Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "_'Tom!' she breathed. 'Tom! you do think I betrayed youafter all...'_"]
PARADISE BEND
BY
WILLIAM PATTERSON WHITE
Author of
"_Hidden Trails,_" "_The Owner of the Lazy D,_" "_Lynch Lawyers_."
FRONTISPIECE BY
RALPH PALLEN COLEMAN
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF
TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES,
INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
TO MY CAPE MAY COUSINS
DOROTHY, BESS, AND MARION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Tom Loudon II. At the Bar S III. Shots on Pack-Saddle IV. The Skinned Cattle V. Their Own Deceivings VI. Pestilent Fellows VII. Paradise Bend VIII. The Amazing Mackenzie IX. Authors of Confusion X. The Horse Thief XI. Rocket XII. Scotty Advises XIII. The Dance XIV. A Determined Woman XV. A Hidden Trail XVI. Kate is Helpful XVII. Mrs. Burr Relieves Her Mind XVIII. A Murder and a Killing XIX. Marysville XX. The Railroad Corral XXI. The Judge's Office XXII. Under the Ridge XXIII. The Smoke of Conflict XXIV. Before the Dawn XXV. Trail's End
PARADISE BEND
CHAPTER I
TOM LOUDON
"And don't forget that ribbon!" called Kate Saltoun from theranch-house door. "And don't lose the sample!"
"I won't!" shouted Tom Loudon, turning in his saddle. "I'll get herjust like you said! Don't you worry any!"
He waved his hat to Kate, faced about, and put his horse to a lope.
"Is it likely now I'd forget?" he muttered. "We'd do more'n that forher, wouldn't we, fellah?"
The horse, a long-legged chestnut named Ranger, turned back one ear.He was accustomed to being questioned, was Ranger. Tom Loudon lovedhim. He had bought him a five-year-old from the 88 ranch the yearbefore, and he would allow no one save Kate Saltoun to ride him. Forthe sun and the moon, in the estimation of Tom Loudon, rose and set inthe black eyes of Kate Saltoun, the exceedingly handsome daughter ofJohn T. Saltoun, the owner of the great Bar S ranch.
This day Loudon was riding into Farewell for the ranch mail, and Katehad commissioned him to do an errand for her. To serve his lady wasjoy to Loudon. He did not believe that she was aware of his state ofmind. A flirt was Kate, and a charming one. She played with a man asa cat plays with a mouse. At which pleasant sport Kate was an adept.But Loudon realized nothing of all this. Shrewd and penetrative in hisbusiness, where Kate was concerned he saw nothing but the obvious.
Where the trail snaked over Indian Ridge, ten miles from the ranchhouse, Loudon pulled up in front of a lone pine tree. On the trunk ofthe pine a notice was tacked. Which notice set forth briefly that twohundred dollars' reward was offered for the person or persons of theunknown miscreant or miscreants who were depleting the herds of the BarS and the Cross-in-a-box outfits. It was signed by Sheriff Block.
Who the miscreants were no one knew with certainty. But strange taleswere told of the 88 punchers. It was whispered that they carriedrunning-irons on their saddles. Certainly they displayed, when ridingthe range, a marked aversion to the company of men from the otherranches.
The remains of small fires had been found time and again in drawsbordering the 88 range, and once a fire-marked cinch-ring had beenpicked up. As the jimmy and bunch of skeleton keys in a man's pocketso are the running-iron and the extra cinch-ring under a puncher'ssaddle-skirts. They indicate a criminal tendency; specifically, in thelatter case, a whole-hearted willingness to brand the cattle of one'sneighbour.
Loudon read the notice of reward, slow contempt curling his lips.
"Signs," he said, gently. "Signs----! What we need isVigilantes--Vigilantes an' a bale o' rope!"
He turned in his saddle and looked back over the way he had come.Fifty miles to the south the Frying Pan Mountains lay in a cool, blue,tumbling line.
From where Loudon sat on his horse to the Frying Pans stretched therolling range, cut by a thin, kinked strip of cottonwoods marking thecourse of a wandering river, pockmarked with draws and shallow basins,blotched with clumps of pine and tamarack, and humped with knolls andsprawling hills. The meandering stream was the Lazy, and all the landin sight, and beyond for that matter, was the famous Lazy River countryheld by three great ranches, the Cross-in-a-box, the Bar S, and the 88.
Of these the 88 was the largest and the farthest west of the three, itseastern line running along the high-bluffed banks of the Falling Horse,which emptied into the Lazy some ten miles from the 88 ranch house.East of the 88 lay the Bar S, and east of the Bar S was theCross-in-a-box. The two latter ranches owned the better grazing, themore broken country lying within the borders of the 88 ranch.
Beyond the 88 range, across the Falling Horse, were the Three SistersMountains, a wild and jumbled tangle of peaks and narrow valleys wherethe hunter and the bear and the mountain lion lived and had theirbeings. East of the Lazy River country lay the Double Diamond A andthe Hog-pen outfits; north and south stretched other ranches, but allthe ranges ended where the Three Sisters began.
Loudon swung his gaze westward, then slowly his eyes slid around andfastened on the little brown dots that were the ranch buildings of theBar S. He shook his head gently and sighed helplessly.
He was thinking partly of Kate and partly of her father, the gray oldman who owned the Bar S and would believe nothing evil of hisneighbours, the hard-riding 88 boys. Loudon was morally certain thatforty cows within the last three months had transferred theirallegiance from Bar S to 88, and he had hinted as much to Mr. Saltoun.But the latter had laughed him to scorn and insisted that only a fewcows had been taken and that the lifting was the work of independentrustlers, or perhaps of one of the other ranches. Nevertheless, inresponse to the repeated urging of his foreman, Bill Rainey, Mr.Saltoun had joined with the Cross-in-a-box in offering a reward for therustlers.
Loudon was well aware of the reason for Mr. Saltoun's fatuousblindness. That reason was Sam Blakely, the 88 manager, who came oftento the Bar S ranch and spent many hours in the company of Kate. Mr.Saltoun did not believe that a dog would bite the hand that fed him.But it all depends on the breed of dog. And Blakely was the wrongbreed.
"He shore is a pup," Loudon said, softly, "an' yellow at that. He'dsteal the moccasins off a dead Injun. An' Block would help him, thecow-thief."
Then, being young, Loudon practised the road-agent's spin on the noticeof reward tacked on the pine tree, and planted three accurate bulletsin the same spot.
"Here, you! What yuh doin'?" rasped a grating voice in Loudon'simmediate rear.
Loudon turned an unhurried head. Ten yards distant a tall man,black-bearded, of a disagreeable cast of countenance, was leaningforward across an outcrop.
"I asked yuh what yuh was doin'?" repeated the peevish individual,glaring at Loudon.
"I heard yuh the first time, Sheriff," replied Loudon, placidly. "Iwas just figurin' whether to tell yuh I was shoein' a horse or catchin'butterflies. Which answer would yuh like best?"
"Yuh think yo're mighty funny, Tom Loudon, but I tell yuh flat if yuhdon't go slow 'round here I'll find a quick way o' knockin' yore hornsoff."
"Yuh don't say. When yuh goin' to begin?"
Loudon beamed upon the sheriff, his gun held with studied carelessness.Sheriff Block walked from behind his breastwork, his eyes watchful, histhumbs carefully hooked in the armholes of his vest.
"That notice ain't no target," he grunted, halting beside the pin
e tree.
"It is now," remarked Loudon, genially.
"It won't be no more."
"O' course not, Sheriff. I wouldn't think o' shootin' at it if you sayno. It's a right pretty piece o' readin'. Did yuh write it allyoreself?"
The sheriff's eyes became suddenly blank and fixed. His right thumbslowly unhooked.
"I only fired three shots," observed Loudon, the muzzle of hissix-shooter bearing on the pit of the sheriff's stomach.
The sheriff's right thumb rehooked itself hurriedly. His frame relaxed.
"Yuh shouldn't get mad over a joke," continued Loudon. "It's plumbfoolish. Been hidin' behind that rock long?"
"I wasn't hidin' behind it. I was down in the draw, an' I seen youa-readin' the notice, an' I come up."
Loudon's gray eyes twinkled. He knew that the sheriff lied. He knewthat Block had heard his comments on Blakely and his own worshipfulperson, but evidently the sheriff did not consider this an opportunetime for taking umbrage.
"So yuh come up, did yuh? Guess yuh thought it was one o' the rustlersdriftin' in to see what reward was out for him, didn't yuh? But don'tget downhearted. Maybe one'll come siftin' along yet. Why don't yuhcamp here, Sheriff? It'll be easier than ridin' the range for 'em, an'a heap healthier. Now, Sheriff, remember what I said about gettin'red-headed. Say, between friends, an' I won't tell even the littlehoss, who do you guess is doin' the rustlin'?"
"If I knowed," growled the sheriff, "his name'd be wrote on the notice."
"Would it? I was just wonderin'. Habit I got."
"Don't you fret none about them rustlers. I'll get 'em if it takes tenyears."
"Make it twenty, Sheriff. They'll keep right on electin' yuh."
"Do yuh mean to say the rustlers elected me?" exploded the sheriff.
"O' course not," chided Loudon, gently. "Now what made yuh think Imeant that?"
"Well, yuh said----" began the sheriff.
"I said 'they,'" interrupted Loudon. "You said 'rustlers'. Stay inthe saddle, Sheriff. You'll stub your toe sometime if yuh keep ona-travellin' one jump ahead o' the hoss."
"Yo're ---- smart for a cow-punch."
"It is a cinch to fool most of 'em, ain't it--especially when yo're asheriff?"
Loudon's eyes were wide open and child-like in their gray blandness.But the sheriff did not mistake his man. Block knew that if his handdropped, a bullet would neatly perforate his abdomen. The sheriff wasnot a coward, but he had sense enough not to force an issue. He couldafford to wait.
"I'll see yuh again," said the sheriff, harshly, and strode diagonallydown the slope.
Loudon watched him until he vanished among the pines a hundred yardsbelow. Then Loudon touched his horse with the spur and rode on, chinon shoulder, hands busy reloading his six-shooter. Three minutes laterLoudon saw the sheriff, mounted on his big black stallion, issue fromthe wood. The great horse scrambled up the hillside, gained the trail,and headed south.
"Bet he's goin' to the 88," said Loudon. "I'd give ten dollars to knowwhat Block was roostin' behind that rock for. Gawd! I shore wouldadmire to be Sheriff o' Fort Creek County for thirty days!"
Eleven miles from Indian Ridge he topped a rise and saw below himFarewell's straggly street, flanked by several false-fronted saloons,two stores, one hotel leaning slightly askew, and a few unkempt houses,the whole encircled by the twinkling pickets of innumerable bottles andtin cans.
He rode along the street, fetlock-deep in dust, and stopped at thehotel corral. Freeing Ranger of the saddle and bridle, he opened thegate and slapped the chestnut on the hip.
"Go on in, fellah," said Loudon. "Yore dinner's a-comin'."
He walked around to the front of the hotel. Under the wooden awning abeefy, red-faced citizen was dozing in a chair tilted back against thewall. Loudon tapped the snoring individual on the shoulder. Thesleeper awoke gaspingly, his eyes winking. The chair settled on fourlegs with a crash.
"Howdy, Bill," said Loudon, gravely.
"Howdy, Tom," gurgled the other.
"Hoss in the corral an' me here, Bill. Feeds for two."
"Sure. We've done et, but you go in an' holler for Lize. She'll fixyou up."
The fat landlord waddled stableward and Loudon entered the hotel. Apartition that did not reach the ceiling divided the sleepingapartments from the dining room. Carelessly hanging over the partitionwere two shirts and someone's chaps.
The whole floor slanted, for, as has been said, the hotel leanedsidewise. The long table in the dining room, covered with cracked andscaling oilcloth, was held unsteadily upright by three legs and acracker box.
Loudon, quite untouched by this scene of shiftlessness, hooked out achair with his foot, dropped his hat on the floor, and sat down.
"Oh, Mis' Lainey!" he called.
A female voice, somewhat softened by distance and a closed door,instantly began to make oration to the effect that if any lazy chunkerof a puncher thought he was to eat any food he was very much mistaken.
The door banged open. A slatternly, scrawny woman appeared in thedoorway. She was still talking. But the clacking tongue changed itstone abruptly.
"Oh, it's you, Tom Loudon!" exclaimed the lean woman. "How are yuh,anyway? I'm shore glad to see yuh. I thought yuh was one o' themrousy fellers, an' I wouldn't rustle no more chuck this noon for thelikes o' them, not if they was starvin' an' their tongues was hangin'out a foot. But yo're different, an' I ain't never forgot the time yourode thirty mile for a doc when my young one was due to cash. No, youbet I ain't! Now don't you say nothin'. You jest set right patient ashort spell an' I'll rustle----"
The door swung shut, and the remainder of the sentence was lost in amuffled din of pans. Loudon winked at the closed door and grinned.
He had known the waspish Mrs. Lainey and her paunchy husband since thatday when, newly come to the Lazy River country, he had met them, theirbuckboard wrecked by a runaway and their one child apparently dying ofinternal injuries. Though Loudon always minimized what he had done,Mrs. Lainey and her husband did not. And they were not folk whosememories are short.
In less than twenty minutes Mrs. Lainey brought in a steak, friedpotatoes, and coffee. The steak was fairly tough, so were thepotatoes, and the coffee required a copious quantity of condensed milkto render it drinkable. But Loudon ate with a rider's appetite. Mrs.Lainey, arms folded in her apron, leaned against the doorjamb, andregaled him with the news of Farewell.
"Injun Joe got drunk las' week an' tried to hogtie Riley's bear. Itwasn't hardly worth while buryin' Joe, but they done it. Mis'Stonestreet has a new baby. This one makes the twelfth. Yep, daybefore yestiddy. Charley's so proud over it he ain't been sober since.Slep' in the waterin'-trough las' night, so he did, an' this mornin' hewas drunk as ever. But he never did do things by halves, that CharleyStonestreet. Ain't the heat awful? Yep, it's worse'n that. Did yuhhear about----"
Poor, good-hearted Mrs. Lainey. With her, speech was a disease.Loudon ate as hurriedly as he could, and fled to the sidewalk. BillLainey, who had fallen asleep again, roused sufficiently to accept sixbits.
"Mighty drowsy weather, Tom," he mumbled.
"It must be," said Loudon. "So long."
Leaving the sleepy Lainey to resume his favourite occupation, Loudonwalked away. Save Lainey, no human beings were visible on the glaringstreet. In front of the Palace Saloon two cow-ponies drooped. Nearthe postoffice stood another, bearing on its hip the Cross-in-a-boxbrand.
From the door of the postoffice issued the loud and cheerful tones of avoice whose owner was well pleased with the world at large.
"Guess I'll get that ribbon first," said Loudon to himself, andpromptly walked behind the postoffice.
He had recognized the cheerful voice. It was that of his friend,Johnny Ramsay, who punched cows for the Cross-in-a-box outfit. And notfor a month's pay would Loudon have had Johnny Ramsay see himpurchasing yards of red ribbon. Ramsay's sense of humour was too welldeveloped.
When four houses intervened between himself and the postoffice Loudonreturned to the street and entered the Blue Pigeon Store. Comparedwith most Western frontier stores the Blue Pigeon was compactly neat.A broad counter fenced off three sides of the store proper.
Behind the counter lines of packed shelves lined the walls from floorto ceiling. Between the counter and the shelves knotted ropes, a longarm's-length apart, depended from the rafters. Above thecanvas-curtained doorway in the rear hung the model of a black-hulled,slim-sparred clipper.
At the jingle of Loudon's spurs on the floor the canvas curtain waspushed aside, and the proprietor shuffled and thumped, for his left legwas of wood, into the store. He was a red-headed man, was Mike Flynn,the proprietor, barrel-chested, hairy-armed, and even the backs of hisham-like hands were tattooed.
"Good aft'noon to yuh, Tom," said Mike Flynn. "'Tis a fine day--hot,mabbe, but I've seen worse in the Horse Latitudes. An' what is it theday?"
"Red ribbon, Mike," replied Loudon, devoutly thankful that no othercustomer was in the store.
Mike glanced at the sample in Tom Loudon's hand.
"Shore, an' I have that same, width an' all," he said, and forthwithseizing one of the knotted ropes he pulled himself hand over hand tothe top shelf.
Hanging by one hand he fumbled a moment, then lowered himself to thefloor.
"An' here yuh are!" he exclaimed. "The finest ribbon that ever comeWest. Matches the bit yuh have like a twin brother. One dollar twobits a yard."
"I'll take five yards."
"Won't yuh be needin' a new necktie now?" inquired Mike Flynn, expertlymeasuring off the ribbon. "I've a fine lot in--grane ones, an' blueones, an' purple ones wit' white spots, an' some black ones wit' redan' yaller figgers, not to spake o' some yaller ones wit' vi'lethorseshoes. Very fancy, thim last. God be with the ould days! Timewas when I'd not have touched yaller save wit' me foot, but 'tis solong since I've hove a brick at an Orangeman that the ould feelin'ain't near so strong as it was. An' here's the ribbon, Tom. Aboutthem neckties now. They're worth seein'. One minute an' I'll delightyore eyes."
Rapidly Mike Flynn stumped around to the other side of the room, pulleddown several long boxes and deftly laid them, covers off, on thecounter. Loudon did need a new necktie. What man in love does not?He passed over the yellow ones with violet horseshoes so stronglyrecommended by Mike Flynn, and bought one of green silk.
"Yo're a lad after me own heart, Tom Loudon," said Mike Flynn, wrappingthe necktie. "Grane's best when all's said an' done. The colour ofould Ireland, God bless her. An' here comes Johnny Ramsay."
Loudon hastily stuffed his purchases inside his flannel shirt, and in acareless tone asked for a box of forty-five calibre cartridges. Heturned just in time to ward off the wild rush of Johnny Ramsay, whoendeavoured to seize him by the belt and waltz him round the store.
"Wow! Wow!" yelled Johnny. "How's Tommy? How's the boy? Allemaneleft, you old bronc buster!"
"Quit it, you idjit!" bawled Loudon, the crushing of ribbon and necktiebeing imminent.
Ramsay stepped back and prodded Loudon's breast with an inquiringfinger.
"Paddin'," he said, solemnly. "Tryin' to give yoreself a chest, ain'tyuh, you old bean-pole? Ouch!"
For Loudon had dug a hard knuckle into his friend's left side, and itwas Ramsay's turn to yell. From behind the counter Mike Flynn beamedupon them. He liked them well, these careless youngsters of the range,and their antics were a source of never-ending amusement.
Entered then a tall, lean man with black hair, and a face the goodlooks of which were somewhat marred by a thin-lipped mouth and sharp,sinister eyes. But for all that Sam Blakely, the manager of the 88ranch, was a very handsome man. He nodded to the three, his lipsparting over white teeth, and asked Mike Flynn for a rope.
"Here's yore cartridges, Tom," called Mike, and turned to the rear ofthe store.
Loudon picked up his box of cartridges, stuffing them into a pocket inhis chaps.
"Let's irrigate," he said to Ramsay.
"In a minute," replied his friend. "I want some cartridges my ownself."
The two sat down on the counter to wait. Blakely strolled across tothe open boxes of neckties.
"Cravats," he sneered, fingering them.
"An' ---- fine ones!" exclaimed Mike Flynn, slamming down the coil ofrope on the counter. "Thim yaller ones wit' vi'let spots now, yuhcouldn't beat 'em in New York. An' the grand grane ones. Ain't theythe little beauts? I just sold one to Tom Loudon."
"Green shore does suit some people," said the 88 manager, coldly.
Loudon felt Johnny Ramsay stiffen beside him. But Loudon merely smileda slow, pleasant smile.
"Hirin' any new men, Sam?" he inquired, softly, his right hand cuddlingclose to his belt.
"What do yuh want to know for?" demanded Blakely, wheeling.
"Why, yuh see, I was thinkin' o' quittin' the Bar S, an' I'd sort o'like to get with a good, progressive outfit, one that don't miss anychances."
Loudon's voice was clear and incisive. Each word fell with theprecision of a pebble falling into a well. Mike Flynn backed swiftlyout of range.
"What do yuh mean by that?" demanded Blakely, his gaze level.
"What I said," replied Loudon, staring into the other's sinister blackeyes. "I shore do hate to translate my words."
For a long minute the two men gazed steadily at each other. Neithermade a move. Blakely's hand hung at his side. Loudon's hand had notyet touched his gun-butt. But Blakely could not know that, forLoudon's crossed knees concealed the position of his hand.
Loudon was giving Blakely an even chance. He knew that Blakely wasquick on the draw, but he believed that he himself was quicker.Blakely evidently thought, so too, for suddenly he grunted and turnedhis back on Loudon.
"What's that?" inquired Blakely, pointing a finger at one end of therope.
"What--oh, that!" exclaimed Mike. "Sure, that's what a seaman callswhippin'. The holdfast was missin', an' the rope was beginning' tounlay, so I whipped the end of it. 'Twill keep the rope from frayin'out, do yuh mind. An' it's the last rope I have in stock, too."
Loudon, watching Blakely's hands, saw that what Mike Flynn calledwhipping was whip-cord lapped tightly a dozen turns or so round the endof the rope. Blakely, without another word, paid for the rope, pickedit up, and departed, head high, sublimely indifferent to the presenceof Loudon. Mike Flynn heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief.
"Praise be!" he ejaculated. "I'd thought to lose a customer a minuteback." Then, recollecting himself, he added quickly, "What was thatyuh said about cartridges, Johnny?"
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