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.