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.