Trouble! Nothin' but ----"

The discouraged foreman slumped down beside Loudon and rolled a cigarette with vicious energy.

Some ten minutes later the cook stirred, rolled over, and sat up. He stared with dull eyes at the men on the bench. Stupidly he fingered the cut at the back of his head. As deadened senses revived and memory returned, his back stiffened, and defiance blazed up in his eyes.

"Telescope," said Loudon, "I'd take it as a favour if yuh'd give him his gun--an' his cartridges."

The cook lost his defiant look when the half-breed complied with Loudon's request. Helplessly he eyed the gun a moment, then, struck with a bright idea, he waggled his right wrist and grimaced as if with pain. Gingerly he rubbed the wrist-bone.

"Sprained my wrist," he stated brazenly. "Can't shoot with my left hand nohow. If I could, I'd sh.o.r.e enjoy finishin' up. h.e.l.luva note this is! I start for to shoot it out with a gent, an' one o' you sports whangs me over the head an' lays me out. I'd admire to know which one o' yuh done it."

"I done eet," Laguerre informed him, his white teeth flashing under his black mustache.

"I'll remember yuh," said the cook with dignity. "I'll remember you too," he added looking at Loudon. "Doubleday, I'd like my time. I ain't a-goin' to cook for this bunch no longer. An' if it's all the same to you I'll take a hoss for part o' my pay."

"Well, by ----!" exclaimed Doubleday, hugely annoyed at being thus forestalled. "You've got a nerve. You ought to be hung!"

"Any gent does who works for the Flying M," countered the cook. "But I'm quittin'. Do I get the hoss!"

"Yuh bet yuh do. An' yo're hittin' the trail to-night."

"The sooner the quicker."

Within half an hour Rufe Cutting, erstwhile cook at the Flying M, a bandage under his hat, mounted his horse and rode away toward Paradise Bend. As he vanished in the gathering dusk, Swing Tunstall laughed harshly.

"All yaller an' a yard wide!" observed Giant Morton, and spat contemptuously.

Loudon made no comment. He was working out a puzzle, and he was making very little headway.

In the morning he saddled Ranger and started for the Bend. He followed the trail for a mile or two, then, fording the Dogsoldier, he struck across the flats where a few of Mackenzie's horses grazed. He did not turn his horse's head toward Paradise Bend till the Dogsoldier was well out of rifle-range. Loudon's caution was pardonable. Rufe Cutting knew that he was to ride to the Bend, and Rufe had a rifle. Loudon had marked him tying it in his saddle-strings.

It was quite within the bounds of possibility that the cunning Rufe was at that very moment lying in wait somewhere among the cottonwoods on the bank of the Dogsoldier, for the trail in many places swung close to the creek. Decidedly, the trail was no fit route for any one at odds with a citizen of the Cutting stamp.

Loudon, when he drew near the Bend, circled back to the creek and entered the town by the Farewell trail.

He dismounted in front of the Three Card, anch.o.r.ed Ranger to the ground, and went into the saloon. Several men were standing at the bar. They ceased talking at his entrance.

Loudon leaned both elbows on the bar and demanded liquor. He sensed a certain tenseness, a vague chill in the atmosphere. The bartender, his eyes looking anywhere but at Loudon, served him hastily. The bartender seemed nervous. Bottle and gla.s.s rattled as he placed them on the bar.

"Scotty Mackenzie come in yet?" inquired Loudon of the bartender, setting down his empty gla.s.s.

"N-no," quavered the bartender, shrilly. "I ain't seen him."

Loudon stared at the bartender. What was the matter with the man? His face was the colour of gray wrapping-paper. Loudon turned and glanced along the bar at the other customers. Two of them were regarding him, a rapt fascination in their expressions. Swiftly the two men averted their eyes.

Loudon hesitated an instant, then he wheeled and walked out of the saloon. As he crossed the sidewalk he noticed a group of men standing near by. He stooped to pick up his reins. When he straightened there was a sudden rustle and a whisk in his rear. Something settled over his shoulders and drew taut, pinning his arms to his sides.

"What in----" swore Loudon, and began to struggle furiously.

He was at once jerked over on his back. He fell heavily. The shock partially stunned him. Dazedly he gazed upward into a ring of faces.

The features of all save one were blurred. And that face was the face of Block, the Sheriff of Fort Creek County.

Loudon felt a tugging at his belt and knew that one was removing his six-shooter. He was pulled upright, his hands were wrenched together, and before he was aware of what was taking place, his wrists were in handcuffs. Now his faculties returned with a rush.

"What seems to be the trouble, anyway?" he demanded of the crowd in general.

"It seems yo're a hoss thief," replied a brown-bearded man wearing a star on the left lapel of his vest.

"Who says so?"

"This gent." The brown-bearded man pointed at Block.

"It's no good talkin', Loudon," said Block, grinning after the fashion of the cat which has just eaten the canary. "I know yuh. Yuh stole that hoss yo're ridin' from the 88 ranch. There's the brand to prove it. But that ain't all. Yuh was caught rustlin' 88 cows. Yuh branded 'em Crossed Dumbbell. An' yuh got away by shootin' Sam Blakely, an'

holdin' up Marvin an' Rudd. I don't guess yuh'll get away now in a hurry."

"Where's yore warrant?"

"Don't need no warrant."

"That's right," corroborated the brown-bearded man with the star. "Yuh don't need no warrant for a hoss-thief an' a rustler. I tell yuh, stranger, yo're lucky to be still alive. I'm doin' yuh a favour by lettin' yuh go south with Sheriff Block. By rights yuh'd ought to be lynched instanter."

"Yuh don't say," said Loudon, gently. "Who are yuh, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm only the marshal here at the Bend," replied with sarcasm the brown-bearded man. "My name's Smith--Dan Smith. Yuh might 'a' heard o' me."

"Sh.o.r.e, I've heard o' yuh, an' I'd understood yuh was a party with sense an' not in the habit o' believin' everythin' yuh hear. Now----"

"Yuh understood right," said the marshal, drily. "I'm listenin' to yuh now, an' I don't believe everythin' I hear."

"Yo're believin' Block, an' he's the biggest liar in Fort Creek County, an' that's sayin' quite it lot, seein' as how the 88 outfit belongs in Fort Creek. Now I never branded no 88 cows. The 88, because they knowed I knowed they'd been brandin' other folks' cattle, went an'

branded a cow an' a calf o' their own with the Crossed Dumbbell an'

then tried to throw the blame on me. But the trick didn't pan out.

They couldn't prove it nohow. Jack Richie o' the Cross-in-a-box can tell yuh I didn't rustle them cattle."

"I thought yuh was workin' for the Bar S," put in the marshal.

"I was, but I quit."

"Then why wouldn't Saltoun o' the Bar S know all about it? What did yuh say Jack Richie for?"

The marshal drooped a wise eyelid. He considered himself a most astute cross-examiner.

"I said Jack Richie because he was there at the Bar S when Marvin an'

Rudd drove in the cow an' the calf. It was him proved I couldn't 'a'

branded them cattle like they said I did."

"Why wouldn't Saltoun o' the Bar S speak for yuh?" inquired the marshal.