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 canyon
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 preempted 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.