"Shore," replied Loudon. "They won't be able to travel under two weeks."
"Did yuh tell Old Salt the joyful news—about the cattle?"
"I'll send him word."
"He's down at Mike Flynn's now. Go an' make him happy. But first c'mon in an' irrigate. If we don't do it right away, Johnny'll faint. His tongue's hangin' out a foot."
"I'll see yuh later. Guess I'd better tell Old Salt first."
Loudon did not feel particularly cheerful as he walked down the street. His work was done—and well done. His enemies were either no more or journeying swiftly elsewhere. There was peace for honest men in Fort Creek County at last. But there was no peace in Loudon's soul. He was learning for the second time that forgetfulness comes not easily.
In front of the Blue Pigeon Store a buckboard was standing. The rangy vehicle and its team of ponies struck a chord in Loudon's memory. He had seen them recently. Where? Idly speculating he entered the Blue Pigeon. Mr. Saltoun, leaning over the counter, was talking to Mike Flynn.
"Ahoy, Tom!" bawled Mike Flynn, thrusting forward his immense, freckled paw. "'Tis a sight for sore eyes yuh are. Glory be, but I thought yuh kilt!"
Mr. Saltoun's greeting was less enthusiastic, but it was friendly. Loudon sat down on the counter and swung his spurred heels.
"About them cattle now," he said, slowly, his eyes fixed on Mr. Saltoun's face. "Yuh remember I told yuh the 88 was rustlin' 'em?"