Loudon's mental soliloquy was cut short by the arrival of Mackenzie. The ancient's appalling disregard for his personal appearance did not extend to his mount and saddlery. His horse was a handsome bay. The saddle he sat in was a Billings swell-fork tree, with a silver horn, silver conchas, carved leather skirts and cantle, and snowflake leather strings. The bridle was a split-ear, with a nose-band even more marvellously carved than the saddle, and it sported a blue steel bit, silver inlaid, and eighteen-inch rein-chains. The most exacting dandy in cowland could not have obtained better equipment. Beyond a momentless sentence or two Mackenzie said nothing as he and his new hand rode out into the valley of the Dogsoldier. He maintained his silence till Loudon, muttering that his cinches required tightening, checked Ranger and dismounted. "Throw up yore hands!" was the harsh order that fell on Loudon's astonished ears. Hands above his head, Loudon turned slowly and stared into the muzzle of a well-kept six-shooter. Behind the gun gleamed the frosty blue eyes of Scotty Mackenzie. "Got anythin' to say before I leave yuh?" inquired Mackenzie. "That depends on how yuh leave me," countered Loudon. "If yo're just aimin' to say, 'So long,' yuh can't go too quick. Yo're a mite too abrupt to suit me. But if yore intention is hostile, then I got a whole lot to say." "Hostile it is, young feller. Trot out yore speech." "That's handsome enough for a dog. First, I'd shore admire to know why yo're hostile." "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 shore 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 shore 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.