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.