rock for. Gawd! I shore would admire to be Sheriff o' Fort Creek County for thirty days!"

Eleven miles from Indian Ridge he topped a rise and saw below him Farewell's straggly street, flanked by several false-fronted saloons, two stores, one hotel leaning slightly askew, and a few unkempt houses, the whole encircled by the twinkling pickets of innumerable bottles and tin cans.

He rode along the street, fetlock-deep in dust, and stopped at the hotel corral. Freeing Ranger of the saddle and bridle, he opened the gate and slapped the chestnut on the hip.

"Go on in, fellah," said Loudon. "Yore dinner's a-comin'."

He walked around to the front of the hotel. Under the wooden awning a beefy, red-faced citizen was dozing in a chair tilted back against the wall. Loudon tapped the snoring individual on the shoulder. The sleeper awoke gaspingly, his eyes winking. The chair settled on four legs with a crash.

"Howdy, Bill," said Loudon, gravely.

"Howdy, Tom," gurgled the other.

"Hoss in the corral an' me here, Bill. Feeds for two."

"Sure. We've done et, but you go in an' holler for Lize. She'll fix you up."

The fat landlord waddled stableward and Loudon entered the hotel. A partition that did not reach the ceiling divided the sleeping apartments from the dining room. Carelessly hanging over the partition were two shirts and someone's chaps.

The whole floor slanted, for, as has been said, the hotel leaned sidewise. The long table in the dining room, covered with cracked and scaling oilcloth, was held unsteadily upright by three legs and a cracker box.

Loudon, quite untouched by this scene of shiftlessness, hooked out a chair with his foot, dropped his hat on the floor, and sat down.

"Oh, Mis' Lainey!" he called.

A female voice, somewhat softened by distance and a closed door, instantly began to make oration to the effect that if any lazy chunker of a puncher thought he was to eat any food he was very much mistaken.

The door banged open. A slatternly, scrawny woman appeared in the doorway. She was still talking. But the clacking tongue changed its tone abruptly.

"Oh, it's you, Tom Loudon!" exclaimed the lean woman. "How are yuh, anyway? I'm shore glad to see yuh. I thought yuh was one o' them rousy fellers, an' I wouldn't rustle no more chuck this noon for the likes o' them, not if they was starvin' an' their tongues was hangin' out a foot. But yo're different, an' I ain't never forgot the time you rode thirty mile for a doc when my young one was due to cash. No, you bet I ain't! Now don't you say nothin'. You jest set right patient a short spell an' I'll rustle——"

The door swung shut, and the remainder of the sentence was lost in a muffled din of pans. Loudon winked at the closed door and grinned.

He had known the waspish Mrs. Lainey and her paunchy husband since that day when, newly come to the Lazy River country, he had met them, their buckboard wrecked by a runaway and their one child apparently dying of internal injuries. Though Loudon always minimized what he had done, Mrs. Lainey and her husband did not. And they were not folk whose memories are short.

In less than twenty minutes Mrs. Lainey brought in a steak, fried potatoes, and coffee. The steak was fairly tough, so were the potatoes, and the coffee required a copious quantity of condensed milk to render it drinkable. But Loudon ate with a rider's appetite. Mrs. Lainey, arms folded in her apron, leaned against the doorjamb, and regaled him with the news of Farewell.

"Injun Joe got drunk las' week an' tried to hogtie Riley's bear. It wasn't hardly worth while buryin' Joe, but they done it. Mis' Stonestreet has a new baby. This one makes the twelfth. Yep, day before yestiddy. Charley's so proud over it he ain't been sober since. Slep' in the waterin'-trough las' night, so he did, an' this mornin' he was drunk as ever. But he never did do things by halves, that Charley Stonestreet. Ain't the heat awful? Yep, it's worse'n that. Did yuh hear about——"

Poor, good-hearted Mrs. Lainey. With her, speech was a disease. Loudon ate as hurriedly as he could, and fled to the sidewalk. Bill Lainey, who had fallen asleep again, roused sufficiently to accept six bits.

"Mighty drowsy weather, Tom," he mumbled.

"It must be," said Loudon. "So long."

Leaving the sleepy Lainey to resume his favourite occupation, Loudon walked away. Save Lainey, no human beings were visible on the glaring street. In front of the Palace Saloon two cow-ponies drooped. Near the postoffice stood another, bearing on its hip the Cross-in-a-box brand.

From the door of the postoffice issued the loud and cheerful tones of a voice whose owner was well pleased with the world at large.

"Guess I'll get that ribbon first," said Loudon to himself, and promptly walked behind the postoffice.

He had recognized the cheerful voice. It was that of his friend, Johnny Ramsay, who punched cows for the Cross-in-a-box outfit. And not for a month's pay would Loudon have had Johnny Ramsay see him purchasing yards of red ribbon. Ramsay's sense of humour was too well developed.

When four houses intervened between himself and the postoffice Loudon returned to the street and entered the Blue Pigeon Store. Compared with most Western frontier stores the Blue Pigeon was compactly neat. A broad counter fenced off three sides of the store proper.

Behind the counter lines of packed shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Between the counter and the shelves knotted ropes, a long arm's-length apart, depended from the rafters. Above the canvas-curtained doorway in the rear hung the model of a black-hulled, slim-sparred clipper.

At the jingle of Loudon's spurs on the floor the canvas curtain was pushed aside, and the proprietor shuffled and thumped, for his left leg was of wood, into the store. He was a red-headed man, was Mike Flynn, the proprietor, barrel-chested, hairy-armed, and even the backs of his ham-like hands were tattooed.

"Good aft'noon to yuh, Tom," said Mike Flynn. "'Tis a fine day—hot, mabbe, but I've seen worse in the Horse Latitudes. An' what is it the day?"

"Red ribbon, Mike," replied Loudon, devoutly thankful that no other customer was in the store.

Mike glanced at the sample in Tom Loudon's hand.

"Shore, an' I have that same, width an' all," he said, and forthwith seizing one of the knotted ropes he pulled himself hand over hand to the top shelf.

Hanging by one hand he fumbled a moment, then lowered himself to the floor.

"An' here yuh are!" he exclaimed. "The finest ribbon that ever come West. Matches the bit yuh have like a twin brother. One dollar two bits a yard."

"I'll take five yards."

"Won't yuh be needin' a new necktie now?" inquired Mike Flynn, expertly measuring off the ribbon. "I've a fine lot in—grane ones, an' blue ones, an' purple ones wit' white spots, an' some black ones wit' red an' yaller figgers, not to spake o' some yaller ones wit' vi'let horseshoes. Very fancy, thim last. God be with the ould days! Time was when I'd not have touched yaller save wit' me foot, but 'tis so long since I've hove a brick at an Orangeman that the ould feelin' ain't near so strong as it was. An' here's the ribbon, Tom. About them neckties now. They're worth seein'. One minute an' I'll delight yore eyes."

Rapidly Mike Flynn stumped around to the other side of the room, pulled down several long boxes and deftly laid them, covers off, on the counter. Loudon did need a new necktie. What man in love does not? He passed over the yellow ones with violet horseshoes so strongly recommended by Mike Flynn, and bought one of green silk.

"Yo're a lad after me own heart, Tom Loudon," said Mike Flynn, wrapping the necktie. "Grane's best when all's said an' done. The colour of ould Ireland, God bless her. An' here comes Johnny Ramsay."

Loudon hastily stuffed his purchases inside his flannel shirt, and in a careless tone asked for a box of forty-five calibre cartridges. He turned just in time to ward off the wild rush of Johnny Ramsay, who endeavoured to seize him by the belt and waltz him round the store.

"Wow! Wow!" yelled Johnny. "How's Tommy? How's the boy? Allemane left, you old bronc buster!"

"Quit it, you idjit!" bawled Loudon, the crushing of ribbon and necktie being imminent.

Ramsay stepped back and prodded Loudon's breast with an inquiring finger.

"Paddin'," he said, solemnly. "Tryin' to give yoreself a chest, ain't yuh, you old bean-pole? Ouch!"

For Loudon had dug a hard knuckle into his friend's left side, and it was Ramsay's turn to yell. From behind the counter Mike Flynn beamed upon them. He liked them well, these careless youngsters of the range, and their antics were a source of never-ending amusement.

Entered then a tall, lean man with black hair, and a face the good looks of which were somewhat marred by a thin-lipped mouth and sharp, sinister eyes. But for all that Sam Blakely, the manager of the 88 ranch, was a very handsome man. He nodded to the three, his lips parting over white teeth, and asked Mike Flynn for a rope.

"Here's yore cartridges, Tom," called Mike, and turned to the rear of the store.

Loudon picked up his box of cartridges, stuffing them into a pocket in his chaps.

"Let's irrigate," he said to Ramsay.

"In a minute," replied his friend. "I want some cartridges my own self."

The two sat down on the counter to wait. Blakely strolled across to the open boxes of neckties.

"Cravats," he sneered, fingering them.

"An' —— fine ones!" exclaimed Mike Flynn, slamming down the coil of rope on the counter. "Thim yaller ones wit' vi'let spots now, yuh couldn't beat 'em in New York. An' the grand grane ones. Ain't they the little beauts? I just sold one to Tom Loudon."

"Green shore does suit some people," said the 88 manager, coldly.

Loudon felt Johnny Ramsay stiffen beside him. But Loudon merely smiled a slow, pleasant smile.

"Hirin' any new men, Sam?" he inquired, softly, his right hand cuddling close to his belt.

"What do yuh want to know for?" demanded Blakely, wheeling.

"Why, yuh see, I was thinkin' o' quittin' the Bar S, an' I'd sort o' like to get with a good, progressive outfit, one that don't miss any chances."

Loudon's voice was clear and incisive. Each word fell with the precision of a pebble falling into a well. Mike Flynn backed swiftly out of range.

"What do yuh mean by that?" demanded Blakely, his gaze level.

"What I said," replied Loudon, staring into the other's sinister black eyes. "I shore do hate to translate my words."

For a long minute the two men gazed steadily at each other. Neither made a move. Blakely's hand hung at his side. Loudon's hand had not yet touched his gun-butt. But Blakely could not know that, for Loudon's crossed knees concealed the position of his hand.

Loudon was giving Blakely an even chance. He knew that Blakely was quick on the draw, but he believed that he himself was quicker. Blakely evidently thought, so too, for suddenly he grunted and turned his back on Loudon.

"What's that?" inquired Blakely, pointing a finger at one end of the rope.

"What—oh, that!" exclaimed Mike. "Sure, that's what a seaman calls whippin'. The holdfast was missin', an' the rope was beginning' to unlay, so I whipped the end of it. 'Twill keep the rope from frayin' out, do yuh mind. An' it's the last rope I have in stock, too."

Loudon, watching Blakely's hands, saw that what Mike Flynn called whipping was whip-cord lapped tightly a dozen turns or so round the end of the rope. Blakely, without another word, paid for the rope, picked it up, and departed, head high, sublimely indifferent to the presence of Loudon. Mike Flynn heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief.

"Praise be!" he ejaculated. "I'd thought to lose a customer a minute back." Then, recollecting himself, he added quickly, "What was that yuh said about cartridges, Johnny?"

CHAPTER II

AT THE BAR S

"That's a good-lookin' goat," observed cheerful Johnny Ramsay, watching Loudon throw the saddle on the long-legged chestnut. "All he needs is horns an' a maa-a-a."

"What particular tune can you play on it?" retorted Loudon, passing the cinch-strap.

"On what?" inquired Ramsay, incautiously.

"On that four-legged accordeon yo're straddlin'."

"I wouldn't say nothin' about no accordeons—not if I was abusin' a poor billy by cinchin' a hull on his back. Honest, Tommy, don't yuh like ridin' a hoss? 'Fraid he'll throw yuh or somethin'?"

"Don't yuh worry none about this little cayuse. He's all hoss, he is, an' if yuh don't mind, Johnny, I'd be a heap obliged if yuh'd follow behind when we ride out o' town. Somebody might see us together an' take yuh for a friend o' mine, an' that wouldn't do nohow."

"Please, mister," whined Johnny Ramsay, "let me go with yuh. I know where there's a pile o' nice tomatter cans for the goat's supper. Red Rose tomatter cans, too. There's more nourishment in them kind than there is in the Blue Star brand. Hey, quit!"

Loudon had suddenly flipped a broken horseshoe at the hindquarters of Ramsay's pony, that surprised animal going into the air immediately. When Ramsay had quieted his wild-eyed mount, the two friends rode away together.

"I wonder why Blakely didn't go to it," remarked Ramsay, when Farewell lay behind them.

"Dunno," said Loudon. "He wasn't afraid, yuh can gamble on that."

"I ain't none so shore. He's bad plumb through, Blakely is. An' he's a killer, by his eyes. I guess it was just the extra shade he wanted, an' the extra shade wasn't there. You'd 'a' got him, Tom."

"Shore! But don't yuh make no mistake about Blakely bein' a coward. He ain't. He's seen trouble, an' seen it in the smoke."

"You mean Skinner Jack. Well, Jack wasn't slow with a gun, but the other two was Injuns, an' they only had Winchesters, an' Blakely he had a Sharp's. So yuh can't tally the war-whoops. An' I did hear how Skinner Jack was drunk when he called Blakely a liar."

"I doubt it. Skinner could always hold his red-eye. More likely his gun caught."

"Anyway, Tommy, you'd better not go cavortin' about on the skyline too plenteous. It wouldn't bother Blakely none to bushwhack yuh."

"Oh, he wouldn't do that. He ain't the bushwhackin' kind."

"Oh, ain't he? Now just because he ain't never done nothin' like that, it don't prove he won't. He's got a killer's eyes, I tell yuh, an' drillin' yuh would tickle him to death. Yuh run a blazer on him, an' he quit cold. Other gents seen the play. He won't never forget that. He'll down yuh on the square, or what looks like an even break, if he can. But if he can't he'll down yuh anyway."

"Rustlers ramblin' over yore way any?" inquired Loudon in a meaning tone.

Johnny Ramsay struck his saddle-horn a resounding thwack with his open palm.

"If we could only get him that way!" he exclaimed. "But he's slicker'n axle-grease."

"The 88 will brand one calf too many some day. Hell's delight! What do they do with 'em? Yuh ride the range an' yuh ride the range an' yuh don't find no cows with unhealed brands. I seen twelve, though, with the 88 brand that looked like some gent had been addin' to Bar S with a runnin'-iron. But the brands was all healed up. Anyway, we've lost forty cows, an' I dunno how many calves."

"They'll turn up again."

"Shore—carryin' the 88 brand. My idea is that them rustlers brand 'em an' then hold 'em in some blind cañon over near the Fallin' Horse till the burns heal up, an' then they throw 'em loose on the range again. If the cows do drift across to the Bar S, what's the dif? They got the 88 brand."

"That sounds good. Why don't yuh take a little wander 'round the scenery near the Fallin' Horse?"

"I have; I didn't see nothin'. But they got 'em hid somewhere all right. One day I runs across Marvin, an' I had a job losin' him. He stuck to me closer'n tar all day. He was worried some, I seen that."

"Goin' back?"

"Till I find their cache, I am."

"That's another reason for makin' Blakely so friendly. He knows yuh won't stop lookin'. Ain't it the devil an' all? The measly Sheriff just squats down on his hunkers an' does nothin' while we lose cows in car-lots. An' when our cows go, we kiss 'em good-bye. They never come back—not even with their brand altered. Yuh can't change Cross-in-a-box to 88."

"With the Bar S it's a cinch. But the boss won't use another brand. Not him. He'll stick to Bar S till he ain't got a cow to run the iron on."

"Oh, it's a great system the 88 outfit are workin'! An' with Sheriff Block an' most all o' Marysville an' Farewell their friends it's a hard game to buck. Talk o' law! There ain't none in Fort Creek County."

"The only play is Vigilantes, an' it can't come to them till there's proof. We all know Blakely an' the 88 bunch are up to their hocks in this rustlin' deal, but we can't prove it."

"There's the worst o' bein' straight," complained Johnny Ramsay. "Yuh know some tinhorn is a-grabbin' all yuh own. Yo're certain shore who the gent is, but yuh can't hop out an' bust him without yuh catch him a-grabbin' or else a-wearin' yore pet pants."

"That's whatever," agreed Loudon.

Five miles out of Farewell, where the trail forked, one branch leading southeast to the Cross-in-a-box, the other to the Bar S, Loudon checked his horse.

"Keep a-goin'," said Johnny Ramsay. "I'm travellin' with you a spell. I'm kind o' sick o' that old trail. I've rode it so frequent I know all the rocks an' the cotton-woods by their first names."

Which explanation Loudon did not accept at its face value. He understood perfectly why Ramsay continued to ride with him. Ramsay believed that Blakely would endeavour to drop Loudon from ambush, and it is well known that a gentleman lying in wait for another will often stay his hand when his intended victim is accompanied. Neither Loudon nor Ramsay made any mention of the true inwardness of his thoughts. They had been friends for a long time.

Climbing the long slope of Indian Ridge, they scanned the trail warily. But nowhere did the hoofprints of Blakely's horse leave the dust of the trail. On the reverse slope of the ridge they picked up the larger hoofprints of Block's horse. Fair and plain the two sets of marks led southward.

"Wonder who the other gent was," hazarded Ramsay.

"Block," said Loudon, "I met him this mornin'. I was puttin' holes in his notice, an' he didn't like it none."

"Did he chatter much?"

"He talked a few, but nothin' to hurt."

"The tinhorn!" laughed Ramsay. "Bet he's goin' to the 88."

"It's some likely. We'll know when we reach Long Coulee."

They reached Long Coulee, where the trail to the 88 swung westward, as the sun was dropping behind the far-away peaks of the Three Sisters Mountains. Loudon slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched luxuriously. But he did not feel luxurious.

As he had expected, Block had turned into the 88 trail, but as he had not expected Blakely had ridden straight on toward the Bar S. Which latter event was disquieting, not that Loudon feared an act of violence on the part of Blakely, but because Kate's evening would be preëmpted by his enemy.

Loudon keenly desired to talk to Kate that evening. He had a great many things to tell her, and now the coming of Blakely spoiled it all.

"The nerve o' some folks," remarked Johnny Ramsay, eying the tracks of Blakely's horse with disfavour. "Better tell old Salt to lock up the silver an' the cuckoo clock. No offence now, Tommy, but if I was you, I'd sleep in the corral to-night. Blakely might take a fancy to the goat."

"I shore hope he does," grinned Loudon. "It would ease the strain some."

"Make it complete, old beanpole, when you do call the turn. Well, I got to be skippin'. Give my love to old Salt. So long."

"So long."

Johnny Ramsay picked up his reins, wheeled his pony, and fox-trotted away. He felt that further accompanying of Loudon was unnecessary. The danger of an ambush was past. Riding with Loudon had taken Ramsay some fifteen miles out of his way, and twenty-five long miles lay between his pony's nose and the corral bars of the Cross-in-a-box ranch. But Ramsay wasted not a thought on his lengthened journey. He would have ridden cheerfully across the territory and back again in order to benefit a friend.

"Come on, fellah," said Loudon, when Ramsay had gone.

The chestnut moved off at a walk. Loudon did not hurry him. He took out his papers and tobacco and rolled a cigarette with neatness and despatch. Tilting back his head, he blew the first lungful of smoke straight up into the air.

"It wouldn't be right for her to marry him," he observed. "She shore is one pretty girl. I wonder now if I have got any chance. She's rich, an' I ain't, but I shore do love her a lot. Kate Loudon—that's a right nice-soundin' name."

He lowered his head and smoked silently for several minutes. The horse, reins on his neck, swung along steadily.

"Ranger fellah," said Loudon, "she'd ought to be willin' to wait till we make a stake, oughtn't she now? That's right. Wiggle one ear for yes. You know, don't yuh, old tiger-eye?"

When the lights of the ranch sparked across the flat, Ranger pointed his ears, lifted his head, and broke into a foxtrot. Passing the ranch house, on his way to the corral, Loudon heard the merry tinkle of a guitar. Through an open window Loudon saw the squat figure of Mr. Saltoun bent over a desk. On the porch, in the corner where the hammock hung, flickered the glowing tip of a cigarette. With a double thrum of swept strings the guitar-player in the hammock swung from "The Kerry Dance" into "Loch Lomond."

Loudon swore under his breath, and rode on.

Jimmy, the cook, and Chuck Morgan, one of the punchers, were lying in their bunks squabbling over the respective merits of Texas and New Mexico when Loudon entered the bunkhouse. Both men immediately ceased wrangling and demanded letters.

"I ain't read 'em all yet," replied Loudon, dropping his saddle and bridle in a corner. "Wait till to-morrow."

"Jimmy's expectin' one from a red-headed gal," grinned Chuck Morgan. "He's been restless all day. 'Will she write?' says he, 'an' I wonder if she's sick or somethin'.' Don't you worry none, cookie. Them red-headed gals live forever. They're tough, same as a yaller hoss."

"You shut up!" exclaimed Jimmy. "Who'd write to you, you frazzled end of a misspent life? D'jever look at yoreself in the glass? You! Huh! Gimme my letter, Tommy."

"Letter? What letter? I didn't say there was a letter for yuh."

"Well, ain't there?"

"You gimme somethin' to eat, an' then we'll talk about letters."

"You got a nerve!" roared the cook, indignantly. "Comin' rollickin' in 'round midnight an' want yore chuck! Well, there it is"—indicating Chuck Morgan—"go eat it."

"You fry him an' I will. I'll gamble he wouldn't taste any worse than them steaks you've been dishin' out lately."

"You punchers gimme a pain," growled the cook, swinging his legs out of the bunk. "Always eatin,' eatin'. I never seen nothin' like it nohow."

"He's sore 'cause Buff put a li'l dead snake in his bunk," explained Chuck Morgan placidly. "Just a li'l snake—not more'n three foot long at the outside. He shore is the most fault-findin' feller, that Jimmy is."

"There ain't anythin' for yuh, Chuck," said Loudon. "Here's yore letter, Jimmy."

The cook seized the grimy missive and retreated to his kitchen. Twenty minutes later Loudon was eating supper. He ate leisurely. He was in no hurry to go up to the ranch house.

"Got the makin's!" Chuck Morgan's voice was a roar.

"Be careful," said Loudon, turning a slow head. "Yo're liable to strain yore throat, an' for a fellah talkin' as much as you do, that would shore be a calamity."

"It shore would," agreed Morgan. "I only asked yuh for the makin's three times before I hollered."

"Holler first next time," advised Loudon, tossing paper and tobacco across to Morgan. "Have yuh got matches? Perhaps yuh'd like me to roll yuh a pill an' then light it for yuh?"

"Oh, that ain't necessary; none whatever. I got matches. They're all I got left. This aft'noon Jimmy says 'gimme a pipeful,' an' I wants to say right here that any jigger that'll smoke a pipe will herd sheep. 'Gimme a load,' says Jimmy. 'Shore,' says I, an' Jimmy bulges up holdin' the father of all corncobs in his hand. I forks over my bag, an' Jimmy wades in to fill the pipe. But that pipe don't fill up for a plugged nickel.

"He upends my bag, shakes her empty, an' hands her back. 'Thanks,' says Jimmy. 'That's all right,' I says, 'keep the bag, too. It'll fit in right handy to mend yore shirt with, maybe.' Come to find out, that pipe o' Jimmy's hadn't no bottom in her, an' all the tobacco run through an' into a bag Jimmy was holdin' underneath. A reg'lar Injun trick, that is. Yuh can't tell me Jimmy ain't been a squaw-man. Digger Injuns, too, I'll bet."

Jimmy, leaning against the door-jamb, laughed uproariously.

"Yah," he yelped. "I'll teach yuh to steal my socks, I will. I'd just washed a whole pair an' I was a-dryin' 'em behind the house, an' along comes Chuck an' gloms both of 'em, the hawg."

Leaving the two wrangling it out between them, Loudon pushed back his chair and went to the door. For a time he stood looking out into the night. Then he went to his saddle, picked up the bag containing the mail for Mr. Saltoun, and left the bunkhouse.

On the way to the ranch house he took out of his shirt the parcel of ribbon and smoothed it out. Skirting the house on the side farthest from the porch corner where sat Kate and Blakely, Loudon entered the kitchen and walked through the dining room to the open doorway of the office. Mr. Saltoun half turned at Loudon's entrance.

"Hello," said Mr. Saltoun, screwing up his eyes. "I was just wonderin' when you'd pull in."

"'Lo," returned Loudon. "Here's the mail, an' here's a package for Miss Kate."

There was a rush of skirts, and handsome, black-haired Kate Saltoun, her dark eyes dancing, stood in the doorway.

"Did you get my ribbon, Tom?" cried she, and pounced on the flat parcel before Loudon could reply.

She smiled and glowed and held the ribbon under her olive chin, exclaimed over it and thanked Loudon all in a breath. Her father beamed upon her. He loved this handsome girl of his.

"Come out on the porch, Tom," said Kate, "when you're through with father. Mr. Blakely's here. Thank you again for bringing my ribbon."

Kate swished away, and Mr. Saltoun's beaming expression vanished also. Mr. Saltoun was not especially keen. He rarely saw anything save the obvious, but for several weeks he had been under the impression that Kate and this tall, lean puncher with the gray eyes were too friendly.

And here was Kate, while entertaining the 88 manager, inviting Loudon to join her on the porch. Mr. Saltoun was ambitious for his daughter. He had not the remotest intention of receiving into his family a forty-dollar-a-month cowhand. He would have relished firing Loudon. But the latter was a valuable man. He was the best rider and roper in the outfit. Good cowboys do not drift in on the heels of every vagrant breeze.

Mr. Saltoun resolved to keep an eye on Loudon and arrange matters so that Kate and the puncher should meet seldom, if at all. He knew better than to speak to his daughter. That would precipitate matters.

By long experience Mr. Saltoun had learned that opposition always stiffened Kate's determination. From babyhood her father had spoiled her. Consequently the Kate of twenty-three was hopelessly intractable.

Mr. Saltoun drummed on the desk-top with a pencil. Loudon shifted his feet. He had mumbled a non-committal reply to Kate's invitation. Not for a great deal would he have joined the pair on the porch. But Mr. Saltoun did not know that.

"Chuck tells me," said Mr. Saltoun, suddenly, "that he jerked five cows out o' that mud-hole on Pack-saddle Creek near Box Hill. Yeah, that one. To-morrow I want yuh to ride along Pack-saddle an' take a look at them other two holes between Box Hill an' Fishtail Coolee. If yuh see any cows driftin' west, head 'em east. When that —— barb-wire comes—if it ever does, an' I ordered it a month ago—you an' Chuck can fence them three mud-holes. Better get an early start, Tom."

"All right," said Loudon, and made an unhurried withdrawal—by way of the kitchen.

Once in the open air Loudon smiled a slow smile. He had correctly divined the tenor of his employer's thoughts. Before he reached the bunkhouse Loudon had resolved to propose to Kate Saltoun within forty-eight hours.

CHAPTER III

SHOTS ON PACK-SADDLE

"I woke up one mornin' on the old Chisolm trail,
Rope in my hand an' a cow by the tail.
Crippled my hoss, I don't know how,
Ropin' at the horns of a 2-U cow."

Thus sang Loudon, carrying saddle and bridle to the corral in the blue light of dawn. Chuck Morgan was before him at the corral, and wrestling with a fractious gray pony.

"Whoa! yuh son of sin!" yelled Morgan, wrenching the pony's ear. "Stand still, or I'll cave in yore slats!"

"Kick him again," advised Loudon, flicking the end of his rope across the back of a yellow beast with a black mane and tail.

The yellow horse stopped trotting instantly. He was rope-broke. It was unnecessary to "fasten," thanks to Loudon's training.

"They say yuh oughtn't to exercise right after eatin'," continued Loudon, genially. "An' yo're mussin' up this nice corral, too, Chuck."

"I'll muss up this nice little gray devil!" gasped Chuck. "When I git on him I'll plow the hide offen him. —— his soul! He's half mule."

"He takes yuh for a relative!" called Jimmy, who had come up unobserved. "Relatives never do git along nohow!"

Jimmy fled, pursued by pebbles. The panting and outraged Chuck returned to his task of passing the rear cinch. Still swearing, he joined Loudon at the gate. The two rode away together.

"That sorrel o' Blakely's," observed Chuck, his fingers busy with paper and tobacco, "is shore as pretty as a little red wagon."

"Yeah," mumbled Loudon.

"I was noticin' him this mornin'," continued Chuck Morgan. "He's got the cleanest set o' legs I ever seen."

"This mornin'," said Loudon, slowly, "Where'd yuh see Blakely's sorrel this mornin'?"

"In the little corral. He's in there with the Old Man's string."

Loudon pulled his hat forward and started methodically to roll a cigarette. So Blakely had spent the night at the ranch. This was the first time he had ever stayed overnight.

What did it mean? Calling on Kate was one thing, but spending the night was quite another.

With the fatuous reasoning of a man deeply in love, Loudon refused to believe that Blakely could be sailing closer to the wind of Kate's affections than he himself. Yet there remained the fact of Blakely's extended visit.

"We've been losin' right smart o' cows lately," remarked Chuck Morgan.

"What's the use o' talkin'?" exclaimed Loudon, bitterly. "The Old Man says we ain't, an' he's the boss."

"He won't say so after the round-up. He'll sweat blood then. If I could only catch one of 'em at it. Just one. But them thievin' 88 boys are plumb wise. An' the Old Man thinks they're little he-angels with four wings apiece."

"Yuh can't tell him nothin'. He knows."

"An' Blakely comes an' sets around, an' the Old Man laps up all he says like a cat, an' Blakely grins behind his teeth. I'd shore like to know his opinion o' the Old Man."

"An' us."

"An' us. Shore. The Old Man can't be expected to know as much as us. You can gamble an' go the limit Blakely has us sized up for sheep-woolly baa-lambs."

Morgan made a gesture of exasperation.

"We will be sheep," exclaimed Loudon, "if we don't pick up somethin' against the 88 before the round-up! We're full-sized, two-legged men, ain't we? Got eyes, ain't we? There ain't nothin' the matter with our hands, is there? Yet them 88 boys put it all over our shirt. Blakely's right. We're related plumb close to sheep, an' blind sheep at that."

"Them 88 boys have all the luck," grunted Chuck Morgan. "But their luck will shore break if I see any of 'em a-foolin' with our cows. So long."

Chuck Morgan rode off eastward. His business was with the cattle near Cow Creek, which stream was one of the two dividing the Bar S range from that of the Cross-in-a-box. Loudon, his eyes continually sliding from side to side, loped onward. An hour later he forded the Lazy River, and rode along the bank to the mouth of Pack-saddle Creek.

The course he was following was not the shortest route to the two mud-holes between Box Hill and Fishtail Coulee. But south of the Lazy the western line of the Bar S was marked by Pack-saddle Creek, and Loudon's intention was to ride along the creek from mouth to source.

There had been no rain for a month. If any cows had been driven across the stream he would know it. Twice before he had ridden the line of the creek, but his labours had not been rewarded. Yet Loudon did not despair. His was a hopeful soul.

Occasionally, as he rode, he saw cows. Here and there on the bank were cloven hoofprints, showing where cattle had come down to drink. But none of them had crossed since the rain. And there were no marks of ponies' feet.

At the mud-hole near Box Hill a lone cow stood belly-deep, stolidly awaiting death.

"Yuh poor idjit," commented Loudon, and loosed his rope from the saddle-horn.

The loop settled around the cow's horns. The yellow pony, cunningly holding his body sidewise that the saddle might not be pulled over his tail, strained with all four legs.

"C'mon, Lemons!" encouraged Loudon. "C'mon, boy! Yuh old yellow lump o' bones! Heave! Head or cow, she's got to come!"

Thus adjured the pony strove mightily. The cow also exerted itself. Slowly the tenacious grip of the mud was broken. With a suck and a plop the cow surged free. It stood, shaking its head.

Swiftly Loudon disengaged his rope, slapped the cow with the end of it, and urged the brute inland.

Having chased the cow a full half-mile he returned to the mud-hole and dismounted. For he had observed that upon a rock ledge above the mud-hole which he wished to inspect more closely. What he had noted was a long scratch across the face of the broad flat ledge of rock. But for his having been drawn in close to the ledge by the presence of the cow in the mud-hole, this single scratch would undoubtedly have escaped his attention.

Loudon leaned over and scrutinized the scratch. It was about a foot long, a quarter of an inch broad at one end, tapering roughly to a point. Ordinarily such a mark would have interested Loudon not at all, but under the circumstances it might mean much. The side-slip of a horse's iron-shod hoof had made it. This was plain enough. It was evident, too, that the horse had been ridden. A riderless horse does not slip on gently sloping rocks.

Other barely visible abrasions showed that the horse had entered the water. Why had someone elected to cross at this point? Pack-saddle Creek was fordable in many places. Below the mud-hole four feet and less was the depth. But opposite the rock ledge was a scour-hole fully ten feet deep shallowing to eight in the middle of the stream. Here was no crossing for an honest man in his senses. But for one of questionable purpose, anxious to conceal his trail as much as possible, no better could be chosen.

"Good thing his hoss slipped," said Loudon, and returned to the waiting Lemons.

Mounting his horse he forded the creek and rode slowly along the bank. Opposite the lower end of the ledge he found that which he sought. In the narrow belt of bare ground between the water's edge and the grass were the tracks of several cows and one pony. Straight up from the water the trail led, and vanished abruptly when it reached the grass.

"Five cows," said Loudon. "Nothin' mean about that jigger."

He bent down to examine the tracks more closely, and as he stooped a rifle cracked faintly, and a bullet whisped over his bowed back.

Loudon jammed home both spurs, and jumped Lemons forward. Plying his quirt, he looked over his shoulder.

A puff of smoke suddenly appeared above a rock a quarter of a mile downstream and on the other side of the creek. The bullet tucked into the ground close beside the pony's drumming hoofs.

Loudon jerked his Winchester from its scabbard under his leg, turned in the saddle, and fired five shots as rapidly as he could work the lever. He did not expect to score a hit, but earnestly hoped to shake the hidden marksman's aim. He succeeded but lamely.

The enemy's third shot cut through his shirt under the left armpit, missing the flesh by a hair's-breadth. Loudon raced over the lip of a swell just as a fourth shot ripped through his hat.

Hot and angry, Loudon jerked Lemons to a halt half-way down the reverse slope. Leaving his horse tied to the ground he ran back and lay down below the crest. He removed his hat and wriggled forward to the top.

Cautiously lifting his head he surveyed the position of his unknown opponent. A half-mile distant, on the Bar S side of the Pack-saddle, was the rock which sheltered the marksman. A small dark dot appeared above it.

Taking a long aim Loudon fired at the dot. As he jerked down the lever to reload, a gray smoke-puff mushroomed out at the lower right-hand corner of the rock, and a violent shock at the elbow numbed his right hand.

Loudon rolled swiftly backward, sat up, and stared wonderingly at his two hands. One held his Winchester, but gripped in the cramped fingers of the right hand was the bent and broken lever of the rifle. The bullet of the sharp-shooting citizen had struck the lever squarely on the upper end, snapped the pin, torn loose the lever, and hopelessly damaged the loading mechanism.

"That jigger can shore handle a gun," remarked Loudon. "If this ain't one lovely fix for a Christian! Winchester no good, only a six-shooter, an' a fully-organized miracle-worker a-layin' for my hide. I'm a-goin' somewhere, an' I'm goin' right now."

He dropped the broken lever and rubbed his numbed fingers till sensation returned. Then he put on his hat and hurried down to his horse.

He jammed the rifle into the scabbard, mounted, and rode swiftly southward, taking great pains to keep to the low ground.

A mile farther on he forded the creek and gained the shelter of an outflung shoulder of Box Hill.

Near the top Loudon tied Lemons to a tree and went forward on foot. Cautiously as an Indian, Loudon traversed the flat top of the hill and squatted down in a bunch of tall grass between two pines. From this vantage-point his field of view was wide. The rock ledge and the mud-hole were in plain sight. So was the rock from which he had been fired upon. It was a long mile distant, and it lay near the crest of a low hog's-back close to the creek.

"He's got his hoss down behind the swell," muttered Loudon. "Wish this hill was higher."

Loudon pondered the advisability of climbing a tree. He wished very much to obtain a view of the depression behind the hog's-back. He finally decided to remain where he was. It was just possible that the hostile stranger might be provided with field glasses. In which case tree-climbing would invite more bullets, and the shooting of the enemy was too nearly accurate for comfort.

Loudon settled himself comfortably in his bunch of grass and watched intently. Fifteen or twenty minutes later what was apparently a part of the rock detached itself and disappeared behind the crest of the hog's-back.

Soon the tiny figure of a mounted man came into view on the flat beyond. Horse and rider moved rapidly across the level ground and vanished behind a knoll. When the rider reappeared he was not more than nine hundred yards distant and galloping hard on a course paralleling the base of the hill.

"Good eye," chuckled Loudon. "Goin' to surround me. I'd admire to hear what he says when he finds out I ain't behind that swell."

The stranger splashed across the creek and raced toward some high ground in the rear of Loudon's old position.

Now that the enemy had headed westward there was nothing to be gained by further delay.

Loudon had plenty of courage, but one requires more than bravery and a six-shooter with which to pursue and successfully combat a gentleman armed with a Winchester.

Hastily retreating to his horse, Loudon scrambled into the saddle, galloped across the hilltop and rode down the eastern slope at a speed exceedingly perilous to his horse's legs. But the yellow horse somehow contrived to keep his footing and reached the bottom with no damage other than skinned hocks.

Once on level ground Loudon headed southward, and Lemons, that yellow bundle of nerves and steel wire, stretched out his neck and galloped with all the heart that was in him.

Loudon's destination was a line-camp twelve miles down the creek. This camp was the temporary abode of two Bar S punchers, who were riding the country south of Fishtail Coulee. Loudon knew that both men had taken their Winchesters with them when they left the ranch, and he hoped to find one of the rifles in the dugout.

With a rifle under his leg Loudon felt that the odds would be even, in spite of the fact that the enemy had an uncanny mastery of the long firearm. Loudon's favourite weapon was the six-shooter, and he was at his best with it. A rifle in his hands was not the arm of precision it became when Johnny Ramsay squinted along the sights. For Johnny was an expert.

"Keep a-travellin', little hoss, keep a-travellin'," encouraged Loudon. "Split the breeze. That's the boy!"

Loudon had more than one reason for being anxious to join issue with the man who had attacked him. At nine hundred yards one cannot recognize faces or figures, but one can distinguish the colour of a horse, and Loudon's antagonist rode a sorrel. Chuck Morgan had said that Blakely's horse was a sorrel.

Loudon sighted the dugout that was Pack-saddle line-camp in a trifle less than an hour. He saw with elation that two hobbled ponies were grazing near by. A fresh mount would quicken the return trip. Loudon's elation collapsed like a pricked bubble when he entered the dugout and found neither of the rifles.

He swore a little, and smoked a sullen cigarette. Then he unsaddled the weary Lemons and saddled the more vicious of the two hobbled ponies. Subjugating this animal, a most excellent pitcher, worked off a deal of Loudon's ill-temper. Even so, it was in no cheerful frame of mind that he rode away to inspect the two mud-holes between Fishtail Coulee and Box Hill.

To be beaten is not a pleasant state of affairs. Not only had he been beaten, but he had been caught by the old Indian fighter's trick of the empty hat. That was what galled Loudon. To be lured into betraying his position by such an ancient snare! And he had prided himself on being an adroit fighting man! The fact that he had come within a finger's breadth of paying with his life for his mistake did not lesson the smart, rather it aggravated it.

Late in the afternoon he returned to the line-camp. Hockling and Red Kane, the two punchers, had not yet ridden in. So Loudon sliced bacon and set the coffee on to boil. Half an hour after sunset Hockling and Kane galloped up and fell upon Loudon with joy. Neither relished the labour, insignificant as it was, of cooking.

"Company," remarked Red Kane, a forkful of bacon poised in the air.

The far-away patter of hoofs swelled to a drumming crescendo. Then inside the circle of firelight a pony slid to a halt, and the voice of cheerful Johnny Ramsay bawled a greeting.

"That's right, Tom!" shouted the irrepressible Johnny. "Always have chuck ready for yore uncle. He likes his meals hot. This is shore real gayful. I wasn't expectin' to find any folks here."

"I s'pose not," said Red Kane. "You was figurin' on romancin' in while we was away an' stockin' up on our grub. I know you. Hock, you better cache the extry bacon an' dobies. Don't let Johnny see 'em."

"Well, o' course," observed Ramsay, superciliously, "I've got the appetite of youth an' a feller with teeth. I don't have to get my nourishment out of soup."

"He must mean you, Hock," said Red Kane, calmly. "You've done lost eight."

"The rest of 'em all hit," asserted Hockling, grinning. "But what Johnny wants with teeth, I dunno. By rights he'd ought to stick to milk. Meat ain't healthy for young ones. Ain't we got a nursin'-bottle kickin' round some'ers, Red?"

"Shore, Red owns one," drawled Loudon. "I seen him buyin' one once over to Farewell at Mike Flynn's."

"O' course," said Johnny, heaping his plate with bacon and beans. "I remember now I seen him, too. Said he was buyin' it for a friend. Why not admit yo're married, Red?"

"Yuh know I bought it for Mis' Shaner o' the Three Bars!" shouted the indignant Kane. "She done asked me to get it for her. It was for her baby to drink out of."

"Yuh don't mean it," said Johnny, seriously. "For a baby, yuh say. Well now, if that ain't surprisin'. I always thought nursin'-bottles was to drive nails with."

In this wise the meal progressed pleasantly enough. After supper, when the four were sprawled comfortably on their saddle-blankets, Loudon launched his bombshell.

"Had a small brush this mornin'," remarked Loudon, "with a gent over by the mud-hole north o' Box Hill."

The three others sat up, gaping expectantly.

"Djuh get him?" demanded Johnny Ramsay, his blue eyes glittering in the firelight.

Loudon shook his head. He raised his left arm, revealing the rent in his shirt. Then he removed his hat and stuck his finger through the hole in the crown.

"Souvenirs," said Loudon. "He busted the lever off my Winchester an' gormed up the action."

"An' he got away?" queried Red Kane.

"The last I seen of him he was workin' in behind where he thought I was."

"Where was you?"

"I was watchin' him from the top o' Box Hill. What did yuh think I'd be doin'? Waitin' for him to surround me an' plug me full o' holes? I come here some hurried after he crossed the creek. I was hopin' you'd have left a rifle behind."

"Wish't we had," lamented Hockling. "Say, you was lucky to pull out of it without reapin' no lead."

"I'll gamble you started the fraycas, Tommy," said Johnny Ramsay.

"Not this trip. I was lookin' at some mighty interestin' cow an' pony tracks opposite the rock ledge when this gent cuts down on me an' misses by two inches."

"Tracks?"

"Yep. Some sport drove five cows on to the ledge an' chased 'em over the creek. That's how they work the trick. They throw the cows across where there's hard ground or rocks on our side. 'Course the rustlers didn't count none on us nosyin' along the opposite bank."

"Ain't they the pups!" ejaculated Hockling.

"They're wise owls," commented Johnny Ramsay. "Say, Tom, did this shootin' party look anyways familiar?"

"The colour of his hoss was—some," replied Loudon. "Blakely was at the ranch last night, an' his hoss was a sorrel."

"What did I tell yuh?" exclaimed Johnny Ramsay. "What did I tell yuh? That Blakely tinhorn is one bad actor."

"I ain't none shore it was him. There's herds o' sorrel cayuses."

"Shore there are, but there's only one Blakely. Oh, it was him all right."

"Whoever it was, I'm goin' to wander over onto the 88 range to-morrow, if Red or Hock'll lend me a Winchester."

"Take mine," said Hockling. "Red's throws off a little."

"She does," admitted Red Kane, "but my cartridges don't. I'll give yuh a hull box."

Followed then much profane comment relative to the 88 ranch and the crass stupidity of Mr. Saltoun.

"I see yo're packin' a Winchester," said Loudon to Johnny Ramsay, when Hockling and Red had turned in.

"Hunter's trip," explained Johnny, his eyes twinkling. "Jack Richie's got his own ideas about this rustlin', so he sent me over to scamper round the 88 range an' see what I could see. I guess I'll travel with you a spell."

"Fine!" said Loudon. "Fine. I was wishin' for company. If we're jumped we'd ought to be able to give 'em a right pleasant little surprise."

Johnny Ramsay rolled a cigarette and gazed in silence at the dying fire for some minutes. Loudon, his hands clasped behind his head, stared upward at the star-dusted heavens. But he saw neither the stars nor the soft blackness. He saw Kate and Blakely, and thick-headed Mr. Saltoun bending over his desk, and he was wondering how it all would end.

"Say," said Johnny Ramsay, suddenly, "this here hold-up cut down on yuh from behind a rock, didn't he?"

"Shore did," replied Loudon.

"Which side did he fire from?"

"Why, the hind side."

"I ain't tryin' to be funny. Was it the left side or the right side?"

"The right side," Loudon replied, after a moment's thought.

"Yore right side?"

"Yep."

"That would make it his left side. Did yuh ever stop to think, Tom, that Blakely shoots a Colt right-handed an' a Winchester left-handed?"

Loudon swore sharply.

"Now, how did I come to forget that!" he exclaimed. "O' course he does."

"Guess Mr. Blakely's elected," said Johnny Ramsay. "Seems likely."

Early next morning Loudon and Ramsay rode northward along the bank of the Pack-saddle. They visited first the boulder a quarter of a mile below the mud-hole. Here they found empty cartridge shells, and the marks of boot-heels.

They forded the creek at the ledge above the mud-hole, where the cows had been driven across, and started westward. They were careful to ride the low ground at first, but early in the afternoon they climbed the rocky slope of Little Bear Mountain. From the top they surveyed the surrounding country. They saw the splendid stretches of the range specked here and there with dots that were cows, but they saw no riders.

They rode down the mountainside and turned into a wide draw, where pines and tamaracks grew slimly. At the head of the draw, where it sloped abruptly upward, was a brushless wood of tall cedars, and here, as they rode in among the trees, a calf bawled suddenly.

They rode toward the sound and came upon a dead cow. At the cow's side stood a lonely calf. At sight of the men the calf fled lumberingly. Ramsay unstrapped his rope and gave his horse the spur. Loudon dismounted and examined the dead cow. When Ramsay returned with the calf, Loudon was squatting on his heels, rolling a cigarette.

"There y'are," observed Loudon, waving his free hand toward the cow. "There's evidence for yuh. Ears slit with the 88 mark, an' the 88 brand over the old Bar S. Leg broke, an' a hole in her head. She ain't been dead more'n a day. What do you reckon?"

"That the 88 are damn fools. Why didn't they skin her?"

"Too lazy, I guess. That calf's branded an' earmarked all complete. Never was branded before, neither."

"Shore. An' the brand's about two days old. Just look at it. Raw yet."

"Same date as its ma's. They done some slick work with a wet blanket on that cow, but the Bar S is plain underneath. Give the cow a month, if she'd lived, an' yuh'd never know but what she was born 88."

"Oh, they're slick, the pups!" exclaimed Johnny Ramsay.

"The Old Man ought to see this. When Old Salt throws his eyes on that brandin' I'll gamble he'll change his views some."

"You bet he will. Better start now."

"All right. Let's get a-goin'."

"One's enough. You go, Tommy. I'll stay an' caper around. I might run onto somethin'. Yuh can't tell."

"I'd kind o' like to have yuh here when I get back."

"Don't worry none. From what I know o' Old Salt you an' him won't be here before to-morrow mornin'! I'll be here then."

"All right. I'll slide instanter. So long, Johnny."

CHAPTER IV

THE SKINNED CATTLE

"This is a devil of a time to haul a man out o' bed," complained Mr. Saltoun, stuffing the tail of his nightshirt into his trousers. "C'mon in the office," he added, grumpily.

Mr. Saltoun, while Loudon talked, never took his eyes from the puncher's face. Incredulity and anger warred in his expression.

"What do you reckon?" the owner inquired in a low tone, when Loudon fell silent.

"Why, it's plain enough," said Loudon, impatiently. "The rustlers were night-drivin' them cows when one of 'em busted her leg. So they shot her, an' the calf got away an' come back after the rustlers had gone on. They must 'a' been night-drivin', 'cause if it had been daytime they'd 'a' rounded up the calf. Night-drivin' shows they were in a hurry to put a heap o' range between themselves an' the Bar S. They were headin' straight for the Fallin' Horse an' the Three Sisters."

"I see all that. I'm still askin' what do you reckon?"

"Meanin'?"

"Who-all's doin' it?"

"I ain't changed my opinion any. If the rustlers don't ride for the 88, then they're related mighty close."

"You can't prove it," denied Mr. Saltoun.

"I know I can't. But it stands to reason that two or three rustlers workin' for themselves wouldn't drift cows west—right across the 88 range. They'd drift 'em north toward Farewell, or south toward the Fryin' Pans. Findin' that cow an' calf on the 88 range is pretty near as strong as findin' a man ridin' off on yore hoss."

"Pretty near ain't quite."

"I ain't sayin' anythin' more."

"You've got a grudge against the 88, Tom. Just because a left-handed sport on a sorrel cuts down on yuh it don't follow that Blakely is the sport. Yuh hadn't ought to think so, Tom. Why, Blakely stayed here the night before yuh started for Pack-saddle. He didn't leave till eight o'clock in the mornin', an' then he headed for the 88. It ain't likely he'd slope over to the creek an' shoot you up. Why, that's plumb foolish, Tom. Blakely's white, an' he's a friend o' mine."

Mr. Saltoun gazed distressedly at Loudon. The puncher stared straight before him, his expression wooden. He had said all that he intended to say.

"Well, Tom," continued the owner, "I don't enjoy losin' cows any more than the next feller. We've got to stop this rustlin' somehow. In the mornin' I'll ride over with yuh an' have a look at that cow. Tell Chuck Morgan I want him to come along. Now you get some sleep, an' forget about the 88. They ain't in on this deal, take my word for it."

It was a silent trio that departed in the pale light of the new day. Chuck Morgan endeavoured to draw Loudon into conversation but gave it up after the first attempt. The heavy silence remained unbroken till they reached the mouth of the wide draw beyond Little Bear Mountain.

"There's a hoss," said Loudon, suddenly.

A quarter of a mile away grazed a saddled pony. Loudon galloped forward.

The animal made no attempt to escape. It stood quietly while Loudon rode up and gathered in the reins dragging between its feet. The full cantenas were in place. The quirt hung on the horn. The rope had not been unstrapped. The slicker was tied behind the cantle. Under the left fender the Winchester was in its scabbard. All on the saddle was as it should be.

"Whose hoss?" inquired Mr. Saltoun, who had followed more slowly.

"Ramsay's," replied the laconic Loudon, and started up the draw at a lope, leading the riderless pony.

Loudon's eyes searched the ground ahead and on both sides. He instinctively felt that some ill had befallen Johnny Ramsay. His intuition was not at fault.

When the three had ridden nearly to the head of the draw, where the trees grew thickly, Loudon saw, at the base of a leaning pine, the crumpled body of Johnny Ramsay.

Loudon dropped from the saddle and ran to his friend. Ramsay lay on his back, his left arm across his chest, his right arm extended, fingers gripping the butt of his six-shooter. His face and neck and left arm were red with blood. His appearance was sufficiently ghastly and death-like, but his flesh was warm.

Respiration was imperceptible, however, and Loudon tore open Ramsay's shirt and pressed his ear above the heart. It was beating, but the beat was pitifully slow and faint.

Loudon set to work. Chuck Morgan was despatched to find water, and Mr. Saltoun found himself taking and obeying orders from one of his own cowpunchers.

An hour later Ramsay, his wounds washed and bandaged, began to mutter, but his words were unintelligible. Within, half an hour he was raving in delirium. Chuck Morgan had departed, bound for the Bar S, and Loudon and Mr. Saltoun sat back on their heels and watched their moaning patient.

"It's a whipsaw whether he'll pull through or not," remarked the bromidic Mr. Saltoun.

"He's got to pull through," declared Loudon, grimly. "He ain't goin' to die. Don't think it for a minute."

"I dunno. He's got three holes in him."

"Two. Neck an' arm, an' the bone ain't touched. That graze on the head ain't nothin'. It looks bad, but it only scraped the skin. His neck's the worst. A half inch over an' he'd 'a' bled to death. Yuh can't rub out Johnny so easy. There's a heap o' life in him."

"His heart's goin' better now," said Mr. Saltoun.

Loudon nodded, his gray eyes fixed on the bandaged head of his friend. Conversation languished, and Mr. Saltoun began to roll and smoke cigarettes. After a time Loudon rose.

"He'll do till the wagon comes," he said. "Let's go over an' take a squint at that cow."

Loudon led Mr. Saltoun to the spot where lay the dead cow. When the puncher came in sight of the dead animal he halted abruptly and observed that he would be damned.

Mr. Saltoun whistled. The cow had been thoroughly skinned. Beside the cow lay the calf, shot through the head. And from the little body every vestige of hide had been stripped.

"I guess that settles the cat-hop," said Mr. Saltoun, and began comprehensively to curse all rustlers and their works.

It was not the skinning that disturbed Mr. Saltoun. It was the sight of his defunct property. The fact that he was losing cows had struck home at last. Inform a man that he is losing property, and he may or may not become concerned, but show him that same property rendered valueless, and he will become very much concerned. Ocular proof is a wonderful galvanizer. Yet, in the case of Mr. Saltoun, it was not quite wonderful enough.

"Oh, they're slick!" exclaimed Loudon, bitterly. "They don't forget nothin'! No wonder Blakely's a manager!"

Mr. Saltoun ceased swearing abruptly.

"Yo're wrong, Tom," he reproved. "The 88's got nothin' to do with it. I know they ain't, an' that's enough. I'm the loser, not you, an' I'm the one to do the howlin'. An' I don't want to hear any more about the 88 or Blakely."

Loudon turned his back on Mr. Saltoun and returned to the wounded man. The cowboy yearned to take his employer by the collar and kick him into a reasonable frame of mind. Such blindness was maddening.

Mr. Saltoun heaped fuel on the fire of Loudon's anger by remarking that the rustlers undoubtedly hailed from the Frying-Pan Mountains. Loudon, writhing internally, was on the point of relieving his pent-up feelings when his eye glimpsed a horseman on the high ground above the draw. The puncher reached for his Winchester, but he laid the rifle down when the rider changed direction and came toward them.

"Block, ain't it?" inquired Mr. Saltoun.

Loudon nodded. His eyes narrowed to slits, his lips set in a straight line. The sheriff rode up and halted, his little eyes shifting from side to side. He spoke to Mr. Saltoun, nodded to Loudon, and then stared at the wounded man.

"Got a rustler, I see," he observed dryly, his lips crinkled in a sneering smile.

"Yuh see wrong—as usual," said Loudon. "Some friend o' yores shot Johnny."

"Friend o' mine? Who?" queried the sheriff, his manner one of mild interest.

"Wish I knew. Thought yuh might be able to tell me. Ain't that what yuh come here for?"

"Ramsay's shot—that's all we know," interposed Mr. Saltoun, hastily. "An' there's a cow an' calf o' mine over yonder. Skinned, both of 'em."

"An' the cow had been branded through a wet blanket," said Loudon, not to be fobbed off. "The Bar S was underneath an' the 88 was on top. Johnny an' me found the dead cow an' the live calf yesterday. I left Johnny here an' rode in to the Bar S. When we got here we found Johnny shot an' the cow an' calf skinned. What do you guess?"

"I don't guess nothin'," replied the sheriff. "But it shore looks as if rustlers had been mighty busy."

"Don't it?" said Loudon with huge sarcasm. "I guess, now——"

"Say, look here, Sheriff," interrupted Mr. Saltoun, anxious to preserve peace, "I ain't makin' no charges against anybody. But this rustlin' has got to stop. I can't afford to lose any more cows. Do somethin'. Yo're sheriff."

"Do somethin'!" exclaimed the Sheriff. "Well, I like that! What can I do? I can't be in forty places at once. Yuh talk like I knowed just where the rustlers hang out."

"Yuh probably do," said Loudon, eyes watchful, his right hand ready.

"Keep out of this, Tom," ordered Mr. Saltoun, turning on Loudon with sharp authority. "I'll say what's to be said."

"Show me the rustlers," said the sheriff, electing to disregard Loudon's outburst. "Show me the rustlers, an' I'll do the rest."

At which remark the seething Loudon could control himself no longer.

"You'll do the rest!" he rapped out in a harsh and grating voice. "I guess yuh will! If yuh was worth a —— yuh'd get 'em without bein' shown! How much do they pay yuh for leavin' 'em alone?"

The sheriff did not remove his hands from the saddle-horn. For Loudon had jerked out his six-shooter, and the long barrel was in line with the third button of the officer's shirt.

"Yuh got the drop," grunted the sheriff, his little eyes venomous, "an' I ain't goin' up agin a sure thing."

"You can gamble yuh ain't. I'd shore admire to blow yuh apart. You git, an' git now."

The sheriff hesitated. Loudon's finger dragged on the trigger. Slowly the sheriff picked up his reins, wheeled his horse, and loped away.

"What did yuh do that for?" demanded Mr. Saltoun, disturbed and angry.

Loudon, his eye-corners puckered, stared at the owner of the Bar S. The cowboy's gaze was curious, speculative, and it greatly lacked respect. Instead of replying to Mr. Saltoun's question, Loudon sheathed his six-shooter, squatted down on his heels and began to roll a cigarette.

"I asked yuh what yuh did that for?" reiterated blundering Mr. Saltoun.

Again Loudon favoured his employer with that curious and speculative stare.

"I'll tell yuh," Loudon said, gently. "I talked to Block because it's about time someone did. He's in with the rustlers—Blakely an' that bunch. If you wasn't blinder'n a flock of bats you'd see it, too."

"You can't talk to me this way!" cried the furious Mr. Saltoun.

"I'm doin' it," observed Loudon, placidly.

"Yo're fired!"

"Not by a jugful I ain't. I quit ten minutes ago."

"You——" began Mr. Saltoun.

"Don't," advised Loudon, his lips parting in a mirthless smile.

Mr. Saltoun didn't. He withdrew to a little distance and sat down. After a time he took out his pocket-knife and began to play mumblety-peg. Mr. Saltoun's emotions had been violently churned. He required time to readjust himself. But with his customary stubbornness he held to the belief that Blakely and the 88 were innocent of evil-doing.

Until Chuck Morgan and the wagon arrived early in the morning, Loudon and his former employer did not exchange a word.

CHAPTER V

THEIR OWN DECEIVINGS

Johnny Ramsay was put to bed in the Bar S ranch house. Kate Saltoun promptly installed herself as nurse. Loudon, paid off by the now regretful Mr. Saltoun, took six hours' sleep and then rode away on Ranger to notify the Cross-in-a-box of Ramsay's wounding.

An angry man was Richie, manager of the Cross-in-a-box, when he heard what Loudon had to say.

The following day Loudon and Richie rode to the Bar S. On Loudon's mentioning that he was riding no longer for the Bar S, Richie immediately hired him. He knew a good man, did Jack Richie of the Cross-in-a-box.

When they arrived at the Bar S they found Johnny Ramsay conscious, but very weak. His weakness was not surprising. He had lost a great deal of blood. He grinned wanly at Loudon and Richie.

"You mustn't stay long," announced Miss Saltoun, firmly, smoothing the bed-covering.

"We won't, ma'am," said Richie. "Who shot yuh, Johnny?"

"I dunno," replied the patient. "I was just a-climbin' aboard my hoss when I heard a shot behind me an' I felt a pain in my neck. I pulled my six-shooter an' whirled, an' I got in one shot at a gent on a hoss. He fired before I did, an' it seems to me there was another shot off to the left. Anyway, the lead got me on the side of the head an' that's all I know."

"Who was the gent on the hoss?" Loudon asked.

"I dunno, Tom. I hadn't more'n whirled when he fired, an' the smoke hid his face. It all come so quick. I fired blind. Yuh see the chunk in my neck kind o' dizzied me, an' that rap on the head comin' on top of it, why, I wouldn't 'a' knowed my own brother ten feet away. I'm all right now. In a couple o' weeks I'll be ridin' the range again."

"Shore yuh will," said Loudon. "An' the sooner the quicker. You've got a good nurse."

"I shore have," smiled Johnny, gazing with adoring eyes at Kate Saltoun.

"That will be about all," remarked Miss Saltoun. "He's talked enough for one day. Get out now, the both of you, and don't fall over anything and make a noise. I'm not going to have my patient disturbed."

Loudon went down to the bunkhouse for his dinner. After the meal, while waiting for Richie, who was lingering with Mr. Saltoun, he strove to obtain a word with Kate. But she informed him that she could not leave her patient.

"See you later," said Miss Saltoun. "You mustn't bother me now."

And she shooed him out and closed the door. Loudon returned to the bunkhouse and sat down on the bench near the kitchen. Soon Jimmy appeared with a pan of potatoes and waxed loquacious as was his habit.

"Who plugged Johnny? That's what I'd like to know," wondered Jimmy. "Here! leave them Hogans be! They're to eat, not to jerk at the windmill. I never seen such a kid as you. Yo're worse than Chuck Morgan, an' he's just a natural-born fool. Oh, all right. I ain't a-goin' to talk to yuh if yuh can't act decent."

Jimmy picked up his pan of potatoes and withdrew with dignity. The grin faded from Loudon's mouth, and he gazed worriedly at the ground between his feet.

What would Kate say to him? Would she be willing to wait? She had certainly encouraged him, but—— Premonitory and unpleasant shivers crawled up and down Loudon's spinal column. Proposing was a strange and novel business with him. He had never done such a thing before. He felt as one feels who is about to step forth into the unknown. For he was earnestly and honestly very much in love. It is only your philanderer who enters upon a proposal with cold judgment and a calm heart.

Half an hour later Loudon saw Kate at the kitchen window. He was up in an instant and hurrying toward the kitchen door. Kate was busy at the stove when he entered. Over her shoulder she flung him a charming smile, stirred the contents of a saucepan a moment longer, then clicked on the cover and faced him.

"Kate," said Loudon, "I'm quittin' the Bar S."

"Quitting? Oh, why?" Miss Saltoun's tone was sweetly regretful.

"Lot o' reasons. I'm ridin' for the Cross-in-a-box now."

He took a step forward and seized her hand. It lay in his, limp, unresponsive. Of which lack of sympathetic warmth he was too absorbed to be conscious.

"Kate," he pursued, "I ain't got nothin' now but my forty a month. But I shore love yuh a lot. Will yuh wait for me till I make enough for the two of us? Look at me, Kate. I won't always be a punch. I'll make money, an' if I know yo're a-waitin' for me, I'll make it all the faster."

According to recognized precedent Kate should have fallen into his arms. But she did nothing of the kind. She disengaged her fingers and drew back a step, ingenuous surprise written large on her countenance. Pure art, of course, and she did it remarkably well.

"Why, Tom," she breathed, "I wasn't expecting this. I didn't dream, I——"

"That's all right," Loudon broke in. "I'm tellin' yuh I love yuh, honey. Will yuh wait for me? Yuh don't have to say yuh love me. I'll take a chance on yore lovin' me later. Just say yuh'll wait, will yuh, honey?"

"Oh, Tom, I can't!"

"Yuh can't! Why not? Don't love anybody else, do yuh?"

"Oh, I can't, Tom," evaded Kate. "I don't think I could ever love you. I like you—oh, a great deal. You're a dear boy, Tommy, but—you can't make yourself love any one."

"Yuh won't have to make yoreself. I'll make yuh love me. Just give me a chance, honey. That's all I want. I'd be good to yuh, Kate, an' I'd spend my time tryin' to make yuh happy. We'd get along. I know we would. Say yes. Give me a chance."

Kate returned to the table and leaned against it, arms at her sides, her hands gripping the table-edge. It was a pose calculated to display her figure to advantage. She had practised it frequently. Kate Saltoun was running true to form.

"Tom," she said, her voice low and appealing, "Tom, I never had any idea you loved me. And I'm awfully sorry I can't love you. Truly, I am. But we can be friends, can't we?"

"Friends! Friends!" The words were like a curse.

"Why not?"

Loudon, head lowered, looked at her under his eyebrows.

"Then it all didn't mean nothin'?" He spoke with an effort.

"All? All what? What do you mean?"

"Yuh know what I mean. You've been awful nice to me. Yuh always acted like yuh enjoyed havin' me around. An' I thought yuh liked me—a little. An' it didn't mean nothin' 'cept we can be friends. Friends!"

Again the word sounded like a curse. Loudon turned his head and stared unseeingly out of the window. He raised his hand and pushed his hair back from his forehead. A great misery was in his heart. Kate, for once in her life swayed by honest impulse, stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm.

"Don't take it so hard, Tom," she begged.

Loudon's eyes slid around and gazed down into her face. Kate was a remarkably handsome girl, but she had never appeared so alluring as she did at that moment.

Loudon stared at the vivid dark eyes, the parted lips, and the tilted chin. Her warm breath fanned his neck. The moment was tense, fraught with possibilities, and—Kate smiled. Even a bloodless cucumber would have been provoked. And Loudon was far from being a cucumber.

His long arms swept out and about her body, and he crushed her gasping against his chest. Once, twice, three times he kissed her mouth, then, his grasp relaxing, she wrenched herself free and staggered back against the table. Panting, hands clenched at her throat, she faced him. Loudon stood swaying, his great frame trembling.

"Kate! Oh, Kate!" he cried, and stretched out his arms.

But Kate groped her dazed way around the table. Physically and mentally, she had been severely shocked. To meet a tornado where one had expected a summer breeze is rather shattering to one's poise. Quite so. Kate suffered. Then, out of the chaos of her emotions, erupted wild anger.

"You! You!" she hissed. "How dare you kiss me! Ugh-h! I could kill you!"

She drew the back of her hand across her mouth and snapped her hand downward with precisely the same snap and jerk that a Mexican bartender employs when he flips the pulque from his fingers.

"Do you know I'm engaged to Sam Blakely? What do you think he'll do when he finds this out? Do you understand? I'm going to marry Sam Blakely!"

This facer cooled Loudon as nothing else could have done. Outwardly, at least, he became calm.

"I didn't understand, but I do now," he said, stooping to recover his hat. "If you'd told me that in the first place it would have saved trouble."

"You'd have been afraid to kiss me then!" she taunted.

"Not afraid," he corrected, gently. "I wouldn't 'a' wanted to. I ain't kissin' another man's girl."

"No, I guess not! The nerve of you! Think I'd marry an ignorant puncher!"

"Yuh shore ain't goin' to marry this one, but yuh are goin' to marry a cow thief!"

"A—a what?"

"A cow thief, a rustler, a sport who ain't particular whose cows he brands."

"You lie!"

"Yuh'll find out in time I'm tellin' the truth. I guess now I know more about Sam Blakely than you do, an' I tell yuh he's a rustler."

"Kate! Oh, Kate!" called a voice outside.

Kate sped through the doorway. Loudon, his lips set in a straight line, followed her quickly. There, not five yards from the kitchen door, Sam Blakely sat his horse. The eyes of the 88 manager went from Kate to Loudon and back to Kate.

"What's the excitement?" inquired Blakely, easily.

Kate levelled her forefinger at Loudon.

"He says," she gulped, "he says you're a rustler."

Blakely's hand swept downward. His six-shooter had barely cleared the edge of the holster when Loudon's gun flashed from the hip, and Blakely's weapon spun through the air and fell ten feet distant.

With a grunt of pain, Blakely, using his left hand, whipped a derringer from under his vest.

Again Loudon fired.

Blakely reeled, the derringer spat harmlessly upward, and then Blakely, as his frightened horse reared and plunged, pitched backward out of the saddle and dropped heavily to the ground. Immediately the horse ran away.

Kate, with a sharp cry, flung herself at the prostrate Blakely.

"You've killed him!" she wailed. "Sam—Sam—speak to me!"

But Sam was past speech. He had struck head first and was consequently senseless.

Come running then Jimmy from the bunkhouse, Chuck Morgan from the corrals, Mr. Saltoun and Richie from the office.

"He's dead! He's dead!" was the burden of Kate's shrill cries.

"Let's see if he is," said the practical Richie, dropping on his knees at Blakely's side. "He didn't tumble like a dead man. Just a shake, ma'am, while I look at him. I can't see nothin' with you a-layin' all over him this-a-way. Yo're gettin' all over blood, too. There, now! She's done fainted. That's right, Salt. You take care of her."

The capable Richie made a rapid examination. He looked up, hands on knees, his white teeth gleaming under his brown moustache.

"He's all right," he said, cheerfully. "Heart's a-tickin' like a alarm-clock. Hole in his shoulder. Missed the bones. Bullet went right on through."

At this juncture Kate recovered consciousness and struggled upright in her father's arms.

"He shot first!" she cried, pointing at Loudon. "He didn't give him a chance!"

"You'll excuse me, ma'am," said Richie, his tone good-humoured, but his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "You'll excuse me for contradictin' yuh, but I happened to be lookin' through the office window an' I seen the whole thing. Sam went after his gun before Tom made a move."

Blakely moved feebly, groaned, and opened his eyes. His gaze fell on Loudon, and his eyes turned venomous.

"You got me," he gritted, his lips drawn back, "but I'll get you when Marvin and Rudd ride in. They've got the proof with 'em, you rustler!"

After which cryptic utterance Blakely closed his mouth tightly and contented himself with glaring. Richie the unconcerned rose to his feet and dusted his knees.

"Take his legs, Chuck," directed Richie. "Gimme a hand, will yuh, Jimmy? Easy now. That's it. Where'll we put him, Salt?"

Mr. Saltoun and his now sobbing daughter followed them into the ranch house. Loudon remained where he was. When the others had disappeared Loudon clicked out the cylinder of his six-shooter, ejected the two spent shells and slipped in fresh cartridges.

"When Marvin an' Rudd ride in," he wondered. "Got the proof with 'em too, huh. It looks as if Blakely was goin' to a lot o' trouble on my account."

Loudon walked swiftly behind the bunkhouse and passed on to the corrals. From the top of the corral fence he intended watching for the coming of Marvin and Rudd. In this business he was somewhat delayed by the discovery of Blakely's horse whickering at the gate of the corral.

"I ain't got nothin' against you," said Loudon, "but yuh shore have queer taste in owners."

Forthwith he stripped off saddle and bridle and turned the animal into the corral. As he closed the gate his glance fell on the dropped saddle. The coiled rope had fallen away from the horn, and there was revealed in the swell-fork a neat round hole. He squatted down more closely at the neat hole.

"That happened lately," he said, fingering the edges of the hole. "I thought so," he added, as an inserted little finger encountered a smooth, slightly concave surface.

He took out his knife and dug industriously. After three minutes' work a somewhat mushroomed forty-five-calibre bullet lay in the palm of his hand.

"O' course Johnny Ramsay ain't the only sport packin' a forty-five," he said, softly. "But Johnny did mention firin' one shot at a party on a hoss. It's possible he hit the swell-fork. Yep, it's a heap possible."

Then Loudon dropped the bullet into a pocket of his chaps and climbed to the top of the corral fence.

A mile distant, on the slope of a swell, two men were riding toward the ranch house. The horsemen were driving before them a cow and a calf. Loudon climbed down and took position behind the mule corral. From this vantage-point he could observe unseen all that might develop.

The riders, Marvin, the 88 range boss, and Rudd, a puncher, passed within forty feet of the mule corral. The cow and the calf walked heavily, as if they had been driven a long distance, and Loudon perceived that they had been newly branded 8x8. The brand was not one that he recognized.

"Crossed Dumbbell or Eight times Eight." he grinned. "Take yore choice. I wonder if that brand's the proof Blakely was talkin' about. Marvin an' Rudd shore do look serious."

He cautiously edged round the corral and halted behind the corner of the bunkhouse. Marvin and Rudd were holding the cow and calf near the ranch house door. The two men lounged in their saddles. Marvin rolled a cigarette. Then in the doorway appeared Mr. Saltoun.

"Howdy, Mr. Saltoun," said Marvin. "Sam got in yet?"

"He's in there," replied Mr. Saltoun, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "He's shot."

"Who done it?"

"Tom Loudon,"

"Where is he?"

"Throw up yore hands!" rapped out the gentleman in question.

Loudon had approached unobserved and was standing some twenty feet in the rear of Marvin and Rudd. At Loudon's sharp command Rudd's hands shot skyward instantly.

"I'm waitin'," cautioned Loudon.

Marvin's fingers slowly uncoiled from the butt of his six-shooter and draggingly he followed his comrade's example.

"Now we can all be happy," remarked Loudon, nodding amiably to the perturbed Mr. Saltoun. "I won't shoot unless they shove me. They can talk just as comfortable with their hands up, an' it'll be a lot safer all round. Was the state o' Sam's health all yuh wanted to know, Marvin? No, don't either of yuh turn 'round. Just keep yore eyes clamped on the windmill. About Sam, now, Marvin. Richie says he'll pull through. Anythin' else?"

"You bet there is!" exploded the furious range-boss. "You —— rustler, you branded a cow an' a calf o' ours yest'day!"

"Shore," agreed Loudon, politely, "an' I held up the Farewell stage, stole thirty-eight horses, an' robbed the Marysville bank the day before. Yuh don't want to forget all them little details, Marvin. It's a shore sign yo're gettin' aged when yuh do. Well, well, a cow an' a calf yuh say. Only the two, huh? It don't look natural somehow. I never brand less'n twenty-four at a clip."

Over the shoulders of the agitated Mr. Saltoun peered the faces of avidly interested Richie, Chuck Morgan, and Jimmy the cook. None of these three allowed a sign of his true feeling to appear on his face.

The two 88 men were red with shame and anger. Their lips moved with wicked words. Arms stretched heavenward, their gaze religiously fixed on the windmill, they presented a ridiculous appearance, and they knew it. Loudon, the dominant figure in the scene, spread his legs and smiled sardonically.

"Go on, Marvin," he said, after a moment, "yo're cussin' a lot, but yuh ain't sayin' nothin'. Let's hear the rest o' that interestin' story o' the 88 cow an' her little daughter."

"You branded the both of 'em," stubbornly reiterated Marvin. "We seen yuh—Sam, Rudd here, an' me, we seen yuh."

"Yuh seen me!" exclaimed Loudon. "Yuh seen me! You was close enough to see me, an' yuh didn't try to stop me! Well, you shore are the poorest liar in the territory."

"If I had my hands down yuh wouldn't call me that!"

"If yuh had yore hands down yuh'd be dead. I'm tryin' to save yore life. C'mon, speak the rest o' yore little piece. Yuh got as far as the brandin'. When did it all happen?"

"Gents," said Marvin, "this sport is a rustler. There ain't no two ways about it. Day before yest'day, just before sundown, over near the Sink, the three of us seen Loudon workin' round a hog-tied cow an' calf. We was three, maybe four miles away. We seen him through field glasses. We hit the ground for the Sink, but when we got there all we found was the cow an' calf, branded as yuh see 'em now. Loudon had sloped."

"Near the Sink," observed Loudon. "In the middle of it?"

"I've quit talkin'," replied Marvin.

Richie stepped past Mr. Saltoun and stood in front of Marvin and Rudd.

"You've done made a right serious charge agin one o' my men," remarked Richie, addressing Marvin. "If he did brand them cattle, he'll be stretched. But it ain't all clear to me yet. This here Crossed Dumbbell brand now—see it on any other cattle besides these two, Marvin?"

"No," said Marvin, shaking his head.

"Well," continued Richie, "why didn't yuh come here right off instead o' waitin' two days?"

"We was busy."

"Didn't go back to the 88 ranch house before comin' here, did yuh?"

"No."

"Or stop at any o' yore line-camps?"

"No, we didn't. We come here soon as we could make it."

"What part o' the Sink was Loudon workin' in?"

"The north side."

"Near the edge, o' course?"

"No, he was nearer the middle."

"Nearer the middle, was he? An' yuh seen him at a distance o' three or four miles. Yuh must have good eyesight, because if you seen Loudon workin' in the middle o' the Sink an' you was standin' where yuh say yuh was, yuh looked through about two miles an' a half o' solid earth. The middle o' the Sink is two hundred feet below the level o' the surrounding country, an' there ain't no high land anywhere near it. Unless yo're standin' right on the edge yuh can't see nothin' in the bottom, an' the Sink is only about a mile from rim to rim. I guess now yo're mistaken, Marvin."

"I ain't none shore he was plumb in the middle," grudgingly admitted Marvin. "Maybe he was kind o' near the north rim. But what's the difference?" he added, brazenly. "We seen him."

"Where are the field glasses?" astutely questioned Richie.

"Left 'em at our Lazy River line-camp," promptly replied Marvin.

"Now ain't that funny, Marvin. Yuh told me not three minutes ago yuh didn't stop at any o' yore line-camps."

"I mean we—I gave 'em to Shorty Simms. He's at the Lazy River line-camp, an' he took 'em there."

"Why did yuh give 'em to Shorty?" persisted Richie.

"Look here, Richie!" blazed Marvin, "this ain't no court, an' I don't have to answer yore questions."

"Yuh'll have to answer plenty of questions," retorted Richie, "before I'll see Loudon stretched."

"I tell yuh he's a rustler!" shouted the mulish Marvin. "He's startin' a herd o' his own, an' he's usin' the Dumbbell brand. We seen him brandin' that stock! That's enough for you or any one else to know, an' I tell yuh flat the 88 is out to stretch Tom Loudon the first chance it gets!"

"Well, o' course, you know best," said Richie, "but I wouldn't do nothin' rash, Marvin. I just wouldn't go off at half-cock if I was you."

"No," chipped in Loudon, briskly. "I wouldn't set my heart on it, Marvin, old hoss. I ain't countin' none on dyin' yet awhile. I've got a heap o' little matters to attend to before I cash, an' yuh can see how hangin' me would disarrange all my plans. Take yore decorated cow an' calf now an' pull yore freight, an' don't look back."

When Marvin and Rudd were gone Richie hooked his thumb in his belt and looked with twinkling eyes at Loudon and the men in the doorway.

"I guess that settles the cat-hop," said Jack Richie.

CHAPTER VI

PESTILENT FELLOWS

Before his departure Loudon visited Blakely.

"Found a bullet-hole in yore saddle," said Loudon without preliminary. "Kind o' looks as if Johnny come near bustin' yore mainspring. I ain't told Johnny—yet. Johnny bein' an impulsive sport he might ventilate yuh plenty first time he met yuh. Johnny's square. He ain't shootin' anybody unless he's pretty near certain the other party is a-layin' for him, an' that bullet I dug out o' yore swell-fork shore makes it look bad for yuh.

"Yuh needn't look so sour. I got good news for yuh. Yo're goin' to marry Kate. Well an' good. I wouldn't enjoy downin' her husband unless I'm crowded. I could 'a' killed yuh a while back, an' I shot wide on purpose. Next time—but don't let there be any next time. Just you keep away from me an' Johnny. I'm leavin' the Lazy River country anyway, but I tell yuh, Sam Blakely, if Johnny Ramsay is bushwhacked by the 88 I'll come back an' get yuh first card out o' the box. Kate's husband or not yuh'll go shoutin' home. Understand?"

"So yo're leavin' this country," bristled Blakely. "Yuh'd better. I'll shoot yuh on sight!"

"Shore yuh feel that way about it?" queried Loudon with suspicious gentleness.

"I say what I mean as a rule. I'll shoot yuh on sight you —— rustler."

"All right. Because o' Kate I was willin' to keep paws off, but if yo're a-honin' to play the hand out, I'll give yuh every chance. You've got to get well complete first. Take three months. That ought to be time enough. Three months from to-day I'll ride in to Farewell. If yo're still feelin' fighty be in town when I hit it."

"I'll be there," Blakely assured him.

When Loudon had bidden Johnny Ramsay good-bye, he went out and mounted Ranger and rode away with Jack Richie.

"I'm goin' away from here, Jack," said Loudon, after Richie had discussed in profane detail the 88's endeavour to discredit him.

"I thought yuh was goin' to work for me?" exclaimed Richie in surprise.

"I was, but somethin's happened since then. I'm kind o' sick o' the Lazy River country. I need a change."

"Well, you know best. But——"

"I know what yo're thinkin'. If I go now the 88 will think I've quit cold. Let 'em think it. I don't care. But I'll be back. I made an appointment with Blakely to meet him in Farewell three months from to-day."

"That's good hearin'. But I'm shore sorry you ain't goin' to ride for me."

"So'm I."

"Stay over to-night anyway. Yuh ain't in any howlin' rush to get away, are yuh?"

"No, I ain't so hurried. I dunno where I'll head—north, maybe."

"If yo're goin' north, why don't yuh try Scotty Mackenzie? He owns the Flyin' M horse ranch over beyond Paradise Bend. There's three or four good cow ranches near the Bend—the Seven Lazy Seven, the Wagon-wheel, the Two Bar, an' the T V U."

"Maybe I will hit the Bend."

"If yuh do," pursued Richie, "yuh might stop an' say howdy at Cap'n Burr's. He married my sister, Burr did, an' all yuh got to do is say yuh know me, an' they'll give yuh the house. I guess, though, yuh know Cap'n Burr yoreself."

"Shore I do. It was the Cap'n who put me on to buyin' Ranger here. He kept tellin' me about this amazin' good cayuse over at the 88, an' finally I went over, liked his looks, an' bought him. The Cap'n was at the 88 the day I took the hoss away. He'd just freighted in a bunch o' stuff Blakely'd ordered. Cap'n Burr does a powerful lot o' business."

"Don't he now. Yuh wouldn't think tin-peddlin' would pay so well. Oh, him an' his little old team o' blues shore glom onto the coin."

When Loudon rode into Farewell on the following day he saw half-a-dozen 88 cow-ponies hitched to the rail in front of the Palace Saloon.

"Now that's cheerful," said Loudon. "For a peaceable feller I shore do tie in with trouble a heap."

He turned aside at the hotel and tapped the landlord awake. At sight of Loudon Bill Lainey's eyes opened to their fullest extent and his red face turned purple with excitement.

"Say," huskily whispered Lainey, "Shorty Simms, Rudd, Dakota Riley, an' three more o' the 88 boys are in town. They're tankin' up down in the Palace. Rudd's yowlin' round how he's goin' to drill yuh. He's a heap peevish, Rudd is. I guess now yuh must 'a' riled him somehow, Tom."

"I guess maybe I did, Bill. I'll take a little walk down to the Palace after I eat. Thanks for the warnin'. Feed the little hoss, will yuh, Bill?"

"Shore. Go on in an' holler for Lize."

While Loudon was eating, a wiry, brisk little man with a white beard entered the dining room.

"How are yuh, Cap'n?" grinned Loudon.

Captain Burr, surprise and embarrassment in his steel-blue eyes, advanced and gripped Loudon's hand.

"Loudon! By ——, suh!" he exclaimed. "This is indeed a pleasuh!"

The tin-peddler slid into a chair and cleared his throat several times.

"I feah, suh," he said, shamefacedly, "that I have trespassed on youah prese'ves. Had I known that you were in town I would have stayed my hand."

"Why? What?" queried Loudon.

"Well, suh, I'll tell you the whole story. It's sho't. Twenty minutes ago I ente'ed the Palace Saloon. While drinking at the bah I could not help but overheah the conve'sation of half-a-dozen 88 cowboys. One of them, a man named Rudd, mentioned youah name and called you a rustlah.

"You, Tom, are my friend, and, since I was unaware that you were in town, I felt that I could not stand idly by. I info'med this Rudd person that traducing the absent was not the act of a gentleman. I also called him a —— scoundrel and a liah to boot. He took exception to my wo'ds and, I was fo'ced to shoot him.

"You unde'stand, Tom, that I acted in complete good faith. I believed you to be at the Bah S. Otherwise, I should have repo'ted the mattah to you. Of co'se, I would have stood at youah back while you shot the rascal. His ruffianly friends ah not to be trusted."

"Don't apologize, Cap'n," said Loudon, and he reached across the table and shook hands again.

Captain Burr appeared to be greatly comforted at Loudon's ready acceptance of his explanation, and he attacked his beef and beans with appetite.

The captain was a good deal of a mystery to the folk with whom he came in contact. His mode of speech and his table manners were not those of ordinary men. But he was a man, with all that the name implies, and as such they had learned to accept him. I employ "learned" advisedly. Certain unthinking individuals had, when the captain was a comparative stranger in that region, commented upon his traits and received a prompt and thorough chastening.

Captain Burr gained thereby an enviable reputation. In reality there was no mystery attached to the old tin-peddler. He had simply been born a gentleman.

"Did Rudd die?" inquired Loudon in a tone of studied casualness, when he had finished his meal.

"He did not," replied the Captain. "Unless blood-poisoning sets in he will live to be hung. My bullet broke his ahm. He rode away with his comrades five minutes lateh. No doubt he was in some pain, but the rogue was suffering much less than he dese'ved. I realize that I should have killed him, of co'se, but as I grow oldeh I find myself becoming soft-heahted. Time was—but one must not dwell in the past. These beans ah excellent, Tom."

"They are. Pullin' out soon?"

"At once. I'm bound no'th. I intend to visit all the ranches between heah and Paradise Bend. I hope to be home in two weeks. Ah you travelling my way?"

"Yep. I guess I'm bound for the Bend, too."

"Then I will ask you to deliveh a letteh to my wife. I missed the Bend stage by two houahs to-day, and theah is no otheh fo' three days."

Loudon took the letter and placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his vest.

While Captain Burr was harnessing his team, a job in which the tin-peddler always refused assistance, Loudon rode down the street with the intention of buying tobacco at the Blue Pigeon Store. In front of the Happy Heart Saloon, opposite the Palace Dance Hall, stood Sheriff Block and five citizens.

As Loudon rode past the sheriff made a low-voiced remark and laughed loudly. Instantly the five citizens burst into cackles. For Block, besides being sheriff, owned both the Palace and the Happy Heart. Hence most of Farewell's inhabitants took their cue from him.

The cachination in front of the Happy Heart grated on Loudon's feelings as well as his ear-drums. He knew that the sheriff, kindly soul, was holding him up to ridicule. Kate's refusal of him had made Loudon somewhat reckless. He had intended having it out with Rudd, but Captain Burr had forestalled him there. Here, however, was the sheriff of the county, another enemy. Loudon turned his horse.

Promptly the five friends oozed in various directions. Sheriff Block, a lonely figure, held his ground.

"I hear yo're lookin' for me," announced Loudon, a laughing devil in his gray eyes.

"Who told yuh?" queried the sheriff, puzzled. He had expected something totally different.

"Who told me? Oh, several little birds. So I want to find out about it. I wouldn't like to put yuh to any trouble—such as huntin' me up, for instance."

"That's good o' yuh. But I ain't lookin' for yuh, not yet."

"I'm right glad to hear that. Them little birds must 'a' lied. Powerful lot o' lyin' goin' on in the world, ain't there?"

"I dunno nothin' about it," mumbled the sheriff, who was becoming more and more puzzled at the apparently aimless words of the puncher.

"Don't yuh?" grinned Loudon. "That's shore hard to believe."

The sheriff warily refused to take offence, and mumbled unintelligibly.

"Forget that afternoon in the draw west o' Little Bear Mountain?" relentlessly pursued Loudon. "We had some words—remember? Yuh said somethin' about me havin' the drop. I ain't got the drop now. My hands are on the horn. Yore's are hooked in yore belt. But I'll lay yuh two to one I bust yuh plumb centre before yuh can pull. Take me up?"

Loudon's lips were smiling, but his eyes stared with a disconcerting gray chilliness into the small black eyes of Sheriff Block. The officer's eyelids wavered, winked, and Block shifted his gaze to Loudon's chin.

"I ain't startin' no gun-play for nothin'," said Block with finality.

Loudon held up a ten-dollar gold piece.

"Two to one," he urged.

But the sheriff perceived that the hand holding the gold piece was Loudon's left hand, and he could not quite screw his courage to the sticking-point. Block was ordinarily brave enough, but he was bad, and as a rule there is at least one individual whom the bad man fears. And Block feared Loudon.

The sheriff's mean and vicious spirit writhed within him. He hated Loudon, hated him for his cocksureness, for his easy fearlessness. He would have sold his soul to the devil in return for the ability to reach for his gun. The sheriff licked his lips.

Loudon, still smiling, continued to hold aloft the gold piece. The onlookers—half of Farewell by this time—awaited the outcome in tense silence.

Suddenly the sheriff shook his shoulders, spat on the sidewalk, wheeled, and entered the Happy Heart.

Loudon flipped the gold piece into the air, caught it, and returned it to his vest-pocket. Without a glance at the keenly disappointed populace, he turned Ranger and loped to the Blue Pigeon Store.

When he emerged, followed by the bawled "Good lucks!" of the proprietor, Captain Burr was waiting. The tin-peddler's face was grave but his steel-blue eyes were twinkling with suppressed merriment.

"Well, suh——" chuckled the captain, when they were out of earshot of the Farewell citizens—"well, suh, you ce'tainly talked to that sheriff. Lord, Tom, it made me laugh. I didn't know that Block was so lacking in honah and spo'ting spirit. I fully expected to witness quite a ruction."

"I wasn't lookin' for a fight," disclaimed Loudon. "I knowed Block wouldn't pull. It was safe as takin' pie from a baby."

"I'm not so shuah," doubted Captain Burr. "Any reptile is mighty unce'tain. And this reptile had friends. I was watching them. My Spenceh seven-shooteh was ready fo' action. You Rob'et E. Lee hoss, pick up youah feet! Well, I'm glad it ended peacefully. My wife and daughteh, as I may have mentioned, do not approve of fighting. They cannot realize how necessa'y it becomes at times. It would be well, I think, when you reach the Bend, to refrain from mentioning my little disagreement with Rudd. My family might heah of it, and—but you unde'stand, don't you, Tom?"

"'Course, I do, Cap'n," heartily concurred Loudon. "I won't say a word."

"Thank you."

Captain Burr fell silent. Suddenly he began to laugh.

"Po' Farewell," he chuckled. "Theah will be some powdeh bu'nt befo' the day is out."

"How?"

"Block. His pride has had a fall. Quite a few saw the tumble. An o'dina'y man would tuck his tail between his legs and go elsewheah. But the sheriff is not an o'dina'y man. He's too mean. In order to reinstate himself in the affections of the townspeople he will feel compelled to shoot one of them. Mahk my wo'ds, theah will be trouble in the smoke fo' Farewell."

"It can stand it. Outside o' Mike Flynn, an' Bill Lainey an' his wife, there ain't a decent two-legged party in the whole place."

Captain Burr nodded and turned an appreciative eye on Ranger.

"That chestnut hoss ce'tainly does please me," he said. "I wish I'd bought him myself. I do indeed."

CHAPTER VII

PARADISE BEND

Where the Dogsoldier River doubles on itself between Baldy Mountain and the Government Hills sprawls the little town of Paradise Bend. Larger than Farewell, it boasted of two stores, a Wells Fargo office, two dance halls, and five saloons. The inevitable picket line of empty bottles and tin cans encircled it, and its main street and three cross streets were made unlovely by the familiar false fronts and waveringly misspelt signs.

Loudon stared at the prospect with a pessimistic eye. Solitude—he had parted with Captain Burr the previous day—and the introspection engendered thereby had rendered him gloomy. The sulky devil that had prompted him to seek a quarrel with Sheriff Block abode with him still. Sullenly he checked his horse in front of the Chicago Store.

"Mornin'," said Loudon, addressing a dilapidated ancient sitting on a cracker box. "Can yuh tell me where Cap'n Burr lives?"

"Howdy, stranger?" replied the elderly person, eying with extreme disfavour the 88 brand on Ranger's hip. "I shore can. Ride on down past the Three Card, turn to the left, an' keep a-goin'. It's the last house."

Loudon nodded and continued on his way. The ancient followed him with alert eyes.

When Loudon drew abreast of the Three Card Saloon a man issued from the doorway, glimpsed Ranger's brand, and immediately hastened into the street and greeted Loudon after the fashion of an old friend.

"C'mon an' licker," invited the man, as Loudon checked his horse.

"Now that's what I call meetin' yuh with a brass band," remarked Loudon. "Do yuh always make a stranger to home this-away?"

"Always," grinned the other. "I'm the reception committee."

"I'm trailin' yuh," said Loudon, dismounting.

He flung the reins over Ranger's head and followed the cordial individual into the saloon. While they stood at the bar Loudon took stock of the other man.

He was a good-looking young fellow, strong-chinned, straight-mouthed, with brown hair and eyes. His expression was winning, too winning, and there was a certain knowing look in his eye that did not appeal to Loudon. The latter drank his whisky slowly, his brain busily searching for the key to the other man's conduct.

"Gambler, I guess," he concluded. "I must look like ready money. Here's where one tinhorn gets fooled."

After commenting at some length on the extraordinary dryness of the season, Loudon's bottle-acquaintance, under cover of the loud-voiced conversation of three punchers at the other end of the bar, said in a low tone:

"Couldn't Sam come?"

Loudon stared. The other noted his mystification, and mistook it.

"I'm Pete O'Leary," he continued. "It's all right."

"Shore it is," conceded the puzzled Loudon. "My name's Loudon. Have another."

The knowing look in Pete O'Leary's eyes was displaced by one of distrust. He drank abstractedly, mumbled an excuse about having to see a man, and departed.

Loudon bought half-a-dozen cigars, stuffed five into the pocket of his shirt, lit the sixth, and went out to his horse. Puffing strongly, he mounted and turned into the street designated by the dilapidated ancient. As he loped past the corner he glanced over his shoulder. He noted that not only was Pete O'Leary watching him from the window of a dance hall, but that the tattered old person, leaning against a hitching rail, was observing him also.

"I might be a hoss-thief or somethin'," muttered Loudon with a frown. "This shore is a queer village o' prairie dogs. The cigar's good, anyway." Then, his horse having covered a hundred yards in the interval, he quoted, "'Couldn't Sam come?' an', 'I'm Pete O'Leary.' Sam, Sam, who's Sam? Now if Johnny Ramsay was here he'd have it all figured out in no time."

"Why, Mr. Loudon! Oh, wait! Do wait!"

Loudon turned his head. In the doorway of a house stood a plump young woman waving a frantic dish-cloth. Ranger, hard held, slid to a halt, turned on a nickel, and shot back to the beckoning young woman.

"Well, ma'am," said Loudon, removing his hat.

"Don't you remember me?" coquettishly pouted the plump lady.

Loudon remembered her perfectly. She was Mrs. Mace, wife of Jim Mace, a citizen of Paradise Bend. He had met her the year before when she was visiting Kate Saltoun at the Bar S. He had not once thought of Mrs. Mace since her departure from the ranch, and of course he had completely forgotten that she lived in Paradise Bend. If he had recalled the fact, he would have sought the Burrs' residence by some other route. One of Kate's friends was the last person on earth he cared to meet.

"Shore, I remember yuh, Mrs. Mace," said Loudon, gravely. "I'm right glad to see yuh," he added, heavily polite.

"Are you?" said the lady somewhat sharply. "Try to look happy then. I ain't a grizzly, an' I don't bite folks. I won't stop you more'n a second."

"Why, ma'am, I am glad to see yuh," protested Loudon, "an' I ain't in no hurry, honest."

"That's all right. I ain't offended. Say, how's Kate an' her pa?"

"Fine when I saw 'em last. Kate's as pretty as ever."

"She ought to be. She ain't married. Matrimony shore does rough up a woman's figure an' face. Lord, I'm a good thirty pounds heavier than I was when I saw you last. Say, do you know if Kate got that dress pattern I sent her last month?"

"I dunno, ma'am. I didn't hear her say."

"I s'pose not. I guess you two had more important things to talk about. Say, how are you an' Kate gettin' along, anyway?"

"Why, all right, I guess."

Loudon felt extremely unhappy. Mrs. Mace's keen gaze was embarrassing. So was her next utterance.

"Well, I guess I'll write to Kate," remarked the lady, "an' find out about that dress pattern. She always was a poor writer, but she'd ought to have sent me a thank-you anyway, an' me her best friend. I'll tell her I saw yuh, Mr. Loudon."

"Don't tell her on my account," said Loudon. Then, realizing his mistake, he continued hurriedly, "Shore, tell her. She'd enjoy hearin', o' course."

"Don't tell me you two haven't been quarrellin'," chided Mrs. Mace, shaking a fat forefinger at Loudon. "You'd ought to be ashamed of yourselves, rowin' this way."

"Why, ma'am, yo're mistaken. Me quarrel? I guess not! But I got to be goin'. Good-bye, ma'am. I'll see yuh again."

Loudon, raging, loped away. Meeting one of Kate's friends was bad enough in itself. For the friend wantonly to flick him on the raw was intolerable.

Loudon began to believe that women were put into the world for the purpose of annoying men. But when he had dismounted in front of the best house on the street, and the door had been opened in response to his knock, he changed his mind, for a brown-haired young girl with a very pleasant smile was looking at him inquiringly.

"Is this where Captain Burr lives?" queried Loudon.

"Yes," replied the girl, her smile broadening.

"Then here's a letter for Mis' Burr. The Cap'n asked me to bring it up for him."

"A letter for me?" exclaimed a sharp voice, and the speaker, a tall, angular, harsh-featured woman, appeared at the girl's side with the suddenness of a Jack-in-the-box. "From Benjamin?" continued the harsh-featured woman, uttering her words with the rapidity of a machine-gun's fire. "How is he? When d'you see him last? When's he comin' home?"

"Heavens, Ma!" laughed the girl, before Loudon could make any reply. "Give the poor man a chance to breathe."

"You got to excuse me, stranger," said Mrs. Burr. "But I'm always so worried about Benjamin when he's travellin'. He's so venturesome. But come in, stranger. Come in an' rest yore hat. Dinner's 'most ready."

"Why, thank yuh, ma'am," stuttered the embarrassed Loudon. "But I guess I'll go to the hotel."

"I guess yuh won't!" snapped Mrs. Burr. "I never let one o' my husband's friends 'cept Scotty Mackenzie eat at the hotel yet, an' I ain't goin' to begin now. You'll just come right inside an' tell me all about Benjamin while yo're eatin'. That your hoss? Well, the corral's behind the house. Dorothy, you go with the gentleman an' see that he don't stampede."

Loudon, brick-red beneath his tan, seized Ranger's bridle and followed Miss Burr to the corral. While he was unsaddling he looked up and caught her eying him amusedly. He grinned and she laughed outright.

"I'm glad you didn't stampede," she said, her brown eyes twinkling. "Mother would have been heart-broken if you had. Whenever any of Dad's friends are in town they never think of eating at the hotel—except Scotty Mackenzie. Scotty stubbornly refuses to dine with us. He says mother's cooking takes away his appetite for what he calls ranch grub. Mother is really a wonderful cook. You'll see."

In this manner was the ice broken, and Loudon's sullen gloom had gone from him by the time he entered the Burr kitchen. On the Turkey-red tablecloth a broiled steak, surrounded by roasted potatoes, reposed on a platter. Flanking the platter were a bowl of peas and a large dish of sliced beets adrip with butter sauce. Loudon's eyes opened wide in amazement. Never in all his life had he beheld such an appetizing array of edibles.

"Looks good, don't it?" beamed Mrs. Burr.

It was wonderful how her smile transformed her forbidding features. To Loudon she appeared as a benevolent angel. He could only nod dumbly.

"Set now, an' don't be afraid o' the victuals," continued Mrs. Burr, filling the coffee-cups. "It all has to be et, an' I shore do hate to chuck out good grub. Lord, it makes me feel fine to cook for a man again! What did you say yore name is, Mister? ... Loudon, o' course; I never can catch a name the first time. I always got to hear it twice. Dorothy, you reach over an' dish out them peas an' beets. Take that piece of steak next the bone, Mister Loudon. Like gravy on yore 'taters? Most do. My man does, special. Here's a spoon. Dorothy, pass the bread."

Everything tasted even better than it looked. Loudon ate a second piece of dried-apple pie, and had a fourth cup of coffee to top off with. To the puncher it had been a marvellous dinner. No wonder Scotty Mackenzie demurred at dining with the Burrs. After one such meal sowbelly and Miners Delights would be as bootsole and buckshot.

"You can smoke right here," said Mrs. Burr, after Loudon had refused a fifth cup of coffee. "Shove yore chair back agin' the wall, hook up yore feet, an' be happy while Dorothy an' I wash the dishes. I like to see a man comfortable, I do. So you know my brother. Well, well, ain't the world a small place? How're Jack an' the Cross-in-a-box makin' out? He never thinks to write, Jack Richie don't, the lazy rapscallion. Wait till I set eyes on him. I'll tell him a thing or two."

Loudon, in no haste to find Scotty Mackenzie, was smoking his fifth cigarette when the dilapidated ancient of the cracker box stuck his head in the door.

"Howdy, Mis' Burr?" said the ancient. "Howdy, Dorothy?"

"'Lo, Scotty," chorused the two women. "Let me make yuh acquainted with Mr. Loudon, Scotty," continued Mrs. Burr. "Mr. Loudon, shake hands with Mr. Mackenzie."

Loudon gripped hands with the ragged ancient. In the latter's bright blue eyes was no friendliness.

He acknowledged the introduction with careful politeness, and sat down on a chair in a corner. Having deftly rolled a cigarette, he flipped the match through the doorway, tilted back his chair, remarked that the weather was powerful dry, and relapsed into silence. He took no further part in the conversation.

At the end of the kitchen, between the windows, hung a small mirror. Loudon, idly watching the two women as they moved about resetting the table, happened to glance at the mirror. In it he saw reflected the face of Scotty Mackenzie.

The features were twisted into an almost demoniac expression of hate. Slowly Loudon turned his head. Mackenzie, his eyes on the floor, was smoking, his expression one of serene well-being.

"He don't like me any," decided Loudon, and pondered the advisability of asking Mackenzie for a job.

It was not Mackenzie's lack of friendliness that gave Loudon pause. It was the man's appearance. Even for the West, where attire does not make the man, Mackenzie had not an inspiring presence. His trousers showed several patches and a rip or two. His vest was in a worse state than his trousers. His blue flannel shirt had turned green in spots, and the left sleeve had once belonged to a red flannel undershirt. Two holes yawned in the corner of his floppy-brimmed hat, and his boots, run over at the heels, would have shamed a tramp.

That this economically garbed individual could prove a good employer seemed doubtful. Yet he had been recommended by Jack Richie.

Mackenzie suddenly mumbled that he guessed he'd better be going, and rose to his feet. Loudon followed him into the street. Mackenzie halted and half-turned as Loudon caught up with him. Loudon noted that the ancient's hand was closer to his gun-butt than politeness and the circumstances warranted.

"Hirin' any men?" inquired Loudon.

"I might," replied Mackenzie, the pupils of his blue eyes shrunk to pin-points. "Who, for instance?"

"Me for one."

Mackenzie continued to stare. Loudon, who never lowered his eyes to any man, steadily returned the ancient's gaze.

"Yo're hired," said Mackenzie, suddenly. "Git yore hoss. I'll meet yuh at the corner o' Main Street."

Mackenzie walked rapidly away, and Loudon returned to the house of the Burrs. He took his leave of the two engaging women, the elder of whom pressed him repeatedly to come again, and went out to the corral.

While Loudon awaited his employer's arrival at the corner of Main Street he saw Pete O'Leary emerge from the doorway of the Three Card Saloon and walk toward him. But the young man of the knowing brown eye did not cross the street. He nodded to Loudon and swung round the corner.

The Lazy River man shifted sidewise in the saddle and followed him with his eyes. Pete O'Leary interested Loudon. Folk that are mysterious will bear watching, and O'Leary's manner during his conversation with Loudon had been perplexingly vague.

"Now I wonder where that nice-lookin' young fellah is goin'?" debated Loudon. "Burrs', for a plugged nickel! Yep, there he goes in the door. Well, Mis' Burr ain't a fool, but if I owned a good-lookin' daughter, that Pete O'Leary ain't just the right brand o' party I'd want should come a-skirmishin' round."

Loudon's mental soliloquy was cut short by the arrival of Mackenzie. The ancient's appalling disregard for his personal appearance did not extend to his mount and saddlery. His horse was a handsome bay. The saddle he sat in was a Billings swell-fork tree, with a silver horn, silver conchas, carved leather skirts and cantle, and snowflake leather strings. The bridle was a split-ear, with a nose-band even more marvellously carved than the saddle, and it sported a blue steel bit, silver inlaid, and eighteen-inch rein-chains. The most exacting dandy in cowland could not have obtained better equipment.

Beyond a momentless sentence or two Mackenzie said nothing as he and his new hand rode out into the valley of the Dogsoldier. He maintained his silence till Loudon, muttering that his cinches required tightening, checked Ranger and dismounted.

"Throw up yore hands!" was the harsh order that fell on Loudon's astonished ears.

Hands above his head, Loudon turned slowly and stared into the muzzle of a well-kept six-shooter. Behind the gun gleamed the frosty blue eyes of Scotty Mackenzie.

"Got anythin' to say before I leave yuh?" inquired Mackenzie.

"That depends on how yuh leave me," countered Loudon. "If yo're just aimin' to say, 'So long,' yuh can't go too quick. Yo're a mite too abrupt to suit me. But if yore intention is hostile, then I got a whole lot to say."

"Hostile it is, young feller. Trot out yore speech."

"That's handsome enough for a dog. First, I'd shore admire to know why yo're hostile."

"You know."

"I don't yet," denied Loudon.

Scotty Mackenzie stared woodenly. His features betrayed no hint of his purpose. He might have been gazing at a cow or a calf or the kitchen stove. Nevertheless Loudon realized that the amazing old man was within a whisper of pulling trigger.

"Yuh see," observed Loudon, forcing his lips to smile pleasantly, "it ain't the goin' away I mind so much—it's the not knowin' why. I get off to fix cinches, an' yuh throw down on me. I ain't done nothin' to yuh—I ain't never seen yuh before, an' I don't believe I've ever met up with any o' yore relations, so——"

"Yo're from the 88," interrupted Mackenzie. "That's enough!"

"Bein' from the 88," said Loudon, "is shore a bad recommend for any man. But it just happens I'm from the Bar S. I never have rode for the 88, an' I don't think I ever will."

"What are yuh doin' with a 88 hoss?" pursued the unrelenting Mackenzie.

"88 hoss? Why, that little hoss is my hoss. I bought him from the 88."

"The brand ain't vented."

"I know it ain't. At the time I bought him I didn't expect to have to tell the story o' my life to every old bushwhacker in the territory, or I shore would 'a' had that brand vented."

The six-shooter in Mackenzie's hand remained steady. In his chill blue eyes was no flicker of indecision. Loudon was still smiling, but he felt that his end was near.

"Say," said Loudon, "when you've done left me, I wish yuh'd send my hoss an' saddle to Johnny Ramsay o' the Cross in-a-box. Johnny's at the Bar S now—got a few holes in him. But you send the hoss to Jack Richie an' tell him to keep him for Johnny till he comes back. Don't mind doin' that, do yuh? Ain't aimin' to keep the cayuse, are yuh?"

"Do you know Johnny Ramsay?" queried Mackenzie.

"Ought to. Johnny an' me've been friends for years."

"Know Jack Richie?"

"Know him 'most as well as I do Johnny. An' I know Cap'n Burr, too. Didn't yuh see me there at his house?"

"The Cap'n knows lots o' folks, an' it ain't hard to scrape acquaintance with a couple o' soft-hearted women."

"I brought up a letter from Cap'n Burr to his wife. You ask her."

"Oh, shore. Yuh might 'a' carried a letter an' still be what I take yuh for.'"

"Now we're back where we started. What do yuh take me for?"

Mackenzie made no reply. Again there fell between the two men that spirit-breaking silence. It endured a full five minutes, to be broken finally by Mackenzie.

"Git aboard yore hoss," said the ranch-owner. "An' don't go after no gun."

"I'd rather draw what's comin' to me on the ground," objected Loudon. "It ain't so far to fall."

"Ain't nothin' comin' to yuh yet. Git aboard, go on to the ranch, an' tell my foreman, Doubleday, I sent yuh, an' that I won't be back yet awhile."

"I ain't so shore I want to work for yuh now."

"There ain't no two ways about it. You'll either give me yore word to go on to the ranch an' stay there till I come, or yuh'll stay right here. After I come back yuh can quit if yuh like."

"That's a harp with another tune entirely. I'll go yuh."

Loudon turned to his horse and swung into the saddle.

"Keep a-goin' along this trail," directed Mackenzie, his six-shooter still covering Loudon. "It's about eight mile to the ranch."

Loudon did not look back as he rode away.

CHAPTER VIII

THE AMAZING MACKENZIE

Doubleday, a squat man with a sharp nose and a sharper eye, evinced no surprise at his employer's message. He merely swore resignedly on learning that Mackenzie had not sent in the mail by Loudon, and in the same breath thanked his Maker that a new man had arrived.

The advent of Loudon was most opportune, according to Doubleday. For, one "Lanky" having taken a wife and removed to the Sweet River Agency, the Flying M was a man short.

"Turn yore hoss into the big corral," said Doubleday, when he had sufficiently condemned the foolishness of Lanky, "an' take yore saddle over to the bunkhouse. There's three empty bunks. Help yoreself. Then c'mon over to the little corral an' bring yore rope. Got an outlaw stallion with a cut hind leg, an' it's a two-man job."

Loudon found favour in the eyes of Doubleday. The former Bar S puncher did his work easily and well. He proved a better roper than Doubleday, and he was the equal in horsemanship of "Telescope" Laguerre, the half-breed buster.

With Laguerre, Loudon struck up an instant friendship. Telescope—which name was the natural transformation undergone by Telesphore in a Western climate—was a long lean man, with the straight black hair and the swarthy complexion of his Indian mother and the mobile features and facile speech and gestures of his French father. When Loudon had been at the Flying M three days Telescope suggested that they ride to town in the evening.

"We weel go to de dance hall," said Laguerre. "Fine woman dere. We weel dance a leetle, we weel dreenk de w'iskey, un we weel have de good tam. By gar, I not been to town for two mont. Wat your say, Tom?"

"I'd shore enjoy goin' along, Telescope, but I can't," replied Loudon, mindful of his promise to Scotty Mackenzie.

"Dat ees all right," said the large-hearted half-breed. "She ees my treat. I have more as one hundred dollar, un by gar! I wan' for to spen' eet. You are my frien'. You help me for spen' eet. We weel burn up de dance hall."

"Oh, I'm not broke," said Loudon. "I'll go with yuh another time."

Laguerre, being wise in his generation, forbore to insist, and rode to town alone. The cook predicted a three-day orgy.

"Rats!" said Doubleday. "Yuh don't know Telescope. He never gets drunk. He can't. He sops it up an' he sops it up, an' it don't bother him a mite. Wish I had his gift. Why, I've seen him tuck away a quart o' killer inside o' three hours, an' then hop out with his rope an' fasten on a hoss any leg you tell him. He's a walkin' miracle, Telescope is, an' he'll be back in the mornin'."

Loudon, oiling his saddle in front of the bunkhouse, glanced casually at the cook standing in the doorway, and wondered for the twentieth time where he had seen the man before. On his arrival at the Flying M, Loudon had sensed that, in a vague way, the cook's face was familiar. First impressions had taken no concrete form. He could not remember where or under what circumstances he had seen the cook. But that he had seen him, he was certain.

The cook's name was Rufe Cutting. Which name, however, was not enlightening. Idly speculating, Loudon went on with his work. The cook returned to the kitchen.

Laguerre bore out the statement of Doubleday. He returned while the men were saddling in the morning. He did not appear in the least degree wearied. Hurriedly changing his saddle to a fresh horse, he rode away with Loudon.

"By gar!" exclaimed Laguerre. "I have de fine tam. I dance, I dreenk de w'iskey, un I play de pokair wit' Pete O'Leary un two odder men un I tak' deir money. I ween feefty dollar. By gar! I am glad I go to town, me."

"Yuh shore ought to be," said Loudon. "Fifty dollars. That's right good hearin'."

"Pete O'Leary she wan' for know 'bout you," continued Laguerre.

"Pete O'Leary asked about me! What did he say, huh?"

"Oh, she not say eet plain. She walk een de watair. But I have been de scout; I have leeve wit Enjun; I know w'at ees een ees head. She talk 'bout Lanky quittin' de Flyin' M, un she wan' for know have Scotty hired new man. She say she see Scotty ride out wit' you, un she know you name. But I not say much. I tell Pete O'Leary to ask Scotty 'bout hees business, un I not say eef you work for de Flyin' M or not. For I tink mabbeso Pete O'Leary she ees not frien' to you."

"Well, he ain't strictly hostyle anyway," said Loudon, and he forthwith told Laguerre of his meeting with Pete O'Leary and of the latter's strange actions.

"Dat ees varree fonny," commented Laguerre. "Pete O'Leary she was expectin' de frien' or de message mabbee. But dat ees not so fonny as hees askin' 'bout you so moch. She worry 'bout you, un dat ees fonny. Why she worry eef she hones' man? I tell you, my frien', I do not trus' dat Pete O'Leary. I would watch heem. I would watch heem varree sharp."

"Oh, I don't believe it means anythin'," doubted Loudon. "But I'll keep an eye skinned for him."

"You better, my frien', or mabbeso some tam she skeen you."

A week later Mackenzie returned. That evening, after supper, Doubleday told Loudon that Scotty wanted to see him. Mackenzie, chair tilted, feet propped on the table, his hands clasped behind his head, was staring up at the ceiling when Loudon entered the office. The chair descended on four legs with a crash, and the ancient arose briskly.

"Stranger," said Mackenzie, his blue eyes no longer frosty, "I was mistaken. Yo're a gent an' a white man, an' I ain't holdin' out nothin'. Shake."

Loudon grinned and shook hands. He was satisfied with the other's apology.

"That's all right," said the puncher. "I knowed yuh mistook me for somebody else. But I'd shore admire to know, if it ain't private, who yuh thought I was."

"I don't mind tellin' yuh. I ain't ever talked about it much. Dunno why. No reason why I shouldn't. Sit down, Loudon, an' I'll tell yuh. When I first seen yuh there in Main Street that 88 brand on yore hoss made me suspicious.

"Sam Blakely o' the 88 an' me ain't friends. We had a run-in some eight years ago over at Virginia City, an' I kind o' left Sam the worse for wear. I heard later how Sam was yellin' 'round that he'd get even. Knowin' Sam, I believed it. An' when I seen you ridin' a 88 hoss, I says to myself, 'Here's Sam done gone an' hired a party to do the gettin' even.' When yuh wanted to ride for me, I was shore of it.

"So when you got down to fix yore cinches I expected to be plugged the next second, an' I throwed down on yuh. Yore askin' me to send yore hoss an' saddle to Johnny Ramsay was what stopped me. I knowed if Johnny was a friend o' yores you was all right. So I sent yuh on, an' I trailed yuh clear to the ranch. If you'd turned back I'd 'a' downed yuh. But yuh didn't turn back.

"Well, after I seen yuh talkin' to Doubleday—— Shore; yuh know that little hill about half-a-mile south? I was on top of it with a pair of field glasses—after I seen yuh talkin' to Doubleday, I moseyed south again to the Cross-in-a-box."

"Two hundred miles!" exclaimed Loudon.

"About that," said Mackenzie, easily, quite as if a four-hundred-mile ride in ten days were an afternoon jaunt. "Yuh see, I wanted to talk to Jack Richie. Didn't want to go to the Bar S if I could help it. Me an' Saltoun never did pull together. He thinks I'm a fool, an' I know he's crazy.

"Well, I talked with Jack, an' he explained everythin'. Said who yuh was an' how yuh'd bought yore hoss from the 88 an' how yuh'd creased Sam Blakely, an' all. That was fine work. Too bad yuh didn't down him for good. He's a varmint. Worse'n a rattler. Yuh'd ought to 'a' plugged Marvin, too, after him tryin' to make yuh out a rustler that-away. A sport like that'll stand shootin' any day. What's the matter?"

For Loudon was amazedly staring at Mackenzie.

"Four hundred miles both ways," said the puncher, "to see whether a forty-five-dollar-a-month hand was tellin' the truth!"

"Yuh was more than a hand," rejoined Mackenzie, with a slight smile. "Yuh was opportunity, with a big O. Yuh see, when yuh asked for a job I needed a man. I needed him bad. I was shore yuh was out to down me. But when yuh said yuh knowed Johnny an' I changed my mind about droppin' yuh, it come to me, provided you was straight, that you was just the feller for me. You was sent to me, like. You was Opportunity, see?

"An' I ain't never passed up an opportunity that I ain't been sorry. I'm kind o' superstitious thataway now, an' I'll go out o' my way to grab what I think looks like an opportunity. I knowed I couldn't rest easy till I found out somethin' about yuh. So I done it. An' I'm —— glad I done it.

"Doubleday tells me yo're the best roper he ever seen, an' yo're a wonder with the stallions. A good man with stallions is somethin' I've wished for ever since I owned the Flyin' M. I never had him till you come. Opportunity! I guess yuh was, an' then a few. Now I don't know whether yuh care about stayin', but I shore hope yuh will. I'll see that yuh don't regret it."

"Shore I'll stay," said Loudon. "Them stallions is where I live."

"Then fifty-five a month goes for you from now on."

In this auspicious fashion began Loudon's life at the Flying M. Yet Loudon was not precisely happy. The cheerfulness induced by the whole-hearted Burrs had been but temporary. He brooded over his wrongs, and that is bad for a man. Like all men who believe themselves hard hit, he did not realize that there are a great many lonesome ladies in the world, any one of whom will make a man utterly happy.

One young woman had proved to be an arrant flirt, therefore all young women were flirts, and beauty was a snare and a delusion. So reasoned Loudon. Surrendering almost wholly to his mood, he rarely took part in the general conversation in the bunkhouse. The men wondered at his aloofness, but none essayed to draw him out. His smoldering gray eyes forbade any such familiarity. When riding the range with Laguerre, however, Loudon would emerge from his shell, and a strong friendship swiftly grew up between the two.

One day, nearly two weeks after Mackenzie's return from the Cross-in-a-box, Loudon was in the blacksmith shop making a set of shoes for Ranger when Pete O'Leary rode up to the doorway and peered in.

"Hello," said O'Leary, cheerily. "How's tricks?"

"Comin' in bunches," replied Loudon, shortly, and he blew the bellows vigorously.

"That's good. Hot, ain't it? Well, I got to be weavin' along. So long."

Loudon walked to the doorway and watched O'Leary till he disappeared among the cottonwoods fringing the bank of the Dogsoldier.

"Now I'd admire to know," he wondered, "if Pete O'Leary stopped here just to ask how tricks was. He kind o' looked at yore brand, too, fellah," he added, addressing Ranger.

Thoughtfully he returned to his work. Five minutes later he whacked his knee and whistled. Comprehension had at last come to him. He marvelled that it had not come sooner.

"Now, why didn't I think o' that quicker?" he muttered. "It was that 88 brand on Ranger's hip that made Scotty suspicious. So it was that brand must 'a' made O'Leary freeze to me when I sifted into the Bend. 'Couldn't Sam come?' Sam Blakely o' the 88! An' I never seen it till just now."

The moves of an enemy are always interesting. Even more thoughtfully than before, Loudon pumped the handle of the bellows. Why was Blakely coming to Paradise Bend? To settle his score with Scotty Mackenzie? Loudon doubted it. A newly engaged man does not, as a rule, jeopardize his future happiness by reopening old issues.

Whatever the precise nature of Blakely's purpose might be, it was dark and Machiavellian in the main. O'Leary's peculiar actions in the Three Card Saloon evinced as much.

"I don't see how it could have anythin' to do with me," puzzled Loudon. "Sam couldn't 'a' knowed I was comin' to the Bend. I didn't know myself till just before I started. Yet here's O'Leary askin' Telescope about me an' skirmishin' over to see if I am at the Flyin' M. It shore is a heap mysterious."

Loudon decided to talk it over with Scotty Mackenzie.

CHAPTER IX

AUTHORS OF CONFUSION

When Loudon went to the office that evening he found Doubleday alone. "Scotty's gone," said Doubleday, in response to Loudon's question. "He's traipsin' over to the Seven Lazy Seven. Wants to get rid o' some of our no-account stock."

"When'll he be back?"

"Dunno. He may take in the Two Bar, Wagonwheel, T V U, an' the Double Diamond K before he comes back, He might stay away a week, or three weeks, or a month. Yuh can't keep tabs on Scotty. I tried to once, but I give it up long ago."

Loudon did not take the garrulous Doubleday into his confidence. Nor did he mention the matter to Laguerre. The half-breed had seen O'Leary ride up to the blacksmith shop, and his Gallic curiosity was aroused to the full.

"My frien'," said Laguerre, when Loudon and he were mending a break in the corral fence the following day, "my frien', I wan' for tell you somethin'. Somethin' mabbeso you not see. Yes'erday O'Leary she come to de ranch; she go to de blacksmith shop. I see heem before she go to de blacksmith shop. I see heem aftair. Before she see you dere een de shop hees face was de face of de man who ees not satisfy, who ees hunt for somethin'. Wen I see heem aftair, she look satisfy. She has foun' w'at she hunt for. Are you me?"

Loudon nodded.

"O'Leary's takin' a heap o' trouble on my account," he said, slowly.

"More dan I t'ought she would," vouchsafed Laguerre. "I tell you, Tom, she have not de good feelin' for you. Were ees dat damn hammair gone?"

Three weeks later, Loudon and Laguerre were lazily enjoying the cool of the evening outside the door of the bunkhouse when Doubleday came striding toward them. In one hand the foreman waved a letter. He appeared to be annoyed. He was.

"Tom, Scotty wants yuh to meet him at the Bend Tuesday—that's to-morrow," said Doubleday, crossly. "Yuh'll find him at the Three Card. —— it to ——! An' I wanted you an' Telescope to ride the north range to-morrow! Which that Scotty Mackenzie is shore the most unexpected gent! Says he wants yuh to ride yore own hoss. Dunno what he wants yuh for. He don't say. Just says meet him."

Doubleday departed, swearing.

"Pore old Doubleday," drawled a bristle-haired youth named Swing Tunstall. "He gets a heap displeased with Scotty sometimes."

"Scotty ain't just regular in his ways," commented Giant Morton, a dwarfish man with tremendously long arms. "Scotty wasn't goin' beyond the Wagonwheel, if he got that far, an' his letter was mailed in Rocket, fifty miles south. I brought her in from the Bend this aft'noon, an' I noticed the postmark special."

"He wears the raggedest clo'es I ever seen," said the cook. "An' he's got money, too."

"Money!" exclaimed Morton. "He's lousy with money. Wish I had it. Do yuh know what I'd do? I'd buy me a seventeen-hand hoss an' a saloon."

"I wouldn't," said Loudon, winking at Laguerre. "I'd have a hacienda down in old Mexico, an' I'd hire half-a-dozen good-lookin' señoritas with black hair an' blue eyes to play tunes for me on banjos, an' I'd hire cookie here to come an' wake me up every mornin' at five o'clock just so's I could have the pleasure o' heavin' him out o' the window an' goin' back to sleep."

By which it may be seen that the moody Loudon was becoming more human. His remarks irritated the cook, who rather fancied himself. He allowed himself to be the more provoked because of a growing belief that Loudon's habitually retiring and inoffensive manner denoted a lack of mettle. Which mental attitude was shared by none of the others.

At Loudon's careless words the cook bounced up from his seat on the doorsill and assumed a crouching position in front of Loudon.

"Yuh couldn't throw nothin'!" yapped the man of pots and pans. "Yuh couldn't throw a fit, let alone me! An' I want yuh to understand I can throw any bowlegged misfit that ever wore hair pants!"

"What did yuh throw 'em with—yore mouth?" inquired Loudon, gently.

The Lazy River man had not moved from his seat on the washbench. His arms remained folded across his chest. He smiled pleasantly at the irate cook.

"I throwed 'em like I'm goin' to throw you!" frothed the hot-tempered one. "That is," he added, sneeringly, "if yuh ain't afraid."

The bristle-haired Tunstall sprang between the two.

"Don't mind him, Loudon!" he cried. "He's only a fool idjit, but he's a good cook, an' losin' him would be a calamity. He don't never pack no gun neither."

"I can see he ain't heeled," said Loudon, calmly. "But he shore talks just like a regular man, don't he?"

"Regular man!" bellowed the cook. "Why——"

The sentence ended in a gurgle. For Tunstall, Morton, and Laguerre had hurled themselves upon the cook and gagged him with the crown of a hat.

"Ain't yuh got no sense at all?" growled Morton.

"'Tsall right," grinned Loudon, rising to his feet. "I understand. Turn yore bull loose."

The three doubtfully released the cook. That misguided man promptly lowered his head, spread wide his arms, and charged at Loudon. The puncher sidestepped neatly and gave the cook's head a smart downward shove with the palm of his hand. The cook's face plowed the earth.

Spitting dirt and gravel he scrambled up and plunged madly at his elusive adversary. This time Loudon did not budge.

Even as the cook gripped him round the waist Loudon leaned forward along the cook's back, seized the slack of his trousers, and up-ended him. The cook's hold was broken, and again his head collided violently with the ground. He fell in a huddle, but arose instantly, his stubborn spirit unshaken. Now he did not rush. He approached the puncher warily.

Swaying on his high heels Loudon waited. Then run, with a pantherlike leap, he flung himself forward, drove both arms beneath those of the cook and clipped him round the body. The cook strove for a strangle-hold, but Loudon forestalled the attempt by hooking his chin over his opponent's shoulder. Legs apart, Loudon lifted and squeezed.

Gradually, as Loudon put forth all his great strength, the breath of the cook was expelled from his cracking chest in gasps and wheezes. His muscles relaxed, his face became distorted, empurpled.

Loudon released his grip. The cook fell limply and lay on his back, arms outspread, his crushed lungs fighting for air. In the struggle his shirt had been ripped across, and now his chest and one shoulder were exposed. Loudon, gazing down at the prostrate man, started slightly, then stooped and looked more closely at the broad triangle of breast.

Abruptly Loudon turned away and resumed his seat on the bench. After a time the cook rolled over, staggered to his feet, and reeled into the bunkhouse without a word.

No one commented on the wrestling-match. Swing Tunstall started a cheerful reminiscence of his last trip to the Bend. Laguerre rose and passed silently round the corner of the bunkhouse. Loudon, chin on hand, stared off into the distance.

Suddenly, within the bunkhouse, there was the thump of feet followed in quick succession by a thud and a grunt. Out through the doorway the cook tumbled headlong, fell flat, and lay motionless, his nose in the dirt, his boot-toes on the doorsill. One outflung hand still clutched the butt of a six-shooter. From a gash on the back of his head the blood oozed slowly.

Issued then Laguerre from the doorway. The half-breed was in his stocking feet. He wrenched the gun from the cook's fingers, stuffed the weapon into the waistband of his trousers, and squatted down on his heels.

None of the onlookers had moved. Gravely they regarded Laguerre and the cook. Loudon realized that he had narrowly escaped being shot in the back. A farce had developed into melodrama.

At this juncture Doubleday strolled leisurely out of the office. At sight of the fallen man and the serious group at the bunkhouse he quickened his steps.

"Who done it?" demanded Doubleday, severely, for he believed the cook to be dead.

"I heet heem on de head wit' my gun," explained Laguerre. "Loudon she t'row de cook. De cook she geet varree mad un go een de bunkhouse. I t'ink mabbeso she do somethin' un I go roun' de bunkhouse, tak' off my boots, un crawl een de side window. De cook she was jus' run for door wit' hees gun een hees han'. I stop heem."

Complacently Laguerre gazed upon the still unconscious cook.

"The kyote!" exclaimed Doubleday. "That's what comes o' not havin' any sense o' humour! —— his soul! Now I got to fire him. Trouble! Trouble! Nothin' but ——"

The discouraged foreman slumped down beside Loudon and rolled a cigarette with vicious energy.

Some ten minutes later the cook stirred, rolled over, and sat up. He stared with dull eyes at the men on the bench. Stupidly he fingered the cut at the back of his head. As deadened senses revived and memory returned, his back stiffened, and defiance blazed up in his eyes.

"Telescope," said Loudon, "I'd take it as a favour if yuh'd give him his gun—an' his cartridges."

The cook lost his defiant look when the half-breed complied with Loudon's request. Helplessly he eyed the gun a moment, then, struck with a bright idea, he waggled his right wrist and grimaced as if with pain. Gingerly he rubbed the wrist-bone.

"Sprained my wrist," he stated brazenly. "Can't shoot with my left hand nohow. If I could, I'd shore enjoy finishin' up. Helluva note this is! I start for to shoot it out with a gent, an' one o' you sports whangs me over the head an' lays me out. I'd admire to know which one o' yuh done it."

"I done eet," Laguerre informed him, his white teeth flashing under his black mustache.

"I'll remember yuh," said the cook with dignity. "I'll remember you too," he added looking at Loudon. "Doubleday, I'd like my time. I ain't a-goin' to cook for this bunch no longer. An' if it's all the same to you I'll take a hoss for part o' my pay."

"Well, by ——!" exclaimed Doubleday, hugely annoyed at being thus forestalled. "You've got a nerve. You ought to be hung!"

"Any gent does who works for the Flying M," countered the cook. "But I'm quittin'. Do I get the hoss!"

"Yuh bet yuh do. An' yo're hittin' the trail to-night."

"The sooner the quicker."

Within half an hour Rufe Cutting, erstwhile cook at the Flying M, a bandage under his hat, mounted his horse and rode away toward Paradise Bend. As he vanished in the gathering dusk, Swing Tunstall laughed harshly.

"All yaller an' a yard wide!" observed Giant Morton, and spat contemptuously.

Loudon made no comment. He was working out a puzzle, and he was making very little headway.

In the morning he saddled Ranger and started for the Bend. He followed the trail for a mile or two, then, fording the Dogsoldier, he struck across the flats where a few of Mackenzie's horses grazed. He did not turn his horse's head toward Paradise Bend till the Dogsoldier was well out of rifle-range. Loudon's caution was pardonable. Rufe Cutting knew that he was to ride to the Bend, and Rufe had a rifle. Loudon had marked him tying it in his saddle-strings.

It was quite within the bounds of possibility that the cunning Rufe was at that very moment lying in wait somewhere among the cottonwoods on the bank of the Dogsoldier, for the trail in many places swung close to the creek. Decidedly, the trail was no fit route for any one at odds with a citizen of the Cutting stamp.

Loudon, when he drew near the Bend, circled back to the creek and entered the town by the Farewell trail.

He dismounted in front of the Three Card, anchored Ranger to the ground, and went into the saloon. Several men were standing at the bar. They ceased talking at his entrance.

Loudon leaned both elbows on the bar and demanded liquor. He sensed a certain tenseness, a vague chill in the atmosphere. The bartender, his eyes looking anywhere but at Loudon, served him hastily. The bartender seemed nervous. Bottle and glass rattled as he placed them on the bar.

"Scotty Mackenzie come in yet?" inquired Loudon of the bartender, setting down his empty glass.

"N-no," quavered the bartender, shrilly. "I ain't seen him."

Loudon stared at the bartender. What was the matter with the man? His face was the colour of gray wrapping-paper. Loudon turned and glanced along the bar at the other customers. Two of them were regarding him, a rapt fascination in their expressions. Swiftly the two men averted their eyes.

Loudon hesitated an instant, then he wheeled and walked out of the saloon. As he crossed the sidewalk he noticed a group of men standing near by. He stooped to pick up his reins. When he straightened there was a sudden rustle and a whisk in his rear. Something settled over his shoulders and drew taut, pinning his arms to his sides.

"What in——" swore Loudon, and began to struggle furiously.

He was at once jerked over on his back. He fell heavily. The shock partially stunned him. Dazedly he gazed upward into a ring of faces. The features of all save one were blurred. And that face was the face of Block, the Sheriff of Fort Creek County.

Loudon felt a tugging at his belt and knew that one was removing his six-shooter. He was pulled upright, his hands were wrenched together, and before he was aware of what was taking place, his wrists were in handcuffs. Now his faculties returned with a rush.

"What seems to be the trouble, anyway?" he demanded of the crowd in general.

"It seems yo're a hoss thief," replied a brown-bearded man wearing a star on the left lapel of his vest.

"Who says so?"

"This gent." The brown-bearded man pointed at Block.

"It's no good talkin', Loudon," said Block, grinning after the fashion of the cat which has just eaten the canary. "I know yuh. Yuh stole that hoss yo're ridin' from the 88 ranch. There's the brand to prove it. But that ain't all. Yuh was caught rustlin' 88 cows. Yuh branded 'em Crossed Dumbbell. An' yuh got away by shootin' Sam Blakely, an' holdin' up Marvin an' Rudd. I don't guess yuh'll get away now in a hurry."

"Where's yore warrant?"

"Don't need no warrant."

"That's right," corroborated the brown-bearded man with the star. "Yuh don't need no warrant for a hoss-thief an' a rustler. I tell yuh, stranger, yo're lucky to be still alive. I'm doin' yuh a favour by lettin' yuh go south with Sheriff Block. By rights yuh'd ought to be lynched instanter."

"Yuh don't say," said Loudon, gently. "Who are yuh, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm only the marshal here at the Bend," replied with sarcasm the brown-bearded man. "My name's Smith—Dan Smith. Yuh might 'a' heard o' me."

"Shore, I've heard o' yuh, an' I'd understood yuh was a party with sense an' not in the habit o' believin' everythin' yuh hear. Now——"

"Yuh understood right," said the marshal, drily. "I'm listenin' to yuh now, an' I don't believe everythin' I hear."

"Yo're believin' Block, an' he's the biggest liar in Fort Creek County, an' that's sayin' quite it lot, seein' as how the 88 outfit belongs in Fort Creek. Now I never branded no 88 cows. The 88, because they knowed I knowed they'd been brandin' other folks' cattle, went an' branded a cow an' a calf o' their own with the Crossed Dumbbell an' then tried to throw the blame on me. But the trick didn't pan out. They couldn't prove it nohow. Jack Richie o' the Cross-in-a-box can tell yuh I didn't rustle them cattle."

"I thought yuh was workin' for the Bar S," put in the marshal.

"I was, but I quit."

"Then why wouldn't Saltoun o' the Bar S know all about it? What did yuh say Jack Richie for?"

The marshal drooped a wise eyelid. He considered himself a most astute cross-examiner.

"I said Jack Richie because he was there at the Bar S when Marvin an' Rudd drove in the cow an' the calf. It was him proved I couldn't 'a' branded them cattle like they said I did."

"Why wouldn't Saltoun o' the Bar S speak for yuh?" inquired the marshal.

"He would, I guess," replied Loudon. "Old Salt an' me don't just hitch, but he's square. He'd tell yuh about it."

"He won't tell me. The Bar S an' the Cross-in-a-box are more'n two hundred miles south. I ain't ridin' that far to get yore pedigree. No, yuh can just bet I ain't. This gent here, Sheriff Block, will take yuh south. If it's like yuh say it is, then yuh needn't worry none. Yuh'll have yore witnesses an' all right there."

"Don't yuh understand? I'll never see none o' my friends. The 88 outfit will lynch me soon as ever I hit Farewell. I tell yuh I know too much about 'em. They want me out o' the way."

Before the marshal could reply there was a bustle in the crowd, and a high-pitched feminine voice inquired what evil was being visited upon Mr. Loudon. An instant later Mrs. Burr, barearmed and perspiring, unceremoniously pushed Block to one side and confronted the marshal.

"What yuh doin' to him?" she demanded, with a quick jerk of her head toward Loudon.

"Why, Mis' Burr, ma'am," replied the marshal, "he's a hoss thief, an' he's goin' south to Farewell."

"He ain't goin' to Farewell," retorted Mrs. Burr, "an' he ain't a hoss thief. Who says so?"

"I do, ma'am," said Block, stepping forward. "He's a hoss thief, an'——"

"Hoss thief yoreself!" snapped Mrs. Burr, wheeling on Block so fiercely that the sheriff gave ground involuntarily. "The more I look at yuh the more yuh look like a hoss thief an' a rustler an' a road agent. You shut up, Dan Smith! I always guessed yuh was an idjit, an' now I know it! This man, Mr. Tom Loudon, is a friend o' my husband's. I know him well, an' if yuh think yo're goin' to string him up for a hoss thief yo're mistaken."

"But, ma'am," explained the unhappy marshal, "we ain't a-goin' to string him up. This gent, Sheriff Block, is takin' him south. He'll get justice down there, Mis' Burr."

"Will he? If the folks down there are as witless as you are he won't. Justice! Yuh make me plumb weary! Did yuh ask to see this Block man's warrant? Answer me! Did you?"

"He ain't got no warrant," replied the marshal in a small voice.

"Ain't got no warrant!" screamed Mrs. Burr. "Ain't got no warrant, an' yo're lettin' him take away a party on just his say-so! Dan Smith, since when have yuh allowed a stranger to come in an' tell you what to do? What right has this Block man from Fort Creek County to try an' run Paradise Bend, I'd like to know?"

"I ain't tryin' to run the Bend," defended Block. "I wouldn't think o' such a thing. But I want this hoss thief, an' I mean to have him."

The words had barely passed Block's teeth when Loudon's self-control broke. With an inarticulate howl of rage he sprang at Block and drove the iron manacles into the sheriff's face.

Down went Block with Loudon on top of him. Twice, three times, before Dan Smith and two others pulled him up and away, Loudon smashed the handcuffs home. It was a bloody-faced, teeth-spitting sheriff that got slowly to his feet.

"By ——!" gibbered Block. "By ——! I'll down you here an' now!"

A tall man with square features tapped the raving sheriff on the shoulder.

"Don't cuss no more before a lady," advised the square-featured man. "An' don't go draggin' at no gun. This ain't Fort Creek County. Yo're in Paradise Bend, an' I just guess yuh won't beef any sport with his hands tied. This goes as it lays."

From the crowd came murmurs of approval. Public opinion was changing front. Mrs. Burr smiled serenely.

"Yo're a real gent, Jim Mace," she said, addressing the square-featured man. "I always knowed you'd protect a defenseless female. Dan Smith," she continued, turning to the marshal, "unlock them handcuffs."

Dan Smith hesitated. Then Block spoiled his own case. He seized Loudon by the shoulders. Loudon promptly kicked him in the skins [Transcriber's note: shins?] and endeavoured to repeat his former assault with the handcuffs. But the two men holding him wrestled him backward.

"Do I get him?" bellowed Block, rabid with pain, for Loudon had kicked him with all his strength. "Do I get him, or are yuh goin' to let a woman tell yuh what to do?"

Jim Mace stepped close to the sheriff.

"Stranger," said Mace, sharply, "you've done chattered enough. In yore own partic'lar hog-waller yuh may be a full-size toad, but up here yo're half o' nothin'. Understand?"

The sheriff looked about him wildly. The Paradise Benders, cold, unfriendly, some openly hostile, stared back. Wrought up though he was, the sheriff had wit enough to perceive that he was treading close to the edge of a volcano. The sheriff subsided.

"Dan," said Mace, "it's come to a show-down. It's the word o' Mis' Burr agin' Block's. There's only one answer. If I was you I'd unlock them handcuffs."

"Yo're right, Jim," agreed the marshal. "I will."

"Gimme my gun," demanded Loudon, when his hands were free.

"In a minute," parried the marshal. "Sheriff, if I was you I'd hit the trail. Yore popularity ain't more'n deuce-high just now."

"I'll go," glowered Block. "But I'll be back. An' when I come I'll have a warrant. I reckon the Sheriff o' Sunset will honour it, even if you won't."

"Bring on yore warrant," retorted the marshal.