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 shore enjoy finishin' up. Helluva 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, anchored 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 glass rattled as he placed them on the bar.