"Slick!" said Scotty, ten minutes after arriving at the Flying M; "Slick, I guess yes. The feller that wrote that letter knowed my writin' better'n I do myself. Don't blame yuh a mite, Doubleday, for bein' fooled. Don't blame yuh a mite.
"I'll fix this trick for good and all. Hereafter I don't write no more letters to yuh, see? Then if our forgin' brother takes his pen in hand again it won't do him no good.... What? No, I'm too sleepy. You go down an' ask Loudon. He was the centre o' curiosity, an' he knows more about that riot at the Bend than I do."
When Doubleday had gone Scotty Mackenzie did not act like a person overcome by sleep. He lit a cigarette, slid down in his chair, and put his feet on the desk.
"Yo're a great man, Scotty," he chuckled. "Yes, sir, I dunno as I ever seen yore like. I didn't know yuh was such a deeplomat. No, sir, I shore didn't."
But Mr. Mackenzie did not realize that Loudon in his statements regarding possible affection for Miss Dorothy Burr meant exactly what he said.
On the corral fence Loudon sat with Telescope Laguerre and related his adventures. The half-breed hearkened sympathetically. Occasionally he removed the cigarette from his lips in order to swear.
"And," said Loudon in conclusion, "I'm goin' south after the little hoss in two or three weeks."
"Queet?"
"Yep."
"I queet, too. I go wit' you."
"What for? No need o' you losin' yore job, too."
"—— de job! I been here long tam—two, t'ree year. I wan' for move along un see w'at happen een de worl'. Een you' beesness, two gun ees better dan only wan. Are you me?"
"Oh, I'm you all right enough. I'll be glad to have yuh with me, Telescope, but——"
"Den dat ees settle'," interrupted Telescope, his eyes glittering in the glow of his cigarette. "Wen you go, I go, un togedder we weel geet de leetle hoss. Ah, my frien', eet ees de luck I have you to go wit'. I been knowin' for week now I mus' go soon."
"Gettin' restless?"
Telescope nodded, his eyes fixed on the far-away line of saw-toothed mountains black against the stars. When he spoke, his voice had altered.
"Tom, de ole tam have come back to me, un w'en de old tam do dat I can not stay. I mus'—— My frien', have you evair love a woman?"
"Once I did."
"Den you weel understan'. Wan tam, fifteen year ago, I have woman. I have odder woman now un den—five, six mabbe, but dey was Enjun un breed. Dees woman she was not Enjun. She was Française, un we was marry un leeve over on de Sweetwatair Rivière near de Medicine Mountain.
"Well, we was happy, she un me, un I was hunt de buffalo for Ole Man Rantoul. Rantoul she have de post dere on de Sweetwatair. Dere was odder men keel de buffalo for Rantoul, un wan of dese men she see my wife Marie w'en she go wit' me to de post. Dees man she yong man name' Taylor—Pony George dey call heem, 'cause she was all tam bust de pony.
"Well, wan tam I go 'way two—t'ree week, mabbe. I come home een de afternoon. No leetle dog she play 'roun' de log-house. No smoke from de chimeny. No Marie she stan' at de door.
"I go queeck to de house. Leetle dog lie dead in front de door. Door shut. I go een. I fin' Marie—I fin' Marie!" A wild, fierce note crept into the low monotone. "I fin' my Marie on de floor. She varree weak, but she can talk leetle. She tell me w'at happen. Two day before I geet back Pony George come to de log-house. Pony George she try for mak' de love to my wife. Marie she go for rifle. Pony George geet de rifle firs'. Dog try for bite heem. Pony George keeck de dog out un shoot heem.
"My wife she grab de knife. She fight. But Pony George strong man. Get cut leetle, but not bad. He—he—well, I can do nothin' for my wife. Nex' day she die.
"I ride to de post of Ole Man Rantoul. Pony George not dere. Rantoul say Pony George go 'way t'ree day before—not come back. I go after Pony George. I not fin' heem. I go sout' to de Nation. I go to Dakota. I go all de way from Canaday to de Rio Grande. Five year I heet de trail, but I never fin' Pony George.
"Now I work on de ranch, but always I can not stay. W'en de ole tam come back I mus' go. Well, my frien', some day I fin' Pony George, un w'en dat day come I weel hang hees hair on my bridle. Ah, I weel keel dat man—keel heem slow, so she weel have plenty tam for see hees deat' before she die."
Abruptly Telescope Laguerre slipped down to the ground and vanished in the darkness.
A week later, while the outfit was eating supper, Swing Tunstall burst yelling into the bunkhouse. He flung his hat on the floor and thudded into his seat.
"Dance!" he whooped, hammering on the table with his knife and fork. "Dance! Big dance! Down at the Bend. Next week. Saturday night. They're a-goin' to have it in the hotel. Hooray!"
"Pass him the beans, quick!" shouted Doubleday. "Get him to eatin' before the roof pulls loose. When djuh say it was, Swing?"
"Saturday night, next week. Butter, butter, who's got the grease? An' the canned cow. That's the stuffy. Say, that's gonna be a reg'lar elephant of a dance, that is. They's a new girl in town—I seen her. She's stayin' at Mis' Mace's, an' she's as pretty as a royal flush. Miss Kate Saltoun her name is, an' she's from the Bar S down on the Lazy River."
"We'll all go," announced Doubleday.
"You bet we will," said Giant Morton. "Swing, where's that necktie o' mine yuh borried last week?—yes, the red one. You know the one I mean. You wanted it so's yuh could make a hit with that hash-slinger at the hotel. Can't fool me, yuh old tarrapin. Where is it?"
"I'll git it for yuh later," gurgled Tunstall, his mouth full. "I don't guess I lost it. Ca'm yoreself. Giant, ca'm yoreself. What's a necktie?"
"Don't guess yuh've lost it! Well, I like that! I paid a dollar six bits for that necktie down at the Chicago Store. There ain't another like it in the territory. Ragsdale said so himself. You gimme that necktie or I'll pizen yore bronc."
"Goin' to de Bend to-morrow?" inquired Telescope of Loudon, when they were riding the range the day before the dance.
"I don't guess so. I don't feel just like dancin'. Don't enjoy it like I used to. Gettin' old, I guess."
"I'm goin', but not to de dance een de hotel. I'm goin' to de dance hall, un I weel play de pokair, too. Ah, I weel have de good tam. W'y not you come wit' me?"
"Maybe I will. See how I feel to-morrow. I'm goin' to pull my freight next week sometime. Got an engagement in Farewell in five weeks or so, an' I want to find the little hoss before then."
"We'll fin' heem, you un me. I am ready any tam you say."
That evening Scotty Mackenzie halted Loudon on his way to the bunkhouse.
"Goin' to the dance, Tom?" queried Scotty.
"I'm goin' to the Bend, but no dance in mine."
"Say, you make me sick! Dorothy'll be at that dance, an' yuh'll hurt her feelin's if yuh don't go. She'll think yuh don't want to dance with her or somethin'."
"I can't help what she thinks, can I? I don't have to go to that dance."
"Yuh don't have to, o' course not, but yuh got to think o' other folks. Why, only day before yesterday when I was at the Bend she was askin' after yuh, an' I told her yuh'd shore see her at the dance."
"Yuh did, did yuh? All right, I'm goin' to the Bend to-morrow with the rest o' the boys, but I've got a little poker game in mind. The dance is barred, Scotty."
"Oh, all right. Have it yore own way. I'm only tryin' to help yuh out. Say, Tom, y'ain't still thinkin' o' goin' away, are yuh? Yuh can have that bay like I said, an' another pony, too, if yuh like. Yuh see, I want yuh to stay here at the Flyin' M. I'm hard up for men now, an'——"
"Say," interrupted Loudon, on whom a great light had suddenly dawned, "say, is that why yo're so anxious to have me go see Miss Burr, huh? So I'll fall in love with her, an' stay here, huh? Is that it?"
"Why, Tom, o' course not," denied Scotty, indignantly. "I wasn't thinkin' o' such a thing."
"I ain't none so shore, Scotty. It sounds just like yuh."
"Well, it ain't like me nohow. Yo're wrong, Tom, all wrong as usual. Suit yoreself about the dance, suit yoreself. I got nothin' more to say. Here's a letter come for yuh to-day."
Scotty handed the letter to Loudon and departed, offended dignity in the set of his shoulders. The pose was assumed, and Loudon knew it. When next they met, Scotty would reopen his favourite issue as usual.
"Now how did he guess it?" wondered Scotty, gloomily, kicking the pebbles on his way to the office. "How did he guess the truth, I'd like to know? An' he's goin' away after all! The best man in the outfit! I got to do somethin', that's a cinch."
Poor Scotty! So must Machiavelli have felt when one of his dearest schemes was upset by some clever Florentine.
Left alone, Loudon tore open the letter. It ran:
Dere frend lowden Id uv rote sooner only Ive been sick fele bad stil sene things fur a weak but I can rite now anyhow. Wel, after you an Mackenzy lef in the afternoon Block an the uther fellar rid in. I noed the uther fellar what stole yore hoss cause he looked just like you sed hed look but the hoss he was ridin wasnt yore hoss he was sumbuddy elses hoss I dunno whoos yet. Wen I sene Block an him I had it all fixed up with the marshul to arest the uther fellar but the hoss wasnt yourn it was a bawlface pinto so the marshal couldnt arest him without a warant. Block an him rode away on the trail to Farewel. Block tride to find out bout you an Scotty and that drummer told him how you an Scotty had rid back to the Bend. Wel, I knoked the drummer down an stepped on his face an throwed him into the waterin-troff an kiked him three times roun the house. I'm lookin out for yore hoss wen I see him I'll let you noe hopin this fines you like it leeves me yore frien Dave Sinclair.
Dave Sinclair was the landlord of the hotel in Rocket. Loudon re-read the letter and swore whole-heartedly. To miss Rufe Cutting by a few hours! Riding a bald-faced pinto, was he? What had he done with Ranger? Loudon went to the bunkhouse in a brown study.
Scotty alone of the Flying M outfit elected to remain at the ranch the night of the dance. All the others raced into town before sunset. At the ford of the Dogsoldier they met the Seven Lazy Seven boys from beyond the Government Hills. Doubleday greeted Dawson, the Seven Lazy Seven foreman, with a long wolf-howl. Whooping and yelling, the riders squattered across the creek and poured into Paradise Bend, the wild-eyed ponies rocketing like jack-rabbits.
It was an expansive evening in the Bend. The corrals were full of ponies bearing on their hips the brands of the Two Bar, TVU, Double Diamond K, Wagonwheel, and half-a-dozen other ranches. In the hotel corral where the Flying M outfit unsaddled, Loudon saw horses belonging to the Barred O and the T up-and-down, which ranches were a score of miles southwest of Rocket.
The men of the various outfits circulated rapidly from saloon to saloon. By midnight many would be drunk. But there were several hours before midnight.
Loudon and Telescope left their comrades lining up at the hotel bar and gravitated to the Three Card. Here they found Jim Mace and Marshal Dan Smith, who hailed them both with marked cordiality. They drank together, and Jim Mace suggested a little game. Telescope's eyes began to gleam, and Loudon perceived that his friend was lost to him for that evening. Loudon was in no mood for poker, so the three prevailed upon a gentleman from the Barred O to make a fourth, and retired to an empty table in the corner of the room. Loudon remained standing at the bar, regarding the rows of bottles on the shelves and gloomily pondering the exigencies of life.
"Cards no good," he reflected. "Dancin' the same. Nothin' goes good no more. Even licker don't taste like it used to. Guess I better have another an' make shore."
He had another. After a time he felt better, and decided to look in at the dance. From the open windows of the hotel issued sounds of revelry—the shuffle and pound of boot-leather and the inspiring strains of the "Arkansaw Traveller" played by two fiddlers sitting on a table.
Loudon, his hat pulled forward, leaned his chest against a windowsill and peered over the fat shoulders of Mrs. Ragsdale and a freighter's wife, who were enjoying the festivities with such zest that the chairs they sat in were on the point of collapse.
Kate Saltoun and Dorothy Burr were dancing in the same set. Dawson of the Seven Lazy Seven was Kate's partner, and Pete O'Leary swung Dorothy. Loudon was struck by the fact that Kate was not smiling. Her movements, likewise, lacked a certain springiness which was one of her salient characteristics.
"Somebody must 'a' stepped on her toe," decided Loudon. "Bet she don't dance with Dawson again."
She didn't. Marshal Dan Smith, perspiring and painfully conscious of a hard shirt and a forest-fire necktie, was her next partner. Loudon wondered why he had not hitherto perceived the marked resemblance between Dan Smith and a jack-rabbit. He found himself speculating on Kate's reasons for breaking her engagement. As he looked at Kate, her extreme beauty, contrasted with that of the other girls in the room, was striking.
"Kate is certainly a heap good-looker."
Mrs. Ragsdale and the freighter's wife turned sharply and stared open-mouthed at Loudon. Not till then did that young man realize that he had voiced aloud his estimate of Kate Saltoun. He fled hurriedly, his skin prickling all over, and dived into the kindly darkness behind the corral.
"Now I have done it!" he mourned, bitterly, squatting on the ground. "Those old tongue-wagglers heard me, an' they'll tell her. I seen it in their faces. What'll she think o' me. Luck! There ain't no such thing. If all the rocks was tobacco an' all the grass cigarette-papers, I'd be there without a match."
From the hotel drifted thinly the lilt of "Buffalo Girls." A bevy of convivial beings in the street were bawling "The Days of Forty-Nine." Across the discordant riot of sound cut the sudden clipping drum of a galloping pony.
"Injuns!" shouted a voice. "Injuns!"
Loudon sprang up and dashed around the corral. In the flare of light from the hotel doorway a dusty man sat a dustier horse. The man was hatless, his dark hair was matted with dirt and sweat, and his eyes were wild.
"Injuns!" cried the dusty man. "Injuns on Hatchet Creek! I want help!"
In thirty seconds there was a fair-sized group surrounding the horseman. In a minute and a half the group had become a crowd. Up bustled Marshal Dan Smith followed by Telescope Laguerre, Jim Mace, and the gentleman from the Barred O. Loudon, first on the scene, was jammed against the rider's stirrup.
"Gents," the dusty man was saying, "my three pardners are a-standin' off the war-whoops in a shack over by Johnson's Peak on Hatchet Creek. There's more'n a hundred o' them feather-dusters an' they'll have my pardners' hair if yuh don't come a-runnin'."
"Johnson's Peak!" exclaimed Jim Mace. "That's fifty mile away!"
"All o' that," assented the dusty man, wearily, without turning his head. "For God's sake, gents, do somethin', can't yuh? An' gimme a fresh hoss."
Already three quarters of his hearers were streaking homeward for their Winchesters and saddles. The men from the ranches were the last to move away. No need for them to hurry. The few who had brought rifles to the Bend had left them with their saddles at the various corrals.
Within half an hour the dusty man, mounted on one of the marshal's ponies, was heading a posse composed of every available man in Paradise Bend. Only the marshal and two men who were sick remained behind.
The posse, a column of black and bobbing shapes in the starlight, loped steadily. Many of the ponies had travelled twenty and thirty miles that day, and there were fifty more to pass under their hoofs. The average cow-horse is a hardy brute and can perform miracles of work when called upon. Secure in this knowledge, the riders fully intended to ride out their mounts to the last gasp.
Doubleday and Dawson rode stirrup to stirrup with the man from Hatchet Creek. Tailing these three were Loudon, Telescope Laguerre, the Barred O puncher, and Jim Mace.
"How'd yuh get through, stranger?" queried Doubleday.
"I dunno," said the dusty man. "I jus' did. I had to. It was make or break. Them war-whoops chased me quite a spell."
"You was lucky," observed Dawson.
"Yo're whistlin' I was. We was all lucky when it comes to that. We was at the shack eatin' dinner when they jumped us. S'pose we'd been down the creek where our claims is at, huh?"
"Yo're hair would shore be decoratin' a Injun bridle," admitted Dawson. "But I didn't know there was gold on Hatchet Creek."
"We got four claims," said the dusty man, shortly.
"Gettin' much?"
"We ain't millionaires yet."
"No, I guess not," whispered Jim Mace to Loudon. "I'll gamble that gravel don't assay a nickel a ton. Been all through them hills, I have. I know Hatchet like I do the Dogsoldier. There's no gold there."
"This prospector party says different," muttered Loudon.
"You'll see," sniffed Jim Mace. "Gold on the Hatchet! He's loco! You'll see."
"It's a good thing, stranger," Dawson was saying, "yuh hit the Bend when we was havin' a dance. There ain't more'n fifty or sixty men a-livin' reg'lar in the place."
"Well," said the dusty man, "I did think o' headin' for Fort Yardley. But them feather-dusters was in between, so it was the Bend or nothin'. Oh, I knowed I was takin' chances, what with no ranches in between, an' the little hoss liable to go lame on me an' all. It's a long ride, gents. Say, seems like we're a-crawlin' an' a-crawlin' an' gittin' nowheres."
"We're a-gittin' some'ers right lively," corrected Doubleday. "If yore pardners have plenty o' cartridges they'll be a-holdin' out all right when we git there. Don't yuh fret none, stranger."
"I ain't—only—only—well, gents, there was a roarin' passel o' them Injuns."
"Shore, shore, but we'll strike the Hatchet near Tepee Mountain 'round sun-up, an' from Tepee to Johnson's Peak ain't more'n twenty miles—less, if anythin'."
In the keen light of dawn the pyramidal bulk of Tepee Mountain loomed not six miles ahead. When the sun rose the posse had skirted its base and was riding along the bank of Hatchet Creek.
And now the dusty man began to display signs of a great nervousness. He fidgeted in his saddle, examined and tried the lever action of his rifle, and gloomily repeated many times that he believed the posse would arrive too late. As they passed above a cut bank, the dusty man, riding near the edge, dropped his Winchester. The piece slipped over the edge and splashed into the water fifteen feet below. Swearing, the dusty man rode back to where the bank was lower and dismounted.
"Don't wait for me!" he shouted, wading upstream. "I'll catch up."
The posse rode onward. Some of the horses were staggering with fatigue. All of them were jaded and dripping with sweat. Suddenly Telescope Laguerre rode from the line and vaulted out of his saddle. He landed on his hands and knees and remained in that position, his head thrust forward, his eyes blazing with excitement.
"What's eatin' Telescope?" demanded Doubleday.
"Tom! Tom! Come here! Queeck!" shouted the half-breed.
"Say!" snorted Doubleday. "What is this, anyway? Do you fellers know there's some Injuns up here a piece?"
But Loudon had joined Telescope and neither of the two gave the slightest heed to the outraged Doubleday.
"Look!" exclaimed Laguerre, as the tail of the column passed. "Look! Yore hoss she come out o' de wood here! See!"
"My hoss! You mean Ranger?" Loudon stared, thunderstruck, at the hoofmarks of two horses.
"Yore hoss, Ranger! Ah, once I see de hoss-track I know heem again! Las' tam you shoe de hoss you shoe heem all 'roun'. Dees ees hees track. No man was ride heem. She was de led hoss. Feller ride odder hoss. See! Dey come out de wood un go dees way."
Telescope waved a hand over the way they had come.
"How old are the tracks?" queried Loudon, breathlessly.
"Mabbeso four day. No use follow dem. We lose 'em on de hard groun'."
"Telescope, I got an idea somethin's wrong. I dunno what, but these tracks comin' in here thisaway, an' that fellah with the Injun story—I guess now they hitch somehow. I tell yuh I dunno how"—as Telescope opened his mouth to speak—"an' I may be wrong, but I'm goin' back after that party from Hatchet Creek."
Loudon swung into his saddle and spurred his mount. The animal responded gamely, but a pitifully slow lope was the best speed it could shake out of its weary legs. Laguerre's pony was in worse case. The short halt had stiffened his knees slightly and he stumbled at every other step. The two men lolloped jerkily downstream. Rounding a sharp bend, they came in sight of the cut bank where the dusty stranger had dropped his gun. Neither man nor horse was visible.
"By gar!" exclaimed Laguerre. "By gar!"
Just then his horse stumbled for the last time, fell on its knees, and rolled over on its side. Laguerre flung himself clear and bounced to his feet. The pony struggled up, but Laguerre did not remount. He dragged his rifle from the scabbard and ran forward on foot to rejoin his comrade. Loudon was leaning over the saddlehorn examining the spot where the dusty man had left his horse.
"Ground's kind o' hard," said Loudon, "but it looks like he'd headed for that flat."
"He go dere all right!" exclaimed Laguerre, excitedly. "Come on, Tom!"
Running awkwardly, for cow-country boots are not fashioned for rapid locomotion, Laguerre led the way toward a broad meadow fifty yards away. Once in the meadow the trail was easier to follow. The meadow was at least a quarter-mile wide, and woods bordered it on three sides.
The trail led straight across it, and on into the forest. The trees did not grow thickly, and Laguerre, his eyes on the ground, threaded his way in and out between the trunks at an ankle-straining trot. He had excellent wind, had Telescope Laguerre. Loudon was forced to employ spurs and quirt in order to keep up with him.
Four hundred yards deep in the forest they saw ahead an opening in the trees. A minute later they charged into a large meadow. In the middle of the meadow was an ancient shack, doorless, the roof fallen in, flanked by a corral which gave evidence of having been recently repaired.
"Somethin' movin' in that corral," said Loudon, and dragged out his gun.
Then, in half a watch-tick, a man on a chestnut horse flashed across the open space between the corral and the shack. Loudon and Laguerre swung to one side, but the man did not immediately reappear on the other side of the shack. A few steps farther and they saw him. He was riding directly away from them and was within fifty yards of the forest.
The fugitive was a long two hundred yards distant, but they recognized his back without any difficulty. He was the dusty man from Hatchet Creek, and his horse was Loudon's Ranger.
"Look out for the hoss!" cried Loudon, as Laguerre flung up his rifle.
The rifle cracked spitefully once and again. The rider, with a derisive yell, disappeared among the trees. Laguerre dropped his rifle-butt, and began to utter strange and awful oaths in a polyglot of French and English. Loudon sheathed his six-shooter, kicked his feet out of the stirrups, and calmly rolled a cigarette.
"No use a-cussin', Telescope," he observed. "He's done gone."
Pht-bang! a rifle spat from the distant wood. Loudon's horse gave a convulsive sidewise leap, dropped with a groan and rolled half over, pinning Loudon to the ground. Laguerre, flat on his stomach, was firing at the thinning smoke-cloud under the trees. But there were no more shots from the forest.
"Say, Telescope," called Loudon, "when yuh get plumb through would yuh mind pullin' this cayuse off o' my legs?"
Still cursing, Laguerre levered up the body of the dead pony with the barrel of his rifle, and Loudon wriggled free. He endeavoured to stand on his feet, but sat down abruptly.
"What's de matter?" inquired Laguerre. "Bullet hit you, too?"
"No," replied Loudon, gingerly feeling his right ankle, "my foot feels funny."
"Mabbeso de leg broke," suggested Laguerre. "Mabbeso dat feller she try anudder shot. Better you be behin' de log-house."
He picked up his rifle, helped Loudon to stand erect, and passed an arm around his waist. So, hopping on one foot, Loudon reached the shelter of the shack wall. Laguerre eased him to the ground and skipped nimbly down past the corral.
"Mabbeso I geet dat feller," he called over his shoulder. "Be back soon."
Laguerre returned in five minutes.
"Dat feller she geet clean away," he said, disconsolately. "Nevair touch heem. By gar! Eef I not have run so hard, I shoot better. Geet heem shore den."
"Pull my boot off, will yuh, Telescope?" requested Loudon, extending his leg.
Laguerre pulled. Loudon gritted his teeth. The pain was sharp, nauseating.
"It's no good," said Loudon, thickly. "Got to cut the boot off."
Laguerre whipped out his knife and slit the leather from instep to top. Gently he removed the boot. Loudon peeled off the sock. The ankle was badly swollen.
"Wiggle de toe," commanded Laguerre.
Loudon wriggled his toes and was able to move his ankle slightly, not without a deal of pain, however. He noted with thankfulness that the pain was continuous, and not stabbing as it is when a bone is involved.
"Bone's all right," he observed, cheerfully. "Only a sprain, I guess."
"Dat ees good," said Laguerre. "I geet de odder hoss."
He strode to the dead horse and stripped off saddle and bridle.
"Say," said Loudon, "I can do that while yo're goin' for the hoss. We'll have to leave 'em here, anyway."
"No, not dees treep, my frien'," Laguerre said, carrying saddle and bridle toward the corral. "Dat feller she leave Dan Smeet's hoss on de odder side de corral. Hoss she pretty tire', but she carry you all right."
On his hands and knees Loudon crawled to the corral and peered between the bars. The corral was a large one. Till recently the grass had grown thickly within it. But that grass had been nibbled to the roots, and the marks of shod hoofs were everywhere. From a spring near the shack a small stream ran through one corner of the corral.
"Slick," said Loudon. "Couldn't have been better, could it?"
"No eet could not," agreed Laguerre. "She feex up dees ole corral fine. Dat Ranger hoss she been here mabbeso four day. She have de grass. She have de watair. She all ready fresh w'en dat feller she come. Un how can we follow wit' de tire' pony? Oh, she have eet figure all out. For w'y? Can you tell me dat, Tom?"
"I dunno. It shore is too many for me."
He painfully made his way to the spring, drank, and then soaked his sprained ankle in the icy stream till Laguerre came to help him into the saddle.
On the bank of the Hatchet they found Laguerre's pony lying where it had fallen. The animal was not dead. It was sound asleep.
"Hear dat?" said Laguerre, late in the afternoon.
Loudon listened. From afar off came a buzzing murmur. It grew louder and louder.
"The boys are some het up," observed Loudon.
The posse straggled into view. The boys were "het up." They were all talking at once. Evidently they had been talking for some time, and they were full of their subject. At sight of Loudon and his bootless leg the clamour stilled.
"Hit bad, Tom?" called Doubleday.
"Hoss fell on me," explained Loudon. "Yuh don't have to say nothin', Doubleday," he added, as the foreman dismounted beside him. "I know just what happened."
"Oh, yuh do, do yuh?" snorted Doubleday, wrathfully. "I might 'a' knowed there was somethin' up when that gent an' you fellers didn't catch up. An' us ridin' our heads off from hell to breakfast! Why, we'd be combin' this country yet only we met some o' the cavalry from Fort Yardley an' they said there ain't been an Injun off the reservation for a month. They shore give us the laugh. ——! That's his hoss! Did yuh get him?"
"We did not. The fellah got away nice as yuh please on my hoss Ranger—yep, the hoss Rufe Cutting stole in the Bend. Gimme the makin's, somebody, an' I'll tell yuh what happened."
A long, ragged line of dirty, tired men, and sweat-caked, drooping-headed horses, the posse rode into Paradise Bend in the afternoon of the following day. The men were quiet. Silently they dispersed to the various corrals. Loudon, his right leg dangling free, had suffered increasingly during the long ride. By the time the Bend was reached the pain in his ankle was torturing. At the hotel corral Laguerre and Doubleday helped him to dismount.
"Yuh got to go to bed awhile, Tom," pronounced Doubleday. "Grab my shoulder."
"Where was you thinkin' o' takin' him?" demanded the exceedingly cross voice of Mrs. Burr.
"The hotel, ma'am," replied Doubleday, taking off his hat.
Mrs. Burr marched forward and halted in front of the trio. She stuck her arms akimbo and glared at Doubleday.
"The hotel!" she snapped. "The hotel! An' my house close by! What's the matter with you, John Doubleday? My land, it's a good thing I seen you three a-comin' in here. I just knowed yuh was aimin' to put him in the hotel. Yuh'll do nothin' o' the kind. Yuh hear me! I ain't goin' to have no friend o' mine with a game leg a-roostin' in this hotel. The beds are bad, an' the grub's worse. What's the matter, Tom? Shot?"
"It's only a sprain, ma'am," said Loudon. "An' I guess if yuh don't mind, I'll go to the hotel. I couldn't think o' troublin' yuh, ma'am. Thank yuh a lot, but I couldn't, honest."
"Oh, yuh couldn't, couldn't yuh? My land, ain't yuh uppity all of a sudden? Yuh don't know what yo're talkin' about. Men never do nohow an' a sick man don't, special. Yo're a-comin' to my house, an' I'm a-goin' to put yuh to bed an' cure that sprained ankle. Yuh can just bet I am. John Doubleday, you h'ist him aboard that pony right away quick an' fetch him round instanter. If he ain't outside my door in five minutes I'll come back an' know the reason why. Hurry now. I'm goin' ahead an' get some hot water ready."
Twenty minutes later Loudon was sitting in the Burr kitchen. He was smoking a cigarette and soaking his sprained ankle in a bucket of hot water. At the kitchen table stood Mrs. Burr shaking up a bottle of horse liniment.
"What's this John Doubleday tells me about yore ride no'th bein' a joke?" asked Mrs. Burr.
"I dunno no more'n Doubleday," replied Loudon. "It's all beyond me."
"It's shore a heap funny. No feather-dusters, no miner folks a-standin' 'em off, an' that gent who brought the news runnin' off thataway an' shootin' at yuh an' all. It must mean somethin', though. A feller wouldn't do all that just for a real joke. It's too much."
"I wish I knew what it meant, ma'am."
"Well, it's a queer world, full o' queer folks an' queerer doin's," observed the lady, holding the bottle against the light. "Anyhow, this here liniment will fix yuh up fine as frog's hair. Now yuh must just lift yore foot out an' I'll dry it. Shut up! Who's running this, I'd like to know? Land sakes, why shouldn't I dry yore ankle? Shut up, I tell yuh.
"My fathers, Tom, you men make me plumb tired! Idjits, the lot o' yuh. No more sense than so many fool hens. What yuh all need is wives to think for yuh, tell yuh what to do, an' all that. There now, it's dry. Where's that cloth? Hold the foot still while I wrap it 'round. Now this liniment's a-goin' to burn. But the burnin's healin'. The harder it burns the quicker yuh'll get well. Shore!
"As I was sayin', Tom, yuh'd ought to get married. Do yuh good. Make yuh steadier—give yuh a new interest in life, an' all that. Ever think of it, Tom?"
Mrs. Burr rose to her feet and beamed down upon Loudon. That young man was beginning to feel strangely weak. First Scotty, and now Mrs. Burr! What was the matter with everybody? Scotty, of course, was an eccentric. But for Mrs. Burr brazenly to hurl her daughter at his head was incomprehensible. Loudon, red to the ears, mustered a weak smile.
"I dunno, ma'am," he gulped, uncomfortably. "I—I hadn't thought of it, I guess."
"Well, yuh'd ought to think of it. An' if yuh know what's best for yuh, yuh will think of it—hard. I tell yuh flat, Tom, a single man ain't no-account. He don't gather no moss, but he does collect bad habits. Now a wife she stops all this rattlin' round a-diggin' up what St. Peter will ask yuh questions about. Yessir, a good wife keeps yuh up to the bit an' a-headin' the right way."
Nervously Loudon began to roll another cigarette. He hoped that Mrs. Burr had finished. His hope was vain.
"Well, now, Tom, ain't I right?" she demanded.
"Shore, ma'am, shore, plumb right," Loudon hastened to assure her.
"'Course I am. I knowed yuh'd see it that way. Why don't yuh do it?"
"Do it?"
"Yuh know perfectly well what I mean. Ask a girl to marry yuh."
"Any girl?"
"Not just any girl. If yuh was to ask me I could tell yuh who right quick. But I suppose that wouldn't do."
Loudon was devoutly thankful that the lady possessed some sense of propriety.
"We-e-ell, ma'am," he said, slowly, "no girl would have me."
"Did yuh ever ask one?" This with a shrewd cock of the eyebrow.
"I did once."
"An' she give yuh the mitten, huh? More fool she. Listen to me: when a hoss bucks yuh off, what do yuh do? Give up, or climb aboard again?"
"That's different."
"'Tain't a bit different. Girl or hoss, a man shouldn't ever give up. Y'asked a girl once, didn't yuh? Yuh said yuh did. Well, ask her again. Land sakes alive, give her a chance to change her mind!"
Good heavens! Did Mrs. Burr mean Kate Saltoun? Impossible. But was it impossible? Of late, the seemingly impossible had had an uncanny habit of coming to pass. Loudon shivered. He was quite positive that he did not love Kate. The longer he considered the matter the more fully convinced he became that he did not wish to marry any one. Which was natural. Bid a man fall in love with a girl and he will at once begin to find fault with her.
"She—she wouldn't have me," dissembled Loudon. "It's no use talkin', ma'am, I'm what the fellah in the book calls a shore-enough blighted being. It makes me feel terrible, ma'am, but yuh can't do nothin'. Nobody can. I just got to bear it, I guess."
He sighed enormously, but there was a twinkle in the gray eyes.
"Yo're laughin'!" exclaimed Mrs. Burr, severely. "I'd like to shake yuh, I would. It ain't for nothin' that man an' mule begin with the same letter. Stubborn! My land o' livin', a girl's feelin's ain't nothin' to yuh! What do you care, yuh great big good-for-nothin' lummox!"
"Now, ma'am," chided Loudon, grinning, "yo're gettin' real excited."
"Who wouldn't? Here I am——"
"Say," interrupted Loudon, "when it comes to that, here I am gettin' fifty-five dollars a month. However can I get married, even if anybody'd have me, with silk dresses at five dollars a yard?"
"Silk dresses! What d'yuh mean by that?"
"Why, ma'am, I wouldn't let my wife wear nothin' but silk dresses mornin', noon, an' night. Nothin' would be too good for my wife. So yuh see how it is. I dassent think o' marriage."
Words failed Mrs. Burr. It was probably the first time that they had failed her. She gasped, gasped again, then stamped to the stove and furiously rattled the frying-pan.
"Well," she suddenly remarked, "wherever can that girl o' mine be? Gallivantin' 'round with that O'Leary feller just when I want her to go to the store. Now look here, Tom, you set right still till I come back, do yuh hear? No projeckin' 'round on that ankle. I'll get Ben to put yuh to bed after supper."
"He needn't bother," said Loudon, hastily. "I can get into bed my own self. I ain't a invalid."
"Yo're just what I say yuh are. If yuh make any fuss I'll put yuh to bed myself. So you watch out."
The masterful lady departed. Loudon, undisturbed by her threat, gazed after her with admiration.
"She's a whizzer," he said under his breath. "Got a heart like all outdoors. But that ankle ain't as bad as she makes out. Bet I can hop to the door an' back just as easy."
So, because he had been forbidden to budge, Loudon hoisted himself out of the chair, balanced on one leg, and hopped across the room. Holding himself upright by the door-jambs he peered out cautiously. He wished to assure himself that Mrs. Burr was well on her way to the store before proceeding farther on his travels around the kitchen.
Mrs. Burr was not in sight. Surely she could not have reached the corner so soon. Vaguely disturbed, Loudon kept one eye cocked down the street. His vigilance was rewarded by the emergence from the Mace doorway of both Mrs. Burr and Kate Saltoun. Mrs. Burr went on toward Main Street. Kate turned in his direction.
"Good Lord!" gurgled Loudon, despairingly. "She's a-comin' here!"
In a panic he turned, slipped, overbalanced, and his whole weight ground down hard on his sprained ankle. The most excruciating pain shot through his whole being. Then he toppled down in a dead faint.
When he recovered consciousness Kate's arm was around his shoulders, and Kate's voice was saying, "Drink this." Through a mist he saw Kate's face and her dark eyes with a pucker of worry between them.
"Drink this," repeated Kate, and Loudon drank from the glass she held to his lips.
The whisky cleared away the mist and injected new life into his veins. Ashamed of his weakness, he muttered hasty thanks, and essayed to rise.
"Don't move!" Kate commanded, sharply. "Hold still till I pull that chair over here."
"I can get up all right, Kate. I ain't hurt."
"No, of course not. You've just shown how much you aren't hurt. Do as I say."
Kate pulled the chair toward her and was helping Loudon into it when Mrs. Burr entered. That she had gone to the store was doubtful. At least, she was empty-handed.
"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Burr, running to Kate's assistance. "What's the matter? Tom, did yuh get up after I told yuh not to?"
Loudon mumbled unintelligibly.
"I found him in a dead faint on the floor," was the illumining remark of Kate.
"Oh, yuh did, did yuh? I might 'a' knowed it! Can't do nothin' yo're told, can yuh, Tom? I'll bet yuh twisted that ankle again! My fathers, yuh make me tired! Bet yuh it's all swelled up now worse'n ever. Lemme look."
Expertly Mrs. Burr stripped the wrappings from Loudon's ankle.
"Thought so!" she grunted, and took the dishpan from its hook.
"Is it very bad?" queried Kate.
"Not near so bad as he's tryin' to make it with his hoppin' 'round. Land alive! He'll be lucky if it ain't lame the rest of his life. Now, Tom, I'm goin' to use hotter water'n I did before. Yuh deserve to have that foot good an' scalded, yuh do. I'll get the swellin' down, too, if I have to parboil yuh. Don't yuh make no mistake about that. Say, I don't see how steppin' on this here could 'a' made yuh faint, unless—— Say, Tom, when did yuh eat last?"
"Why, ma'am, I don't—well, I guess it was yesterday some time."
Kate uttered a soft exclamation.
"Yesterday some time!" cried Mrs. Burr, hurrying to the stove. "Yesterday mornin' too, I'll bet. I might 'a' knowed it. You fellers didn't take much grub with yuh when yuh went north. An' I never thought to ask when yuh et last. A sprained ankle, a fifty-mile ride, an' nothin' to eat on top of it. No wonder yuh fainted. Yuh poor feller. An' here I been a-callin' yuh all kinds o' names. We won't wait for Dorothy. I'll have somethin' to eat for yuh in a minute."
"No hurry, ma'am," remarked Loudon. "I ain't a bit hungry."
"Kate," said Mrs. Burr, paying him no attention, "cut some bread, will yuh, an' start feedin' him. The butter's yonder."
Fifteen minutes later Loudon was sitting at the table devouring steak and potatoes. He was hungry. With great satisfaction Mrs. Burr watched him tuck away the food.
"There," she announced, filling his coffee cup for the second time, "I guess that'll hold yuh for awhile. I'll just set the coffeepot back on the stove an' Kate can give yuh some more when yuh want it. I'm goin' down street a minute."
When Mrs. Burr had gone Kate sat down opposite Loudon and locked her fingers under her chin. Loudon steadfastly kept his eyes glued to his plate. Confound the girl! Why must she pursue him in this brazen fashion? Couldn't she realize—but apparently she realized nothing save the importance of her own desires. Man-like, Loudon hardened his heart. Curiously enough, the strictly impersonal tone of Kate's opening remark gave him a distinct feeling of annoyance.
"Isn't Mrs. Burr great?" said Kate.
"Shore," mumbled Loudon.
"And Dorothy, too. I like her an awful lot. She came over to Lil's this morning, and we sewed and gossiped, and had a perfectly lovely time. She—Dorothy, I mean—showed me a new stitch—but, of course, you aren't interested in embroidery. Tell me, how do you like the new job?"
"All right."
"I'm glad. Is Mr. Mackenzie a good boss?"
"Fine. Couldn't beat him—that is—er—yore dad always treated me white."
"I know," nodded Kate, her black eyes twinkling. "Don't apologize. I quarrel with Dad myself sometimes. Tom," she added, her expression sobering, "have you had any news from Farewell lately?"
"Ain't heard a word since I left. Why?"
"I received a letter from Dad to-day. He says there's a warrant for rustling out for you."
"That's good hearin'," said Loudon, cheerfully. "I'm one popular jigger in the Lazy River country. They just can't get along without me, can they?"
"Apparently not. Dad told me to tell you. Listen, it isn't generally known in Farewell or anywhere else in Fort Creek County, for that matter, that a warrant is out for you. It was issued by Judge Allison in Marysville. Block's keeping it as dark as possible."
"Goin' to spring it on me when I ain't lookin', I suppose. He won't try fetchin' any warrant up here, that's a cinch."
"Hardly. I always hated that man."
"I never liked him a whole lot, neither. Say, how did yore dad hear about that warrant?"
"He didn't say, but I imagine somebody in Marysville wrote him. He has friends there, you know."
"I didn't know, but I'm shore glad he has. Next time yuh write yuh might thank yore dad for me."
"I will, of course. I'm awfully glad you're safe up here, Tom. All the straight people in the Lazy River country know you didn't have any hand in the branding of those Crossed Dumbbell cattle, but that doesn't help much when Block and his friends are in the majority."
"Yo're right, it don't; but I got to go to Farewell anyway in about five weeks."
"What?" Kate's eyes widened with something very like fear.
"Shore," nodded Loudon. "I got a little business to attend to that can't be put off."
"Put it off," begged Kate, stretching out a pleading hand. "Put it off, Tom. You mustn't—you can't go back to Farewell now. Some day everything will be all right again, and then you can go back. But not now, Tom. Your life is much more important than any silly business. Please wait."
"Can't be did," said Loudon with finality. "I just got to go, an' that's all there is to it."
"But, Tom," cried Kate, "don't you understand? They'll—they'll h-hang you."
"They'll have to catch me first. 'Tain't legal otherwise."
"Oh, how can you make fun? I could cry. I could, indeed. I will, too, in a minute—only, you are fooling, aren't you? You don't really intend to go back."
"I never fool. Dunno how. I'm goin' back, an' if Farewell gets gay, why, I'll just naturally rope that village o' tinhorns an' scatter it over a full section o' land. That'll cure 'em o' gettin' out warrants for peaceable folks, won't it now?"