CHAPTER IX

AUTHORS OF CONFUSION

When Loudon went to the office that evening he found Doubleday alone.

"Scotty's gone," said Doubleday, in response to Loudon's question.

"He's traipsin' over to the Seven Lazy Seven. Wants to get rid o' some of our no-account stock."

"When'll he be back?"

"Dunno. He may take in the Two Bar, Wagonwheel, T V U, an' the Double Diamond K before he comes back, He might stay away a week, or three weeks, or a month. Yuh can't keep tabs on Scotty. I tried to once, but I give it up long ago."

Loudon did not take the garrulous Doubleday into his confidence. Nor did he mention the matter to Laguerre. The half-breed had seen O'Leary ride up to the blacksmith shop, and his Gallic curiosity was aroused to the full.

"My frien'," said Laguerre, when Loudon and he were mending a break in the corral fence the following day, "my frien', I wan' for tell you somethin'. Somethin' mabbeso you not see. Yes'erday O'Leary she come to de ranch; she go to de blacksmith shop. I see heem before she go to de blacksmith shop. I see heem aftair. Before she see you dere een de shop hees face was de face of de man who ees not satisfy, who ees hunt for somethin'. Wen I see heem aftair, she look satisfy. She has foun'

w'at she hunt for. Are you me?"

Loudon nodded.

"O'Leary's takin' a heap o' trouble on my account," he said, slowly.

"More dan I t'ought she would," vouchsafed Laguerre. "I tell you, Tom, she have not de good feelin' for you. Were ees dat d.a.m.n hammair gone?"

Three weeks later, Loudon and Laguerre were lazily enjoying the cool of the evening outside the door of the bunkhouse when Doubleday came striding toward them. In one hand the foreman waved a letter. He appeared to be annoyed. He was.

"Tom, Scotty wants yuh to meet him at the Bend Tuesday--that's to-morrow," said Doubleday, crossly. "Yuh'll find him at the Three Card. ---- it to ----! An' I wanted you an' Telescope to ride the north range to-morrow! Which that Scotty Mackenzie is sh.o.r.e the most unexpected gent! Says he wants yuh to ride yore own hoss. Dunno what he wants yuh for. He don't say. Just says meet him."

Doubleday departed, swearing.

"Pore old Doubleday," drawled a bristle-haired youth named Swing Tunstall. "He gets a heap displeased with Scotty sometimes."

"Scotty ain't just regular in his ways," commented Giant Morton, a dwarfish man with tremendously long arms. "Scotty wasn't goin' beyond the Wagonwheel, if he got that far, an' his letter was mailed in Rocket, fifty miles south. I brought her in from the Bend this aft'noon, an' I noticed the postmark special."

"He wears the raggedest clo'es I ever seen," said the cook. "An' he's got money, too."

"Money!" exclaimed Morton. "He's lousy with money. Wish I had it. Do yuh know what I'd do? I'd buy me a seventeen-hand hoss an' a saloon."

"I wouldn't," said Loudon, winking at Laguerre. "I'd have a _hacienda_ down in old Mexico, an' I'd hire half-a-dozen good-lookin' _senoritas_ with black hair an' blue eyes to play tunes for me on banjos, an' I'd hire cookie here to come an' wake me up every mornin' at five o'clock just so's I could have the pleasure o' heavin' him out o' the window an' goin' back to sleep."

By which it may be seen that the moody Loudon was becoming more human.

His remarks irritated the cook, who rather fancied himself. He allowed himself to be the more provoked because of a growing belief that Loudon's habitually retiring and inoffensive manner denoted a lack of mettle. Which mental att.i.tude was shared by none of the others.

At Loudon's careless words the cook bounced up from his seat on the doorsill and a.s.sumed a crouching position in front of Loudon.

"Yuh couldn't throw nothin'!" yapped the man of pots and pans. "Yuh couldn't throw a fit, let alone me! An' I want yuh to understand I can throw any bowlegged misfit that ever wore hair pants!"

"What did yuh throw 'em with--yore mouth?" inquired Loudon, gently.

The Lazy River man had not moved from his seat on the washbench. His arms remained folded across his chest. He smiled pleasantly at the irate cook.

"I throwed 'em like I'm goin' to throw you!" frothed the hot-tempered one. "That is," he added, sneeringly, "if yuh ain't afraid."

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 sh.o.r.e 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.

Swaying on his high heels Loudon waited. Then run, with a pantherlike leap, he flung himself forward, drove both arms beneath those of the cook and clipped him round the body. The cook strove for a strangle-hold, but Loudon forestalled the attempt by hooking his chin over his opponent's shoulder. Legs apart, Loudon lifted and squeezed.

Gradually, as Loudon put forth all his great strength, the breath of the cook was expelled from his cracking chest in gasps and wheezes.

His muscles relaxed, his face became distorted, empurpled.

Loudon released his grip. The cook fell limply and lay on his back, arms outspread, his crushed lungs fighting for air. In the struggle his shirt had been ripped across, and now his chest and one shoulder were exposed. Loudon, gazing down at the prostrate man, started slightly, then stooped and looked more closely at the broad triangle of breast.

Abruptly Loudon turned away and resumed his seat on the bench. After a time the cook rolled over, staggered to his feet, and reeled into the bunkhouse without a word.

No one commented on the wrestling-match. Swing Tunstall started a cheerful reminiscence of his last trip to the Bend. Laguerre rose and pa.s.sed silently round the corner of the bunkhouse. Loudon, chin on hand, stared off into the distance.

Suddenly, within the bunkhouse, there was the thump of feet followed in quick succession by a thud and a grunt. Out through the doorway the cook tumbled headlong, fell flat, and lay motionless, his nose in the dirt, his boot-toes on the doorsill. One outflung hand still clutched the b.u.t.t of a six-shooter. From a gash on the back of his head the blood oozed slowly.

Issued then Laguerre from the doorway. The half-breed was in his stocking feet. He wrenched the gun from the cook's fingers, stuffed the weapon into the waistband of his trousers, and squatted down on his heels.

None of the onlookers had moved. Gravely they regarded Laguerre and the cook. Loudon realized that he had narrowly escaped being shot in the back. A farce had developed into melodrama.

At this juncture Doubleday strolled leisurely out of the office. At sight of the fallen man and the serious group at the bunkhouse he quickened his steps.

"Who done it?" demanded Doubleday, severely, for he believed the cook to be dead.

"I heet heem on de head wit' my gun," explained Laguerre. "Loudon she t'row de cook. De cook she geet varree mad un go een de bunkhouse. I t'ink mabbeso she do somethin' un I go roun' de bunkhouse, tak' off my boots, un crawl een de side window. De cook she was jus' run for door wit' hees gun een hees han'. I stop heem."

Complacently Laguerre gazed upon the still unconscious cook.

"The kyote!" exclaimed Doubleday. "That's what comes o' not havin' any sense o' humour! ---- his soul! Now I got to fire him. Trouble!