"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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sc.r.a.pe acquaintance with a couple o' soft-hearted women."

"I brought up a letter from Cap'n Burr to his wife. You ask her."

"Oh, sh.o.r.e. 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 sh.o.r.e 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.

CHAPTER VIII

THE AMAZING MACKENZIE

Doubleday, a squat man with a sharp nose and a sharper eye, evinced no surprise at his employer's message. He merely swore resignedly on learning that Mackenzie had not sent in the mail by Loudon, and in the same breath thanked his Maker that a new man had arrived.

The advent of Loudon was most opportune, according to Doubleday. For, one "Lanky" having taken a wife and removed to the Sweet River Agency, the Flying M was a man short.

"Turn yore hoss into the big corral," said Doubleday, when he had sufficiently condemned the foolishness of Lanky, "an' take yore saddle over to the bunkhouse. There's three empty bunks. Help yoreself.

Then c'mon over to the little corral an' bring yore rope. Got an outlaw stallion with a cut hind leg, an' it's a two-man job."

Loudon found favour in the eyes of Doubleday. The former Bar S puncher did his work easily and well. He proved a better roper than Doubleday, and he was the equal in horsemanship of "Telescope" Laguerre, the half-breed buster.

With Laguerre, Loudon struck up an instant friendship.

Telescope--which name was the natural transformation undergone by Telesph.o.r.e in a Western climate--was a long lean man, with the straight black hair and the swarthy complexion of his Indian mother and the mobile features and facile speech and gestures of his French father.

When Loudon had been at the Flying M three days Telescope suggested that they ride to town in the evening.

"We weel go to de dance hall," said Laguerre. "Fine woman dere. We weel dance a leetle, we weel dreenk de w'iskey, un we weel have de good tam. By gar, I not been to town for two mont. Wat your say, Tom?"

"I'd sh.o.r.e enjoy goin' along, Telescope, but I can't," replied Loudon, mindful of his promise to Scotty Mackenzie.

"Dat ees all right," said the large-hearted half-breed. "She ees my treat. I have more as one hundred dollar, un by gar! I wan' for to spen' eet. You are my frien'. You help me for spen' eet. We weel burn up de dance hall."

"Oh, I'm not broke," said Loudon. "I'll go with yuh another time."

Laguerre, being wise in his generation, forbore to insist, and rode to town alone. The cook predicted a three-day orgy.

"Rats!" said Doubleday. "Yuh don't know Telescope. He never gets drunk. He can't. He sops it up an' he sops it up, an' it don't bother him a mite. Wish I had his gift. Why, I've seen him tuck away a quart o' killer inside o' three hours, an' then hop out with his rope an'

fasten on a hoss any leg you tell him. He's a walkin' miracle, Telescope is, an' he'll be back in the mornin'."

Loudon, oiling his saddle in front of the bunkhouse, glanced casually at the cook standing in the doorway, and wondered for the twentieth time where he had seen the man before. On his arrival at the Flying M, Loudon had sensed that, in a vague way, the cook's face was familiar.

First impressions had taken no concrete form. He could not remember where or under what circ.u.mstances he had seen the cook. But that he had seen him, he was certain.

The cook's name was Rufe Cutting. Which name, however, was not enlightening. Idly speculating, Loudon went on with his work. The cook returned to the kitchen.