Paradise Bend Part 15

"It can stand it. Outside o' Mike Flynn, an' Bill Lainey an' his wife, there ain't a decent two-legged party in the whole place."

Captain Burr nodded and turned an appreciative eye on Ranger.

"That chestnut hoss ce'tainly does please me," he said. "I wish I'd bought him myself. I do indeed."

CHAPTER VII

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 sh.o.r.e 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 bra.s.s 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."

"Sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e 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.

"Sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 embarra.s.sing.

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, "Sh.o.r.e, 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."