Shoe-Bar Stratton
by Joseph Bushnell Ames · English · Gutenberg #27355 · 449,490 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Shoe-Bar Stratton
Author: Joseph Bushnell Ames
Illustrator: George W. Gage
Release date: November 28, 2008 [eBook #27355]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
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SHOE-BAR STRATTON
by
JOSEPH B. AMES
[Illustration: "I can stand here till I get tired," retorted Lynch.]
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with The Century Company
Printed in U. S. A.
Copyright, 1922, by The Century Co.
Printed in U. S. A.
To
BILL McBRIDE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Back from the Dead 3
II Crooked Work 13
III Mistress Mary Quite Contrary 24
IV The Branding-Iron 31
V Tex Lynch 41
VI The Blood-Stained Saddle 51
VII Rustlers 60
VIII The Hoodoo Outfit 70
IX Revelations 81
X Buck Finds Out Something 91
XI Danger 106
XII Thwarted 119
XIII Counterplot 127
XIV The Lady From the Past 136
XV "Blackleg" 145
XVI The Unexpected 153
XVII The Primeval Instinct 166
XVIII A Change of Base 176
XIX The Mysterious Motor-Car 186
XX Catastrophe 197
XXI What Mary Thorne Found 208
XXII Nerve 219
XXIII Where the Wheel Tracks Led 230
XXIV The Secret of North Pasture 239
XXV The Trap 248
XXVI Sheriff Hardenberg Intervenes 256
XXVII An Hour Too Late 268
XXVIII Forebodings 276
XXIX Creeping Shadows 284
XXX Lynch Scores 291
XXXI Gone 301
XXXII Buck Rides 309
XXXIII Carried Away 319
XXXIV The Fight on the Ledge 332
XXXV The Dead Heart 339
XXXVI Two Trails Converge 345
SHOE-BAR STRATTON
CHAPTER I
BACK FROM THE DEAD
Westward the little three-car train chugged its way fussily across the
brown prairie toward distant mountains which, in that clear atmosphere,
loomed so deceptively near. Standing motionless beside the weather-beaten
station shed, the solitary passenger watched it absently, brows drawn into
a single dark line above the bridge of his straight nose. Tall, lean, with
legs spread apart a bit and shoulders slightly bent, he made a striking
figure against that background of brilliant sky and drenching, golden
sunlight. For a brief space he did not stir. Then of a sudden, when the
train had dwindled to the size of a child's toy, he turned abruptly and
drew a long, deep breath.
It was a curious transformation. A moment before his face--lined,
brooding, somber, oddly pale for that country of universal tan--looked
almost old. At least one would have felt it the face of a man who had
recently endured a great deal of mental or physical suffering. Now, as he
turned with an unconscious straightening of broad shoulders and a
characteristic uptilt of square, cleft chin, the lines smoothed away
miraculously, a touch of red crept into his lean cheeks, an eager, boyish
gleam of expectation flashed into the clear gray eyes that rested
caressingly on the humdrum, sleepy picture before him.
Humdrum it was, in all conscience. A single street, wide enough, almost,
for a plaza, paralleled the railroad tracks, the buildings, such as they
were, all strung along the further side in an irregular line. One of
these, ramshackle, weather-worn, labeled laconically "The Store," stood
directly opposite the station. The architecture of the "Paloma Springs
Hotel," next door, was very similar. On either side of these two
structures a dozen or more discouraged-looking adobe houses were set down
at uneven intervals. To the eastward the street ended in the corrals and
shipping-pens; in the other direction it merged into a narrow dusty trail
that curved northward from the twin steel rails and quickly lost itself in
the encompassing prairie.
That was all. Paloma Springs in its entirety lay there in full view,
drowsing in the torrid heat of mid-September. Not a human being was in
sight. Only a brindled dog slept in a small patch of shade beside the
store; and fastened to the hotel hitching-rack, two burros, motionless
save for twitching tails and ears, were almost hidden beneath stupendous
loads of firewood.
But to Buck Stratton the charm lay deeper than mere externals. As a matter
of fact he had seen Paloma Springs only twice in his life, and then very
briefly. But it was a typical little cow-town of the Southwest, and to the
homesick cattleman the sight of it was like a refreshing draft of water in
the desert. Pushing back his hat, Stratton drew another full breath, the
beginnings of a smile curving the corners of his mouth.
"It sure is good to get back," he murmured, picking up his bag. "Someway
the very air tastes different. Gosh almighty. It don't seem like two
years, though."
Abruptly the light went out of his eyes and his face clouded. No wonder
the time seemed short when one of those years had vanished from his life
as utterly and completely as if it had never been. Whenever Stratton
thought of it, which was no oftener than he could help, he cringed
mentally. There was something uncanny and even horrible in the realization
that for the better part of a twelve-month he had been eating, sleeping,
walking about, making friends, even, like any normal person, without
retaining a single atom of recollection of the entire period.
Frowning, Buck put up one hand and absently touched a freshly healed scar
half-hidden by his thick hair. Even now there were moments when he felt
the whole thing must be some wild nightmare. Vividly he remembered the
sudden winking out of consciousness in the midst of that panting, uphill
dash through Belleau Wood. He could recall perfectly the most trifling
event leading up to it--the breaking down of his motor-cycle in a strange
sector just before the charge, his sudden determination to take part in it
by hook or crook, even the thrill and tingle of that advance against heavy
machine-gun fire.
The details of his awakening were equally clear. It was like closing his
eyes one minute and opening them the next. He lay on a hospital bed, his
head swathed in bandages. That seemed all right. He had been wounded in
the charge against the Boche, and they had carried him to a
field-hospital. He was darned lucky to have come out of it alive.
But little by little the conviction was forced upon him that it wasn't as
simple as that. At length, when he was well on the way to recovery, he
learned to his horror that the interval of mental blankness, instead of
being a few hours, or at the most a day or two, had lasted for over a
year!
Without fully understanding certain technical portions of the doctor's
explanation, Stratton gathered that the bullet which had laid him low had
produced a bone-pressure on the portion of his brain which was the seat of
memory. The wound healing, he had recovered perfect physical health, but
with a mind blank of anything previous to his awakening in the French
hospital over a year ago. The recent operation, which was pronounced
entirely successful, had been performed to relieve that pressure, and
Stratton was informed that all he needed was a few weeks of convalescence
to make him as good a man as he had ever been.
It took Buck all of that time to adjust himself to the situation. He was
in America instead of France, without the slightest recollection of
getting there. The war was over long ago. A thousand things had happened
of which he had not the remotest knowledge. And because he was a very
normal, ordinary young man with a horror of anything queer and eccentric,
the thought of that mysterious year filled him with dismay and roused in
him a passionate longing to escape at once from everything which would
remind him of his uncanny lapse of memory. If he were only back where he
belonged in the land of wide spaces, of clean, crisp air and blue, blue
sky, he felt he would quickly forget this nightmare which haunted so many
waking moments.
Unfortunately there were complications. To begin with he found himself in
the extraordinary position of a man without identity. The record sent over
from the hospital in France stated that he had been brought in from the
field minus his tag and every other mark of identification. Buck was not
surprised at this, nor at the failure of anyone in the strange sector to
recognize him. Only a few hours before the battle the tape of his
identification-disk had parted and he had thrust the thing carelessly into
his pocket. He had seen too many wounded men brought into field-hospitals
not to realize how easy it is to lose a blouse.
Recovering from the bullet-wound and unable to tell anything about
himself, he had apparently passed under the name of Robert Green. Stratton
wondered with a touch of grim amusement whether this christening was not
the result of doughboy humor. He must have been green enough, in all
conscience.
He was not even grimly amused by the ultimate discovery that the name of
Roth Stratton had appeared months and months ago on one of the official
lists of "killed or missing." It increased his discomfort over the whole
hateful business and made him thankful for the first time that he was
alone in the world. At least no mother or sister had been tortured by this
strange prank of fate.
But at last the miles of red tape had been untied or cut, and the moment
his discharge came Stratton took the first possible train out of New York.
He did not even wire Bloss, his ranch-foreman, that he was coming. As a
matter of fact he felt that doing so would only further complicate an
already sufficiently difficult situation.
The Shoe-Bar outfit, in western Arizona, had been his property barely a
week before he left it for the recruiting-office. Born and bred in the
Texas Panhandle, he inherited his father's ranch when barely twenty-one.
Even then many of the big outfits were being cut up into farms, public
range-land had virtually ceased to exist, and one by one the cattlemen
were driven westward before the slowly encroaching wave of civilization.
Two years later Stratton decided to give up the fight and follow them.
During the winter before the war he sold out for a handsome figure, spent
several months looking over new ground, and finally located and bought the
Shoe-Bar outfit.
The deal was hurried through because of his determination to enlist.
Indeed, he would probably not have purchased at all had not the new
outfit, even to his hasty inspection, seemed to be so unusual a bargain
and so exactly what he wanted. But buy he did, placed Joe Bloss, a
reliable and experienced cattleman who had been with him for years, in
charge, and departed.
From that moment he had never once set eyes on the Shoe-Bar. Bloss wrote
frequent and painstaking reports which seemed to indicate that everything
was going well. But all through the long and tedious journey ending at the
little Arizona way-station, Stratton fumed and fretted and wondered. Even
if Joe had failed to see his name amongst the missing, what must he have
thought of his interminable silence? All through Buck's brief training and
the longer interval overseas, the foreman's letters had come with fair
regularity and been answered promptly and in detail. What had Bloss done
when the break came? What had he been doing ever since?
A fresh wave of troubled curiosity sent Stratton swinging briskly across
the street. Keeping inside the long hitching-rack, he crossed the sagging
porch and stepped through the open door into the store. For a moment he
thought it empty. Then a chair scraped, and over in one corner a short,
stout, grizzled man dropped his feet from the window-sill and shuffled
forward, yawning.
"Wal! Wal!" he mumbled, his faded, sleep-dazed eyes taking in Buck's bag.
"Train come in? Reckon I must of been dozin' a mite."
"Looks to me like the whole place was taking an afternoon nap," smiled
Stratton. "Not much doing this time of day, I expect."
"You said it," yawned the stout man, supporting himself against the rough
pine counter. "Things is liable to brisk up in a hour or two, though, when
the boys begin to drift in. Stranger around these parts, ain't yuh?" he
added curiously.
For a tiny space Buck hesitated. Then, moved by an involuntary impulse he
did not even pause to analyze, he shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"I was out at the Shoe-Bar a couple of times about two years ago," he
answered. "Haven't been around here since."
"The Shoe-Bar? Huh?" Pop Daggett looked interested. "You don't say so!
Funny I don't recollect yore face."
"Not so very. I only passed through here to take the train."
"That was it, eh? Two years ago must of been about the time the outfit was
bought by that Stratton feller from Texas. Yuh know him well?"
"Joe Bloss, the foreman, was a friend of mine," evaded Stratton. "He's the
one I stopped off now to see."
Pop Daggett's jaw sagged, betraying a cavernous expanse of
sparsely-toothed gums. "Joe Bloss!" he ejaculated. "My land! I hope you
ain't traveled far fur that. If so, yuh sure got yore trouble for yore
pains. Why, man alive! Joe Bloss ain't been nigh the Shoe-Bar for close on
to a year."
Stratton's eyes narrowed. "A year?" he repeated curtly. "Where's he
gone?"
"You got me. I did hear he'd signed up with the Flying-V's over to New
Mexico, but that might have been jest talk." He sniffed disapprovingly.
"There ain't no doubt about it; the old Shoe-Bar's changed powerful these
two years. I dunno what we're comin' to with wimmin buttin' into the
cattle business."
Buck stared at him in frank amazement. "Women?" he repeated. "What the
dickens are you talking about, anyway?"
"I sh'd think I was plain enough," retorted Pop Daggett with some
asperity. "Mebbe female ranchers ain't no novelty to yuh, but this is the
first time I ever run up ag'in one m'self, an' I ain't much in love with
the idear."
Stratton's teeth dug into his under lip, and one hand gripped the edge of
the counter with a force that brought out a row of white dots across the
knuckles.
"You mean to tell me there's a--a--woman at the Shoe-Bar?" he asked
incredulously.
"At it?" snorted the old man. "Why, by cripes, she _owns_ it! Not only
that, but folks say she's goin' to run the outfit herself like as if she
was a man." He paused to spit accurately and with volume into the empty
stove. "Her name's Thorne," he added curtly. "Mary Thorne."
CHAPTER II
CROOKED WORK
Stratton suddenly turned his back and stared blankly through the open
door. With the same unconscious instinct which had moved him to conceal
his face from the old man, he fumbled in one pocket and drew forth papers
and tobacco sack. It spoke well for his self-control that his fingers were
almost steady as he deliberately fashioned a cigarette and thrust it
between his lips. When he had lighted it and inhaled a puff or two, he
turned slowly to Pop Daggett again.
"You sure know how to shoot a surprise into a fellow, old-timer," he
drawled. "A woman rancher, eh? That's going some around this country, I'll
say. How long has she--er--owned the Shoe-Bar?"
"Only since her pa died about four months back." Pop Daggett assumed an
easier pose; his tone had softened to one of garrulous satisfaction at
having a new listener to a tale he had worn threadbare. "It's consid'able
of a story, but if yuh ain't pressed for time--"
"Go to it," invited Buck, leaning back against the counter. "I've got all
the time there is."
Daggett's small, faded blue eyes regarded him curiously.
"Did yuh ever meet up with this here Stratton?" he asked abruptly.
"I--a--know what he looks like."
"It's more'n I do," grumbled Pop regretfully. "The only two times he was
here I was laid up with a mean attack of rheumatiz, an' never sot eyes on
him. Still an' all, there ain't hardly anybody else around Paloma that
more 'n glimpsed him passin' through. He bought the outfit in a terrible
hurry, an' I thinks to m'self at the time he must be awful trustin', or
else a mighty right smart jedge uh land an' cattle. He couldn't of hardly
rid over it even once real thorough before he plunks down his money, gets
him a proper title, an' hikes off to the war, leavin' Joe Bloss in
charge."
He paused, fished in his pocket, and, producing a plug, carefully bit off
one corner. Stratton watched him impatiently, a faint flush staining his
clear, curiously white skin.
"Well?" he prodded presently. "What happened then? From what I know of
Joe, I'll say he made good all right."
"Sure he did." Pop spoke with emphasis, though somewhat thickly. "There
ain't nobody can tell Joe Bloss much about cattle. He whirled in right
capable and got things runnin' good. For a while he was so danged busy
he'd hardly ever get to town, but come winter the work eased up an' I used
to see him right frequent. He'd set there alongside the stove evenings an'
tell me what he was doin', or how he'd jest had a letter from Stratton,
who was by now in France, an' all the rest of it. Wal, to make a long
story short, a year last month the letters stopped comin'. Joe begun to
get worried, but I told him likely Stratton was too busy fightin' to
write, or he might even of got wounded. Yuh could have knocked me down
with a wisp uh bunch-grass when one uh the boys come in one night with a
Phoenix paper, an' showed me Stratton's name on a list uh killed or
missin'!"
"When was that?" asked Buck briefly, seeing that Daggett evidently
expected some comment. If only the man would get on!
"'Round the middle of September. Joe was jest naturally shot to pieces,
him knowin' young Stratton from a kid an' likin' him fine, besides bein'
consid'able worried about what was goin' to happen to the ranch an' him.
Still an' all, there wasn't nothin' he could do but go on holdin' down his
job, which he done until the big bust along the end of October."
He paused again expectantly. Buck ground the butt of his cigarette under
one heel and reached for the makings. He had an almost irresistible desire
to take the garrulous old man by the shoulders and shake him till his
teeth rattled.
"It was this here Thorne from Chicago," resumed Daggett, a trifle
disappointed. Usually at this point of the story, his listener broke in
with exclamation or interested question. "He showed up one morning with
the sheriff an' claimed the ranch was his. Said Stratton had sold it to
him an' produced the deed, signed, sealed, an' witnessed all right an'
proper."
Match in one hand and cigarette in the other, Buck stared at him, the
picture of arrested motion. For a moment or two his brain whirled. Could
he possibly have done such a thing and not remember? With a ghastly
sinking of his heart he realized that anything might have been possible
during that hateful vanished year. Mechanically he lit his cigarette and
of a sudden he grew calmer. According to the hospital records he had not
left France until well into November of the preceding year. Tossing the
match into the stove, he met Pop Daggett's glance.
"How could that be?" he asked briefly. "Didn't you say this Stratton was
in France for months before he was killed?"
Pop nodded hearty agreement. "That's jest what I said, an' so did Bloss.
But according to Thorne this here transfer was made a couple uh weeks
before Stratton went over to France."
"But that's impossible!" exclaimed Buck hotly. "How could he have----"
He ceased abruptly and bit his lip. Daggett chuckled.
"Gettin' kinda interested, ain't yuh?" he remarked in a satisfied tone. "I
thought you would 'fore I was done. I don't say as it's impossible, but it
shore looked queer to me. As Joe says, why would he go an' sell the outfit
jest after buyin' it without a word to him. Not only that but he kept on
writin' about how Joe was to do this an' that an' the other thing like he
was mighty interested in havin' it run good. Joe, he even got suspicions
uh somethin' crooked an' hired a lawyer to look into it, Stratton not
havin' any folks. But that's all the good it done him. He couldn't pick no
flaw in it at all. Seems Stratton was in Chicago on one of these here
furloughs jest before he took ship. One uh the witnesses had gone to war,
but they hunted out the other one an' he swore he'd seen the deed
signed."
"Did this Thorne-- What did you say his name was?"
"I don't recolleck sayin', but it was Andrew J."
Buck's lids narrowed; a curious gleam flashed for an instant in his gray
eyes and was gone.
"Well, did Thorne explain why he let it go so long before making his
claim?"
"Oh, shore! He was right there when it come to explainin'. Seems he had
some important war business on his hands an' wanted to get shed uh that
before he took up ranchin'. Knowed it was in good hands, 'count uh Bloss
bein' on the job, an' Stratton havin' promised to write frequent an' keep
Joe toein' the mark. Stratton, it seems, had sold out because he didn't
know what might happen to him across the water. Oh, Andrew J. was a right
smooth talker, believe me, but still an' all he didn't make no great hit
with folks around the country even after he settled down on the Shoe-Bar
and brung his daughter there to live. There weren't no tears shed,
neither, when an ornery paint horse throwed him last May an' broke his
neck."
"What about Bloss?" Stratton asked briefly.
"Oh, he got his time along with all the other cow-men. There shore was a
clean sweep when Thorne whirled in an' took hold. Joe hung around here a
week or two an' then drifted down to Phoenix. Last I heard he was goin' to
try the Flyin'-V's, but that was six months or more ago."
Buck's shoulders straightened and his chin went up with a sudden touch of
swift decision.
"Got a horse I can hire?" he asked abruptly.
Pop hesitated, his shrewd gaze traveling swiftly over Stratton's straight,
tall figure to rest reflectively on the lean, square-jawed, level-eyed
young face.
"I dunno but I have," he answered slowly. "Uh course I don't know yore
name even, an' a man's got to be careful how he--"
"Oh, that'll be all right," interrupted Stratton, his white teeth showing
briefly in a smile. "I'll leave you a deposit. My name's Bob Green, though
folks mostly call me Buck. I've got a notion to ride over to the Shoe-Bar
and see if they know anything about--Joe."
"'T ain't likely they will," shrugged Daggett. "Still, it won't do no harm
to try. Yuh can't ride in them things, though," he added, surveying
Stratton's well-cut suit of gray.
"I don't specially want to, but they're all I've got," smiled Buck. "When
I quit ranching to show 'em how to run the war, I left my outfit behind,
and I haven't been back yet to get it."
"Cow-man eh?" Pop nodded approvingly. "I thought so; yuh got the look,
someway. Wal, yore welcome to some duds I bought off 'n Dick Sanders about
a month ago. He quit the Rockin'-R to go railroadin' or somethin', an'
sold his outfit, saddle an' all. I reckon they'll suit."
Stepping behind the counter, he poked around amongst a mass of
miscellaneous merchandise and finally drew forth a pair of much-worn
leather chaps, high-heeled boots almost new, and a cartridge-belt from
which dangled an empty holster.
"There yuh are," he said triumphantly, spreading them out on the counter.
"Gun's the only thing missin'. He kep' that, but likely yuh got one of
yore own. Saddle's hangin' out in the stable."
Without delay Stratton took off his coat and vest and sat down on an empty
box to try the boots, which proved a trifle large but still wearable. He
already had on a dark flannel shirt and a new Stetson, which he had bought
in New York; and when he pulled on the chaps and buckled the
cartridge-belt around his slim waist Pop Daggett surveyed him with
distinct approval.
"All yuh need is a good coat uh tan to look like the genuine article," he
remarked. "How come yuh to be so white?"
"Haven't been out of the hospital long enough to get browned up." Buck
opened his bag and, fumbling for a moment, produced a forty-five army
automatic. "This don't go very well with the outfit," he shrugged. "Happen
to have a regular six-gun around the place you'll sell me?"
Pop had, this being part of his stock in trade. Buck looked the lot over
carefully, finally picking out a thirty-eight Colt with a good heft. When
he had paid for this and a supply of ammunition, Pop led the way out to a
shed back of the store and pointed out a Fraser saddle, worn but in
excellent condition, hanging from a hook.
"It's a wonder to me any cow-man is ever fool enough to sell his saddle,"
commented Stratton as he took it down. "They never get much for 'em, and
new ones are so darn ornery to break in."
"Yuh said it," agreed Daggett. "I'd ruther buy one second-hand than new
any day. There's the bridle. Yuh take that roan in the near stall. He
ain't much to look at, but he'll travel all day."
Fifteen minutes later the roan, saddled and bridled, pawed the dust beside
the hitching rack in front of the store, while Buck Stratton made a small
bundle of his coat, vest, and a few necessaries from his bag and fastened
it behind the saddle. The remainder of his belongings had been left with
Pop Daggett, who lounged in the doorway fingering a roll of bills in his
trousers pocket and watching his new acquaintance with smiling
amiability.
"Well, I'll be going," said Stratton, tying the last knot securely. "I'll
bring your cayuse back to-morrow or the day after at the latest."
Pop looked surprised. "The day after?" he repeated. "What's goin' to keep
yuh that long?"
"Will you be needing the horse sooner?"
"No, I dunno's I will. But seems like yuh ought to be back by noon
to-morrow. It ain't more 'n eighteen miles." He straightened abruptly and
his blue eyes widened. "Say, young feller! Yuh ain't thinkin' of gettin a
job out there, are yuh?"
Stratton hesitated for an instant. "Well, I don't know," he shrugged
presently. "I've got to get to work right soon at something."
Daggett took a swift step or two across the sagging porch, his face grown
oddly serious. "Wal, I wouldn't try the Shoe-Bar, nohow. There's the
Rockin'-R. They're short a man or two. Yuh go see Jim Tenny an' tell
him--"
"What's the matter with the Shoe-Bar?" persisted Buck.
Pop's glance avoided Stratton's. "Yuh--wouldn't like it," he mumbled,
glancing down the trail. "It--it ain't like it was in Joe's time. That
there Tex Lynch--he--he don't get on with the boys."
"Who's he? The foreman?"
"Yeah. Beauty Lynch, some calls him 'count uh his looks. I ain't denyin'
he's han'some, with them black eyes an' red cheeks uh his, but somethin'
queer--Like I said, there ain't nobody stays long at the Shoe-Bar. Yuh
take my advice, Buck, an' try the Rockin'-R. They's a nice bunch there."
Buck swung himself easily into the saddle; "I'll think about it," he
smiled, gathering up the reins. "Well, so-long; see you in a day or so,
anyway. Thanks for helping me out, old-timer."
He loosened the reins, and the roan took the trail at a canter. Well
beyond the last adobe house, Stratton glanced back to see old Pop Daggett
still standing on the store porch and staring after him. Buck flung up
one arm in a careless gesture of farewell; then a gentle downward slope in
the prairie carried him out of sight of the little settlement.
"Acts to me like he was holding back something," he thought as he rode
briskly on through the wide, rolling solitudes. "Now, I wonder what sort
of a guy is this Tex Lynch, and what's going on at the Shoe-Bar that an
old he-gossip like Pop Daggett is afraid to talk about?"
CHAPTER III
MISTRESS MARY--QUITE CONTRARY
But Stratton's mind was too full of the amazing information he had gleaned
from the old storekeeper to leave much room for minor reflections. He had
been stunned at first--so completely floored that anyone save the
garrulous old man intent on making the most of his shop-worn story could
not have helped seeing that something was seriously wrong. Then anger
came--a hot, raging fury against the authors of this barefaced, impudent
attempt at swindle. From motives of policy he had done his best to conceal
that, too, from Pop Daggett; but now that he was alone it surged up again
within him, dyeing his face a deep crimson and etching hard lines on his
forehead and about his straight-lipped mouth.
"Thought they'd put it over easy," he growled behind set teeth, one
clenched, gloved hand thumping the saddle-horn. "Saw the notice in the
papers, of course, and decided it would be a cinch to rob a dead man.
Well, there's a surprise coming to somebody that'll make mine look like
thirty cents."
His lips relaxed in a grim smile, which presently merged into an
expression of puzzled wonder. Thorne, of all people, to try and put across
a crooked deal like this! Stratton had never known the man really
intimately, but during the several years of their business relationship
the Chicago lawyer struck him as being scrupulously honest and upright.
Indeed, when Buck came to enlist, it seemed a perfectly safe and natural
thing to leave his deeds and other important papers in Andrew Thorne's
keeping.
"Shows how you can be fooled in a man," murmured Stratton, as he followed
the trail down into a shallow draw. "I sure played into his hands nice. He
had the deeds and everything, and it would be simple enough to fake a
transfer when he thought I was dead and knew I hadn't any kin to make
trouble. I wonder what the daughter's like. A holy terror, I'll bet, and
tarred with the same brush. Well, she'll get hers in about two hours'
time, and get it good."
The grim smile flickered again on his lips for a moment, to vanish as he
saw the head and shoulders of a horseman appear over the further edge of
the draw. An instant later the bulk of a big sorrel flashed into view and
thudded toward him.
On the open range men usually stop for a word or two when they meet, but
this one did not. As he approached Stratton at a rapid speed there was a
brief, involuntary movement as if he meant to pull up and then changed his
mind. The next moment he had whirled past with a careless, negligent
gesture of one hand and a keen, penetrating, questioning stare from a pair
of hard black eyes.
Buck glanced over one shoulder at the flying dust-cloud and pursed his
lips.
"Wonder if that's the mysterious Tex?" he pondered, urging his horse
forward. "Black eyes and red cheeks, all right. He's a good looking
scoundrel--too darn good looking for a man. All the same, I can't say it
was a case of love at first sight."
Unconsciously his right hand dropped to the holster at his side, the
fingers caressing for an instant the butt of his Colt. He had set out on
his errand of exposure with an angry impulsiveness which gave no thought
to details or possibilities. But in some subtle fashion that searching
glance from the passing stranger brought him up with a little mental jerk.
For the first time he remembered that he was playing a lone hand, that the
very nature of his business was likely to rouse the most desperate and
unscrupulous opposition. Considering the value of the stake and the
penalties involved, the present occupant of the Shoe-Bar was likely to use
every means in her power to prevent his accusations from becoming public.
If the fellow who had just passed really was Tex Lynch, Buck had a strong
intuition that he was the sort of a man who could be counted on to take a
prominent hand in the game, and also that he wouldn't be any too
particular as to how he played it.
A mile beyond the draw the trail forked, and Stratton took the left-hand
branch. The grazing hereabouts was poor, and at this time of year
particularly the Shoe-Bar cattle were more likely to be confined to the
richer fenced-in pastures belonging to the ranch. The scenery thus
presenting no points of interest, Buck's thoughts turned to the interview
ahead of him. Marshaling his facts, he planned briefly how he would make
use of them, and finally began to draw scrappy mental pen-pictures of the
usurping Mary Thorne.
She would be tall, probably, and raw-boned--that domineering, "bossy" type
he always associated with women who assumed men's jobs--harsh-voiced and
more than a trifle hard. He dwelt particularly on her hardness, for surely
no other sort of woman could possibly have helped to engineer the crooked
deal which Andrew Thorne and his daughter had so successfully put across.
She would be painfully plain, of course, and doubtless also would wear
knickerbockers like a certain woman farmer he had once met in Texas, smoke
cigarettes constantly, and pack a gun. Having endowed the lady with a few
other disagreeable qualities which pleased him mightily, Buck awoke to the
realization that he was approaching the eastern extremity of the Shoe-Bar
ranch. His eyes brightened, and, dismissing all thoughts of Miss Thorne,
he began to cast interested, appraising glances to right and left as he
rode.
There is little that escapes the eye of the professional ranchman,
especially when he has been absent from his property for more than two
years. Buck Stratton observed quite as much as the average man, and it
presently became evident that what he saw did not please him. His keen
eyes sought out sagging fence-wire where staples, drawn or fallen out, had
never been replaced. Here and there a rotting post leaned at a precarious
angle, or gates between pastures needed repairing badly. What cattle were
in sight seemed in good condition but their number was much less than he
expected. Only once did he observe any signs of human activity, and then
the loafing attitude of the two punchers riding leisurely through a field
half a mile away was but too apparent. By the time he came within sight of
the ranch-house, nestling pleasantly in a little grove of cottonwoods
beyond the creek, his face was set in a hard scowl.
"Looks to me like they were letting the whole outfit go to pot," he
muttered angrily. "It sure is time I whirled in and took a hand."
Urging the roan forward, he rode splashing through the shallow stream, up
the gentle slope, and swung out of his saddle close to the kitchen door.
This stood open, and striding up to it Buck met the languid gaze of a
swarthy middle-aged Mexican who lounged just within the portal.
"Miss Thorne around?" he asked curtly.
"Sure," shrugged the Mexican. "I t'ink she in fron' house. Yoh try aroun'
other door, mebbe fin' her."
In the old days the kitchen entrance had been the one most used, but Buck
remembered that there was another at the opposite end of the building
which opened directly into the ranch living-room. He sought it now,
observing with preoccupied surprise that a small covered veranda had been
built out from the house, found it ajar like the other, and knocked.
"Come in," said a voice.
Stratton crossed the threshold, instinctively removing his hat. As he
remembered it, the room, though of good size and comfortable enough, had
been a clutter of purely masculine belongings. He was quite unprepared for
the colorful gleam of Navajo rugs, the curtained windows, the general air
of swept and garnished tidiness which seemed almost luxury. Briefly his
sweeping glance took in a bowl of flowers on the center-table and then
came to rest abruptly on a slight, girlish figure just risen from a chair
beside it.
"I'd like to see Miss Thorne, please," he said, stifling his momentary
surprise.
The girl took a step forward, her slim, tanned, ringless fingers clasped
loosely about a book she held.
"I'm Miss Thorne," she answered in a low, pleasant voice.
Buck gasped and his eyes widened. Then he recovered himself swiftly.
"I mean Miss Mary Thorne," he explained; "the--er--owner of this outfit."
The girl smiled faintly, a touch of veiled wistfulness in her eyes.
"I'm Mary Thorne," she said quietly. "There's only one, you know."
CHAPTER IV
THE BRANDING-IRON
Stratton was never sure just how long he stood staring at her in dumb,
dazed bewilderment. After those mental pictures of the Mary Thorne he had
expected to find, it was small wonder that the sight of this slip of a
black-frocked girl, with her soft voice, her tawny-golden hair and wistful
eyes, should stun him into temporary speechlessness. Even when he finally
pulled himself together to feel a hot flush flaming in his face and find
one gloved hand recklessly crumpling his new Stetson, he could not quite
credit the evidence of his hearing.
"I--I beg pardon," he said stiffly. "But it doesn't seem possible that--"
He hesitated. The girl's smile deepened whimsically.
"I know," she said ruefully. "It never does. Nobody seems to think a girl
can seriously attempt to run a cattle-ranch--even the way I'm trying to
run it, with a capable foreman to look after things. Sometimes I wonder
if--"
She paused, her glance falling on the book she held. Stratton saw that it
was a shabby account-book, a stubby pencil thrust between the leaves.
"Yes?" he prompted, scarcely aware what made him ask the question.
She looked up at him, her eyes a little wider than before. They were a
warm hazel, and for an instant in their depths Stratton glimpsed a
troubled expression, so veiled and swiftly passing that a moment later he
could not be sure he had read aright.
"It's nothing," she shrugged. "You probably know what a lot of nagging
little worries a ranchman has, and sometimes it seems to me they all have
to come at once. I suppose even a man gets a bit discouraged, now and
then."
"He sure does," agreed Buck. "What--er--particular sort of worry do you
mean?"
He asked the question impulsively without realizing how it might sound,
coming from a total stranger. The girl's slim figure stiffened and her
chin went up. Then--perhaps something in his expression told her he had
not meant to be impertinent--her face cleared.
"The principal one is lack of help," she explained readily enough, and yet
Stratton got a curious impression, somehow, that this wasn't really the
worst of her troubles. "We're awfully short-handed." She hesitated an
instant and then went on frankly, "To tell the truth, when you first came
in I was hoping you might be looking for a job."
For an instant Buck had all he could do to conceal his amazement at this
extraordinary turn of events.
"You mean I'd stand a chance of being taken on?" he countered, sparring
for time.
"Of course! That is--You are a cow-puncher, aren't you?"
Stratton's lips twitched slightly.
"I've worked around cattle all my life."
"Then naturally it would be all right. I should be very glad to hire you.
Tex Lynch usually looks after all that, but he's away this afternoon and
there's no reason why I shouldn't--" Her quaint air of dignity was marred
by a sudden, amused twitch of the lips. "I'm really awfully pleased you
did come to me," she smiled. "He's been telling me for over two weeks that
he couldn't hire a man for love or money; it'll be amusing to show him
what I've done, sitting quietly here at home."
"That's all settled, then?" Stratton had been doing some rapid thinking.
"You'd like me to start in right away, I suppose? That'll suit me fine. My
name's Bob Green. If you'll just explain to Lynch that I'm hired, I'll go
down to the bunk-house and he can put me to work when he comes back."
With a slight bow, he was moving away when Miss Thorne stopped him.
"Wait!" she cried. "Why, you haven't said a word about wages."
Buck turned back, biting his lip and inwardly cursing himself for his
carelessness.
"I s'posed it would be the usual forty dollars," he explained.
"We pay that for new hands," the girl informed him in some surprise. She
sat down beside the table and opened her book. "I can put you down for
forty, I suppose, and then Tex will tell me what it ought to be after he's
seen you work. Green, did you say?"
"Robert Green."
"And the address?"
Buck scratched his head.
"I don't guess I've got any," he returned. "I used to punch cows in Texas,
but I've been away two years and a half, and the last outfit I was with
has sold out to farmers."
"Oh!" She looked up swiftly and her gaze leaped unerringly to the scar
which showed below his tumbled hair. "Oh! I see. You--you've been through
the war."
Her voice broke a little, and to Buck's astonishment she turned quite
white as her eyes sought the book again. A sudden fear smote him that she
had guessed his real identity, but he dismissed the notion quickly. Such a
thing was next to impossible when she had never set eyes upon him before
to-day.
"That's all, I think," she said presently in a low voice. "You'll find
the bunk-house, at the foot of the slope beside the creek. I'll speak to
Tex as soon as he comes back."
Outside the ranch house, Buck paused for a moment or two, ostensibly to
stare admiringly at a carefully tended flower-bed, but in reality to
adjust his mind to the new and extraordinary situation. During the last
two hours he had speculated a good deal on this interview, but not even
his wildest imaginings had pictured the turn it had actually taken.
"Hired as a puncher on my own ranch by the girl whose father stole it from
me!" he murmured under his breath. "It's a scream! Darned if it wouldn't
make a good vaudeville turn."
But as he walked slowly back to where he had left his horse, Stratton's
face grew thoughtful. He was trying to analyze the motives which had
prompted him to accept such a position and found them a trifle mixed.
Undeniably the girl's unexpected personality influenced him considerably.
She did not strike him, even remotely, as the sort who would deliberately
do anything dishonest. And though Buck knew there were women who might be
able to assume that air of almost childlike innocence, he did not believe,
somehow, that in her case it was assumed. At any rate a little delay would
do no harm. By accepting the proffered job he would be able to study the
lady and the situation at his leisure. Also--and this he told himself was
even more important--he would have a chance of quietly investigating
conditions on the ranch. Pop Daggett's vague hints, his own observations,
and the intuition he had that Miss Thorne was worrying about something
much more vital than the mere lack of hands, all combined to make him feel
that things were not going right at the Shoe-Bar. Of course it might be
simply a case of rotten management. But in the back of Buck's mind there
lurked a curious notion that something deeper and more far-reaching was
going on beneath the surface, though of what nature he could not even
guess.
Leading the roan into a corral which ranged beyond the kitchen, Stratton
unsaddled him and turned him loose. Having hung the saddle and bridle in
the adjacent shed, he tucked his bundle under one arm and headed for the
bunk-house. He was within a few yards of the entrance to the long, adobe
structure when the door was suddenly flung open and a slim, slight figure,
hatless and stripped to the waist, plunged out, closely pursued by three
other men.
He ran blindly with head down, and Buck had just time to drop his bundle
and extend both arms to prevent a collision. An instant later his tense
muscles quivered under the impact of some hundred and thirty pounds of
solid bone and muscle; the runner staggered and flung up his head, a gasp
of terror jolted from his lips.
"Oh!" he said more quietly, his tone an equal blend of astonishment and
relief. "I thought--Don't let 'em--"
He broke off, flushing. He was a pleasant-faced youngster of not more than
eighteen or nineteen, with a tangled mop of blonde hair and blue eyes, the
pupils of which were curiously dilated. Stratton, whose extended arms had
caught the boy just under the armpits, could feel his heart pounding
furiously.
"What's the matter, kid?" he asked briefly.
"They were going to brand me--on the back," the boy muttered.
Over the fellow's bare, muscular shoulders Buck's glance swept the trio
who had pulled up just outside the bunk-house door. They seemed typical
cow-punchers in dress and manner. Two of them were tall and well set up;
the third was short and stocky and held a branding iron in one hand.
Meeting Stratton's gaze, he laughed loudly.
"By cripes, Bud! Yuh shore are easy. I thought yuh had more guts than to
be scared of an iron that's hardly had the chill took off."
He guffawed again, the other two joining in. A flush crept up into the
boy's face, but his lips were firm now, and as he turned to face the
others his eyes narrowed slightly.
"If it's so cold as that mebbe you'd like me to try it on yuh," he
suggested significantly.
The short man haw-hawed again, but not quite so boisterously. Buck noticed
that he held the branding iron carefully away from his leg.
"I shore wouldn't hollar like you done 'fore I was touched," he retorted.
"Wal, we got his goat good that time, didn't we, Butch? Better come in an'
git yore shirt on 'fore the boss sees yuh half naked."
He turned and disappeared into the bunk-house, followed by the two other
punchers. Buck picked up his bundle and glanced at the boy.
"Seems like you've got a right sociable, amusing bunch around here," he
drawled.
The youngster's lips parted impulsively, to close as swiftly over his
white teeth.
"Oh, they're a great lot of jokers," he returned non-committally, moving
toward the door. "Coming in?"
The room they entered was long and rather narrow, with built-in bunks
occupying most of the wall space, while the usual assemblage of bridles,
ropes, old hats, and garments, hanging from pegs, crowded the remainder.
Opposite the door stood a rusty, pot-bellied stove which gave forth a heat
that seemed rather superfluous on such a warm evening. The stocky fellow,
having leaned his branding-iron against the adobe chimney, was occupied in
closing the drafts. His two companions, both rolling cigarettes, stood
beside him, while lounging at a rough table to the left of the door sat
two other men, one of them idly shuffling a pack of dirty cards. As he
entered, Stratton was conscious of the intent scrutiny of all five, and an
easy, careless smile curved his lips.
"Reckon this is the bunk-house, all right," he drawled. "The lady told me
it was down this way. My name's Bob Green--Buck for short. I've just been
hired to show you guys how to punch cows proper."
There was a barely perceptible silence, broken by one of the men at the
table.
"Hired?" he repeated curtly. "Why, I thought Tex went to town."
"Tex?" queried Stratton. "Oh, you mean the foreman. The lady did say
something about that when she signed me up. Said she'd tell him about it
when he came back."
He was aware of a swift exchange of glances between several of the men.
The stocky fellow suddenly abandoned his manipulation of the stove-dampers
and came forward.
"Oh, that's it?" he remarked with an amiable grin. "Tex most always does
the hirin', yuh see. Glad to know yuh. My name's McCabe--Slim, they calls
me, 'count uh my sylph-like figger. These here guys is Bill Joyce an' his
side-kick, Butch Siegrist; likewise Flint Kreeger an' Doc Peters over to
the table. Bud Jessup yuh already met."
He chuckled, and Buck glancing toward the corner where the youngster was
tucking in the tails of his flannel shirt, smiled slightly.
"Got acquainted kinda sudden, didn't we?" he grinned. "Glad to meet you
gents. Whereabouts is a bunk I can stake my claim to?"
"This here's vacant," spoke up Bud Jessup quickly, indicating one next to
his own.
Buck stepped over and tossed his bundle into it. As he did so the raucous
clanging of a bell sounded from the direction of the ranch-house,
accompanied by a stentorian shout: "Grub-pile!" which galvanized the
punchers into action.
Stratton and the boy were the last to leave the room, and as he reached
the door Buck noticed a tiny wisp of smoke curling up from the floor to
one side of the stove. Looking closer he saw that it was caused by the
branding-iron, one corner of which rested on the end of a board where the
rough flooring came in contact with the square of hard-packed earth
beneath the stove. Bud Jessup saw it, too, and without comment he stepped
over and moved the iron to a safer position.
Still without words, the two left the bunk-house. But as they headed for
the kitchen Buck's eyes narrowed slightly and he flashed a momentary
glance at his companion which was full of curiosity and thoughtful
speculation.
CHAPTER V
TEX LYNCH
Supper, which was served in the ranch-house kitchen by Pedro, the Mexican
cook, was not enlivened by much conversation. The food was plentiful and
of good quality, and the punchers addressed themselves to its consumption
with the single-hearted purpose of hungry men whose appetites have been
sharpened by a long day in the saddle. Now and then someone mumbled a
request to "pass the sugar," or desired more steak or coffee from the
shuffling Pedro; but for the most part the serious business of eating
occupied them exclusively.
There was no sign of Miss Thorne. Buck decided that she took her meals
elsewhere and approved the isolation. It must be pretty hard, he thought,
for a girl like that to be living her young life in this out-of-the-way
corner of the world with no women companions to keep her company. Then he
remembered that for all he knew she might not be the only one of her sex
on the Shoe-Bar, and when the meal was over and the men were straggling
back toward the bunk-house, he put the question to Bud Jessup, who walked
beside him.
"Huh?" grunted the youngster, with a sharp, inquiring glance at his face.
"What d'yuh want to know that for?"
Stratton shrugged his shoulders. "No particular reason," he smiled. "I
only thought she'd find it mighty dull alone on the ranch with a bunch of
punchers."
Bud continued to eye him intently. "Well, she ain't alone," he said
briefly. "Mrs. Archer lives with her; an' uh course there's Pedro's
Maria."
"Who's Mrs. Archer?"
"Her aunt. Kinda nice old lady, but she ain't got much pep. Maria's jest
the other way. When she's got a grouch on she's some cat, believe me!"
For some reason the subject appeared to be distasteful to Jessup, and Buck
asked no more questions. Instead of following the others into the
bunk-house they strolled on along the bank of the creek, which was lined
with fair-sized cottonwoods. The sun had set, but the glow of it still
lingered in the west. Glinting like a flame on the windows of the
ranch-house, it even dappled the placid waters of the little stream with
red-gold splotches, which mingled effectively with the mirrored
reflections of the overhanging trees. From the kitchen chimney a wisp of
smoke rose straight into the still clear air. In a corner of the corral
half a dozen horses were bunched, lazily switching their tails at
intervals. Through one of the pastures across the stream some cattle
drifted, idly feeding their way to water.
It was a peaceful picture, yet Stratton could not rid his mind of the
curious feeling that the peacefulness was all on the surface. He had not
missed that swift exchange of glances that heralded his first appearance
in the bunk-house; and though Slim McCabe particularly had been almost
effusively affable, Buck was none the less convinced that his presence
here was unwelcome. That business of the branding-iron, too, was puzzling.
Was it merely a bit of rough but harmless horse-play or had it a deeper
meaning? Bud did not look like a fellow to lose his nerve easily, and the
iron had certainly been hot enough to brand even the tough hide of a
three-year-old steer.
Buck glanced sidewise at his companion to find the blue eyes studying his
face with a keen, questioning scrutiny. They were hastily withdrawn, and a
faint color crept up, darkening the youngster's tan.
"Trying to size me up," thought Stratton interestedly. "He's got something
on his chest, too."
But he gave no sign of what was in his mind. A moment or two later he
paused and, leaning indolently against a tree, let his gaze sweep idly
over the cattle in the near-by pasture.
"Looks to me like a pretty good bunch of steers," he commented, and then
added carelessly: "What sort of a guy is this Tex Lynch, anyhow?"
Bud hesitated briefly, sending a swift, momentary glance toward the
bunk-house.
"Oh, he's all right, I guess," he answered slowly.
Stratton grinned. "If you don't look out you'll be overpraising him, kid,"
he chuckled.
Jessup shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't say I liked him," he defended.
"He knows his business all right."
"Oh, sure. Otherwise, I s'pose he wouldn't hold down his job. But what I
want to know is the kind of boss he is. Does he treat the fellows white,
or is he a sneak?"
Bud's face darkened. "He treats some of 'em white enough," he snapped.
"That so? Favorites, eh? I've met up with that kind before. Is he hard to
get on the right side of?"
"Dunno," growled the youngster. "I never tried."
Buck chuckled again. "Well, kid, so long as you don't seem to think it's
worth while, I dunno why I should take the trouble. Who else is on the
outs with him?"
Jessup flashed a startled glance at him. "How in blazes do you know--"
"Oh, gosh! That's easy. That open-faced countenance of yours would give
you away even if your tongue didn't. I'd say you weren't a bit in love
with Lynch, or any of the rest of the bunch, either. Likely you got a good
reason, an' of course it ain't any of my business; but if that stunt with
the red-hot branding-iron is a sample of their playfulness, I should think
you'd drift. There must be plenty of peaceful jobs open in the
neighborhood."
"But that's just what they want me to do," snapped Jessup hotly. "They're
doin' their best to drive me----"
His jaws clamped shut and a sudden suspicion flashed into his eyes, which
caused Buck promptly to relinquish all hope of getting any further
information from the boy. Evidently he had said the wrong thing and got
the fellow's back up, though he could not imagine how. And so, when Jessup
curtly proposed that they return to the bunk-house, Stratton readily
acquiesced.
They found the five punchers gathered around the table playing draw-poker
under the light of a flaring oil lamp. McCabe extended a breezy invitation
to Buck to join them, which he accepted promptly, drawing up an empty box
to a space made for him between Slim and Butch Siegrist. With scarcely a
glance at the group, Jessup selected a tattered magazine from a pile in
one corner and sprawled out on his bunk, first lighting a small hand lamp
and placing it on the floor beside him.
Stratton liked poker and played a good game, but he soon discovered that
he was up against a pretty stiff proposition. The limit was the sky, and
Kreeger and McCabe especially seemed to have a run of phenomenal luck.
Buck didn't believe there was anything crooked about their playing; at
least he could detect no sign of it, though he kept a sharp lookout as he
always did when sitting in with strangers. But he was rather uncomfortably
in a hole and was just beginning to realize rather whimsically that for a
while at least he had only a cow-man's pay to depend on for
spending-money, when the door was suddenly jerked open and a tall,
broad-shouldered figure loomed in the opening.
"Well, it's all right, fellows," said the new-comer, blinking a little at
the light. "I saw--"
He caught himself up abruptly and glowered at Stratton.
"Who the devil are yuh?" he inquired harshly, stepping into the room.
Buck met his hard glance with smiling amiability.
"Name of Buck Green," he drawled. "Passed you on the trail this afternoon,
didn't I? You must be Tex Lynch."
With a scarcely perceptible movement he shifted his cards to his left
hand. His right, the palm half open, rested on the edge of the table just
above his thigh. He didn't really believe the foreman would start
anything, but one never knew, especially with a man of such evidently
uncertain temper.
"Huh!" grunted Lynch. "Why didn't yuh stop me then? Yuh might have saved
yourself a ride." He continued to stare at Stratton, a veiled speculation
in his smoldering eyes. "Well?" he went on impatiently. "What can I do for
yuh now I'm here?"
Buck raised his eyebrows. "Do for me? Why, I don't know as there's
anything right this minute. I s'pose you'll be wanting to put me to work
in the morning."
"You've sure got nerve a-plenty," rasped the foreman. "I ain't hirin'
anybody that comes along just because he wears chaps."
"That so?" drawled Buck. "Funny the lady didn't mention that when she
signed me up this afternoon."
Lynch's face darkened. "Yuh mean to say--"
He paused abruptly, his angry eyes sweeping past Stratton, to rest for an
instant on Flint Kreeger, who sat just beyond McCabe. What he saw there
Buck did not know, but it must have been something of warning or
information. When his eyes returned to Stratton their expression was
veiled under drooping lids; his lithe figure relaxed into an easier
position against the door-casing, both hands resting lightly on slim
hips.
"Miss Thorne hired yuh, then?" he remarked in a non-committal voice which
yet held no touch of friendliness. "Well, that's different. Where've yuh
worked?"
"The last outfit was the Three-Circles in Texas." Buck named at random an
outfit in the southern part of the state with which he was slightly
acquainted. "Been in the army over two years, and just got my discharge."
"Texas?" repeated Lynch curtly. "How the devil do yuh happen to be lookin'
for work here?"
"I'd heard Joe Bloss was foreman," explained Buck calmly. "We used to work
together on the Three-Circles, and I knew he'd give me a job. When I found
out in Paloma he'd gone, I took a chance an' rode out anyhow."
He bore the foreman's searching scrutiny very well, without a change of
color or the quiver of an eyelash. Nevertheless he was not a little
relieved when Lynch, with a brief comment about trying him out in the
morning, moved around the table and sat down on a bunk to pull off his
chaps. That sudden and complete bottling up of emotion had shown Buck how
much more dangerous the man was than he had supposed, and he was pleased
enough to come out of their first encounter so well.
With a barely perceptible sense of relaxing tension, the poker game was
resumed, for which Buck was devoutly thankful. Throughout the interruption
he had not forgotten his hand, which was by far the best he had held that
evening. He played it and the succeeding ones so well that when the game
ended he had managed to break even.
Ten minutes later the lights were out, and the silence of the bunk-house
was broken only by the regular breathing of eight men, or the occasional
creak of some one shifting his position in the narrow bunk. Having no
blankets--a deficiency he meant to remedy if he could get off long enough
to-morrow to ride to Paloma Springs--Buck removed merely chaps and boots
and stretched his long form on the corn-husk tick with a little sigh of
weariness. Until this moment he had not realized how tired he was. But he
had slept poorly on the train, and this, coupled with the heady air and
the somewhat stirring events of the last few hours, dragged his eyelids
shut almost as soon as his head struck the improvised pillow.
It seemed as if scarcely a moment had passed before he opened them again.
But he knew that it must be several hours later, for it had been
pitch-dark when he went to sleep, and now a square of moonlight lay across
the floor under the southern window, bringing into faint relief the
outlines of the long room.
Just what had roused him he did not know; some noise, no doubt, either
inside the bunk-house or without. Nerves attuned to battle-front
conditions are likely to become sharp as razor-edges, and Buck, starting
from deep slumber to complete wakefulness, was almost instantly aware of
a sense of strangeness in his surroundings.
In a moment he knew what it was. Even though they may not snore, the
breathing of seven sleeping men is unmistakable. Buck did not have to
strain his ears to realize that not a sound came from any of the other
bunks, and swiftly the utter, unnatural stillness became oppressive.
Quietly he swung his stockinged feet to the floor and was reaching for the
holster and cartridge-belt he had laid beside him, when, from the
adjoining bunk, Bud Jessup's voice came in a cautious whisper.
"They're gone. The whole bunch of 'em just rode off."
CHAPTER VI
THE BLOOD-STAINED SADDLE
"Hello, kid!" said Stratton quietly. "You awake? What's up, anyhow?"
There was a rustle in the adjoining bunk, the thud of bare feet on the
floor, and Jessup's face loomed, wedge-shaped and oddly white, through the
shadows.
"They're gone," he repeated, with a curious, nervous hesitancy of manner.
"I know. You said that before. What the devil are they doing out this time
of night?"
In drawing his weapon to him, Buck's eyes had fallen on his wrist-watch,
the radiolite hands of which indicated twenty minutes after twelve. He
awaited Jessup's reply with interest, and it struck him as unnaturally
long in coming.
"I don't rightly know," the youngster said at length. "I s'pose they must
have gone out after--the rustlers."
Buck straightened abruptly. "What!" he exclaimed. "You mean to say there's
been rustling on the Shoe-Bar?"
Again Jessup hesitated, but more briefly. "I don't know why I shouldn't
tell yuh. Everybody's wise to it, or suspects somethin'. They've got away
with quite a bunch--mostly from the pastures around Las Vegas, over near
the hills. Tex says they're greasers, but I think--" He broke off to add a
moment later in a troubled tone, "I wish to thunder he hadn't gone an'
left Rick out there all alone."
Stratton remembered Las Vegas as the name of a camp down at the
southwesterly extremity of the ranch. It consisted of a one-room adobe
shack, which was occupied at certain seasons of the year by one or two
punchers, who from there could more easily look after the near-by cattle,
or ride fence, than by going back and forth every day from the ranch
headquarters.
"Who's Rick?" he asked briefly.
"Rick Bemis. He--he's one dandy fellow. We've worked together over two
years."
"H'm. How long's this rustling been going on?"
"Three or four months."
"Lost many head, have they?"
"Quite a bunch, I'd say, but I don't know. They never tell me or Rick
anythin'."
Bud's tone was bitter, and Stratton noticed it in spite of his
preoccupation. Rustling! That would account for several of the things that
had puzzled him. Rustling was possible, too, with the border-line
comparatively near, and that stretch of rough, hilly country which touched
the lower extremity of the ranch. But for the stealing to go on for three
or four months, without something drastic being done to stop it, seemed
peculiar, to say the least.
"What's been done about it?" Buck asked briefly.
"Oh, they've gone out at night a few times, but they never caught anybody
that I heard. Seems like the thieves were too slick, or else--"
He paused; Buck regarded him curiously through the faintly luminous
shadows.
"Well?" he prodded
Bud moved uneasily. "It ain't anythin' special," he returned evasively.
"All this time they never left anybody down to Las Vegas till Rick was
sent day before yesterday. I up an' told Tex straight out there'd oughta
be another fellow with him, but all he done was to bawl me out an' tell me
to mind my own business. It ain't safe, an' now they've gone out--"
Again he broke off, his voice a trifle husky with emotion. He was
evidently growing more and more worked up and alarmed for the safety of
his friend. It was plain, too, that the recent departure of the punchers
for the scene of action, instead of reassuring Bud, had greatly increased
his anxiety. Buck decided that the situation wasn't as simple as it
looked, and promptly determined on a little action.
"Would it ease your mind any if we saddled up an' followed the bunch?" he
asked.
Jessup drew a quick breath and half rose from the bunk. "By cripes, yes!"
he exclaimed. "Yuh mean you'd--"
"Sure," said Stratton, reaching for his boots. "Why not? If there's going
to be any excitement I'd like to be on hand. Pile into your clothes, kid,
and let's go."
Jessup began to dress rapidly. "I don't s'pose Tex'll be awful pleased,"
he murmured, dragging on his shirt.
"I don't see he'll have any kick coming," returned Buck easily. "If he's
laying for rustlers, seems like he'd ought to have routed out the two of
us in the beginning to have as big a crowd as possible. You never know
what you're up against with those slippery cusses."
Bud made no further comment, and a few minutes later they left the
bunk-house and went up to the corral. The bright moonlight illumined
everything clearly and made it easy to rope and saddle two of the three
horses remaining in the enclosure. Then, swinging into the saddle, they
rode down the slope, splashed through the creek, and entering the further
pasture by a gate, headed south at a brisk lope.
The land comprising the Shoe-Bar ranch was a roughly rectangular strip,
much longer than it was wide, which skirted the foothills of the Escalante
Mountains. As the crow flies it was roughly seven miles from the
ranch-house to Las Vegas camp, and for the better part of that distance
there was little conversation between the two riders. Buck would have
liked to question his companion about a number of things that puzzled him,
but having sized up Jessup and come to the conclusion that the youngster
was the sort whose confidence must be given uninvited or not at all, he
held his peace. Apparently Bud had not yet made up his mind whether to
class Stratton as an enemy or a friend, and Buck felt he could not do
better than endeavor unobtrusively to impress the latter fact upon him.
That done, he was sure the boy would open up freely.
The wisdom of this policy became evident sooner than he expected. From
time to time as they rode, Stratton commented casually, as a new hand
would be likely to do, on some feature or other connected with the ranch
or their fellow-punchers. To these remarks Jessup replied readily enough,
but in a preoccupied manner, until all at once, moved either by something
Buck had said, or possibly by a mind burdened to the point where
self-restraint was no longer possible, he burst into sudden surprising
speech.
"That wasn't no foolin' with that iron this afternoon. If yuh hadn't come
along jest then they'd of branded me on the back."
Astonished, Buck glanced at him sharply. They had traveled more than
two-thirds of the distance to Las Vegas camp, and he had quite given up
hope of Jessup's opening up during the ride.
"Oh, say!" he protested. "Are you trying to throw a load into me? Why
would they want to do that?"
Jessup gave a short brittle laugh.
"They want me to quit," he retorted curtly.
"Quit?" repeated Stratton, his eyes widening. "But--"
"Tex don't want me here," broke in the youngster. "For the last three
months he's tried all kinds of ways to make me an' Rick take our time; but
it won't work." His lips pressed together firmly. "I promised Miss--"
His words clipped off abruptly, as a single shot, sharp and distinct,
shattered the still serenity of the night. It came from the south, from
the direction of Las Vegas. Buck flung up his head and pulled
instinctively on the reins. Jessup caught his breath with an odd,
whistling intake.
"There!" he gasped unevenly.
For a moment or two they sat motionless, listening intently, Buck's face a
curious mixture of alertness and surprise. Up to this moment he had taken
the whole business rather casually, with small expectation that anything
would come of it, but the sound of that shot changed everything. Something
was happening, then, after all--something sinister, perhaps, and certainly
not far away. His eyes narrowed, and when no other sound followed that
single report, he loosed his reins and urged the roan to a gallop.
For perhaps half a mile the two plunged forward amidst a silence that was
broken only by the dull thudding of their horses' hoofs and their own
rapid breathing. Then all at once Buck jerked his roan to a standstill.
"Some one's coming," he warned briefly.
Straight ahead of them the moonlight lay across the flat, rolling prairie
almost like a pathway of molten silver. On either side of the brilliant
stretch the light merged gradually and imperceptibly into shadows--shadows
which yet held a curious, half-luminous quality, giving a sense of
shifting horizons and lending a touch of mystery to the vague distances
which seemed to be revealed.
From somewhere in that illusive shadow land came the faint beat of a
horse's hoofs, growing steadily louder. Eyes narrowed to mere slits,
Stratton stared ahead intently until of a sudden his gaze focused on a
faintly visible moving shape.
He straightened, his right hand falling to the butt of his Colt. But
presently his grip relaxed and he reached out slowly for his rope.
"There's no one on him," he murmured in surprise.
Without turning his head, Jessup made an odd, throaty sound of
acquiescence.
"He's saddled, though," he muttered a moment later, and also began taking
down his rope.
Straight toward them along that moonlit pathway came the flying horse,
head down, stirrups of the empty saddle flapping. Buck held his rope
ready, and when the animal was about a hundred feet away he spurred
suddenly to the right, whirling the widening loop above his head. As it
fell accurately about the horse's neck the animal stopped short with the
mechanical abruptness of the well-trained range mount and stood still,
panting.
Slipping to the ground, Bud ran toward him, with Stratton close behind.
The strange cayuse, a sorrel of medium size, was covered with foam and
lather, and as Jessup came close to him he rolled his eyes in a frightened
manner.
"It's Rick's saddle," said Bud in an agitated tone, after he had made a
hasty examination. "I'd know it anywhere from--that--cut--in--"
His voice trailed off into silence and he gazed with wide-eyed, growing
horror at the hand that had rested on the saddle-skirt. It was stained
bright crimson, and Buck, staring over his shoulder, noticed that the
leather surface glistened darkly ominous in the bright moonlight.
Slowly the boy turned his head and looked at Stratton. His face was
lint-white, and the pupils of his eyes were curiously dilated.
"It's Rick's saddle," he repeated dully, and shuddered as he stared again
at his blood-stained hand.
Buck's own fingers caught the youngster's shoulder in a reassuring grip,
and his lips parted. But before he had time to speak a sudden volley of
shots rang out ahead of them, so crisp and distinct and clear that
instinctively he stiffened, his ears attuned for the familiar, vibrant hum
of flying bullets.
CHAPTER VII
RUSTLERS
Swiftly the echoes of the shots died away, leaving the still serenity of
the night again unruffled. For a moment or two Stratton waited
expectantly; then his shoulders squared decisively.
"I reckon it's up to us to find out what's going on down there," he said,
turning toward his horse.
Jessup nodded curt agreement. "Better take the sorrel along, hadn't we?"
he asked.
"Sure." Buck swung himself lightly into the saddle, shortening the lead
rope and fastening it to the horn. "I was thinking of that."
Five minutes later they pulled up in front of a small adobe shack nestling
against a background of cottonwoods that told of the near presence of the
creek. The door stood open, framing a black rectangle which proclaimed the
emptiness of the hut, and with scarcely a pause the two rode slowly on,
searching the moonlit vistas with keen alertness.
On their right the country had grown noticeably rougher. Here and there
low spurs from the near-by western hills thrust out into the flat prairie,
and deep shadows which marked the opening of draw or gully loomed up
frequently. It was from one of these, about half a mile south of the hut,
that a voice issued suddenly, halting the two riders abruptly by the
curtness of its snarling menace.
"Hands up!"
Buck obeyed promptly, having learned from experience the futility of
trying to draw on a person whose very outlines are invisible. Jessup's
hands went up, too, and then dropped quickly to his sides again.
"Why, it's Slim!" he cried, and spurred swiftly toward the mouth of the
gully. "What the deuce is the matter?" he asked anxiously. "What's
happened to Rick?"
There was a momentary pause, and then McCabe stepped out of the shadows,
six-gun in one hand.
"What the devil are yuh doin' here?" he demanded with a harshness which
struck Buck in curious contrast to his usual air of good humor. "Who's
that with yuh?"
"Only Green. We--we got worried, an' saddled up an'--followed yuh. When we
heard the shots--What _did_ happen to Rick, Slim? We caught his horse out
there, the saddle all--"
"Since yuh gotta know," snapped the puncher, "he got a hole drilled
through one leg. He's right here behind me."
As Bud flung himself out of the saddle and hurried over to the man lying
just inside the gully, McCabe stepped swiftly to the side of Stratton's
horse. There was a mingling of doubt and sharp suspicion in the upturned
face.
"Yuh sure are up an' doin' for a new hand," he commented swiftly. "Was it
yuh put it into his head to come out here?"
"I reckon maybe it was," returned Buck easily. "When we woke up an' found
you all gone, the kid got fretting considerable about his friend here, and
I didn't see why we shouldn't ride out and join you. According to my mind,
when you're out after rustlers, the more the merrier."
"Huh! He told yuh we was after rustlers?"
"Sure. Why not? It ain't any secret, is it? Leastwise, I didn't gather
that from Bud."
McCabe's face relaxed. "Wal, I dunno as 't is," he shrugged. "Tex likes to
run things his own way, though. Still, I dunno as there's any harm done.
Truth is, we didn't get started soon enough. We was half a mile off when
we heard the shot, an' rid up to find Rick drilled through the leg an' the
thieves beatin' it for the mountains. The rest of the bunch lit out after
'em while I stayed with Rick. I dunno as they caught any of 'em, but I
reckon they didn't have time to run off no cattle."
Stratton slid out of the saddle and threw the reins over the roan's head.
He had not failed to notice the slight discrepancy in McCabe's statement
as to the length of time it took the punchers to ride from the bunk-house
to this spot, but he made no comment.
"Bemis hurt bad?" he asked.
"Not serious. It's a clean wound in his thigh. I got it tied up with his
neckerchief."
Buck nodded and walked over to where Bud was squatting beside the wounded
cow-puncher. By this time his eyes were accustomed to the half-darkness,
and he could easily distinguish the long length of the fellow, and even
noted that the dark eyes were regarding him questioningly out of a white,
rather strained face.
"Want me to look you over?" he asked, bending down. "I've had considerable
experience with this sort of thing, and maybe I can make you easier."
"Go to it," nodded the young chap briefly. "It ain't bleedin' like it was,
but it could be a whole lot more comfortable."
With the aid of Jessup and McCabe, Bemis was moved out into the moonlight,
where Stratton made a careful examination of his wound. He found that the
bullet had plowed through the fleshy part of the thigh, just missing the
bone, and, barring chances of infection, it was not likely to be
dangerous. He was readjusting Slim's crude bandaging when he heard the
beat of hoofs and out of the corner of one eye saw McCabe walk swiftly out
to meet the returning punchers.
These halted about fifty feet away, and there was a brief exchange of
words of which Buck could distinguish nothing. Presently two of the men
dashed off in the direction of the ranch-house, while Lynch rode slowly
forward and dismounted.
"How yuh feelin'?" he asked Bemis, adding with a touch of sarcasm in his
voice, "I hear yuh got a reg'lar professional sawbones to look after
yuh."
"He acts like he knew what he was about," returned Bemis briefly. "How yuh
goin' to get me home?"
"I've sent Butch an' Flint after the wagon," explained Lynch. "They'll
hustle all they can."
"Did you catch sight of the rustlers?" asked Stratton suddenly.
The foreman flashed him a sudden not overfriendly glance.
"No," he returned curtly, and turning on his heel led his horse over to
where the others had gathered in the shadow of a rocky butte.
It was nearly an hour before the lumbering farm-wagon appeared. During the
interval Buck sat beside the wounded man, smoking and exchanging
occasional brief comments with Bud, who stayed close by. One or two of the
others strolled up to ask about Bemis, but for the most part they remained
in their little group, the intermittent glow of their cigarettes
flickering in the darkness and the constant low murmur of their
conversation wafted indistinguishably across the intervening space.
Their behavior piqued Buck's curiosity tremendously. What were they
talking about so continually? Where had the outlaws gone, and why hadn't
they been pursued further? Had the whole pursuit been merely in the nature
of a bluff? And if so, whom had it been intended to deceive? These and a
score of other questions passed through his mind as he sat there waiting,
but when the dull rumble of the wagon started them all into activity, he
had not succeeded in finding any really plausible answers.
The return trip was necessarily slow, and dawn was just breaking as they
forded the creek and drove up to the bunk-house. They had barely come to a
standstill when, to Buck's surprise, the slim figure of Mary Thorne,
bare-headed and clad in riding-clothes, appeared suddenly around the
corner of the ranch-house and came swiftly toward them.
"Pedro told me," she said briefly, pausing beside the wagon. "How is he?"
"Doin' fine," responded Lynch promptly. "It's a clean wound an' ought to
heal in no time. Our new hand Green tied him up like a regular
professional."
His manner was almost fulsomely pleasant; Miss Thorne's expression of
anxiety relaxed.
"I'm so glad. You'd better bring him right up to the house; he'll be more
comfortable there."
"That ain't hardly necessary," objected Lynch. "He'll do all right here.
We don't want him to be a bother to yuh."
"He won't be," retorted Miss Thorne with unexpected decision. "We've
plenty of room, and Maria has a bed all ready. The bunk-house is no place
for a sick man."
During the brief colloquy Bemis, though perfectly conscious, made no
comment whatever. But Buck, glancing toward him as he lay on the husk
mattress behind the driver, surprised a fleeting but unmistakable
expression of relief in his tanned face.
"He don't want to stay in the bunk-house," thought Stratton. "I don't know
as I blame him, neither. I wonder, though, if it's because he figures on
being more comfortable up there, or--"
The unvoiced question ended with a shrug as Lynch, somewhat curt of
manner, gave the order to move.
"Yuh don't all of yuh have to come, neither," he added quickly. "Butch an'
Slim an' me can carry him in."
Miss Thorne, who had already started toward the house, glanced over one
shoulder. "If Green knows something about first aid, as you say, he'd
better come too, I think."
Buck glanced questioningly at the foreman, received a surly nod and
dismounted, smiling inwardly. It amused him exceedingly to see the
dictatorial Tex forced to take orders from this slip of a girl. Evidently
she was not quite so pathetically helpless as he had supposed the
afternoon before. He began to wonder how she did it, for Lynch struck him
as a far from easy person to manage. He was still turning the question
over in his mind when he received a shock which for the moment banished
every other thought.
The wagon was backed up to the porch, and the four punchers, each taking a
corner of the mattress, lifted Bemis out and carried him across the
living-room and through a door on the further side which Miss Thorne held
open. The room was light and airy, and Buck was conscious of a vague sense
of familiarity, which he set down to his rather brief acquaintance with
the place two years ago. But when Bemis had been undressed and put to bed
and his wound thoroughly cleansed with antiseptic and freshly bandaged,
Stratton, really looking about him for the first time, made an odd
discovery.
It was his own room! He remembered perfectly choosing it and moving in his
belongings the day before he left; and as he stared curiously around he
could not see that a single one of them had been touched. There were his
trunks just as they had come from Texas. His bureau stood between the
windows, and on it lay a pair of brushes and the few odds and ends he had
left there when he enlisted. A pair of chaps and a well-worn Stetson hung
near the door, and he had just stepped over to make sure they were
actually the ones he had left behind when Miss Thorne, who had been
talking in the living-room with Lynch, appeared suddenly on the
threshold.
As their glances met she drew herself up a little, and a curious
expression came into her eyes. Her lips parted impulsively, but when,
after a momentary hesitation, she spoke, Buck had an impression that
something quite different had been on the tip of her tongue an instant
before.
"He'd better have the doctor at once, don't you think?" she said briefly.
Buck nodded. "Yes, ma'am, he ought. I've done the best I could, and the
chances are he'll get along all right; but a regular doctor ought to look
him over as soon as possible."
"I thought so. I've just told Tex to send a man to town at once and wire
Dr. Blanchard, who lives about twelve miles up the line. It'll take him
three or four hours to ride over, but there's no one nearer."
"I wish you'd let me go," said Stratton impulsively. "I've got to return
the horse I borrowed and get blankets and some things I left at the store.
There's really nothing more I can do for Bemis by hanging around."
Her brows crinkled doubtfully. "Well, if you're sure--I suppose there's no
reason why you shouldn't. Tell Tex I said you were to go. He'll give you
the directions. Only you'll have to hurry."
With a murmured word of thanks, Buck snatched up his hat and hastened into
the living-room. As he passed the big table he was aware of a door at the
farther end opening, but he did not turn his head. An instant later, as he
was in the act of springing off the porch, he heard a woman's voice behind
him, soft, low, and a little shaken.
"What is it, Mary? What's happened? You don't mean to tell me that--that
another man's been shot."
Buck's eyes widened, but he did not pause. "That's the aunt, I reckon," he
muttered, as he sped down the slope. His lips straightened. "Another! Holy
cats! What the devil am I up against, anyhow? A murder syndicate?"
CHAPTER VIII
THE HOODOO OUTFIT
Pop Daggett hesitated and glanced uneasily toward the door.
"I warned yuh, didn't I, the Shoe-Bar was a hoodoo outfit?" he evaded.
Stratton shook some tobacco into a cigarette-paper and jerked the
draw-string with his teeth.
"Sure you did, but that's not the question," he persisted. "I asked you if
any other punchers had met up with--accidents out there lately."
The old man continued to cock an eye on the store entrance.
"Since yuh gotta know," he answered in a lowered tone, "there was two.
About three months ago Jed Terry was scoutin' around back in the
mountains, Lord knows what fur, an' fell into a canyon an' broke his skull.
Four or five weeks arter that Sam Bennett was plugged through the chest
down below Las Vegas."
"Did Lynch happen to be with either of them?"
"No, sir-ee," returned Daggett hastily. "An' don't yuh go blattin' around
I told yuh anythin' about it. I ain't one to gossip about my neighbors,
more especially Tex Lynch. Them two deaths-- Say, Tex ain't in town with
yuh, is he?"
"Not that I know of. He certainly didn't come with me."
"Huh! Wal, yuh never c'n tell with him. As I was sayin', Terry's death was
pernounced a accident, an' they allowed Bennett was plugged by one of them
greaser rustlers I hear tell of. I ain't sayin' nothing to the contrary.
All I'm tellin' yuh is the Shoe-Bar ain't a healthy outfit to work for,
an' this business about Rick Bemis proves it. I wouldn't sign on with 'em,
not for a hundred a month."
Buck thrust the cigarette between his lips and felt for a match. "Still
I've got a mind to stick it out a while," he drawled. "Accidents come in
threes, they say, so there won't likely be another right soon. Well, I
reckon I'd better be traveling. How long will it take that doctor man to
get over?"
"Not much longer than 't will yuh, if he was home when yuh telephoned,"
answered Daggett. "The railroad takes a bend, an' Harpswell ain't more
than a mile or two further from the Shoe-Bar than Paloma."
Evidently Dr. Blanchard must have been at home, for Buck had just finished
unsaddling and was coming away from the corral when he rode up. Stratton
took his horse and answered his brief questions as to the accident, and
then walked down to the bunk-house with his blankets, tarp, and other
belongings. The place was empty, for it was after one o'clock and
evidently the men had gone off somewhere directly after dinner. Indeed,
Buck learned as much from Pedro when he went back to forage for something
to eat.
"They go to move herd some place," shrugged the Mexican. "W'ere, I don'
know."
Stratton ate his meal of beef, bread, and warmed-over coffee in silence
and then returned to the bunk-house, vaguely dissatisfied at the idle
afternoon which stretched before him. Of course, Lynch had no way of
knowing when he would get back from town, but it seemed to Buck that an
up-and-doing foreman would have left word for him to join them when he did
return.
"Unless, of course, he don't want me around," murmured Stratton. "Though
for the life of me I can't see what he gains by keeping me idle."
Presently it occurred to him that this might be a good chance of pursuing
some of the investigations he had planned. Since noticing the disreputable
condition of the fence the afternoon of his arrival, he had kept his eyes
open, and a number of other little signs had confirmed his suspicion that
the ranch had very much gone to seed. Of course this might be merely the
result of careless, slovenly methods on the part of the foreman, and
possibly it did not extend to anything really radical. It would need a
much wider, more general inspection to justify a definite conclusion, and
Stratton decided he might as well do some of it this afternoon. On the
plea of seeking Lynch and the other men, he could ride almost anywhere
without exciting suspicion, and he at once left the bunk-house to carry
out his plan. Just outside the door he met Dr. Blanchard.
"You made a good job of that dressing," remarked the older man briefly. He
was tall with a slight stoop, bearded, a little slovenly in dress, but
with clear, level eyes and a capable manner. "Where'd you learn how?"
Stratton smiled. "Overseas. I was in the Transportation, and we had to
know a little of everything, including first aid."
"Hum," grunted the doctor. "Well, the kid's doing all right. I won't have
to come over again unless fever develops."
As they walked back to the hitching-rack, he gave Buck a few directions
about the care of the invalid. There followed a slight pause.
"You're new here," commented the doctor, untying his bridle-reins.
"Just came yesterday," answered Stratton.
"Friend of Lynch?"
Buck's lips twitched. "Not exactly," he shrugged. "Miss Thorne hired me
while he was in Paloma. I got a notion he was rather peevish about it.
Reckon he prefers to pick his own hands."
As the doctor swung into the saddle, his face momentarily lightened.
"Don't let that worry you," he said, a faint little twinkle in his eyes.
"It isn't good for anybody to have their own way all the time. Well, you
know what to do about Bemis. If he shows any signs of fever, get hold of
me right away."
With a wave of his hand he rode off. Stratton's glance followed him
curiously. Had he really been pleased to find that the new hand was not a
friend of Tex Lynch, or was the idea merely a product of Buck's
imagination?
Still pondering, he turned abruptly to find Pedro regarding him intently
from the kitchen door. As their glances met, the Mexican's lids drooped
and his face smoothed swiftly into its usual indolent indifference; but he
was not quite quick enough to hide entirely that first look of searching
speculation mingled with not a little venom.
Stratton's own expression was the perfection of studied self-control. He
half smiled, and yawned in a realistically bored manner.
"You sure you don't know where the bunch went?" he asked. "I'm getting
dead sick of hanging around doing nothing."
"They don' say," shrugged the Mexican. "I wash dishes an' don' see 'em go.
Mebbe back soon."
"Not if they're moving a herd--I don't think!" retorted Buck. "Guess I'll
ask Miss Thorne," he added, struck by a sudden inspiration.
Without waiting for a reply, he walked briskly along the front of the
house toward the further entrance. As he turned the corner he met the
girl, booted, spurred, her face shaded becomingly by a wide-brimmed
Stetson.
"I was just going to find you," she said. "Rick wants to see you a
minute."
Stratton followed her into the living-room, where she paused and glanced
back at him.
"You haven't met my aunt, Mrs. Archer," she said in her low, pleasant
voice. "Auntie, this is Buck Green, our new hand."
From a chair beside one of the west windows, there rose a little old lady
at the sight of whom Buck's eyes widened in astonishment. Just what he had
expected Mrs. Archer to be he hardly knew, but certainly it wasn't this
dainty, delicate, Dresden-China person who came forward to greet him. Tiny
she was, from her old-fashioned lace cap to the tips of her small, trim
shoes. Her gown, of some soft gray stuff, with touches of old lace here
and there, was modishly cut yet without any traces of exaggeration. Her
abundant white hair was beautifully arranged, and her cheeks, amazingly
soft and smooth, with scarcely a line in them, were faintly pink. A more
utterly incongruous figure to find on an outlying Arizona ranch would be
impossible to imagine, and Buck was hard put to refrain from showing his
surprise.
"How do you do, Mr. Green?" she said in a soft agreeable voice, which
Stratton recognized at once as the one he had overheard that morning. "My
niece has told me how helpful you've been already."
Buck took her outstretched hand gingerly, and looked down into her
upturned face. Her eyes were blue, and very bright and eager, with
scarcely a hint of age in them. For a brief moment they gazed steadily
into his, searching, appraising, an underlying touch of wistful anxiety in
their clear depths. Then a twinkle flashed into them and of a sudden
Stratton felt that he liked her very much indeed.
"I'm mighty glad to meet you," he said impulsively.
The smile spread from eyes to lips. "Thank you," she replied. "I think I
may say the same thing. I hope you'll like it here well enough to stay."
There was a faint accent on the last word. Buck noticed it, and after she
had left them, saying she was going to rest a little, he wondered. Did she
want him to remain merely because of the short-handed condition of the
ranch, or was there a deeper reason? He glanced at Miss Thorne to find her
regarding him with something of the same anxious scrutiny he had noticed
in her aunt. Her gaze was instantly averted, and a faint flush tinged her
cheeks, to be reflected an instant later in Stratton's face.
"By the way," he said hurriedly, annoyed at his embarrassment, "do you
happen to know where the men are? I thought I'd hunt them up. There's no
sense in my hanging around all afternoon doing nothing."
* * * * *
"They're down at the south pasture," she answered readily. "Tex thinks it
will be better to move the cattle to where it won't be so easy for those
rustlers to get at them. I'm just going down there and we can ride
together, if you like." She turned toward the door. "When you're through
with Rick you'll find me out at the corral."
"Don't you want me to saddle up for you?"
"Pedro will do that, thank you. Tell Rick if he wants anything while I'm
gone all he has to do is to ring the bell beside his bed and Maria will
answer it."
She departed, and Buck walked briskly into the bedroom. Bemis lay in bed
propped up with pillows and looking much better physically than he had
done that morning. But his face was still strained, with that harassed,
worried expression about the eyes which Stratton had noted before.
"Yuh saw Doc Blanchard, didn't yuh?" he asked, as Buck sat down on the
side of his bed. "What'd he say?"
"Why, that you were doing fine. Not a chance in a hundred, he said, of
your having any trouble with the wound."
"Oh, I know that. But when'd he say I'd be on my feet?"
Buck shrugged his shoulders. "He didn't mention any particular time for
that. I should think it would be two or three weeks, at least."
"Hell!" The young fellow's fingers twisted the coverlet nervously. "Don't
yuh believe I could--er--ride before that?" he added, almost pleadingly.
Stratton's eyes widened. "Ride!" he repeated. "Where the deuce do you want
to ride to?"
Bemis hesitated, a slow flush creeping into his tanned face. The glance he
bent on Stratton was somewhat shamefaced.
"Anywhere," he answered curtly, a touch of defiance in his tone. "You'll
say I've lost my nerve, an' maybe I have. But after what's happened around
this joint lately, and especially last night--"
He paused, glancing nervously toward the door. Buck's expression had grown
suddenly keen and eager.
"Well?" he urged. "What did happen, anyhow? I had my suspicions there was
something queer about that business, but--You can trust me, old man."
Bemis nodded, his dark eyes searching Stratton's face. "I'll take a
chance," he answered. "I got to. There ain't nobody else. They've kept Bud
away, and Miss Mary--Well, she's all right, uh course, but Tex has got
her buffaloed. She won't believe nothin' ag'in him. I told Bud I'd stay as
long as he did, but--A man's got to look after himself some. They ain't
likely to miss twice runnin'."
"You mean to say--"
Bemis stopped him with a cautious gesture. "Where's that sneaking
greaser?" he asked in a low tone, his eyes shifting nervously to the open
door.
"Out saddling her horse."
"Oh! Well, listen." The young puncher's voice sank almost to a whisper.
"That sendin' me down to Las Vegas was a plant; I'm shore of it. My orders
was to sleep days an' patrol around nights to get a line on who was after
the cattle. I wasn't awful keen about it, but still an' all, I didn't
think they'd dare do what they tried to."
"You mean there weren't any rustlers at all?" put in Stratton
impulsively.
"Shore there was, but they didn't fire that shot that winged me. I'd just
got sight of 'em four or five hundred yards away an' was ridin' along in
the shadow tryin' to edge close enough to size 'em up an' mebbe pick off a
couple. My cayuse was headin' south, with the rustlers pretty near dead
ahead, when I come to a patch of moonlight I had to cross. I pulled out
considerable to ride around a spur just beyond, so when that shot came I
was facin' pretty near due east. The bullet hit me in the left leg, yuh
recollect."
Stratton's eyes narrowed. "Then it must have been fired from the
north--from the direction of the--"
He broke off abruptly as Rick's fingers gripped his wrist.
"Look!" breathed Bemis, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
He was staring over the low foot-board of the bed straight at the open
door, and Buck swiftly followed the direction of his glance. For an
instant he saw nothing. The doorway was quite empty, and he could not hear
a sound. Then, of a sudden, his gaze swept on across the living-room and
he caught his breath.
On the further wall, directly opposite the bedroom door, hung a long
mirror in a tarnished gilded frame. It reflected not only the other side
of the doorway but a portion of the wall on either side of it--reflected
clearly, among other things, the stooping figure of a woman, her limp
calico skirts dragged cautiously back in one skinny hand, her sharp,
swarthy face bent slightly forward in an unmistakable attitude of
listening.
CHAPTER IX
REVELATIONS
It was the Mexican woman, Maria. As Buck recognized her he rose quietly
and moved swiftly toward the door. But if he had hoped to catch her
unawares, he was disappointed. He had scarcely taken a step when, through
the telltale mirror, he saw her straighten like a flash and move back with
catlike swiftness toward the passage leading to the kitchen. When he
reached the living-room she stood there calm and casual, with quite the
air of one entering for the first time.
"Mees T'orne, she ask me see if Reek, he wan' somet'ing," she explained,
with a flash of her white teeth.
"He doesn't," returned Buck shortly, eyeing the woman intently. "If he
does, he'll ring the bell."
"Ver' good," she nodded. "I leave the door open to 'ear."
With a nod and another smile she departed, and Buck heard her moving away
along the passage. For a moment he was tempted to close and lock the door.
Then he realized that even if she dared return to her eavesdropping, he
would have ample warning by keeping an eye on the mirror, and so returned
to Bemis.
"I hate that woman," said Rick, when informed of her departure. "She's
always snoopin' around, an' so is her greaser husband. Down at the
bunk-house it's the same way, with Slim, an' Flint Kreeger an' the rest. I
tell yuh, I'm dead sick of being spied on, an' plotted against, an' never
knowin' when yuh may get a knife in the back, or stop a bullet. I hate to
leave Bud, but he's so plumb set on--"
"But what's it all about?" put in Buck impatiently. "Can't you tell a
fellow, or don't you know?"
Bemis flushed slightly at his tone. "I can tell yuh this much," he
retorted. "Tex don't want them rustlers caught. He throws a clever bluff,
an' he's pulled the wool over Miss Mary's eyes, but for all that, he's
workin' on their side. What kind of a foreman is it who'll lose over a
thousand head without stoppin' the stealin'? It ain't lack of brains,
neither; Tex has got them a-plenty."
"But Miss Thorne--" protested Stratton, half-incredulously.
"I tell yuh, he's got her buffaloed. She won't believe a word against him.
He was here in her dad's time, an' he's played his cards mighty slick
since then. She's told yuh he can't get men, mebbe? All rot, of course. He
could get plenty of hands, but he don't want 'em. What's more, he's done
his best to get rid of me an' Bud, an' would of long ago, only Miss Mary
won't let him fire us."
"But what in thunder's his object?"
"So's to have the place to himself, I reckon. He an' those greasers in the
kitchen, and the rest of the bunch, are as thick as thieves."
"You mean he'd find it easier to get away with cattle if there wasn't
anybody around to keep tabs on him?"
Bemis hesitated. "I--I'm not sure," he replied slowly. "Partly that,
mebbe, but there's somethin' else. I've overheard things now an' then I
couldn't make head or tail of, but they're up to somethin'--Yuh ain't
goin', are yuh?"
Buck had risen. "Got to," he shrugged. "Miss Thorne's waiting for me to go
down to the south pasture."
Bemis raised up on his pillows. "Well, listen; keep what I said under yore
hat, will yuh?"
"Sure," nodded Stratton reassuringly. "You needn't worry about that.
Anything else you want before I go?"
"Yes. Jest reach me my six-gun outer the holster there in the chair. If
I'm goin' to be left alone with that greaser, Pedro, I'd feel more
comfortable, someway, with that under my pillow."
Buck did as he requested and then departed. Something else! That was the
very feeling which had assailed him vaguely at times, that some deviltry
which he couldn't understand was going on beneath the surface. As he made
for the corral, a sudden possibility flashed into his mind. With her title
so precarious, might not Mary Thorne be at the bottom of a systematic
attempt to loot the Shoe-Bar of its movable value against the time of
discovery? But when he met her face to face the idea vanished and he even
felt ashamed of having considered it for a moment. Whatever crookedness
was going on, this sweet-faced, clear-eyed girl was much more likely to be
a victim than one of the perpetrators. The feeling was vastly strengthened
when he had saddled up and they rode off together.
"There's something I've been meaning to--to tell you," the girl said
suddenly, breaking a brief silence.
Buck glanced at her to find her eyes fixed on the ears of her horse and a
faint flush staining her cheeks.
"That room--" she went on determinedly, but with an evident effort. "A
man's room-- You must have thought it strange. Indeed, I saw you thought
it strange--"
Again she paused, and in his turn Buck felt a sudden rush of
embarrassment.
"I didn't mean to--" he began awkwardly. "It just seemed funny to find a
regular man's room in a household of women. I suppose it was your--your
father's," he added.
"No, it wasn't," she returned briefly. She glanced at him for an instant
and then looked away again. "You probably don't know the history of the
Shoe-Bar," she went on more firmly. "Two years ago it was bought by a
young man named Stratton. I never met him, but he was a business
acquaintance of my father's and naturally I heard a good deal of him from
time to time. He was a ranchman all his life and very keen about it, and
the moment he saw the Shoe-Bar he fell in love with it. But the war came,
and he had scarcely taken title to the place before he went off and
enlisted. Just before he sailed for France he sold the ranch to my father,
with the understanding that if he came back safely, Dad would turn it over
to him again. He felt, I suppose, how uncertain it all was and that money
in the bank would be easier for his--his heirs, than property."
She paused for an instant, her lips pressed tightly together. "He never
came back," she went on in a lower, slightly unsteady voice. "He--gave up
his life for those of us who stayed behind. After a little we left Chicago
and came here. I loved the place at once, and I've gone on caring for it
increasingly ever since. But back of everything there's always been a
sense of the tragedy, the injustice of it all. They never even found his
body. He was just--missing. And yet, when I came into that room, with his
things about just as he had left them when he went away, he seemed so
_real_,--I--I couldn't touch it. Somehow, it was all that was left of him.
And even though I'd never seen him, I felt as if I wanted to keep it that
way always in memory of a--a brave soldier, and a--man."
Her low voice ceased. With face averted, she stared in silence across the
brown, scorched prairie. Stratton, his eyes fixed straight ahead, and his
cheeks tinged with unwonted color, found it quite impossible to speak, and
for a space the stillness was broken only by the creak of saddle-leather
and the dull thud of horses' hoofs.
"It's mighty fine of you to feel like that," he said at length. "I'm sorry
if I gave you the idea I--I was--curious."
"But you would be, naturally. You see, the other boys all know." She
turned her head and looked at him. "I think we're all curious at times
about things which really don't concern us. I've even wondered once or
twice about you. You know you don't talk like the regulation
cow-puncher--quite."
Stratton laughed. "Oh, but I am," he assured her. "I suppose the war
rubbed off some of the accents, and of course I had a pretty good
education to start with. But I'm too keen about the country and the life
to ever want to do anything else."
Her face glowed. "It is wonderful," she agreed. "When I think of the years
I've wasted in cities! I couldn't ever go back. Even with all the
worries, this is a thousand times better. Ah! There they are ahead.
They're turning the herd into this pasture, you see."
Half a mile or more to the southward a spreading dust-cloud hugged the
earth, through which, indistinctly, Stratton could make out the moving
figures of men and cattle. The two spurred forward, reaching the wide
opening in the fence ahead of the vanguard of steers. Passing through,
they circled to the right to avoid turning back any of the cattle, and
joined the sweating, hard-worked cow-punchers.
As they rode up together, Buck found Lynch's eyes fixed on him with an
expression of angry surprise, which was suppressed with evident
difficulty.
"How'd yuh get back so quick?" he inquired curtly.
"Nothing more to keep me," shrugged Stratton. "I waited for the doctor to
look Rick over, and then thought I'd come out and see if you needed me."
"Huh! Well, since you're here, yuh might as well whirl in. Get over on the
far side of the herd an' help Flint. Don't let any of 'em break away, but
don't crowd 'em too much."
As Buck rode off he heard Miss Thorne ask if there wasn't something she
could do. Lynch's reply was indistinct, but the tone of his voice,
deferential, yet with a faint undercurrent of honey-sweetness, irritated
him inexplicably. With a scowl, he spurred forward, exchanged a brief
greeting with Bud Jessup as he passed, and finally joined Kreeger, who was
having considerable difficulty in keeping the herd together at that
point.
During the succeeding two hours or so, Buck forgot his irritation in the
interest and excitement of the work. Strenuous as it was, he found a
distinct pleasure in the discovery that two years' absence from the range
had not lessened his ability to hold his own. His horse was well trained,
and he thoroughly enjoyed the frequent sharp dashes after some refractory
steer, who stubbornly opposed being driven. Before the last animal had
passed through the fence-gap into the further pasture, he was drenched
from head to foot with perspiration and his muscles ached from the
unaccustomed labor, but all that was discounted by the satisfaction of
doing his chosen work again, and doing it well.
Then, in the lull which followed, his thoughts returned to Miss Thorne and
he wondered whether there would be any chance for further conversation
with her on the way back to the ranch-house? The question was quickly
answered in a manner he did not in the least enjoy. After giving
instructions about nailing up the fence, Tex Lynch joined the girl, who
sat her horse at a little distance, and the two rode off together.
For a moment or two Stratton's frowning glance followed them. Then of a
sudden he realized that Slim McCabe's shrewd eyes were fixed curiously on
him, and the discovery brought him abruptly to his senses. For a space he
had forgotten what his position was at the Shoe-Bar. He must keep a better
guard over himself, or he would certainly arouse suspicion. Averting his
eyes, but still continuing to frown a little as if lack of tobacco was
responsible for his annoyance, he searched through his pockets.
"Got the makin's?" he asked McCabe. "Darned if I haven't left mine in the
bunk-house."
Slim readily produced a sack, and when Buck had rolled a cigarette, he
returned it with a jesting remark, and swung himself rather stiffly out of
his saddle.
"Haven't any hammer, but I can help tighten wires," he commented.
He had intended joining Bud Jessup and trying while helping him to get a
chance to discuss some of the things he had learned from Bemis. But
somehow he found himself working beside McCabe, and when the fence had
been put up again and they started home, it was Slim who rode beside him,
chatting volubly and amusingly, but sticking like a leach.
It "gave one to think," Stratton decided grimly, remembering the
expressive French phrase he had heard so often overseas. He could not
quite make up his mind whether the action was deliberate or the result of
accident, but after supper he had no doubt whatever.
During the meal Lynch showed himself in quite a new light. He chatted and
joked with a careless good humor which was a revelation to Stratton, whom
he treated with special favor. Afterward he asked Buck if he didn't want
to look his patient over, and accompanied him into Bemis's room, remaining
while the wound was inspected and freshly dressed. Later, in the
bunk-house, he announced that they would start a round-up next morning to
pick out some three-year-olds for shipment.
"Got a rush order for twelve hundred head," he explained. "We'll all have
to get busy early except Bud, who'll stay here to look after things. If
any of yuh have saddles or anythin' else to look after, yuh'd better do it
to-night, so's we can get goin' by daybreak."
Like a flash Stratton realized the other's game, and his eyes narrowed
ever so little. So that was it! By this most simple of expedients, he was
to be kept away from the ranch-house and incidentally from any
communication with Bemis or Bud, or Mary Thorne, unless accompanied by
Lynch or one of his satellites. And the worst of it was he was quite
helpless. He was merely a common, ordinary hand, and at the first sign of
disobedience, or even evasion of orders, Lynch would have a perfectly good
excuse to discharge him--an excuse he was doubtless itching to create.
CHAPTER X
BUCK FINDS OUT SOMETHING
When the fact is chronicled that no less than three times in the
succeeding eight days Buck Stratton was strongly tempted to put an end to
the whole puzzling business by the simple expedient of declaring his
identity and taking possession of the Shoe-Bar as his own, something may
be guessed of the ingenuity of Tex Lynch in making life unpleasant for the
new hand.
Buck told himself more than once that if he had really been a new hand and
nothing more, he wouldn't have lasted forty-eight hours. Any
self-respecting cow-man would have promptly demanded his time and betaken
himself to another outfit, and Stratton sometimes wondered whether his
mere acceptance of the persecution might not rouse the foreman's suspicion
that he had motives for staying which did not appear on the surface.
He had to admit that Lynch's whole course of action was rather cleverly
worked out. It consisted mainly in giving Stratton the most difficult and
arduous work to do, and keeping him at it longer than anyone else, not
only on the round-up, but while driving the herd to Paloma Springs and
right up to the point where the steers were loaded on cattle-cars and the
job was over.
That, broadly speaking, was the scheme; but there were delicate touches of
refinement and ingenuity in the process which wrung from Stratton, in rare
intervals when he was not too furious to judge calmly, a grudging measure
of admiration for the wily foreman. Frequently, for instance, Stratton
would be assigned to night-herd duty with promise of relief at a certain
hour. Almost always that relief failed to materialize, and Buck, unable to
leave the herd, reeling with fatigue and cursing impotently, had to keep
at it till daybreak. The erring puncher generally had an excellent excuse,
which might have passed muster once, but which grew threadbare with
repetition.
Then, after an hour or two of sleep, the victim was more likely than not
to be dragged out of bed and ordered to take the place of Peters, Kreeger,
or one of the others, who had been sent to the ranch or elsewhere on
so-called necessary business. More than once the others got started on a
meal ahead of him, and what food remained was cold, unappetizing, and
scant in quantity. There were other little things Lynch thought of from
time to time to make Buck's life miserable, and he quite succeeded, though
it must be said that Stratton's hard-won self-control prevented the
foreman from enjoying the full measure of his triumph.
What chiefly influenced Buck in holding back his big card and scoring
against them all was the feeling that Mary Thorne would be the one to
suffer most. He would be putting an abrupt finish to Lynch's game,
whatever that was, but his action would also involve the girl in deep and
bitter humiliation, if not something worse. Moreover, he was not quite
ready to stop Lynch's scheming. He wanted to find out first what it was
all about, and he felt he had a better chance of success by continuing to
play his present part, hedged in and handicapped though he was, than by
coming out suddenly in his own proper person.
So he stuck it out to the end, successfully suppressing all evidence of
the smouldering rage that grew steadily within him against the whole
crowd. Returning to the ranch for the first time in more than a week, he
went to bed directly after supper and slept like a log until breakfast.
Rising, refreshed and fit, he decided that the time had come to abandon
his former haphazard methods of getting information, and to launch a
campaign of active detective work without further delay.
Since the night of Bemis's accident, Buck had scarcely had a word with Bud
Jessup, who he felt could give him some information, though he was not
counting much on the importance of what the youngster was likely to know.
Through the day there was no chance of getting the fellow apart. But Buck
kept his eyes and ears open, and at supper-time Bud's casual remark to
Lynch that he "s'posed he'd have to fix that busted saddle-girth before he
hit the hay" did not escape him.
The meal over, Stratton left the kitchen and headed for the bunk-house
with a purposeful air, soon leaving the others well in the rear. Presently
one of them snickered.
"Looks like the poor rube's goin' to tear off some more sleep," commented
Kreeger in a suppressed tone, evidently not thinking Stratton was near
enough to hear.
But Buck's ears were sharp, and his lips twitched in a grim smile as he
moved steadily on, shoulders purposely sagging. When he had passed through
the doorway his head went up abruptly and his whole manner changed.
Darting to his bunk, he snatched the blankets out and unrolled them with a
jerk. Scrambling his clothes and other belongings into a rough mound, he
swiftly spread the blankets over them, patted down a place or two to
increase the likeness to a human body, dropped his hat on the floor beside
the bunk, and then made a lightning exit through a window at the rear.
It was all accomplished with such celerity that before the dawdling
punchers had entered the bunk-house, Buck was out of sight among the
bushes which thickly lined the creek. From here he had no difficulty in
making his way unseen around to the back of the barns and other
out-buildings, one of which he entered through a rear door. A moment or
two later he found Jessup, as he expected, squatting on the floor of the
harness-room, busily mending his broken saddle-girth.
"Hello, Bud," he grinned, as the youngster looked up in surprise. "Thought
I'd come up and have a chin with you."
"But how the deuce--I thought they--yuh--"
"You thought right," replied Stratton, as Jessup hesitated. "Tex and his
friends have been sticking around pretty close for the past week or so,
but I gave 'em the slip just now."
Briefly he explained what he had done, and then paused, eying the young
fellow speculatively.
"There's something queer going on here, old man," he began presently.
"You'll say it's none of my business, maybe, and I reckon it isn't. But
unless I've sized 'em up wrong, Lynch and his gang are a bunch of crooks,
and I'm not the sort to sit back quietly and leave a lady like Miss Thorne
to their mercy."
Jessup's eyes widened. "What do yuh know?" he demanded. "What have yuh
found out?"
Buck shrugged his shoulders. "Found out? Why, nothing, really. But I've
seen enough to know that bunch is up to some deviltry, and naturally the
owner of the outfit is the one who'll suffer, in pocket, if not something
worse. It's a dirty deal, taking advantage of a girl's ignorance and
inexperience, as that gang sure is doing some way--specially a girl who's
as decent and white as she is. I thought maybe you and me might get
together and work out something. You don't act like you were for 'em any
more than I am."
"I'll tell a man I ain't!" declared Jessup emphatically. "They're a rotten
bunch. Yuh can go as far's you like, an' I'll stick with yuh. Have yuh got
anything on 'em?"
"Not exactly, but we may have if we put our heads together and talk it
over." He glanced questioningly around the dusty room. "They'll likely
find out the trick I played on 'em, and come snooping around here before
long. Suppose we slip out and go down by the creek where we can talk
without being interrupted."
Jessup agreed readily and followed Buck into the barn and out through the
back door, where they sought a secluded spot down by the stream, well
shielded by bushes.
"You've been here longer than I have and noticed a lot more," Stratton
remarked when they were settled. "I wish you'd tell me what you think that
bunch is up to. They haven't let me out of their sight for over a week.
What's the idea, anyhow?"
"They don't want yuh should find out anythin'," returned Bud promptly.
"That's what I s'posed, but what's there to find out? That's what I can't
seem to get at. Bemis says they're in with the rustlers, but even he seems
to think there's something else in the wind besides that."
Jessup snorted contemptuously. "Bemis--huh! I'm through with him. He's a
quitter. I was in chinnin' with him last night an' he's lost his nerve.
Says he's through, an' is goin' to take his time the minute he's fit to
back a horse. Still an' all," he added, forehead wrinkling thoughtfully,
"he's right in a way. There is somethin' doin' beside rustling, but I'm
hanged if I can find out what. The only thing I'm dead sure of is that
it's crooked. Look at the way they're tryin' to get rid of us--Rick an' me
an' you. Whatever they're up to they want the ranch to themselves before
they go any further. Now Rick's out of the way, I s'pose I'll be next.
They're tryin' their best to make me quit, but when they find out that
won't work, I reckon they'll try somethin'--worse."
"Why don't Lynch just up an' fire you?" Buck asked curiously. "He's
foreman."
Bud's young jaw tightened stubbornly. "He can't get nothin' on me," he
stated. "It's this way. When help begun to get shy a couple of months
ago--that's when he started his business of gittin' rid of the men one way
or another--Tex must of hinted around to Miss Mary that I was goin' to
quit, for she up an' asked me one day if it was true, an' said she hoped
me an' Rick wasn't goin' to leave like the rest of 'em."
He paused, a faint flush darkening his tan. "I dunno as you've noticed
it," he went on, plucking a long spear of grass and twisting it between
his brown fingers, "but Miss Mary's got a way about her that--that sort of
gets a man. She's so awful young, an'--an'--earnest, an' though she don't
know one thing hardly about ranchin', she's dead crazy about this place,
an' mighty anxious to make it pay. When she asks yuh to do somethin', yuh
jest natu'ally feel like yuh wanted to oblige. I felt like that, anyhow,
an' I was hot under the collar at Tex for lyin' about me like he must of
done. So I tells her straight off I wasn't thinkin' of anythin' of the
sort. 'Fu'thermore,' I says, 'I'll stick to the job as long as yuh like if
you'll do one thing.' She asks what's that, an' I told her that some
folks, namin' no names, was tryin' to make out to her I wasn't doin' my
work good, an' doin' their best to get me in bad.
"'Oh, but I think you're mistaken,' she says, catchin' on right away who I
meant. 'Tex wouldn't do anythin' like that. He needs help too bad, for
one thing.'
"'Well,' I says, 'let it go at that. Only, if yuh hear anythin' against
me, I'd like for yuh not to take anybody else's word for it. It's got to
be proved I ain't capable, or I've done somethin' I oughta be fired for.
An' if things gets so I got to go, I'll come to yuh an' ask for my time
myself. Fu'thermore, I'll get Rick to promise the same thing.'
"Well, to make a long story short, she said she'd do it, though I could
see she was still thinkin' me mistaken about Tex doin' anythin' out of the
way. He's a rotten skunk, but you'd better believe he don't let her see
it. He's got her so she believes every darn word he says is gospel."
He finished in an angry key. Stratton's face was thoughtful.
"How long has he been here?" he asked.
"Who? Tex? Oh, long before I come. The old man made him foreman pretty
near a year ago in place of Bloss, who run the outfit for Stratton, that
fellow who was killed in the war that old Thorne bought the ranch off
from."
"What sort of a man was this Thorne?" Buck presently inquired.
"Pretty decent, though kinda stand-offish with us fellows. He was awful
thick with Tex, though, an' mebbe that's the reason Miss Mary thinks so
much of him. She took his death mighty hard, believe me!"
With a mind groping after hidden clues, Stratton subconsciously
disentangled the various "hes" and "hims" of Jessup's slightly involved
remark.
"Pop Daggett told me about his being thrown and breaking his neck," he
said presently. "You were here then, weren't you? Was there anything queer
about it? I mean, like the two punchers who were killed later on?"
Jessup's eyes widened. "Queer?" he repeated. "Why, I--I never thought
about it that way. I wasn't around when it happened. Nobody was with him
but--but--Tex." He stared at Buck. "Yuh don't mean to say--"
"I don't say anything," returned Stratton, as he paused. "How can I,
without knowing the facts? Was the horse a bad one?"
"He was new--jest been put in the _remuda_. I never saw him rid except by
Doc Peters, who's a shark. I did notice, afterward, he was sorta mean,
though I've seen worse. We was on the spring round-up, jest startin' to
brand over in the middle pasture." Bud spoke slowly with thoughtfully
wrinkled brows. "It was right after dinner when the old man rode up on
Socks, the horse he gen'ally used. He seemed pretty excited for him. He
got hold of Tex right away, an' the two of them went off to one side an'
chinned consid'able. Then they changed the saddle onto this here paint
horse, Socks bein' sorta tuckered out, an' rode off together. It was near
three hours before Tex came gallopin' back alone with word that the old
man's horse had stepped in a hole an' throwed him, breakin' his neck."
"Was that part of it true?" asked Buck, who had been listening intently.
"About his neck? Sure. They had Doc Blanchard over right away. He'd been
throwed, all right, too, from the scratches on his face."
"Where did it happen?"
"Yuh got me. I wasn't one of the bunch that brought him in. I never
thought to ask afterwards, neither. It must of been somewhere up to the
north end of the ranch, though, if they kep' on goin' the way they
started."
For a moment or two Stratton sat silent, staring absently at the sloping
bank below him. Was there anything back of the ranch-owner's tragic death
save simple accident? The story was plausible enough. Holes were
plentiful, and it wouldn't be the first time a horse's stumble had
resulted fatally to the rider. On the other hand, it is quite possible, by
an abrupt though seemingly accidental thrust or collision, to stir a horse
of uncertain temper into sudden, vehement action. At length Buck sighed
and abandoned his cogitations as fruitless. Short of a miracle, that phase
of the problem was never likely to be answered.
"I wonder what took him off like that?" he pondered aloud. "Have you any
notion? Is there anything particular up that way?"
"Why, no. Nobody hardly ever goes there. They call it the north pasture,
but it's never used. There's nothin' there but sand an' cactus an' all
that; a goat couldn't hardly keep body an' soul together. Except once
lookin' for strays that got through the fence, I never set foot in it
myself."
Down in the shallow gully where they sat, the shadows were gathering,
showing that dusk was rapidly approaching. With a shake of his head and a
movement of his wide shoulders, Buck mentally dismissed that subject.
"It's getting dark," he said briskly. "We'll have to hustle, or there'll
be a searching party out after us. Have you noticed anything else
particularly--about Lynch, I mean, or any of the others?"
"Nothin' I can make sense of," returned Jessup. "Tex has been off the
ranch a lot. Two or three times he's stayed away over night. It might of
been reg'lar business, I s'pose, but once Bill Harris, over to the
Rockin'-R, said he'd seen him in Tucson with some guys in a big
automobile. That rustlin', of course, yuh know about. On the evidence, I
dunno as yuh could swear he was in it, but it's a sure thing that any
foreman worth his salt would of stopped the business before now, or else
get the sheriff on the job if he couldn't handle it himself."
"That's one thing I've wondered," commented Buck. "Why doesn't he? What's
his excuse for holding off?"
Bud gave a short, brittle laugh. "I'll tell yuh. He says the sheriff's a
crook! What do you know about that? I heard him tellin' it to Miss Mary
the other day when he come in from Paloma about dinner-time. She was
askin' him the same question, an' he up an' tells her it wouldn't be worth
while; tells her the man is a half-breed an' always plays in with the
greasers, so he wouldn't be no use. I never met up with Jim Hardenberg,
but he sure ain't a breed, an' he's got a darn good rep as sheriff." He
groaned. "Wimmin sure is queer. Think of anybody believin' that sort of
rot."
"Did Lynch know you were listening?"
Jessup reddened a little. "No. They were talkin' in the big room, an' I
was standin' to one side of the open window. I don't call it sneakin' to
try an' get the drop on a coyote like him."
"I don't either," smiled Stratton, getting on his feet. The swift,
southern darkness had fallen so quickly that they could barely see each
other's faces. "It's one of their own little tricks, and turn about is
fair play. Our job, I reckon, is to keep our eyes open every minute and
not let anything slip. We'll find a way to get together again if anything
should turn up. I'll be going back."
He turned away and took a few steps along the bank. Then all at once he
stopped and walked back.
"Say, Bud, how big is that north pasture place you were telling about?" he
asked. "I don't seem to remember going over it when I was--"
He broke off abruptly, and a sudden flush burned into his cheeks at the
realization that he had almost betrayed himself. Fortunately Jessup did
not seem to notice the slip.
"I don't know exactly," replied the youngster. "About two miles square,
maybe. Why?"
"Oh, I just wondered," shrugged Stratton. "Well, so-long."
Again they parted, Bud returning to the harness-room, where he would have
to finish his work by lantern-light.
"Gee, but that was close!" murmured Bud, feeling his way through the
darkness. "Just about one more word and I'd have given away the show
completely."
He paused under a cottonwood as a gleam of light from the open bunk-house
door showed through the leaves.
"I wonder?" he mused thoughtfully.
A waste of sand, cactus, and scanty desert growth! In Arizona nothing is
more ordinary or commonplace, more utterly lacking in interest and
significance. Yet Stratton's mind returned to it persistently as he
considered one by one the scanty details of Jessup's brief narrative.
What was there about a spot like that to rouse excitement in the breast of
the usually phlegmatic Andrew Thorne? Why had he been in such haste to
drag Lynch thither, and what had passed between the two before the older
man came to his sudden and tragic end? Was it possible that somewhere
within that four square miles of desolate wilderness might lie the key to
the puzzling mystery Buck had set himself to solve?
"I wonder?" he murmured again, and leaving the margin of the creek, he
moved slowly toward the open bunk-house door.
CHAPTER XI
DANGER
As Buck appeared in the doorway, blinking a little at the lamp-light, the
five card-players stared at him in astonishment.
"Where the devil have you been?" inquired Kreeger, surprised out of his
accustomed taciturnity.
"I thought yuh was asleep," added Peters, casting a bewildered glance at
the shadowy bunk.
Buck, who had scarcely hoped his little stratagem would succeed so well,
refrained with difficulty from showing the pleasure he felt.
"So I have," he drawled.
"But I thought yuh was in yore bunk," commented McCabe, his light-blue
eyes narrowing slightly.
"No, I was outside," explained Stratton carelessly. "It was too hot in
here, so I went out and sat down by the creek. I must have dropped off
pretty soon, and when I came to it was dark."
As he spoke he glanced casually at Tex Lynch, and despite himself a little
shiver flickered on his spine. The foreman, who had not spoken, sat
motionless on the further side of the table regarding Stratton steadily.
His lids drooped slightly and his face was almost expressionless. But in
spite of that Buck got a momentary impression of baffled fury and a
deadly, murderous hate, the more startling because of its very repression.
Coupling it with what he knew or suspected of the man, Stratton felt there
was some excuse for that momentary mental shrinking.
"He'd as soon put me out of the way as shoot a coyote," he said to
himself, as he walked over to his bunk. "All he wants is a chance to do it
without getting caught."
But with ordinary care and caution he did not see just how Tex was going
to get the chance. Buck never went anywhere without his gun, and he
flattered himself he was as quick on the draw as the average. Besides, he
knew better now than to trust himself alone with Lynch or any of the
others on some outlying part of the range where a fatal accident could
plausibly be laid to marauding greasers, or to some similar agency.
"I'm not saying any one of 'em couldn't pick me off a dozen times a day
and make an easy get-away across the border," he thought, stretching
himself out on the husk mattress. "But Lynch don't want to have to make a
get-away. There's something right here on the Shoe-Bar that interests him
a whole lot too much."
Presently Bud came in, parried with some success the half-questioning
comments of the men, and went to bed. Buck lay awake a while longer,
trying to patch together into some semblance of pattern the isolated
scraps of information he had gained, but without any measure of success.
There followed four surprising days of calm, during which the Shoe-Bar, to
every outward seeming, might have been the most ordinary and humdrum of
outfits, with not a hint of anything sinister or mysterious beneath the
surface.
Each morning the men sallied forth to work, returned for noon dinner, and
rode off again soon afterward. Lynch was neither grouchy nor over-jovial.
He seemed the typical ranch-boss, whose chief thought is to get the work
done, and his berating was entirely impartial. Bud had spent most of his
time around the ranch, but once or twice he rode out with the others, and
there was no attempt on their part to keep him and Buck from talking
together as privately as they pleased. Only where Miss Thorne was
concerned was Stratton conscious of the old unobtrusive surveillance. He
saw her several times during his brief visits to Bemis, who was improving
daily and fretting to be gone, but always Lynch, McCabe, or some one just
"happened" to be along.
The effect of this unexpected peace and quiet on Stratton, however, was
precisely opposite from the one he presumed was intended. He had a feeling
that it was a calm before the storm, and became more alert than ever. The
unnatural placidity weighed on him, and as day followed day serenely his
nerves grew edgy.
After supper on the fourth day Lynch went up to the ranch-house and was
closeted for more than an hour with Miss Thorne. On his return to the
bunk-house, Stratton, who had now come to speculate on his every move,
studied him covertly but found his manner quite as usual.
In the morning they started off for the middle pasture, where they were
engaged in repairing a fence which had all but fallen flat. Quite by
accident, and without any inkling of what was to come of his carelessness,
Buck left his hammer and pliers beside the corral gate instead of sticking
them into his saddle-pockets. Before they had gone a quarter of a mile he
discovered the omission and pulled up, explaining what had happened.
"It won't take me five minutes to go back for them," he added, gathering
up his reins.
"I'll go with yuh," said McCabe promptly. "With a little hustlin', we can
easy catch up with the gang before they get to the pasture."
"Well, speed up, both of yuh," admonished Lynch. "We want to finish that
job to-day."
Slightly amused and wondering whether they thought for an instant he was
too blind to see through their game, Stratton put spurs to his horse and
the two rode back together, McCabe apparently making a special effort to
be amusing. The tools were found where Buck had left them, and the latter
was on the point of remounting, when Mary Thorne came suddenly around the
corner of the house.
"Good morning," she greeted them both pleasantly, but with a slight
undercurrent of preoccupation in her manner. "I was afraid you'd gone."
Her eyes met Stratton's. "Could I speak to you a moment?" she asked.
"Certainly, ma'am."
Buck dropped his bridle-reins and moved forward. For an instant McCabe sat
motionless; then he swung himself out of the saddle.
"If it's anythin' I can help about--" he began, awkwardly, yet
ingratiatingly.
"Thank you very much, Slim, but it isn't," the girl answered quietly.
"We ain't got much time," protested McCabe uneasily. "We jest came back to
get them tools Buck forgot. Tex is in a hurry to finish up the job."
"I don't believe five minutes' delay will matter very much," returned Miss
Thorne, with a touch of that unexpected decision Stratton had noticed once
or twice before. "I sha'n't be any longer."
She moved away from the corral and Buck, walking beside her, was
conscious of a curious tension in the air. For a moment he thought McCabe
meant to persist and force his presence on them. But evidently the stocky
cow-puncher found the situation too difficult for him to cope with, for he
remained standing beside his horse, though his glance followed them
intently, and throughout the brief interview his eyes searched their
faces, as if he strove to read from their expression or the movement of
their lips some inkling of what it was all about.
"I won't keep you but a moment," the girl began, her color slightly
heightened. "I only thought that perhaps I might persuade you to--to
change your mind, and--and stay. If the work's too hard, we might be able
to--"
She paused. Buck stared at her in astonishment. "I don't understand," he
said briefly.
Her flush deepened. "I meant about your going. I understood you weren't
satisfied, and wanted to--to leave."
"Who told you that?"
"Why--Tex. Isn't it--"
Buck frowned, and then, conscious of the watching McCabe, his face cleared
and he laughed.
"He must have got me wrong, Miss Ma--er--Thorne," he returned lightly.
"Perhaps he's heard me grumbling a bit; cow-men do that from force of
habit sometimes, you know. But I've nothing to complain of about the
work, and certainly I had no idea of quitting."
Her face cleared amazingly. "I'm so glad," she said in a relieved tone. "I
suppose I seem fussy, but now and then the problem of help gets to be a
regular nightmare. Once or twice lately I've been afraid I was making a
terrible mess of things, and might, after all, have to accept one of the
offers I've had for the ranch. I should hate dreadfully to leave here, but
if I can't make it pay--"
She finished with a shrug. Stratton regarded her thoughtfully. "You've had
several offers?" he asked hesitatingly, wondering whether she would think
the question an impertinence.
Apparently she didn't. "Two; really most awfully good ones. Indeed, Tex
strongly advised me to sell out and buy another outfit if I still wanted
to ranch. But I don't want another one. It's the Shoe-Bar I'm so keen
about because of-- But I really mustn't keep you. Thank you so much for
relieving my mind. When Tex comes in I'll tell him he was mistaken."
Buck hesitated for an instant. "It might be better not to say anything
about it," he suggested. "Some foremen don't like the least bit of
interference, you know. Suppose we just let it go, and if he brings up the
subject to me, I'll tell him he got me wrong."
"Very well. It doesn't make any difference so long as you're staying.
Good-by."
With a little gesture of farewell, she walked away toward the ranch-house,
leaving Stratton to return to where McCabe fidgeted beside the horses.
There was no time for deliberate reasoning or planning. Buck only felt
sure that Lynch was up to something underhand, and when Slim, with almost
too great a casualness, inquired what it was all about, he obeyed a strong
impulse and lied.
"Oh, it's Bemis," he shrugged, as they rode off together. "He's fretting
to get away. Lost his nerve, I reckon, and wants to pull out. She wanted
to know how long I thought it would be before he could back a horse. I
s'pose he might chance it in about a week, but I'm hanged if I can see why
he's in such a rush. He's sure got it soft enough here."
While he talked he was busy rolling a cigarette, but this did not prevent
him from being aware of Slim's intent, sidelong scrutiny. He could not be
quite certain whether or not he succeeded in deceiving the fellow, but
from the character of McCabe's comments, he rather thought he had.
Certainly he hoped so. Slim was sure to tell Lynch about the incident, but
if he himself believed it harmless, the foreman was likely to take the
same point of view, and continue to carry out the scheme he had in mind.
Whatever this was, Stratton, in his present frame of mind, preferred that
it should be brought to a head rather than continue any longer in
suspense.
Throughout the day he could get no hint of what was going on. Once the
thought occurred to him that it might be a variation of the trick Lynch
had tried to play on Bud. By preparing Miss Thorne beforehand for the
departure of the new hand, he could discharge Stratton and then represent
to the girl that he had quit of his own accord. But somehow this didn't
altogether fit. It assumed that Buck would take his dismissal quietly
without attempting a personal appeal to the ranch-owner; also it took no
account of Bud Jessup. By this time Tex must realize that there had been
more or less intimate communication between the two, and Bud was not the
sort to stand by quietly and see his friend turned out without stirring
vehemently in his behalf.
Considering all this, Buck could not see that there was much to fear in
Lynch's present manoeuvering; and it was something of a shock to find Bud
absent from the supper-table.
"Gone to Paloma to fetch those wagon-bolts," explained Tex, who had come
in about an hour ahead of the others, in answer to Peters' query. "They'd
ought to of come in by mail yesterday or the day before, an' we need 'em
bad. He'll get supper in town an' be back before dark."
Somewhat thoughtful, Buck accompanied the others to the bunk-house, where
he was cordially invited to join the evening game of draw, but declined on
the plea of having a couple of letters to write. It was a subterfuge, of
course; he had nobody to write to. But in his mind had risen a strong
preference for being in a position where he could overlook the whole
group, rather than be seated in their very midst.
There had come to him a sudden, vivid conviction that he had
underestimated the foreman's resources and his own possible danger. As he
sat there mechanically scribbling random sentences, it was brought home to
him for the first time how unpleasantly alone he was. Save for a helpless
girl and an even more helpless old woman, there wasn't a soul within a
dozen miles on whom he could count for help in an emergency. Of course
when Bud returned--
But Bud didn't return. Nine o'clock brought no sign of him. Another hour
passed and still he failed to show up. It began to look very much as if
the youngster had met with some accident or was being purposely kept out
of the way.
When the men finished their game and began to turn in, Stratton
reluctantly followed their example. As long as there was any light he felt
perfectly able to take care of himself. It was the darkness he
feared--that inky, suffocating darkness which masks everything like a
pall. He dreaded, too, the increased chances bed would bring of yielding
for a single fatal instant to treacherous sleep; but he couldn't well sit
up all night, so he undressed leisurely with the rest and stretched his
long length between the blankets.
When the lamp was out, he cautiously flung aside his coverings, drew
himself into a reclining position, and with gun in one hand and some
matches close beside the other, began his vigil.
For a long time--it must have been an hour at least--there was no need to
fight off sleep. His mind was far too active. But his thoughts were not
altogether cheering, for he began to see clearly how Lynch might hope to
accomplish the impossible.
So far there had been reassurance in the feeling that the foreman would
not dare proceed to open violence because of the almost certain
consequences to himself. Buck realized now that, under the conditions of
the moment, those consequences might become almost negligible. Suppose,
for instance, that by next morning Stratton had disappeared. Lynch and his
confederates would tell a plausible story of his having demanded his time
the night before and ridden off early in the morning. It was a story Tex
had carefully prepared Miss Thorne to hear, and whether or not, after
Buck's talk with her during the morning, she might be suspicious, that
would make no difference in the foreman's actions now. He would see that a
horse was gone, and attend to all the other necessary details. He had the
better part of the night and miles of desert waste in which to dispose of
every trace of Stratton and his belongings. Bud would be suspicious, but
between suspicion and proof there is a great gulf fixed. And though Lynch
might not know it, one of his strongest cards was the fact that if
Stratton should vanish off the earth, there was not a soul who would ever
come around asking awkward questions.
"But I'm not going to be bumped off just now, thank you," Buck said to
himself with a grim straightening of the lips. "They won't dare fire a
gun, and they don't know I'm ready for them and waiting."
Another hour passed, a tortured, harrowing hour in which he fought sleep
desperately with all the limited resources at his command. In spite of his
determination to keep his eyes open at any cost, his lids drooped and
lifted, drooped and lifted, drooped and were dragged open by sheer
will-power. Each time it was more difficult. Just as the water laps
inexorably at length over the face of an exhausted swimmer, so these waves
of sleep, smothering, clutching, dulled his senses and strove to wrap him
in their soft, treacherous embrace.
There came at last a complete wiping out of consciousness, how long or
short he never knew, from which he was jarred into sudden wakefulness by a
sound. He had no idea what it was nor whence it came. He merely found
himself abruptly in full possession of his senses, nerves tingling,
moisture dewing his forehead, his whole being concentrated in the one act
of--listening!
For what seemed an eternity he could hear nothing save the heavy breathing
of sleeping men. Then it came again, a slow, faint, dragging sound that
ceased almost as soon as it began.
Some one was creeping stealthily toward him across the cabin floor!
CHAPTER XII
THWARTED
Instantly a sense of elation, tingling as an electric shock, surged over
Stratton, and his grip on the Colt tightened. At last he was face to face
with something definite and concrete, and in a moment all the little
doubts and nagging nervous qualms which had assailed him from time to time
during his long vigil were swept away. Cautiously drawing his gun into
position, he felt for a match with the other hand and prepared to scratch
it against the side of the bunk.
Slowly, stealthily, with many a cautious pause, the crawling body drew
steadily nearer. Though the intense darkness prevented him from seeing
anything, Buck felt at last that he had correctly gaged the position of
the unknown plotter. Trying to continue that easy, steady breathing, which
had been no easy matter, he slightly raised his weapon and then, with a
sudden, lightning movement, he drew the match firmly across the rough
board.
To his anger and chagrin the head broke off. Before he could snatch up
another and strike it viciously, there came from close at hand a sudden
rustle, a creak, the clatter of something on the floor, followed by dead
silence. When the light flared up, illumining dimly almost the whole
length of the room, there was nothing in the least suspicious to be seen.
Nevertheless, with inward cursing, Stratton sprang up and lit the lamp he
had used early in the evening and which he had purposely left within
reach. With this added illumination he made a discovery that brought his
lips together in a grim line.
Someone lay stretched out in the bunk next to his own--Jessup's bunk,
which had been empty when he went to bed.
For a fleeting instant Buck wondered whether Bud could possibly have
returned and crawled in there unheard. Then, as the wick flared up, he not
only realized that this couldn't have happened, but recognized lying on
the youngster's rolled-up blankets the stout figure and round, unshaven
face of--Slim McCabe.
As he stood staring at the fellow, there was a stir from further down the
room and a sleepy voice growled:
"What's the matter? It ain't time to get up yet, is it?"
Buck, who had just caught a glint of steel on the floor at the edge of the
bunk, pulled himself together.
"No; I--I must have had a--nightmare," he returned in a realistically
dazed tone. "I was dreaming about--rustlers, and thought I heard somebody
walking around."
Still watching McCabe surreptitiously, he saw the fellow's lids lift
sleepily.
"W'a's matter?" murmured Slim, blinking at the lamp.
"Nothing. I was dreaming. What the devil are you doing in that bunk?"
McCabe appeared to rouse himself with an effort and partly sat up, yawning
prodigiously.
"It was hot in my own, so I come over here to get the air from the
window," he mumbled. "What's the idea of waking a guy up in the middle of
the night?"
Buck did not answer for a moment but, stepping back, trod as if by
accident on the end of his trailing blanket. As he intended, the movement
sent his holster and belt tumbling to the floor, and with perfect
naturalness he stooped to pick them up. When he straightened, his face
betrayed nothing of the grim satisfaction he felt at having proved his
point. The bit of steel was a hunting-knife with a seven-inch blade, sharp
as a razor, and with a distinctive stag-horn handle, which Tex Lynch had
used only a few evenings before to remove the skin from a coyote he had
brought down.
"Sorry, but I was dreaming," drawled Stratton. "No harm done, though, is
there? You ain't likely to stay awake long."
Without further comment he blew out the light and crawled into bed again.
He found no difficulty now in keeping awake for the remainder of the
night; there was too much to think about and decide. Now that he had
measured the lengths to which Lynch seemed willing to go, he realized that
a continuance of present conditions was impossible. An exact repetition of
this particular attempt was unlikely, but there were plenty of variations
against which no single individual could hope to guard. He must bring
things to a head at once, either by quitting the ranch, by playing the
important card of his own identity he had so far held back, or else by
finding some other way of tying Lynch's hands effectually. He was equally
reluctant to take either of the two former steps, and so it pleased him
greatly when at last he began to see his way toward working things out in
another fashion.
"I'm blessed if that won't put a spoke in his wheel," he thought
jubilantly, considering details. "He won't dare to touch me."
When dawn came filtering through the windows, and one thing after another
slowly emerged from the obscurity, Buck's eyes swiftly sought the floor
below Bud's bunk. But though McCabe lay there snoring loudly, the knife
had disappeared.
Though outwardly everything seemed normal, Buck noticed a slight
restlessness and laxing tension about the men that morning. There was
delay in getting to work, which might have been accounted for by the
cessation of one job and the starting of another. But knowing what he did,
Stratton felt that the flat failure of their plot had much to do with it.
He himself took advantage of the lull to slip away to the harness-room on
the plea of mending a rip in the stitching of his chaps. Pulling a box
over by the window where he could see anyone approaching, he produced
pencil and paper and proceeded to write out a rather voluminous document,
which he afterward read over and corrected carefully. He sealed it up in
an envelope, wrote a much briefer note, and enclosed both in a second
envelope which he addressed to Sheriff J. Hardenberg. Finally he felt
around in his pocket and pulled forth the scrawl he had composed the night
before.
"They look about the same," he murmured, comparing them. "Nobody will
notice the difference."
Buck was on the point of sealing the envelope containing the scrawl when
it occurred to him to read the contents over and see what he had written.
The letter was headed "Dear Friend," and proved to be a curious
composition. With a mind intent on other things, Stratton had written
almost mechanically, intending merely to give an air of reality to his
occupation. In the beginning the scrawl read very much as if the "friend"
were masculine. Bits of ranch happenings and descriptions were jotted down
as one would in writing to a cow-boy friend located on a distant outfit.
But gradually, imperceptibly almost, the tone shifted. Buck himself had
been totally unaware of any change until he read over the last few pages.
And then, as he took in the subtle undercurrent of meaning which lay
beneath the penciled lines, a slow flush crept up into his face, and he
frowned.
It was all rot, of course! He had merely written for the sake of writing
something--anything. She was a nice little thing, of course, with an
attractive feminine manner and an unexpected lot of nerve. He was sorry
for her, naturally, and would like to help her out of what he felt to be a
most disagreeable, if not hazardous situation. But as for anything
further--
Still frowning, he thrust the sheets back into the envelope and licked the
flap. He was on the point of stubbornly scrawling a man's name on the
outside when he realized how foolish he would be not to carry out his
first and much more sensible intention.
He wanted an excuse for asking permission to ride to town to post a
letter. This, in itself, was an extremely nervy request and under ordinary
conditions almost certain to be profanely refused. But Buck had a shrewd
notion that after the failure of Lynch's plans, the foreman might welcome
the chance of talking things over with his confederates without danger of
being observed or overheard. On the other hand, if there should be the
least suspicion that his letter was not of the most innocent and harmless
sort, he would never in the world be allowed to get away with it.
The result was that when he strolled out of the harness-room a little
later the envelope bearing the name of Sheriff Hardenberg reposed within
his shirt, while the other, addressed now to a mythical "Miss Florence
Denby," at an equally mythical street number in Dallas, Texas, protruded
from a pocket of his chaps.
"I don't s'pose you've got a stamp you'll sell me," he inquired of Lynch,
whom he found in the bunk-house with McCabe. "I'd like to get this letter
off as soon as I can."
Balancing the envelope in his hand, he held it so that the foreman could
easily read the address.
"I might have," returned Lynch briefly. "Looks like that letter was heavy
enough to need two."
Buck allowed him to weigh it in his hand for an instant, and then, in
simulated confusion, he snatched it back.
"Must be writin' to yore girl," grinned McCabe, who had also been
regarding the address curiously.
Stratton retorted in a convincingly embarrassed fashion, received his
stamps and then proffered his request, which was finally granted with an
air of reluctance and much grumbling.
"I wouldn't let yuh go, only I don't know what the devil's keepin' that
fool Bud," growled Lynch. "Yuh tell the son-of-a-gun I ain't expectin' him
to stop in town the rest of his natural life. If them wagon-bolts ain't
come, we'll have to do without 'em. Yuh bring him back with yuh, an' see
yuh both get here by dinner time without fail."
Buck gave the desired promise and, hastily saddling up, departed. About
three miles from the ranch, he rode off to the side of the trail and
dismounted beside a stunted mesquite. Under its twisting branches, he dug
a hole with the toe of his boot and interred therein Miss Florence Denby's
letter, torn into small fragments.
This done he swung himself into the saddle and headed again for Paloma
Springs, and as he rode he began to whistle blithely.
CHAPTER XIII
COUNTERPLOT
"The low-down, ornery liar!" sputtered Bud Jessup, face flushed and eyes
snapping. "He told me to wait for them bolts if I had to stay here all
day. I thought it was kinda funny he'd let me waste all this time, but I
didn't have no idea at all he'd got me out of the way a-purpose to put
across that dirty deal. Why, the rotten son-of-a--"
"Easy, kid," cautioned Buck, glancing at the open door of the store.
"You'll have Pop comin' out to see what all the excitement's about, and
that isn't our game--yet."
He had found Bud alone on the rickety porch, kicking his heels against the
railing and fretting at his enforced idleness; and having hitched his
horse, he lost no time in giving the youngster a brief account of the
happenings of the night before.
"Not him," shrugged Jessup, though he did lower his voice a trifle. "The
up train's due in less than half an hour, an' Pop's gettin' the mail-bag
ready. That means readin' all the post-cards twice at least, an' makin'
out all he can through the envelopes, if the paper's thin enough. I often
wondered why he didn't go the whole hog an' have a kettle ready to steam
the flaps open, he seems to get so much pleasure out of other people's
business."
Stratton chuckled. This suited him perfectly up to a certain point. He
pulled the letter out of his shirt and was pleased to see that none of the
writing was visible. Then he displayed the face of the envelope to his
companion.
Bud's eyes widened. "Whew!" he whistled. "That sure looks like business.
What's up, Buck? Can't yuh tell a man?"
"I will on the way back; no time just now. Let's go in."
He led the way into the store and walked down to where Daggett was slowly
sorting a small pile of letters and post-cards.
"Hello, Pop!" he greeted. "Looks like I was just in time."
The old man peered over the tops of his spectacles. "Yuh be, if yuh want
to catch the up-mail," he nodded. "Where's it to?"
He took the letter from Stratton's extended hand and studied it with frank
interest.
"Jim Hardenberg!" he commented. "Wal! Wal! Friend of yores, eh?"
"Oh, I don't know as you'd hardly call him that," evaded Stratton.
"Haven't seen him in over two years, I reckon."
Pop waited expectantly, but no further information was forthcoming. He
eyed the letter curiously, manoeuvering as if by accident to hold it up
against the light. He even tried, by obvious methods, to get rid of the
two punchers, but they persisted in hanging around until at length the
near approach of the train-hour forced the old man to drop the letter into
the mail-bag with the others and snap the lock. On the plea of seeing
whether their package had come, both Stratton and Jessup escorted him over
to the station platform and did not quit his side until the train had
departed, carrying the mail-sack with it.
There were a few odds and ends of mail for the Shoe-Bar, but no parcel.
When this became certain, Bud got his horse and the two mounted in front
of the store.
"By gee!" exclaimed Pop suddenly as they were on the point of riding off.
"I clean forgot to tell yuh. They got blackleg over to the T-T's."
Both men turned abruptly in their saddles and stared at him in dismay. To
the bred-in-the-bone rancher the mention of blackleg, that deadly
contagious and most fatal of cattle diseases, is almost as startling as
bubonic plague would be to the average human.
"Hell!" ejaculated Bud forcefully. "Yuh sure about that, Pop?"
"Sartain sure," nodded the old man. "One of their men, Bronc Tippets, was
over here last night an' told me. Said their yearlings is dyin' off like
flies."
"That sure is mighty hard luck," remarked Jessup as they rode out of town.
"I'm glad this outfit ain't any nearer."
"Somewhere off to the west of the Shoe-Bar, isn't it?" asked Stratton.
"Yeah. 'Way the other side of the mountains. There's a short cut through
the hills that comes out around the north end of middle pasture, but there
ain't one steer in a thousand could find his way through. Well, let's hear
what you're up to, old man. I'm plumb interested."
Buck's serious expression relaxed and he promptly launched into a detailed
explanation of his scheme. When he had made everything clear Bud's face
lit up and he regarded his friend admiringly.
"By cripes, Buck!" he exclaimed delightedly. "That sure oughta work. When
are yuh goin' to spring it on 'em?"
"First good chance I get," returned Buck. "The sooner the better, so they
won't have time to try any more dirty work."
The opportunity was not long in coming. They reached the ranch just before
dinner and when the meal was over learned that the afternoon was to be
devoted to repairing the telephone leading from the ranch-house to Las
Vegas camp, which had been out of order for several weeks. As certain
fence wires were utilized for line purposes, this meant considerable work,
if Stratton could judge by the ruinous condition of most of those he had
seen. He wondered not a little at the meaning of the move, but did not
allow his curiosity to interfere with the project he had in mind.
They had left the ranch in a bunch, Kreeger and Siegrist alone remaining
behind for some other purpose. They had not gone more than two miles when
a remark of McCabe's on mining claims gave Buck his cue.
"A fellow who goes into that game with a bunch takes a lot of chances," he
commented. "I knew a chap once who came mighty near being croaked, to say
nothing of losing a valuable claim, by being too confiding with a gang he
thought could be trusted."
"How was that?" inquired Slim amiably, as Stratton paused.
"They wanted the whole hog instead of being contented with their share,
and tried two or three times to get this fellow--er--Brown. When Brown
wised up to what was going on he thought at first he'd have to pull out to
save his hide. But just in time he doped out a scheme to stop their dirty
work, and it sure was a slick one, all right."
Buck chuckled retrospectively. Though the pause was unbroken by any
questions, he saw that he had the complete and undivided attention of his
audience.
"What he did," resumed Stratton, "was to write out a detailed account of
all the things they'd tried to put across, one of which was an attempt
to--a--shoot him in his bunk while he was asleep. He sealed that up in an
envelope and sent it to the sheriff with a note asking him to keep it
safe, but not to open it unless the writer, Brown, got bumped off in some
violent way or disappeared, in which case the sheriff was to act on the
information in it and nab the crooks. After he'd got word of its receipt,
he up and told the others what he'd done. Pretty cute, wasn't it?"
The brief pause that followed was tense and fraught with suppressed
emotion.
"Did it work?" McCabe at length inquired, with elaborate casualness.
"Sure. The gang didn't dare raise a finger to him. They might have put a
bullet through him any time, or a knife, and made a safe get-away, but
then they'd have had to desert the claims, which wasn't their game at all.
Darn good stunt to remember, ain't it, if a person ever got up against
that sort of thing?"
There was no direct reply to the half-question, and Buck shot a glance at
his companions. Lynch rode slightly behind him and was out of the line of
vision. McCabe, with face averted, bent over fussing with his
saddle-strings. The sight of Doc Peters's face, however, pale, strained,
with wide, frightened eyes and sagging jaw, told Stratton that his thrust
had penetrated as deeply as he could have hoped.
"We'll start here."
It was Lynch's voice, curt and harsh, that broke the odd silence as he
jerked his horse up and dismounted. "Get yore tools out an' don't waste
any time."
There was no mistaking his mood, and in the hours that followed he was a
far from agreeable taskmaster. He snapped and growled and swore at them
impartially, acting generally like a bear with a sore ear whom nothing can
please. If he could be said to be less disagreeable to anyone, it was,
curiously enough, Bud Jessup, whom he kept down at one end of the line
most of the afternoon. Later Stratton discovered the reason.
"It worked fine," Bud whispered to him jubilantly, when they were alone
together for a few minutes after supper. "Did yuh see him hangin' around
me this afternoon? He was grouchin' around and pretendin' to be mad
because he'd let yuh go to town this mornin' just to mail a letter to some
fool girl."
"Of course I pulled the baby stare an' told him I didn't see no letter to
no girl. Yuh sure didn't mail one while I was with yuh, I says.
"'Didn't mail no letter at all?' he wants to know, scowlin'."
"'Sure,' I says. 'Only it went to Jim Hardenberg over to Perilla. I seen
him hand it to old Pop Daggett, who was peevish as a wet hen 'cause he
couldn't find out nothin' about what was in it, 'count of Buck hangin'
around till it got on the train. That's the only letter I seen.'
"He didn't have no more to say, but walked off, scowlin' fierce. I'll bet
yuh my new Stetson to a two-bit piece, Buck, he rides in to town mighty
quick to find out what Pop knows about it."
Stratton did not take him up, for it had already occurred to him that such
a move on Lynch's part was almost certain. As a matter of fact the foreman
did leave the ranch early the next morning, driving a pair of blacks
harnessed to the buckboard. Buck and Jessup were both surprised at this
unwonted method of locomotion, which usually indicated a passenger to be
brought back, or, more rarely, a piece of freight or express, too large or
heavy to be carried on horseback, yet not bulky enough for the lumbering
freight-wagon.
"An' if it was freight, he'd have sent one of us," commented Bud, as they
saddled up preparatory to resuming operations on the fences. "Still an'
all, I reckon he wants to see Pop himself and get a line on what that old
he-gossip knows. He'll have his ear full, all right," he finished in a
tone of vindictive satisfaction.
To make up for the day before, the whole gang took life very easily, and
knocked off work rather earlier than usual. They had loafed ten or fifteen
minutes in the bunk-house and were straggling up the slope in answer to
Pedro's summons to dinner when, with a clatter of hoofs, the blacks
whirled through the further gate and galloped toward the house.
Buck, among the others, glanced curiously in that direction and observed
with much interest that a woman occupied the front seat of the buckboard
with Tex, while a young man and two small trunks more than filled the
rear.
"Some dame!" he heard Bud mutter under his breath.
A moment later Lynch pulled up the snorting team and called Jessup to hold
them. Buck was just turning away from a lightning appraisal of the
new-comers, when, to his amazement, the young woman smiled at him from her
seat.
"Why, Mr. Green!" she called out in surprise. "To think of finding you
here!"
Buck stared at her, wide-eyed and bewildered. With her crisp, dark hair,
fresh color, and regular features, she was very good to look at. But he
had never consciously set eyes on her before in all his life!
CHAPTER XIV
THE LADY FROM THE PAST
Stratton's first feeling was that the girl must have made a mistake. In a
dazed fashion he stepped forward and helped her out of the buckboard, but
this was a more or less mechanical action and because she so evidently
expected it. As he took her hand she pressed it warmly and did not at once
relinquish it after she had reached the ground.
"I'm awfully glad to see you again," she said, her color heightened a
little. "But how on earth do you come to be away off here?"
With an effort Buck pulled himself together. He could see that the men
were regarding him curiously, and felt that he must say something.
"That's simple enough," he answered briefly. "I've got a job on this
ranch."
She looked slightly puzzled. "Really? But I thought--I had no idea you
knew--Mary."
"I didn't. I needed a job and drifted in here thinking I'd find a friend
of mine who used to work on the same outfit in Texas. He was gone, but
Miss Thorne took me on."
"You mean you're a regular cow-boy?" the girl asked in surprise. "Why, you
never told me that aboard ship?"
A sudden chill swept over Stratton, and for a moment he was stricken
speechless. Aboard ship! Was it possible that this girl had been part of
that uncanny, vanished year, the very thought of which troubled and
oppressed him. His glance desperately evaded her charming, questioning
eyes and rested suddenly with a curious cool sense of relief on the face
of Mary Thorne, who had come up unperceived from behind.
But as their eyes met Buck was conscious of an odd veiled expression in
their clear depths which vaguely troubled him. It vanished quickly as Miss
Thorne moved quickly forward to embrace her friend.
"Stella!" she cried. "I'm so awfully glad to see you."
There were kisses and renewed embracings; the young man was greeted more
decorously but with almost equal warmth, and then suddenly Miss Thorne
turned to Stratton, who stood back a little, struggling between a longing
to escape and an equally strong desire to find out a little more about
this attractive but startling reminder of his unknown past.
"I had no idea you knew Miss Manning," she said, with the faintest hint of
stiffness in her manner.
Buck swallowed hard but was saved from further embarrassment by the girl.
"Oh, yes!" she said brightly. "We came home on the same ship. Mr. Green
had been wounded, you know, and was under my care. We got to be--great
friends."
Was there a touch of meaning in the last two words? Stratton preferred to
lay it to his imagination, and was glad of the diversion caused by the
introduction of the young man, who proved to be Miss Manning's brother.
Buck was not at all impressed by the fellow's handsome face, athletic
figure, and immaculate clothes. The clothes especially seemed ridiculously
out of place for even a visitor on a ranch, and he had always detested
those dinky half-shaved mustaches.
Meanwhile the trunks had been carried in and the team led away, and Pedro
was peevishly complaining from the kitchen door that dinner was getting
cold. Buck learned that the visitors were from Chicago, where they had
been close friends of the Thorne family for years, and then he managed to
break away and join the fellows in the kitchen.
During the meal there was a lot of more or less quiet joking on the
subject of Stratton's acquaintance with the lady, which he managed to
parry rather cleverly. As a matter of fact the acute horror he felt at the
very thought of the truth about himself getting out, quickened his wits
and kept him constantly on his guard. He kept his temper and his head,
explaining calmly that Miss Manning had been one of the nurses detailed to
look after the batch of wounded men of whom he had been one. Naturally he
had seen considerable of her during the long and tedious voyage, but there
were one or two others he liked equally well.
His careless manner seemed to convince the men that there was no
particular amusement to be extracted from the situation, and to Buck's
relief they passed on to a general discussion of strangers on a ranch, the
bother they were, and the extra amount of work they made.
"Always wantin' to ride around with yuh an' see what's goin' on," declared
Butch Siegrist sourly. "If they're wimmin, yuh can't even give a cuss
without lookin' first to see if they're near enough to hear."
Stratton made a mental resolution that if anything of that sort came up,
he would do his best to duck the job of playing cicerone to Miss Stella
Manning, attractive as she was. So far his bluff seemed to have worked,
but with a mind so entirely blank of the slightest detail of their
acquaintance, he knew that at any moment the most casual remark might
serve to rouse her suspicion.
Fortunately, his desire to remain in the background was abetted by Tex
Lynch. Whether or not the foreman wanted to keep him away from the
ranch-owner's friends as well as from Miss Thorne herself, Buck could not
quite determine. But while the fence-repairing progressed, Stratton was
never by any chance detailed to other duties which might keep him in the
neighborhood of the ranch-house, and on the one occasion when Miss Thorne
and her guests rode out to where the men were working, Lynch saw to it
that there was no opportunity for anything like private conversation
between them and the object of his solicitude.
Buck watched his manoeuvering with secret amusement.
"Wouldn't he be wild if he knew he was playing right into my hands?" he
thought.
His face darkened as he glanced thoughtfully at the departing figure of
Miss Manning. She had greeted him warmly and betrayed a very evident
inclination to linger in his vicinity. There had been a slight touch of
pique in her treatment of Lynch, who hung around so persistently.
"I wish to thunder I had an idea of how much she knows," he muttered. "Did
I act like a brainless idiot when I was--was that way, or not?"
He had asked the same question of the hospital surgeon and got an
unsatisfactory answer. It all depended, the doctor told him
non-committally. He might easily have shown evidences of lost memory; on
the other hand, it was quite possible, especially with chance
acquaintances, that his manner had been entirely normal.
There was nothing to be gained, however, by racking his brain for
something that wasn't there, and Buck soon gave up the attempt. He could
only trust to luck and his own inventiveness, and hope that Lynch's
delightfully unconscious easing of the situation would continue.
The work was finished toward noon on the third day after the arrival of
the Mannings, and all the connections hooked up. There remained nothing to
do but test the line, and Tex, after making sure everything was in order,
glanced over his men, who lounged in front of the Las Vegas shack.
"Yuh may as well stay down at this end," he remarked, looking at Buck,
"while the rest of us go back. Stick around where yuh can hear the bell,
an' if it don't ring in, say, an hour, try to get the house yourself. If
that don't work, come along in an' report. I reckon everything's all
right, though."
Stratton was conscious of a sudden sense of alertness. He had grown so
used to suspecting and analyzing everything the foreman said or did that
for a moment he forgot the precautions he had taken and wondered whether
Lynch was up to some new crooked work. Then he remembered and relaxed
mentally. Considering the consequences, Tex would hardly dare try any
fresh violence against him, especially quite so soon. Besides, in broad
daylight and in this open country, Buck couldn't imagine any form of
danger he wouldn't be able to meet successfully alone.
So he acquiesced indifferently, and from the open doorway of the hut
watched the others mount and ride away. There were only four of them, for
Kreeger and Butch Siegrist had been dispatched early that morning to ride
fence on the other side of the ranch-house. When they were well on their
way, Buck untied his lunch from the saddle and went into the shack to eat
it.
In spite of the feeling that he had nothing to fear, he took a position
which gave him a good outlook from both door and window, and saw that his
gun was loose in the holster. After he had eaten, he went down and got a
drink from the creek. He had not been back in the shack a great while
before the telephone bell jangled, and taking down the receiver he heard
Lynch's voice at the other end.
Owing to the rather crude nature of the contrivance there was a good deal
of buzzing on the line. But this was to be expected, and when Tex had
talked a few minutes and decided that the system was working as well as
could be hoped, he told Stratton to come in to the ranch, and hung up.
Buck had not ridden more than a quarter of a mile across the prairie, when
all at once he pulled his horse to a standstill. The thought had suddenly
come to him that this was the chance he had wanted so long to take a look
at that mysterious stretch of desert known as the north pasture. He would
be delayed, of course, but explanations were easy and that did not disturb
him. It was too good an opportunity to miss, and without delay he turned
his horse and spurred forward.
An instinct of caution made him keep as close as possible to the rough,
broken country that edged the western extremity of the ranch, where he
would run less chance of being seen than on the flat, open plain. He
pushed his horse as much as was wise, and presently observed with
satisfaction--though it was still a good way off--the line of fence that
marked the northern boundary of middle pasture.
A few hundred yards ahead lay a shallow draw, and beyond it a weather-worn
ridge thrust its blunt nose out into the plain considerably further than
any Buck had yet passed. He turned the horse out, intending to ride around
it, but a couple of minutes later jerked him to a standstill and sat
motionless in the saddle, eyes narrowing with a sudden, keen surprise.
He had reached a point where, for the first time, he could make out, over
the obstruction ahead, the extreme northwest corner of the pasture. Almost
at the spot where the two lines of fence made a right angle were two
horsemen in the typical cow-man attire. At first they stood close
together, but as Stratton stared intently, rising a little in his stirrups
to get a clearer view through the scanty fringe of vegetation that topped
the ridge, one of them rode forward and, dismounting, began to manipulate
the fence wires with quick, jerky movements of his hands.
CHAPTER XV
"BLACKLEG"
More than once during the next ten minutes Buck cursed himself inwardly
for not having brought along the small but powerful pair of field-glasses
that were tucked away in his bag. He had picked them up at the Divisional
Headquarters only a week or two before the Belleau Woods business, and how
they had stuck to him until his arrival in America remained one of the
minor mysteries of that vanished year. He would have given anything for
them now, for though he could make out fairly well the movements of the
two men, he was too far away to distinguish their faces.
Watching closely, he saw that the first fellow was taking down a short
section of the fence, either by cutting or by pulling out the staples.
When this lay flat he remounted and, joining his companion, the two
proceeded to drive through the gap nothing more significant than a
solitary steer.
It was a yearling, Buck could easily see even at that distance, and he
almost laughed aloud at the sudden let-down of suspense. By this time a
little individual trick of carriage made him suspect that the foremost
puncher was Butch Siegrist, and when the men came into clearer view, he
recognized scarcely without question the big sorrel with white trimmings
on which Kreeger had ridden off that morning. The two men had found a
Shoe-Bar stray; that was all. And yet, on second thought, how did they
come to be here when they were supposed to be working at the very opposite
extremity of the ranch?
It was this query which made Stratton refrain from showing himself. With
considerable annoyance, for time was passing, he waited where he was until
the two men had gone back through the gap in the fence and restored the
wires. He watched them turn northward and ride rapidly across the sandy
waste until at length their diminishing figures disappeared into the
distance. Even then it was ten or fifteen minutes before he emerged from
his seclusion, and when he finally did he headed straight for the young
steer, who had been the cause of so much exertion on the part of the two
men who ordinarily shirked work whenever they could.
Under the lash of a rope, the animal had lumbered across the pasture for
several hundred yards, where he paused languidly to crunch some
bunch-grass. There was an air of lassitude and weakness about the creature
which made Buck, as he approached, eye it with anxious intentness. A dozen
feet or so away he jerked his horse to a standstill and caught his breath
with an odd whistling sound.
"Great Godfrey!" he breathed.
Bending slightly forward in the saddle, he stared at the creature's
badly-swollen off hind leg, but there was no need whatever for a prolonged
inspection. Having been through one blackleg epidemic back in Texas, he
knew the signs only too well.
"That's it, sure enough," he muttered, straightening up.
His gaze swept across the prairie to where, half a mile away, a bunch of
Shoe-Bar cattle grazed peacefully. If this sick beast should get amongst
them, the yearlings at least, to whom the disease is fatal, would be dying
like flies in twenty-four hours. Buck glanced back at the steer again, and
as he noted the T-T brand, his face hardened and he began taking down his
rope.
"The hellions!" he grated, an angry flush darkening his tan. "They ought
to be strung up."
The animal started to move away, and Buck lost no time in roping him. Then
he turned his horse and urged him toward the fence, dragging the reluctant
brute behind. Fortunately he had his pliers in the saddle-pocket, and,
taking down the wires, he forced the creature through and headed for a
deep gully the mouth of which lay a few hundred yards to the left.
Penetrating into this as far as he was able, he took out his Colt and
deliberately shot the steer through the head. And if Kreeger or Siegrist
had been present at that moment, he was furious enough to treat either of
them in the same way without a particle of compunction.
"Hanging would be too good for them, the dirty beasts!" he grated.
The thing had been so fiendishly cold-blooded and calculating that it made
his blood boil, for it was perfectly evident now to Buck that he had
thwarted a deliberate plot to introduce the blackleg scourge among the
Shoe-Bar cattle. Instead of riding fence, the two punchers must have made
their roundabout way immediately to the stricken T-T ranch, secured in
some manner an infected yearling and brought it back through the twisting
mountain trail Bud had spoken of a few days before.
Lynch's was the directing spirit, of course; for none of the others would
dare act save under his orders. But what was his object? What could he
possibly hope to gain by such a thing? Buck could understand a man
allowing rustlers to loot a ranch, if the same individual were in with
them secretly and shared the plunder. But there was no profit in this for
anyone--only an infinite amount of trouble and worry and extra work for
them all, to say nothing of great financial loss to--Mary Thorne.
When Stratton had secured his rope and rode back to the Shoe-Bar pasture,
his face was thoughtful. He was thinking of those excellent offers for the
outfit Miss Thorne had lately spoken of, which Lynch was so anxious for
her to accept. Could the foreman's plotting be for the purpose of forcing
her to sell? From something she had let fall, Buck guessed that she was
more or less dependent on the income from the ranch, and if this failed
she might no longer be able to hold the property.
But even supposing this was true, it all still failed to make sense. The
land itself was good enough, as Stratton knew from his former careful
inspections, but it would be of little use for any purpose save ranching;
and since the value of a cattle-ranch consists largely in the cattle
themselves, it followed logically that by reducing the number, by theft,
by disease, or any other means, the value would be very much less to a
prospective purchaser.
Unable to make head or tail of the problem, Buck finally gave it up for
the time being. He put back the fence with care and then headed straight
for the ranch. There was no time left for the desired inspection of the
north pasture. To undertake it now would mean a much longer delay than he
could plausibly explain, and he was particularly anxious to avoid the need
of any explanation which might arouse suspicion that the criminal action
of the two men had been overseen.
"If they guessed, they'd be likely to try it again," he thought, "and
another time they might succeed."
Stratton managed his route so that for the last two miles it took exactly
the course he would have followed in returning directly from Las Vegas
camp. His plan was further favored by the discovery that none of the men
save Bud were anywhere about the ranch-house.
"Gone off to ride fence along with Flint an' Butch," Jessup informed him,
when Buck located him in the wagon-shed. "Wonder why he's so awful
interested in fences all of a sudden," he went on thoughtfully. "They've
been let go all over the ranch till they're plumb fallin' to pieces."
"You've got me," shrugged Stratton. He had been cogitating whether or not
to confide in Bud, and finally decided in the negative. It would do no
particular good, and the youngster might impulsively let out something to
the others. "Why didn't they take you along, too?"
"I sure wish they had," Bud answered shortly. "Then I wouldn't of had to
be lookin' at that all afternoon."
He straightened from the wagon-body he was tinkering and waved a wrench
toward the window behind Stratton. Turning quickly, the latter saw that it
looked out on the rear of the ranch-house, where there were a few stunted
trees and a not altogether successful attempt at a small flower-garden.
On a rough, rustic bench under one of the trees sat young Manning and Mary
Thorne, in earnest conversation.
"Sickening, ain't it?" commented Bud, taking encouragement from Stratton's
involuntary frown. "I been expectin' 'em to hold hands any minute."
Buck laughed, mainly because he was annoyed with himself for feeling any
emotion whatever. "You don't seem to like Mr. Alfred Manning," he
remarked.
"Who would?" snorted Jessup. "He sure gets my goat, with them dude
clothes, an' that misplaced piece of eyebrow on his lip, an' his superior
airs. I wouldn't of thought Miss Mary was the kind to--"
"Where's--er--Miss Manning?" broke in Buck, reluctant to continue the
discussion.
"Gone in with Mrs. Archer," Bud explained, "They was both out there a
while ago, but I reckon they got tired hangin' around."
Stratton turned his back on the dingy window and fell to work on the wagon
with Bud.
"Seen Bemis lately?" he asked presently, realizing of a sudden that he had
not visited the invalid for several days.
Bud sniffed. "Sure. I was in there this mornin'. He's outa bed now
moochin' around the room an' countin' the hours till he can back a
horse."
"Still got that notion the outfit isn't safe?"
"I'll tell the world! He says life's too short to take any more chances
of bein' bumped off. Tried to make me believe my turn'll come next."
Stratton shrugged his shoulders. "I reckon there isn't much chance of
that. They're not keen to get the sheriff down on their trail. Well, if he
feels like that he wouldn't be much use here even if we could persuade him
to stick."
About half-past five they decided to call it a day and went down to the
bunk-house, through the open door of which Buck presently observed the
arrival of the remainder of the outfit. They came from the east, and
Kreeger and Siegrist were with them. As Buck expected, the former rode the
sorrel with distinctive white markings, while the latter bestrode a
nondescript bay. The second of the two riders he had watched that
afternoon had been mounted on just such a bay, and if there had been a
lingering touch of doubt in Stratton's mind as to the identity of the two
criminals, it remained no longer.
CHAPTER XVI
THE UNEXPECTED
More than once during the following few days, Stratton was forced to a
grudging admiration, of Tex Lynch's cleverness. Even knowing what he did,
he failed to detect the slightest sign in either the foreman or his men
that they were waiting expectantly for something to happen. The only
significant feature was their marked avoidance of the middle pasture. This
might readily be accounted for by the fact that the work now lay on the
other side of the outfit, but Buck was convinced that their real purpose
was to allow the blackleg scourge to gain as great a hold as possible on
Shoe-Bar cattle before its discovery.
The cold-blooded brutality of that quiescence made Stratton furious, but
it also brought home more effectually than ever the nature of the men he
had to deal with. They were evidently the sort to stop at nothing, and
Buck had moments of wondering whether or not he was proceeding in the
right way to uncover the mystery of their motive.
So far he had really accomplished very little. The unabated watchfulness
of the crowd so hedged in and hampered him that it was quite impossible to
do any extended investigating. He still had the power of ending the whole
affair at any moment and clearing the ranch of the entire gang. But aside
from his unwillingness to humiliate Mary Thorne, he realized that this
would not necessarily accomplish what he wanted.
"It would stop their deviltry all right," he thought "but I might never
find out what they're after. About the only way is to give 'em enough rope
to hang themselves, and I'm blowed if I don't believe I could do that
better by leaving the outfit and doing a little sleuthing on my own."
Yet somehow that did not altogether appeal to him, either. The presence of
handsome Alf Manning may have had something to do with Buck's reluctance
to quit the ranch just now, but he would never have admitted it, even to
himself. He simply made up his mind to wait a while, at least until he
could see what happened when Lynch discovered the failure of his latest
plot, and then be governed by circumstances.
In the meantime the situation, so far as Miss Manning, was concerned, grew
daily more complicated. She showed a decided inclination for Stratton's
society, and when he came to know her better he found her frank, breezy,
and delightfully companionable. He knew perfectly well that unless he
wanted to take a chance of making some tremendous blunder he ought to
avoid any prolonged conversation with the lady. But she was so charming
that every now and then he flung prudence to the winds--and usually
regretted it.
It was not that she said anything definitely disconcerting, but there were
occasional hints and innuendoes, and now and then a question which seemed
innocent enough but which Stratton found difficult to parry. He couldn't
quite make up his mind whether or not she suspected the truth about his
former mental condition, but he had an uncomfortable notion that she
sensed a difference and was trying to find out just where it lay.
Time and again he told himself that at the worst there was nothing
disgraceful in that vanished past. But he had the ordinary healthy man's
horror for the abnormal, and the very fact that it had vanished so utterly
beyond recall made him willing, in order to avoid having it dragged back
into the light and made public property, to do almost anything, even to
being almost rude to a pretty girl.
Thus between escaping Miss Manning and trying to keep an eye on Lynch,
Stratton had his work cut out for him. He knew that sooner or later some
one would be sent out to take a look through the middle pasture, and he
wanted very much to be on hand when the report came back to Lynch that his
plot had miscarried. It was consequently with very bad grace that Buck
received an order to ride in to Paloma one morning for the long-delayed
wagon-bolts and a few necessary supplies from the store.
He felt at once that it was a put-up job to get him out of the way. Only
yesterday Rick Bemis, able at length to ride that distance, had quit the
ranch escorted by Slim McCabe. If anything was really needed the latter
could have brought it back and saved the expense of sending another man
twenty-four hours later.
But there was no reasonable excuse for Buck's protesting, and he held his
tongue. He wished that he had taken Jessup into his confidence about the
blackleg plot, but there was no time for that now. He did manage, on his
way to the corral, to whisper a word or two in passing, urging the
youngster to take particular note of anything that went on during his
absence, but he would have much preferred giving Bud some definite idea of
what to look for, and his humor, as he saddled up and left the ranch, was
far from amiable.
But gradually, as he rode rapidly along the trail, the crisp, clean air
brushing his face and the early morning sun caressing him with a pleasant
warmth, his mood changed. After all, it was really of very little moment
whether or not he was present when Lynch first learned that things had
failed to go his way. At best he might have had a momentary vindictive
thrill at glimpsing the fellow's thwarted rage; perhaps not even that, for
Tex was uncommonly good at hiding his emotions. It was much more important
for him to decide definitely and soon about his own future plans, and this
solitary ride over an easy, familiar trail gave him as good a chance as he
was ever likely to have.
A little straight thinking made him realize--with a half-guilty feeling of
having deliberately shut his eyes to it before--that he could not hope to
get much further under present conditions. Tied down as he was, a dozen
promising clues might pop up, which he would have no chance whatever of
investigating. Indeed, looking at the situation in this light, he felt a
wonder that Lynch should ever have tried to oust him from the ranch, where
he could be kept under constant observation and followed up in every move.
Working from the outside, with freedom to come and go as he liked, he
could accomplish a vast deal more than in this present hampered fashion.
There still remained traces of his vague, underlying reluctance to leave
the place at this particular time, but Buck crushed it down firmly, even a
little angrily.
"It's up to me to quit," he muttered. "I'd be a blooming jackass to waste
any more time here. I'll have to work it naturally, though, or Lynch will
smell a rat."
At that moment the trail dipped down into a gully--the very one, in fact,
where he had passed Tex that first day he had ridden out to the ranch.
Thinking of the encounter, Buck recalled his own emotions with a curious
feeling of remoteness. The grotesque mental picture he had formed of Mary
Thorne contrasted so amusingly with the reality that he grinned and might
have broken into a laugh had he not caught sight at that moment of a
figure riding toward him from the other end of the gully.
The high-crowned sombrero, abnormally broad of brim, the gaudy
saddle-trappings and touches of bright color about the stranger's
equipment, brought a slight frown to Stratton's face. Apart even from is
recent unpleasant associations with them, he had never had any great
fondness for Mexicans, whom he considered slick and slippery beyond the
average. He watched this one's approach warily, and when the fellow pulled
up with a glistening smile and a polite "_Buenas tardes_," Stratton
responded with some curtness.
"Fine day, senor," remarked the stranger pleasantly.
"You've said it," returned Buck drily. "We haven't had rain in as much as
three weeks."
"Tha's right," agreed the other. His glance strayed to the brand on Buck's
cayuse, and his swarthy face took on an expression of pleased surprise.
"You come from Shoe-Bar?" he questioned.
"You're some mind-reader," commented Stratton briefly. "What of it?"
"Mebbe yo' do me favor," pursued the Mexican eagerly. "Save me plenty hot
ride." He pulled an envelope from the pocket of his elaborately
silver-conchoed chaps. "Rocking-R boss, he tell me take thees to Mister
Leench at Shoe-Bar. Eef yo' take heem, I am save mooch trouble, eh?"
Buck eyed the extended envelope doubtfully. Then, ashamed of his momentary
hesitation to perform this simple service, he took it and tucked it away
in one pocket.
"All right," he agreed. "I'll take it over for you. I've got to go in to
town first, though."
"No matter," shrugged the Mexican. "There is no hurry."
With reiterated and profuse thanks, he pulled his horse around and rode
back with Stratton as far as the Rocking-R trail, where he turned off.
"He'll find some corner where he can curl up and snooze for the couple of
hours he's saved," thought Buck, watching the departing figure. "Those
fellows, are so dog-gone lazy they'd sit and let grasshoppers, eat holes
in their breeches."
As he rode on he wondered a little what Jim Tenny, the Rocking-R foreman,
could have to do with Lynch, who seemed to be on the outs with everybody,
but Presently he dismissed the subject with a shrug.
"I'll be getting as bad as Pop if I'm not careful" he thought. "Likely
it's some perfectly ordinary range business."
He found Daggett in a garrulous mood but was in no humor to waste time
listening to his flood of talk and questions. The bolts had come at last,
and when he had secured them and the other things from the store, Buck
promptly mounted and set out on his return.
Tex met him just outside the corral and received the letter without
comment, thrusting it into his pocket unread. He seemed much more
interested in the arrival of the bolts, and after dinner set Stratton and
McCabe to work in the wagon-shed replacing the broken ones. It was not
until late in the afternoon that Buck managed a few words in private with
Jessup, and was surprised to learn that the gang had been working all day
to the southeast of the ranch. Tex himself had been absent from the party
for an hour or two in the morning, but when he joined them he came from
the direction of the Paloma trail, and Stratton did not believe he could
have had time thoroughly to inspect the middle pasture and return so soon
by so roundabout a course.
"He'll do it to-morrow, sure," decided Buck. "It isn't human nature to
hold off much longer."
He was right. After breakfast Stratton and McCabe were ordered to resume
work on the wagons, while the others sallied forth with Lynch, ostensibly
to ride fence along the southern side of middle pasture. Buck awaited
their return with interest and curiosity. He thought he might possibly
detect some signs of glumness in the faces of the foreman and his
confederates, but he was quite unprepared for the open anger and
excitement which stamped every face, Bud Jessup's included.
"Rustlers were out again last night," Bud explained, the moment he had a
chance.
Buck stared at him in amazement, the totally unexpected nature of the
thing taking him completely by surprise.
"Why I thought--"
"So did I," interrupted Bud curtly. "I didn't believe they'd dare break
into middle pasture, but they have. There's a gap a hundred yards wide in
the fence, and they've got away with a couple of hundred head at least."
"You're sure it happened last night?"
"Dead certain. The tracks are too fresh. Buck, if Tex Lynch don't get
Hardenberg on the job now, we'll _know_ he's crooked."
"We'd pretty near decided that anyhow, hadn't we?" returned Stratton
absently.
He was wondering how this new move had been managed and what it meant. If
it had been merely part of a scheme to loot the Shoe-Bar for his own
benefit, Tex would never have allowed his rustler accomplices to touch a
steer from that middle pasture herd, which he must feel by this time to be
thoroughly and completely infected. Even if he had managed during his
brief absence yesterday to make a hurried inspection, and suspected that
the blackleg' plot had failed, he couldn't be certain enough to take a
chance like this.
The foreman's manner gave Buck no clue. At dinner he was unusually silent
and morose, taking no part in the discussion of this latest outrage, which
the others kept up with such a convincing semblance of indignation. To
Stratton he acted like a man who has come to some new and not altogether
agreeable decision, which in any other person would probably mean that he
had at last made up his mind to call in the sheriff. But Buck was
convinced that this was the last thing Lynch intended to do, and gradually
there grew up in his mind, fostered by one or two trifling particulars in
Tex's manner toward himself, a curious, instinctive feeling of premonitory
caution.
This increased during the afternoon, when the men were sent out to repair
the broken fence, while Lynch remained behind. It fed on little details,
such as a chance side glance from one of the men, or the sight of two of
them in low-voiced conversation when he was not supposed to be
looking--details he would scarcely have noticed ordinarily. Toward the end
of the day Buck had grown almost certain that some fresh move was being
directed against himself, and when the blow fell only its nature came as a
surprise.
The foreman was standing near the corral when they returned, and as soon
as Stratton had unsaddled and turned his horse l
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