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Title: Shoe-Bar Stratton


Author: Joseph Bushnell Ames



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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 loose, Lynch drew him to
one side.

"Here's your time up to to-night," he said curtly, holding out a handful
of crumpled bills and silver. "Miss Thorne's decided she don't want yuh on
the outfit any longer."

For a moment Stratton regarded the foreman in silence, observing the glint
of veiled triumph in his eyes and the malicious curve of the full red
lips. The thought flashed through his mind that Lynch would hardly be
quite so pleased if he knew how much time Buck himself had given lately to
thinking up some scheme of plausibly bringing about this very situation.

"_Is_ that so?" he drawled presently. "How did you work it?" he added, in
the casual tone of one seeking to gratify a trifling curiosity.

Lynch scowled. "Work it?" he snapped. "I didn't have to work it. Yuh know
damn well why you're sacked. Why should I waste time tellin' yuh?"

Stratton smiled blandly. "In that case I reckon I'll have to ask Miss
Thorne," he remarked, standing with legs slightly apart and thumbs hooked
loosely in his chap-belt. "I'm rather curious, you know."

"Like hell yuh will!" rasped Lynch, as Buck took a step or two toward the
house.

Impulsively Lynch's right hand dropped to his gun but as his fingers
touched the stock he found himself staring at the uptilted end of
Stratton's holster frayed a little at the end so that the glint of a blued
steel barrel showed through the leather.

"Just move your hand a mite," Buck suggested in a quiet, level tone, which
was nevertheless obeyed promptly. "Now, listen here. I want you to get
this. I ain't longing to stick around any outfit when the boss don't want
me. If the lady says I'm to go, I'll get out _pronto_; but I don't trust
you, and she's got to tell me that face to face before I move a step.
_Sabe?_"

His eyes narrowed slightly, and Lynch, crumpling the unheeded money in his
hand, stepped aside with an expression of baffled fury and watched him
stride along the side of the house and disappear around the corner.

He was far from lacking nerve, but he had suddenly remembered that letter
to Sheriff Hardenberg, regarding which he had long ago obtained
confirmation from Pop Daggett. If he could rely on the meaning of
Stratton's little anecdote--and he had an uncomfortable conviction that he
could--the letter would be opened in case Buck met his death by violence.
And once it was opened by the sheriff, only Tex Lynch how very much the
fat would be in the fire.

So, though his fingers twitched, he held his hand, and presently, hearing
voices in the living-room, he crept over to an open window and, standing
close to one side of it, bent his head to listen.




CHAPTER XVII

THE PRIMEVAL INSTINCT


On the other side of the house Buck found the mistress of the ranch and
her two guests standing in a little group beside one of the dusty,
discouraged-looking flower-beds. As he appeared they all glanced toward
him, and a troubled, almost frightened expression flashed across Mary
Thorne's face.

"Could I speak to you a moment, ma'am?" asked Stratton, doffing his
Stetson.

That expression, and her marked hesitation in coming forward, were both
significant, and Buck felt a sudden little stab of anger. Was she afraid
of him? he wondered; and tried to imagine what beastly lies Lynch must
have told her to bring about such an extraordinary state of mind.

But as she moved slowly toward him, the anger ebbed as swiftly as it had
come. She looked so slight and frail and girlish, and he observed that her
lips were pressed almost as tightly together as the fingers of those
small, brown hands hanging straight at her sides. At the edge of the porch
she paused and looked up at him, and though the startled look had gone, he
could see that she was still nervous and apprehensive.

"Should you rather go inside?" she murmured.

Buck flashed a glance at the two Mannings, still within hearing. "If you
don't mind," he answered briefly.

In the living-room she turned and faced him, her back against the table,
on which she rested the tips of her outspread fingers. She was so
evidently nerving herself for an interview she dreaded that Buck almost
regretted having forced it.

"I won't keep you a minute," he began hurriedly. "Tex tells me you have no
more use for me here."

"I'm--sorry," fell almost mechanically from her set lips.

"But he didn't tell me why."

Her eyes, which from the first had scarcely left his face, widened, and a
puzzled look came into them.

"But you must know," she returned a trifle stiffly.

"I'm sorry, but I don't," he assured her.

"Oh--duties!" She spoke with a touch of soft impatience. "It's what you've
done, not what you haven't done that--. But surely this is a waste of
time? It's not particularly--pleasant; and I don't see what will be gained
by going into all the--the details."

Something in her tone stung him. "Still, it doesn't seem quite fair to
condemn even a common cow-puncher unheard," he retorted with a touch of
sarcasm.

She stiffened, and a faint flush crept into her face. Then her chin went
up determinedly.

"You rode to Paloma yesterday morning." It was more of a statement than a
question.

"Yes."

"In the gully this side of the Rocking-R trail you met a Mexican on a
sorrel horse?"

Again Buck acquiesced, but inwardly he wondered. So far as he knew there
had been no witness to that meeting.

"He handed you a letter?"

Buck nodded, a sudden feeling of puzzled wariness surging over him. For an
instant the girl hesitated. Then she went on in a soft rush of
indignation:

"And so last night those Mexican thieves, warned that the middle pasture
would be unguarded, broke in there and carried off nearly two hundred head
of cattle!"

As he caught her meaning, which he did almost instantly, Buck flushed
crimson and his eyes flashed. For a moment or so he was too furious to
speak; and though most of his rage was directed against the man who, with
such brazen effrontery, had sought to shift the blame of his own criminal
plotting, he could not help feeling resentment that the girl should so
readily believe the worst against him. A vehement denial trembled on his
lips, but in time he remembered that he could not utter it without giving
away more than he was willing to at the present moment. With an effort he
got a grip on himself, but though his voice was quiet enough, his eyes
still smoldered and his lips were hard.

"I see," he commented briefly. "You believe it all, of course?"

She had been watching him closely, and now a touch of troubled uncertainty
crept into her face.

"What else can I do?" she countered. "You admit getting the letter from
that Mexican, and I saw Tex take it out of your bag."

This information brought Buck's lips tightly together and he frowned.
"Could I see it--the letter, I mean?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment, and then, reaching across the table, took up the
shabby account-book he had seen before and drew from it a single sheet of
paper. The note was short and written in Spanish. It was headed, "_Amigo
Green_," and as Buck swiftly translated the few lines in which the writer
gave thanks for information purported to have been given about the middle
pasture and stated that the raid would take place that night according to
arrangement, his lips curled. From his point of view it seemed incredible
that anyone could be deceived by such a clumsy fraud. But he was forced to
admit that up to a few weeks ago the girl had never set eyes on him, and
knew nothing of his antecedents, whereas she trusted Lynch implicitly. So
he refrained from any comment as he handed back the letter.

"You don't--deny it?" asked the girl, an undertone of disappointment in
her voice.

"What's the use?" shrugged Stratton. "You evidently believe Lynch."

She did not answer at once, but stood silent, searching his face with a
troubled, wistful scrutiny.

"I don't know quite what to believe," she told him presently. "You--you
don't seem like a person who would--who would-- And yet some one must have
given information." Her chin suddenly tilted and her lips grew firm. "If
you'll tell me straight out that you're nothing but an ordinary
cow-puncher, that you have no special object in being here on the ranch,
that you're exactly what you seem and nothing more, then I--I'll believe
you."

Her words banished the last part of resentment lingering in Stratton's
mind. She was a good sort, after all. He found himself of a sudden
regarding her with a feeling that was almost tenderness, and wishing very
much that he might tell her everything. But that, of course, was
impossible.

"I can't quite do that," he answered slowly.

The hopeful gleam died out of her eyes, and she made an eloquent,
discouraged gesture with both hands.

"You see? What else can I do but let you go? Unless I take every possible
precaution I'll be ruined by these dreadful thieves."

Buck moved his shoulders slightly. "I understand. I'm not kicking. Well, I
won't keep you any longer. Thank you very much for telling me what you
have."

Abruptly he turned away and in the doorway came face to face with Alfred
Manning, who seemed to expect the cow-puncher to step obsequiously aside
and let him pass. But Buck was in no humor to step aside for any one, and
for a silent instant their glances clashed. In the end it was Manning,
flushed and looking daggers, who gave way, and as Stratton passed the open
window a moment later he heard the other's voice raised in an angry
pitch.

"Perfectly intolerable! I tell you, Mary, you ought to have that fellow
arrested."

"I don't mean to do anything of the sort," retorted Miss Thorne.

"But it's your duty. He'll get clean away, and go right on stealing--"

"Please, Alf!" There was a tired break in the girl's voice. "I don't want
to talk any more about it. I've had enough--"

Stratton's lips tightened and he passed on out of hearing. The encounter
with Manning had irritated him, and a glimpse of Lynch he caught through
the kitchen door fanned into a fresh glow his smoldering anger against
the foreman. It was not that he minded in the least the result of the
fellow's plotting. But the method of it, the effrontery of that cowardly,
insolent attempt to blacken and besmirch him with Mary Thorne, made him
more furious each time he thought of it. When he reached the bunk-house
his rage was white hot.

He found Jessup the sole occupant. It was still rather early for quitting,
and Tex must have set the other men to doing odd jobs around the barns and
near-by places.

"What's happened?" demanded Bud, as Buck appeared. "Tex put me to work
oiling harness, but I sneaked off as soon as he was out of sight. I heard
Slim say yuh were fired."

Flinging his belongings together as he talked, Stratton briefly retailed
the essentials of the situation.

"I'm going to saddle up and start for town right away," he concluded. "If
I hang around here much longer I don't know as I can keep my hands off
that double-faced crook."

He added some more man-sized adjectives, to which Bud listened with
complete approval.

"Yuh ain't said half enough," he growled, from where he stood to the left
of the closed door. "I wish yuh would stay an' give him one almighty good
beating up. He thinks there ain't a man on the range can stand up against
him."

Buck's eyes narrowed. "I'd sure like to try," he said regretfully. "I
don't say I could knock him out, but I'd guarantee to give him something
to think about. Trouble is, there's nothing gained by starting a mess like
that except letting off steam, and there might be a whole lot--"

He broke off abruptly as the door swung open to admit Lynch and McCabe.
The foreman, pausing just inside the room, eyed Stratton's preparations
for departure with curling lips. As a matter of fact, what he had
overheard of the interview between Buck and Mary Thorne had given him the
impression that Stratton was an easy mark, whose courage and ability had
been greatly overestimated. A more sagacious person would have been
content to let well enough alone. But Tex had a disposition which impelled
him to rub things in.

"There's yore dough," he said sneeringly, flinging the little handful of
money on the table with such force that several coins fell to the floor
and rolled into remote corners. "Yuh better put it away safe, 'cause after
this there ain't nobody around these parts'll hire yuh, I'll tell a man!"

His tone was indescribably taunting, and of a sudden Buck saw red.
Dominated by the single-minded impulse of primeval man to use the weapons
nature gave him, he forgot momentarily that he carried a gun. When the two
men entered, he had been bending over, rolling his blankets. Since then,
save to raise his head, he had scarcely altered his position, and yet, as
he poised there motionless, fists clenched, muscles tense, eyes narrowed
to mere slits, Lynch suddenly realized that he had blundered, and reached
swiftly for his Colt.

But another hand was ahead of his. Standing just behind him, Bud Jessup
had sized up the situation a fraction of a second before Tex, and like a
flash he bent forward and snatched the foreman's weapon from its holster.

"Cut that out, Slim!" he shrilled, forestalling a sudden downward jerk of
McCabe's right hand. "No horning in, now. Give it here."

An instant later he had slammed the door and shot the bolt, and stood with
back against it, a Colt in each hand. His freckled face was flushed and
his eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Go to it, Buck!" he yelled jubilantly. "My money's up on yuh, old man.
Give him hell!"

Lynch darted out into the middle of the room, thrusting aside the table
with a single powerful sweep of one arm. There was no hint of reluctance
in his manner, nor lack of efficiency in the lowering droop of his big
shoulders or the way his fists fell automatically into position. His face
had hardened into a fierce mask, out of which savage eyes blazed
fearlessly.

An instant later, like the spring of a panther, Stratton's lean, lithe
body launched forward.




CHAPTER XVIII

A CHANGE OF BASE


Stratton staggered back against the wall and leaned there, panting. All
his strength had gone out in that last terrific blow, and for a space he
seemed incapable of movement. At length, conscious of a warm, moist
trickle on his chin, he raised one hand mechanically to his face and
brought it away, dabbled with bright crimson. For a moment or two he
regarded the stiff, crooked fingers and bruised knuckles in a dazed,
impersonal fashion as if the hand belonged to some one else. Then he
became aware that Bud was speaking.

"Sure," he mumbled, when the meaning of the reiterated question penetrated
to his consciousness. "I'm--all--right."

Then his head began to clear, and, slowly straightening his sagging
shoulders, he glanced down at the hulking figure sprawling motionless
amidst the debris of the wrecked table.

"Is--he--" he began slowly.

"He's out, that's all," stated Jessup crisply. "Golly, Buck! That was
some punch." He paused, regarding his friend eagerly. "What are yuh goin'
to do now?" he asked.

A tiny trickle of blood from Stratton's cut lip ran down his chin and
splashed on the front of his torn, disordered shirt.

"Wash, I reckon," he answered, with a twisted twitch of his stiff lips
that was meant to be a smile. "I sure need it bad."

"But I mean after that," explained Bud. "Don't yuh want me to saddle up
while you're gettin' ready? There ain't no point in hangin' around till he
comes to."

Buck took a step or two away from the wall and regarded the prostrate
Lynch briefly, his glance also taking in McCabe, who bent over him.

"I reckon not," he agreed briefly. "Likewise, if I don't get astride a
cayuse mighty soon, I won't be able to climb onto him at all. Go ahead and
saddle up, kid, and I'll be with you _pronto_. You'd better ride to town
with me and bring back the horse."

Bud nodded and, breaking the Colts one after another, pocketed the shells
and dropped the weapons into a near-by bunk.

"Yuh needn't bother to do that," commented McCabe sourly. "Nobody ain't
goin' to drill no holes in yuh; we're only too tickled to see yuh get out.
If you're wise, kid, you'll stay away, likewise. I wouldn't be in yore
shoes for no money when Tex comes around an' remembers what yuh done?"

"I reckon I can take care of m'self," retorted Jessup. "It ain't Tex's
game to be took up for no murder yet awhile."

Without further comment he gathered up most of Stratton's belongings and
departed for the corral. Buck took his hand-bag and, leaving the cabin,
limped slowly down to the creek. He was surprised to note that the
encounter seemed to have attracted no attention up at the ranch-house.
Then he realized that with the door and windows closed, what little noise
there had been might well have passed unnoticed, especially as the men
were at work back in the barns.

At the creek he washed the blood from his face and hands, changed his
shirt, put a strip of plaster on his cut lip, and decided that any further
repairs could wait until he reached Paloma.

When he arrived at the corral Bud had just finished saddling the second
horse, and they lost no time making fast Buck's belongings. The animals
were then led out, and Stratton was on the point of mounting when the
sound of light footsteps made him turn quickly to find Miss Manning almost
at his elbow.

"But you're not leaving now, without waiting to say good-by?" she
expostulated.

Buck's lips straightened grimly, with a grotesque twisted effect caused by
the plaster at the corner.

"After what's happened I hardly supposed anybody'd want any farewell
words," he commented with a touch of sarcasm.

Miss Manning stamped her shapely, well-shod foot petulantly. "Rubbish!"
she exclaimed. "You don't suppose I believe that nonsense, do you?"

"I reckon you're about the only one who doesn't, then."

"I'm not. Mrs. Archer agrees with me. She says you couldn't be a--a thief
if you tried. And down in her heart even Mary-- But whatever has happened
to your face?"

Stratton flushed faintly. "Oh, I just--cut myself against something," he
shrugged. "It's nothing serious."

"I'm glad of that," she commented, dimpling a little. "It certainly
doesn't add to your beauty."

She was bare-headed, and the slanting sunlight, caressing the crisp waves
of hair, revealed an unsuspected reddish glint amongst the dark tresses.
As he looked down into her clear, friendly eyes, Buck realized, and not
the first time, how very attractive she really was. If things had only
been different, if only the barrier of that hateful mental lapse of his
had not existed, he had a feeling that they might have been very good
friends indeed.

His lips had parted for a farewell word or two when suddenly he caught the
flutter of skirts over by the corner of the ranch-house. It was Mary
Thorne, and Buck wondered with an odd, unexpected little thrill, whether
by any chance she too might be coming to say good-by. Whatever may have
been her intention, however, it changed abruptly. Catching sight of the
group beside the corral fence, she stopped short, hesitated an instant,
and then, turning square about, disappeared in the direction she had come.
As he glanced back to Stella Manning, Buck's face was a little clouded.

"We'll have to be getting started, I reckon," he said briefly. "Thank you
very much for--for seeing me off."

"But where are you going?"

"Paloma for to-night; after that I'll be hunting another job."

The girl put out her hand and Stratton took it, hoping that she wouldn't
notice his raw, bruised knuckles. He might have spared himself the
momentary anxiety. She wasn't looking at his fingers.

"Well, it's good-by, then," she said, a note of regret underlying the
surface brightness of her tone. "But when you're settled you must send me
a line. We were such good pals aboard ship, and I haven't enough friends
to want to lose even one of them. Send a letter here to the ranch, and if
we're gone, Mary will forward it."

Buck promised, and swung himself stiffly into the saddle. As he and Bud
rode briskly down the slope, he turned and glanced back for an instant.
Miss Manning stood where they had left her, handkerchief fluttering from
her upraised hand, but Stratton scarcely saw her. His gaze swept the front
of the ranch-house, scrutinizing each gaping, empty window and the
deserted porch. Finally, with a faint sigh and a little shrug of his
shoulders, he mentally dismissed the past and fell to considering the
future.

There was a good deal yet to be talked over and decided, and when he had
briefly detailed to Bud the various happenings he was still ignorant of,
Buck went on to outline his plans.

"There are several things I want to look into, and to do it I've got to be
on the loose," he explained. "At the same time I don't want Lynch to get
the idea I'm snooping around. What sort of a fellow is this Tenny, over at
the Rocking-R?"

"He's white," returned Bud promptly. "No squarer ranch-boss around the
country. I'd of gone there instead of the Shoe-Bar, only they was full up.
What was yuh thinkin' of--bracin' him for a job?"

"Not exactly, though I'd like Lynch to think I'd been taken on there. Do
you suppose, if I put Tenny wise to what I was after, that he'd let me
have a cayuse and pack-horse, and stake me to enough grub to keep me a
week or two in the mountains back of the Shoe-Bar?"

"He might, especially when he knows you're buckin' Tex; he never was much
in love with Lynch." Jessup paused, eyeing his companion curiously. "Say,
Buck," he went on quickly, "What makes yuh so keen about this, anyhow? Yuh
ain't no deputy sheriff, or anythin' like that, are yuh?"

For a moment Stratton was taken aback by the unexpectedness of the
question. He had come to regard Jessup and himself so completely at one in
their desire to penetrate the mystery of Lynch's shady doings that it had
never occurred to him that his intense absorption in the situation might
strike Bud as peculiar. It was one thing to behave as Bud was doing,
especially as he frankly had the interest of Mary Thorne at heart, and
quite another to throw up a job and plan to carry on an unproductive
investigation from a theoretical desire to bring to justice a crooked
foreman whom he had never seen until a few weeks ago.

"Why, of course not," parried Buck. "What gave you that notion?"

"I dunno exactly. I s'pose mebbe it's the way you're plannin' to give yore
time to it without pay or nothin'. There won't be a darn cent in it for
yuh, even if yuh do land Tex in the pen."

"I know that," and Buck smiled; "but I'm a stubborn cuss when I get
started on anything. Besides, I love Tex Lynch well enough to want to see
him get every mite that's comin' to him. I've got a little money saved up,
and I'll get more fun spending it this way than any other I can think
of."

"There's somethin' in that," agreed Jessup. "Golly, Buck! I wisht I could
go along with yuh. I never was much on savin', but I could manage a couple
of weeks without a job."

Stratton hesitated. "I'd sure like it, kid," he answered. "It would be a
whole lot pleasanter for me, but I'm wondering if you wouldn't do more
good there on the Shoe-Bar. With nobody at all to cross him, there's no
tellin' what Lynch might try and pull off. Besides, it seems to me
somebody ought to be there to sort of look after Miss--" He broke off,
struck by a sudden possibility. "You don't suppose he'll get really nasty
about what you--"

"Hell!" broke in Bud sharply. "I wasn't thinking about that. He'll be
nasty, of course, but he can't go more than so far. I reckon you're right,
Buck. Miss Mary oughtn't to be left there by herself."

"Of course, there's Manning--"

Bud disposed of the aristocratic Alfred with a forceable epithet which
ought to have made his ears burn. "Besides, that bird ain't goin' to stay
forever, I hope," he added.

This settled, they passed on to other details, and by the time they
reached Paloma, everything had been threshed out and decided, including a
possible means of communication in case of emergency.

Ravenously hungry, they sought the ramshackle hotel at once, and though it
was long after the regular supper hour, they succeeded in getting a fair
meal cooked and served. Concluding that it would be pleasanter all around
to give Lynch as much time as possible to recover from his spleen, Bud
decided to defer his return to the ranch until early morning. So when they
had finished eating, they walked down to the store to arrange for hiring
one of Daggett's horses again. Here they were forced to spend half an hour
listening to old Pop's garrulous comments and the repeated "I told you
so," which greeted the news of Stratton's move before they could tear
themselves away and turn in.

They were up at dawn, ate a hurried breakfast, and then set out along the
trail. Where the Rocking-R track branched off they paused for a few casual
words of farewell, and then each went his way. A few hundred yards beyond,
Buck turned in his saddle just in time to see Jessup, leading Stratton's
old mount, ride briskly into a shallow draw and disappear.

He had a feeling that he was going to miss the youngster, with his
cheerful optimism and dependable ways; but he felt that at the most a few
weeks would see them together again. Fortunately for his peace of mind, he
had not the least suspicion of the circumstances which were to bring about
their next meeting.




CHAPTER XIX

THE MYSTERIOUS MOTOR-CAR


Buck took to Jim Tenny at once. There was something about this long, lean,
brown-faced foreman of the Rocking-R, with his clear gray eyes and that
half-humorous twist to his thin lips, which inspired not only confidence
but liking as well. He listened without comment to Buck's story, which
included practically everything save the revelation of his own identity;
but once or twice, especially at the brief mention of the fight in the
bunk-house, his eyes gleamed with momentary approval. When Buck told about
the blackleg incident his face darkened and he spoke for the first time.

"Seems like yuh had him there," he said briefly. "That job alone ought to
land him in the pen."

Buck nodded. "I know; but I'm afraid he couldn't be convicted on my
evidence alone. Kreeger and Siegrist fixed up a pretty decent alibi, you
see, and it would only be my word against theirs. Even the carcass of the
beast wouldn't help much. They'd say it wandered through the pass by
itself, and I suppose there's one chance in a thousand it could have."

"Damned unlikely, though," shrugged Tenny.

"Sure; but the law's that way. You've got to be dead certain. Besides, if
he was pulled in for that we might never find out just what's at the
bottom of it all. That's the important thing, and if I can only get a line
on what he's up to, we'll land him swift enough, believe me!"

Warned by Bud's unexpected question the evening before that he must have a
more plausible motive for following up the case, Buck had coolly appointed
himself one of Jim Hardenberg's deputies. He hinted that rumors of the
cattle-stealing had reached the sheriff, who, debarred from taking up the
matter openly by the absence of any complaint from the owner of the
Shoe-Bar, had dispatched Stratton on a secret investigation. The process
of that investigation having disclosed evidences of rascality of which the
rustling was but a minor feature, Stratton's desire to probe the mystery
to the bottom seemed perfectly natural, and the need for secrecy was also
accounted for. The only risk Buck ran was of Tenny's mentioning the matter
to Hardenberg himself, and that seemed slight enough. At the worst it
would merely mean anticipating a little; for if he did succeed in solving
the problem of Tex Lynch's motives, the next and final step would
naturally be up to the sheriff.

"I get yuh," said Tenny, nodding. "That's true enough. Well, what do you
want me to do?"

Buck told him briefly, and the foreman's eyes twinkled.

"That's some order," he commented.

"I'd pay you for the stock and grub, of course," Stratton assured him;
"and at least put up a deposit for the cayuses."

"Oh, that part ain't frettin' me none. I reckon I can trust yuh. I was
thinkin' about how I could stall off Lynch in case he comes around askin'
questions. Yuh want he should get the idea I hired yuh?"

"I thought it would ease his mind and give him the notion I was safe for a
while," smiled Stratton. "Of course you could say I tried for a job but
you were full up."

"That would be easier," agreed Tenny. "I could keep my mouth shut, but I
couldn't guarantee about the boys. They wouldn't say nothin' a-purpose,
but like as not if they should meet up with one of that slick crowd at the
Shoe-Bar they'd let somethin' slip without thinkin'. On the other hand, it
sure would make him a mite careless if he thought yuh was tied down here
on a reg'lar job."

He paused reflectively; then suddenly his eyes brightened.

"I got it," he chuckled. "I'll send you down to help Gabby Smith at Red
Butte camp. That's 'way to hell and gone down at the south end of the
outfit, where nobody goes from here more'n about once in six months.
Gabby's one of these here solitary guys that's sorta soured on the world
in gen'al, an' don't hardly open his face except to take in grub, but yuh
can trust him. Jest tell him what yuh want and he'll do it, providin' yuh
don't hang around the camp too long. Gabby does hate company worse'n a
dose of poison."

Tenny lost no time in carrying out his plans. He hunted out a few simple
cooking-utensils and enough canned goods and other stores to last two
weeks, picked a pack-animal and a riding horse, and by dinner-time had
everything ready for Buck to start immediately afterward.

The six or seven cow-punchers who responded to the gong presented a marked
and pleasant contrast to the Shoe-Bar outfit. They greeted Stratton with
some brevity, but after the first pangs of hunger had been assuaged and
they learned where he was bound for, they expanded, and Buck was the
object of much joking commiseration on the prospect before him.

"You'll sure have one wild time," grinned a dark-haired, blue-eyed
youngster called Broncho. "Gabby's about as sociable as a rattler. I
wouldn't change places with yuh for no money."

No one seemed to suspect any ulterior motive beneath the plan, and when
Buck rode off about one o'clock, leading his pack-horse, his spirits rose
insensibly at the ease with which things seemed to be working out.

He reached Red Butte camp in a little more than three hours and found the
adobe shack deserted. It was similar in size and construction to Las
Vegas, but there all likeness ceased, for the interior was surprisingly
comfortable and as spick-and-span as the Shoe-Bar line camp was cluttered
and dirty. Everything was so immaculate, in fact, that Buck had a moment
of hesitation about flicking his cigarette ashes on the floor, and
banished his scruples mainly because he had never heard of a cow-man
dropping them anywhere else.

Gabby appeared about an hour later, a tall, stooping man of uncertain
middle age, with a cold eye and a perpetual, sour droop to his lids. At
the sight of Buck the sourness became accentuated and increased still more
when he observed the ashes on the floor. His only reply to Stratton's
introduction of himself was a grunt and Buck lost no time in easing the
fellow's mind of any fear of a prolonged spell of company.

Even then Gabby's gloom scarcely lightened. He listened, however, to
Stratton's brief explanation and in a few gruff words agreed that in the
unlikely event of any inquiry he would say that the new hand was off
riding fence or something of the sort. Then he swept out the offending
ashes and proceeded methodically to get supper, declining any assistance
from his visitor.

His manner was so dispiriting that Buck was thankful when the silent meal
was over, and even more so an hour later to spread his blankets in one of
the spare bunks and turn in. His relief at getting away early the next
morning was almost as great as Gabby's could be to see him go.

It was late in the afternoon, after a careful circuit of the southern end
of the Shoe-Bar, that Buck reached the foothills. Bud had told him of a
spring to the northwest of Las Vegas camp, but the rough traveling decided
him to camp that night on the further side of the creek. In the morning he
went on through a wilderness of arroyos, canyons, and gullies that twisted
endlessly between the barren hills, and made him realize how simple it
would be for any number of men and cattle to evade pursuit in this wild
country.

Fortunately Jessup's directions had been explicit, and toward noon Buck
found the spring at the bottom of a small canyon and proceeded to unpack
and settle down. Bud himself had discovered the place by accident, and as
far as Stratton could judge it was not a likely spot to be visited either
by the Shoe-Bar hands or their Mexican confederates. A wide, overhanging
ledge provided shelter for himself, and there was plenty of forage in
sight for the two horses. Taken all in all, it was as snug a retreat as
any one could wish, and Buck congratulated himself on having such safe and
secluded headquarters from which to carry on his investigations.

These first took him southward, and for five days he rode through the
hills, traversing gullies and canyons, and spying out the whole country
generally, in a systematic effort to find the route taken by the rustlers
in driving off their booty.

Once he found the spot where they had taken to the hills, the rest was
comparatively simple. There were a number of signs to guide him, including
the bodies of two animals bearing the familiar brand, and he succeeded in
tracing the thieves to a point on the edge of a stretch of desert twenty
miles or more below the Shoe-Bar land. About twelve miles beyond lay
another range of hills, which would give them cover until they were within
a short distance of the border.

"A dozen good fellows stationed here," thought Stratton, critically
surveying the gully behind him, "would catch them without any trouble.
There's no other way I've seen of getting out with a bunch of cattle."

Having settled this point to his satisfaction, Buck's mind veered
swiftly--with an odd sense of relief that now at last he could investigate
the matter seriously--to the other problem which had stirred his
curiosity so long.

When his attention was first attracted to the north pasture by Bud's
account of Andrew Thorne's tragic death, its connection with the mystery
of the ranch seemed trivial. But for some reason the thing stuck in his
mind, returning again and again with a teasing persistence and gaining
each time in significance. From much thinking about it, Buck could almost
reconstruct the scene, with its familiar, humdrum background of bawling
calves, lowing mothers, dust, hot irons, swearing, sweating men, and all
the other accompaniments of the spring branding. That was the picture into
which Thorne had suddenly ridden, his face stamped with an excitement in
marked contrast to his usual phlegmatic calm. In his mind's eye Stratton
could see him clutch Tex Lynch and draw him hastily to one side, could
imagine vividly the low-voiced conversation that followed, the hurried
saddling of a fresh horse, and the swift departure of the two
northward--to what?

Buck had asked himself that question a hundred times. Three hours had
passed before the return of Lynch alone, with the shocking news--time
enough to ride twice the distance to north pasture and back again. Where
had the interval been passed, and how?

Stratton realized that they might easily have changed their direction,
once they were out of sight of the men. They might have gone eastward
toward the ranch-house--which they had not--or westward into the
mountains. Once or twice Buck considered the possibility of the old man's
having stumbled on a rich lode of precious metal. But as far as he knew no
trace of gold had ever been found in these mountains. Moreover, though
Lynch was perfectly capable of murdering his employer for that knowledge,
his next logical move would have been an immediate taking up of the
claims, instead of which he remained quietly on the ranch to carry on his
slow and secret plotting.

Stratton long ago dismissed that possibility. There remained only the
north pasture, and the longer he considered it the more he became
convinced that Thorne had met his death there, and that the chances were
strong that somewhere in those wastes of worthless desert land lay the key
to the whole enthralling mystery.

Buck was so eager to start his investigations that it irked him to have to
spend the few remaining hours of the afternoon in idleness. But as he knew
that the undertaking would take a full day or even longer, he possessed
his soul with patience and made arrangements for an early start next
morning.

The dawn was just breaking when he left camp mounted on Pete, the
Rocking-R horse that he had found so reliable in the rough country. The
simplest and most direct way would have been to descend to level ground
and ride along the edge of the Shoe-Bar land. But he dared not take any
chances of being observed by Lynch or his gang, and was forced to make a
long detour through the hills.

The way was difficult and roundabout. Frequently he was turned back by
blind canyons or gullies which had no outlet, and there were few places
where the horse could go faster than a walk. To Buck's impatient spirit it
was all tiresome and exasperating, and he had moments of wondering whether
he was ever going to get anywhere.

Finally, about the middle of the afternoon, he was cheered for the first
time by an unexpected glimpse of his goal. For several miles he had been
following a rough trail which wound around the side of a steep, irregular
hill. Coming out abruptly on a little plateau, with the tumbled rocks
rising at his back, there spread out suddenly before him to the east a
wide, extended sweep of level country.

At first he could scarcely believe that the sandy stretch below him was
the north pasture he was seeking. But swiftly he realized that the
threadlike line a little to the south must be the fence dividing the
desert from the fertile portions of the Shoe-Bar, and he even thought he
recognized the corner where the infected steer had been driven through.
With an exclamation of satisfaction he was reaching for his field-glasses
when of a sudden a strange, slowly-moving shape out in the desert caught
his attention and riveted it instantly.

For a few seconds Buck thought his eyes were playing tricks. Amazed,
incredulous, forgetting for an instant the field-glasses in his hand, he
stared blankly from under squinting lids at the incredible object that
crawled lurchingly through the shimmering, glittering desert atmosphere.

"I'm dotty!" he muttered at length. "It can't be!"

Then, remembering the glasses, he raised them hastily to his eyes and
focused them with a twist or two of practised fingers.

He was neither crazy nor mistaken. Drawn suddenly out of its blurred
obscurity by the powerful lenses, there sprang up before Buck's eyes,
sharp and clear in every detail, a big gray motor-car that moved slowly
but steadily, with many a bump and sidewise lurch, diagonally across the
cactus-sprinkled desert below him.




CHAPTER XX

CATASTROPHE


The discovery galvanized Stratton into instant, alert attention.
Motor-cars were rare in this remote range country and confined almost
solely to the sort of "flivver" which is not entirely dependent on roads.
The presence in the north pasture of this powerful gray machine, which
certainly did not belong in the neighborhood, was more than significant,
and Buck tried at once to get a view of the occupants.

In this he was not successful. There were three of them, one in the
driver's seat and two others in the tonneau. But the top prevented more
than a glimpse of the latter, while the cap and goggles of the chauffeur
left visible only a wedge of brick-red, dust-coated skin, a thin,
prominent nose and a wisp of wiry black mustache.

One thing was certain--the fellow knew his job. Under his masterly
guidance the big car plowed steadily through the clogging sand, avoiding
obstructions or surmounting them with the least possible expenditure of
power, never once stalled, and, except for a necessary slight divergence
now and then, held closely to its northwesterly course across the desert.

Buck, who had driven under the worst possible battle-front conditions,
fully appreciated the coaxing, the general manoeuvering, the constant
delicate manipulation of brake and throttle necessary to produce this
result. But his admiration of the fellow's skill was swiftly swallowed up
in eager curiosity and speculation.

Who were they? What were they doing here? Where were they going? At first
he had a momentary fear lest they should see him perched up here on his
point of vantage. Then he realized that the backing of rocks prevented his
figure from showing against the skyline, which, together with the distance
and the clouds of dust stirred up by the car itself, made the danger
almost negligible. So he merely dismounted and, leaning against his horse,
kept the glasses riveted on the slowly moving machine.

The car advanced steadily until it reached a point about a quarter of a
mile from the rough ground and a little distance north of where Buck
stood. Then it stopped, and a capped and goggled head was thrust out of
the tonneau. Buck could make out nothing definite about the face save that
it was smooth-shaven and rather heavy-jowled. He was hoping that the
fellow would alight from the car and show himself more plainly but to his
disappointment the head was presently drawn back and the machine crept
on, swerving a little so that it headed almost due north.

Ten minutes later it halted again, and this time the two men got out and
walked slowly over the sand. Both were clad in long dust-coats, and one
seemed stouter and heavier than the other. Unfortunately they were too far
beyond the carrying power of the binoculars to get anything more clearly,
and Buck swore and fretted and strained his eyes in vain. After a delay of
nearly an hour, he saw the car start again, and followed its blurred image
until it finally disappeared beyond an out-thrust spur well to the
northward.

Stratton lowered his glasses and stood for a moment or two rubbing his
cramped arm absently. His face was thoughtful, with a glint of excitement
in his eyes. Presently his shoulders straightened resolutely.

"Anyhow, I can follow the tracks of the tires and find out what they've
been up to," he muttered.

The difficulty was to descend from his rocky perch, and it proved to be no
small one. He might have clambered down the face of the cliff, but that
would mean abandoning his horse. In the end he was forced to retrace his
steps along the twisting ledge by which he had come.

From his knowledge of the country to the south, Buck had started out with
the idea that it would be simple enough to reach the flats through one of
the many gullies and canyons that fringed the margin of the hills further
down. He had not counted on the fact that as the range widened it split
into two distinct ridges, steep and declivitous on the outer edges, with
the space between them broken up into a network of water-worn gullies and
arroyos.

"I ought to have known from the look of the north pasture that all the
water goes the other way," he grumbled. "Best thing I can do is to head
for that trail Bud spoke of that cuts through to the T-T ranch. It can't
be so very far north."

It wasn't, as the crow flies, but Buck was no aviator. He was forced to
take a most tortuous, roundabout route, and when he finally emerged on the
first passable track heading approximately in the right direction, the sun
was low and there seemed little chance of his accomplishing his purpose in
the few hours of daylight remaining.

Still, he kept on. At least he was mapping out a route which would be
easily and swiftly followed another time. And if darkness threatened, he
could return to his little camp through the open Shoe-Bar pastures, where
neither Lynch nor his men were at all likely to linger after dusk.

The trail followed a natural break in the hills and, though not especially
difficult under foot, was twisting and irregular, full of sharp descents
and equally steep upward slopes. Buck had covered about two miles and was
growing impatient when he came to the hardest climb he had yet encountered
and swung himself out of the saddle.

"No use killing you, Pete, to save a little time," he commented, giving
the horse's sweaty neck a slap. "I'd like to know how the devil those two
ever drove a steer through here."

It did seem as if this must have been uncommonly difficult. The trail
curved steeply around the side of a hill, following a ledge similar to the
one Buck had taken earlier in the afternoon with such interesting results.
There was width enough for safety, but on one side the rocks rose sharply
to the summit of the hill, while on the other there was a sheer drop into
a gulch below, which, at the crown of the slope, must have been fifty or
sixty feet at least.

Leading the horse, Buck plodded on in a rather discouraged fashion until
he had covered about three-quarters of the distance to the top. Then of a
sudden his pace quickened, as a bend in the trail revealed hopeful
glimpses of open spaces ahead. It was nothing really definite--merely a
falling away of the hills on either side and a wide expanse of
unobstructed sky beyond, but it made him feel that he was at last coming
out of this rocky wilderness. A moment or two later he gained the summit
of the slope and his eyes brightened as they rested on the section of
sandy, cactus-dotted country spread out below him.

A dozen feet ahead the trail curved sharply around a rocky buttress, which
hid the remainder of it from view. In his eagerness to see what lay
beyond, Stratton did not mount but led his horse over the short stretch of
level rock. But as he turned the corner, he caught his breath and jerked
back on Pete's reins.

By one of those freaks of nature that are often so surprising, the trail
led straight down to level ground with almost the regularity of some work
of engineering. At the foot of it stood the gray motor-car--empty!

The sight of it, and especially that unnatural air of complete desertion,
instantly aroused in Buck a sense of acute danger. He turned swiftly to
retreat, and caught a glimpse of a figure crouching in a little rocky
niche almost at his elbow.

There was no time to leap back or forward; no time even to stir. Already
the man's arm was lifted, and though Stratton's hand jerked automatically
to his gun, he was too late.

An instant later something struck his head with crushing force and
crumpled him to the ground.

                   *       *       *       *       *

When Buck began to struggle out of that black, bottomless abyss of
complete oblivion, he thought at first--as soon as he could think at
all--that he was lying in his bunk back at the Shoe-Bar. What gave him the
idea he could not tell. His head throbbed painfully, and his brain seemed
to swim in a vague, uncertain mist. A deadly lassitude gripped him, making
all movement, even to the lifting of his eyelids, an exertion too great to
be considered.

But presently, when his brain had cleared a little, he became aware of
voices. One in particular seemed, even in his dreamlike state, to sting
into his consciousness with a peculiar, bitter instinct of hatred. When at
length he realized that it was the voice of Tex Lynch, the discovery had a
curiously reviving effect upon his dazed senses. He could not yet remember
what had happened, but intuitively he associated his helplessness with the
foreman's presence, and that same instinct caused him to make a desperate
attempt to understand what the man was saying. At first the fellow's words
seemed blurred and broken, but little by little their meaning grew clearer
to the injured man.

"... ain't safe ... suspects somethin' ... snoopin' around ever since ...
thought he was up to somethin' ... saw him up on that ledge watchin' yuh
... dead sure. I had a notion he'd ride around to this trail, 'cause it's
the only way down to north pasture. I tell yuh, Paul, he's wise, an' he'll
spill the beans sure. We got to do it."

"I don't like it, I tell you!" protested a shrill, high-pitched voice
querulously. "I can't stand blood."

"Wal, all yuh got to do is go back to the car an' wait," retorted Lynch.
"I ain't so partic'lar. Besides," his tone changed subtly, "his head's
smashed in an' he's sure to croak, anyhow. It would be an act of kindness,
yuh might say."

"I don't like it," came again in the shrill voice. "I'd--hear the shot.
I'd know what you were doing. It would be on my--my conscience. I'd
dream-- If he's going to--to die, as you say, why not just--leave him
here?"

An involuntary shudder passed over Stratton. It had all come back, and
with a thrill of horror he realized that they were talking about him. They
were discussing his fate as calmly and callously as if he had been a steer
with a broken leg. A feeble protest trembled on his lips, but was choked
back unuttered. He knew how futile any protest would be with Tex Lynch.

"Yeah!" the latter snarled. "An' have somebody come along an' find him!
Like as not he'd hang on long enough to blab all he knows, an' then where
would we be? Where would we be even if somebody run acrost his body? I
ain't takin' no chances like that, I'll tell the world!"

"But isn't there some other way?" faltered the high-pitched voice.

In the brief pause that followed, Stratton dragged his lids open. He was
lying where he had fallen at the curve in the trail. Tex Lynch stood close
beside him. A little beyond, leaning against the rocky cliff, was a bulky
figure in a long dust-coat. He had pushed up his motor-goggles and was
wiping his forehead with a limp handkerchief. His round, fat face, with
pursed-up lips and wide-open light-blue eyes, bore the expression of a
fretful child. On his left was a lean, thin-faced fellow with a black
mustache who looked scared and nervous. There was no sign of the third
person who had been in the car, and even at this crucial moment Buck found
time to observe the absence of his horse, Pete, and wondered momentarily
what had become of him.

"Yuh an' Hurd go back to the car." Lynch broke the silence in a tone of
sudden decision. "I'll tend to this business, an' there won't be no
shootin' neither. Hustle, now! We ain't got any time to lose."

Again Buck shuddered, and there pulsed through him that tremendous and
passionate instinct for self-preservation which comes to every man at such
a time. What Tex meant to do he could not guess, but he knew that if he
were left alone with the fellow he might as well give up all hope. He was
weak as a cat, and felt sure that no appeal from him would move Lynch a
particle. His only chance lay with the fat man and his companion, and as
the two turned away, Buck tried his best to call out after them.

The only result was an inarticulate croak. Lynch heard it, and instantly
dropping on his knees, he clapped one hand over Stratton's mouth. In
spite of Buck's futile struggles, he held it there firmly while the two
men moved out of sight down the trail. His face, which still bore the
fading marks of Buck's fists, was a trifle pale, but hard and determined,
and in his eyes triumph and a curious, nervous shrinking struggled for
mastery.

But as the moments dragged on leaden wings, not a word passed his tight
lips. Presently he glanced swiftly over one shoulder. An instant later
Buck's lips were freed, and he felt the foreman's hands slipping under his
body.

"You hellion!" he gasped, as Lynch's purpose flashed on him in all its
horror. "You damned cowardly hound!"

As he felt himself thrust helplessly toward the precipice, Buck made a
tremendous, despairing effort and managed to catch Lynch by the belt and
clung there for a moment. When one hand was torn loose, he even struck Tex
wildly in the face. But there was no strength in his arm, and Lynch, with
a growl of rage, jerked himself free and sprang to his feet.

For an instant he towered over his helpless enemy, white-faced and
hesitating. Then Stratton caught the hard impact of his boot against his
side, and felt the edge of the rock slipping horribly beneath him.
Powerless to help himself, his clutching fingers slid despairingly across
the smooth surface. A blinding ray of sunlight dazzled him for an instant
and vanished; the mountain trail flashed out of sight. His heart leaped,
then sank, with a tremendous, poignant agony that seemed to tear him into
shreds. Then blackness seemed to rush out of the gulch to enfold him in an
impenetrable cloud of merciful oblivion.




CHAPTER XXI

WHAT MARY THORNE FOUND


A few hundred yards away from the fence strung along the western side of
middle pasture, Mary Thorne pulled her horse down to a walk and
straightened her hat mechanically. Her cheeks were flushed becomingly and
her eyes shone, but at the end of that sharp little canter much of the
brightness faded and her face clouded.

For the last week or more it had grown increasingly difficult to keep up a
cheerful front and prevent the doubts and troubles which harassed her from
causing comment. This morning she had reached the limit of suppression.
Stella got on her nerves more than usual; Alf annoyed her with his
superior air and those frequent little intimate mannerisms which, though
unnoticed during all the years of their friendship, had lately grown
curiously irksome to the girl. Even Mrs. Archer's calm placidity weighed
on her spirits, and when that happened Mary knew that it was high time for
her to get away by herself for a few hours and make a vigorous effort to
recover her wonted serenity of mind.

She told herself that she was tired and jaded, and that a solitary ride
would soothe her ragged nerves. And so, at the first opportunity after
breakfast, she slipped quietly away, saddled her favorite horse, Freckles,
and leaving word with Pedro that she would be back by dinner-time,
departed hastily.

It was rather curious behavior in a girl usually so frank and open, and
free from even a suspicion of guile, but she deliberately gave the Mexican
an impression that she was going to join the men down in south pasture,
and as long as she remained within sight of the ranch-house she kept her
horse headed in that direction. Furthermore, before abruptly changing her
course to the northwest, she pulled up and glanced sharply around to make
certain she was not observed.

As a matter of fact one of the things which had lately puzzled and
troubled her was a growing impression of surveillance. Several times she
had surprised Pedro or his wife in attitudes which seemed suspiciously as
if they had been spying. McCabe, too, and some of the other men were
inclined to pop up when she least expected them. Indeed, looking back on
the last two weeks she realized how very little she had been alone except
in the close confines of the ranch-house. If she rode forth to inspect the
work or merely to take a little canter, Tex or one of the punchers was
almost sure to join her. They always had a good excuse, but equally
always they were there; and though Mary Thorne had not the remotest notion
of the meaning of it all, she had grown convinced that there must be some
hidden motive beneath their actions, and the thought troubled her.

Tex Lynch's altered manner gave her even greater cause for anxiety. It
would have been difficult to put into words exactly where the change lay,
but she was sure that there was a difference. Up to a short time ago she
had regarded him impersonally as merely an efficient foreman whom she had
inherited from her father along with the ranch. She did so still, but she
could not remain blind to the fact that the man himself was deliberately
striving to inject a more intimate note into their intercourse. His
methods were subtle enough, but Mary Thorne was far from dull, and the
alteration in his manner made her at once indignant and a little
frightened.

"I suppose it's silly to feel that way, especially with Alf here," she
murmured as she reached the fence and swung herself out of the saddle.
"But I do wish I hadn't taken his word about--Buck Green."

She took a small pair of pliers from her saddle-pocket and deftly
untwisted the strands of wire from one of the posts, while Freckles looked
on with an expression of intelligent interest. When the gap was opened in
the fence, he walked through and waited quietly on the other side until
the wire had been replaced. It was not the first time he had done this
trick, for the trail through the mountains was a favorite retreat of the
girl's. She had discovered it long ago, and returned to it frequently,
through her own private break in the fence, especially on occasions like
this when she wanted to get away from everybody and be quite alone.

Having remounted and headed northward along the edge of the hills, her
thoughts flashed back to the discharged cow-puncher, and her brow
puckered. The whole subject affected her in a curiously complicated
fashion. From the first she had been conscious of having done the young
man an injustice. And yet, as often as she went over their final interview
in her mind--which was not seldom--she did not see how she could have done
otherwise. Her woman's intuition told her over and over again that he
could not possibly be a common thief; but if this was so, why had he
refused her the simple assurance she asked for?

That was the stumbling-block. If he had only been frank and open, she felt
that she would have believed him, even in the face of Lynch's conviction
of his guilt, though she was frank enough to admit that the foreman's
attitude would probably have influenced her much more strongly a week ago
than it did at present. It was this thought which brought her mind around
to another of her worries.

Not only did she intensely dislike Lynch's present manner toward herself,
but there had lately grown up in her mind a vague distrust of the man
generally. She could not put her finger on anything really definite. There
were moments, indeed, when she wondered if she was not a silly little fool
making bogies out of shadows. But the feeling persisted, growing on
unconsidered trifles, that Tex was playing at some subtle, secret game, of
the character of which she had not even the most remote conception.

"But if that's so--if he can't be trusted any longer," she said aloud,
stung by a sudden, sharp realization of the gravity of such a situation,
"what am I to do?"

Of his own accord Freckles had turned aside into the little curved
depression in the cliffs and was plodding slowly up the trail. Staring
blindly at the rough, ragged cliffs and peaks ahead of her, the girl was
suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness. If Lynch failed her,
what could she do? Whom could she turn to for help or even for counsel?
There was Alf Manning, but Alf knew nothing whatever of range conditions,
and besides neither he nor Stella expected to stay on indefinitely. Her
mind ranged swiftly over other more or less remote possibilities, but save
for a few distant cousins with whom they had never been on intimate
terms, she could think of no one. She even considered for a moment Jim
Tenny of the Rocking-R, whom she had met and liked, or Dr. Blanchard, but
a sudden reviving burst of spirit caused her quickly to dismiss the
thought.

"They'd think I was a silly, hysterical idiot," she murmured. "Why, I
couldn't even tell them what I was afraid of. I wonder if it can possibly
be just nerves? It doesn't seem as if--"

She broke off abruptly and tightened on her reins. Freckles had carried
her over the summit of the trail and had almost reached the hollow on the
other side, formed by the bottom of a gully that crossed the path. Mary
had once explored it and knew that to the left it deepened into a gloomy
gulch that hugged the cliff for some distance and then curved abruptly to
the south. So far as she knew, it led nowhere, and yet, to her
astonishment, not a hundred feet away a saddled horse, with bridle-reins
trailing, stood cropping the leaves of a stunted mesquite.

"That's funny," she said aloud in a low tone.

As she spoke the horse threw up his head and stared at her, ears pointed
inquiringly. When Freckles nickered, the strange animal gave an answering
whinny, but did not move.

Puzzled and a little nervous, Mary glanced sharply to right and left
amongst the scattered rocks. In her experience a saddled horse meant that
the owner was not far away; but she could see no signs of any one, and at
length, taking courage from the silence, she rode slowly forward.

As she came closer the horse backed away a foot or two and half turned,
exposing a brand on his shoulder. The girl stared at it with a puckered
frown, wondering what on earth any one from the Rocking-R was doing here.
Then her glance strayed to the saddle, flittered indifferently over cantle
and skirts, to pause abruptly, with a sudden keen attention, on the flap
of the right-hand pocket, which bore the initials "R. S." cut with some
skill on the smooth leather.

With eyes widening, the girl bent forward, studying the flap intently. She
was not mistaken; the initials _were_ R. S., and in a flash there came
back to her a memory of that afternoon, which seemed so long ago, when she
and Buck Green rode out together to the south pasture. She had noticed
those initials then on his saddle-pocket, and knowing how unusual it was
for a cow-man to touch his precious saddle with a knife, she made some
casual comment, and learned how it had come into Buck's possession.

What did it mean? What was _he_ doing here on a Rocking-R horse? Above
all, where was he?

Suddenly her heart began to beat unevenly and her frightened eyes stared
down the gulch to where an out-thrust buttress provokingly hid the greater
part of it from view. Her glance shifted again to the horse, who stood
motionless, regarding her with liquid, intelligent eyes, and for the first
time she noticed that the ends of the trailing reins were scratched and
torn and ragged.

How still the place was! She fumbled in her blouse, and drawing forth a
handkerchief, passed it mechanically over her damp forehead. Then abruptly
her slight figure straightened, and tightening the reins she urged
Freckles along the rock-strewn bottom of the gulch.

The distance to the rocky buttress seemed at once interminable and
incredibly short. As she reached it she held her breath and her teeth dug
into her colorless lips. But when another section of the winding gorge lay
before her, silent, empty save for scattered boulders and a few scanty
bits of stunted vegetation, one small, gloved hand fluttered to her
breast, then dropped, clenched, against the saddle-horn.

A rounded mass of rock, fallen in ages past from the cliffs above, blocked
her path, and mechanically the girl reined Freckles around it. An instant
later the horse stopped of his own accord, and the girl found herself
staring down with horror-stricken eyes at the body of a man stretched out
on the further side of the boulders. Motionless he lay there, a long
length of brown chaps and torn, disordered shirt. His face was hidden in
his crooked arms; the tumbled mass of brown hair was matted with ominous
dark clots. But in that single, stricken second Mary Thorne knew whom she
had found.

"Oh!" she choked, fighting desperately against a wave of faintness that
threatened to overwhelm her. "O-h!"

Slowly the man's face lifted, and two bloodshot eyes regarded her dully
through a matted lock of hair that lay stiffly plastered against his
forehead. With a curious, stealthy movement, one hand twisted back to his
side and fumbled there for an instant. Then the man groaned softly.

"I forgot," he mumbled. "It's gone. You--you've got me this time, I
reckon."

Face drained to paper-white and lips quivering, Mary Thorne slid out of
her saddle, steadied herself against the horse for a second, and then
dropped on her knees beside him.

"Buck!" she cried in a shaking voice. "You--you're hurt! What--what is
it?"

A puzzled look came into his face, and as he stared into the wide,
frightened hazel eyes so close to his, recognition slowly dawned.

"You!" he muttered. "What--How--"

She twined her fingers together to stop their trembling. "I was riding
through the pass," she told him briefly. "I saw your horse and I--I
was--afraid--"

A faint gleam came into the bloodshot eyes. "My--my horse? You mean a--a
Rocking-R cayuse?"

"Yes."

He tried to sit up, but the effort turned him so white that the girl cried
out protestingly.

"You mustn't. You're badly hurt. I--I'll ride back for help." She sprang
to her feet. "But first I must get you water."

He stared at her as one regards a desert mirage. "Water!" he repeated
unbelievingly. "You know where--If you could--"

A sudden moisture dimmed her eyes, but she winked it resolutely back.
"There's a little spring the other side of the trail," she explained. "You
lie quietly and I'll be back in just a minute."

Stumbling in her haste, she turned and ran past the buttress and on toward
the trail. Not a hundred feet beyond, a tiny spring bubbled up in the
rocks, and dropping down beside it, the girl jerked the pins from her hat
and let the cool water trickle into the capacious crown of the Stetson. It
seemed to take an eternity to fill, but at length the water ran over the
brim, and carefully guarding her precious burden, she hurried back again.

The man was watching for her--eagerly, longingly, with an underlying touch
of apprehensive doubt, as if he half feared to find her merely one of
those dreamlike phantoms that had haunted him through the long, painful
hours. As the girl sank down beside him, there was a look in his eyes that
sent a strange thrill through her and caused her hands to tremble,
sending a little stream of water trickling over the soggy hat-brim to the
ground.

She steadied herself resolutely and bending forward held the hat against
Buck's lips. As he plunged his face into it and began to suck up the water
in great, famished gulps, the girl's lips quivered, and her eyes, resting
on the matted tangle of dark hair, filled with sudden tears.




CHAPTER XXII

NERVE


With a deep sigh, Buck lifted his face from the water and regarded her
gratefully.

"That just about saved my life," he murmured.

Mary Thorne carefully set down the improvised water-bucket, its contents
much depleted, and taking out her handkerchief, soaked it thoroughly.

"I'm awfully stupid about first aid," she said. "But your head must be
badly cut, and--"

"Don't," he protested, as the moist bit of cambric touched his hair.
"You'll spoil it."

"As if that mattered!" she retorted. "Just rest your head on your arms;
it'll be easier."

With deft, gentle touches, she cleaned away the blood and grime, parting
his thick hair now and then with delicate care. Her hands were steady now,
and having steeled herself for anything, the sight of a jagged,
ugly-looking cut on his scalp did not make her flinch. She even bent
forward a little to examine it more closely, and saw that a ridge of
clotted blood had temporarily stopped its oozing.

"I think I'd better let it alone," she said aloud. "I might start it
bleeding again. How--how did it happen?"

Buck raised his head and regarded her with a slow, thoughtful stare.

"I fell off the cliff back there," he replied at length.

Her eyes widened. "You--fell off the cliff!" she gasped. "It's a wonder--
But is this the only place you're hurt?"

His lips twisted in a grim smile. "Oh, no! I've got a sprained ankle and
what feels like a broken rib, though it may be only bruises. But as you're
thinking, I'm darned lucky to get off alive. I must have struck a ledge or
something part way down, but how I managed from there I haven't the least
idea."

Hands clenched together in her lap, she stared at him in dismay.

"I thought perhaps you might be strong enough in a little while to ride
back with me to the ranch. I--I could help you mount, and we could go very
slowly. But of course that's impossible. I'd better start at once and
bring back some of the men."

She made a move to rise, but he stopped her with a quick, imperative
gesture. "No, you mustn't," he said firmly. "That won't do at all. I can't
go to the ranch." He paused, his forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. "You may
not have guessed it, but Lynch and I don't pull together at all," he
finished, with a whimsical intonation.

"But surely that wouldn't make any difference--now!" she protested.

"Only the difference that he'd have me just where he wanted me," he
retorted. He was regarding her with a steady, questioning stare, and
presently he gave a little sigh. "I'll have to tell you something I didn't
mean to," he said. "In my opinion Tex Lynch is pretty much of a scoundrel.
He knows I know it, and there isn't anything he wouldn't do to shut my
mouth--for good."

To his amazement, instead of showing the indignation he expected, the girl
merely stared at him in surprise.

"What!" she cried. "You believe that, too?"

"I'm sure of it. But I thought you trusted--"

"I don't any longer." She was surprised at the immensity of the relief
that surged over her at this chance to unburden her soul of the load of
perplexity and trouble which harassed her. "For a long time I
haven't--There've been a number of things. I still haven't an idea of what
it's all about, but--"

"I'm mighty glad you feel that way," Buck said, as she paused. "I'm not
quite sure myself just what he's up to, but I believe I'm on the right
trail." Very briefly he told her of the steps he had taken since leaving
the Shoe-Bar. "You see how impossible it would be to trust myself in his
power again," he concluded.

For a moment or two Mary Thorne sat silent, regarding him with a curious
expression.

"So that was the reason," she murmured at length.

His eyes questioned her mutely, and a slow flush crept into her face.

"The reason you--you couldn't say you had no--special object in being on
the Shoe-Bar," she explained haltingly. "I'm--sorry I didn't understand."

"I couldn't very well tell you without running the risk of Lynch's finding
out. As it happened, I was trying my best to think up a reasonable excuse
for leaving the outfit to do some investigating from this end, so you
really did me a good turn."

"Investigating what? Haven't you any idea what he's up to?"

Buck hesitated. "A very little, but it's too indefinite to put into words
just yet. I've a feeling I'll get at the bottom of it soon, though, and
then I'll tell you. In the meantime, when you go back, don't breathe a
word of having seen me, and on no account let any one persuade you
to--sell the outfit."

She stared at him with crinkled brows. "But what are you going to do now?"
she asked suddenly, her mind flashing back to the present difficulty.

He dragged himself into a sitting posture. He was evidently feeling
stronger and looked much more like himself.

"Try and get back to that camp of mine I told you of," he explained. "I
reckon I'll have to lay up there a while, but there's food a-plenty, and a
good spring, so--"

"But I don't believe you can even stand," she protested. "And if your ribs
are broken--"

"Likely it's only one and I can strap that good and tight with a piece of
my shirt or something. Then if you could catch Pete and bring him over
here, I'll manage to climb into the saddle some way. It's only three or
four miles, and the going's not so very bad."

She made no further protest, but her lips straightened firmly and there
was a look of decision in her girlish face as she set about helping him
with his preparations.

It was she who tore a broad band from his flannel shirt, roughly fringed
the ends with Buck's knife and tied it so tightly about his body that he
had hard work to keep from wincing. She insisted on bandaging his head,
and while he rested in the shade went back into the gulch to look for his
hat and the Colt that had fallen from his holster.

She finally found them both under a narrow ledge that thrust out a dozen
feet below the edge of the trail. A stunted bush, rooted deep in some
hidden crevice, grew up before it, and, staring upward at it, the girl
guessed that to this little bush alone Buck owed his life. He had been
able to give her no further details of his descent, but she saw that it
would be possible for a man to crawl along the narrow ledge to where
another crossed it at a descending angle, and thence gain the bottom of
the gulch.

"I wonder how he ever came to fall," she murmured, remembering how wide
the trail was at the summit.

Returning, however, she asked no questions. In the face of what lay before
her, the matter seemed trivial and unimportant. She caught the Rocking-R
horse without much trouble and led him back to a broad, flat boulder on
which Buck had managed to crawl. Obliged to hold the animal, whose
slightest movement might prove disastrous, she could give no further aid,
but was forced to stand helpless, watching with troubled, sympathetic eyes
the man's painful struggles to gain the saddle. When at last he succeeded
and slumped there, mouth twisted and face bathed in perspiration, her
knees were shaking and she felt limp and nerveless.

"We'll stop at the spring first for more water," she said, pulling herself
together with an effort.

Too exhausted for speech, Buck merely nodded, and the girl, gathering up
Freckles's bridle in her other hand, led the two horses slowly toward the
trail. At the spring Buck drank deeply of the water she handed him, and
seemed much refreshed.

"That's good," he murmured, with an effort to straighten his bent body.
"Well, I reckon I'd better be starting. I--I can't thank you enough for
all you've done, Miss--Thorne. It was mighty plucky--"

"You mustn't waste your strength talking," she interrupted quietly. "Just
tell me which way to go, and we'll start."

"We?" he repeated sharply. "But you're not going."

"Of course I am. Did you think for a moment I'd let you take that ride
alone?" She smiled faintly with a brave attempt at lightness. "You'd be
falling off and breaking another rib. Please don't make difficulties. I'm
going with you, and that's an end of it."

Perhaps the firmness of her manner made Buck realize the futility of
further protest, or possibly he was in no condition to argue. At all
events he gave in, and when the girl swung herself into the saddle, the
slow journey began.

To Mary Thorne the memory of it remained ever afterward in her mind a
chaotic medley of strange emotions and impressions, vague yet vivid. At
first, where the width of the trail permitted it, she rode beside him,
making an effort to talk casually and lightly, yet not too constantly, but
continually keeping a watchful eye on the drooping figure at her right,
whose hands presently sought and gripped the saddle-horn.

When they left the trail for rougher ground, she dismounted in spite of
Buck's protest, and walked beside him, and it was well she did. Once when
the horse slipped or stumbled on a loose stone and the man's body swayed
perilously in the saddle, she put up both hands swiftly and held him
there.

Before they had gone a mile her boots began to hurt her, but the pain was
so trifling in comparison with what Buck must be suffering that she
scarcely noticed it. He was putting up a brave front, but there were signs
that were difficult to conceal, and toward the end of that toilsome
journey it was evident that he could not possibly have kept his seat much
longer. Indeed, when they had ridden the short length of the little canyon
and stopped before the overhanging shelf of rocks, he toppled suddenly
sidewise, and only the girl's frail body prevented him from crashing
roughly to the ground.

She brought him water from the spring, and searching through his
belongings found a flask of brandy and forced some between his teeth. When
he had recovered from his momentary faintness, she managed somehow to get
him over to the blankets spread beneath the ledge. Then she built a fire
and set some coffee on it to boil, unsaddled Pete, fed and watered the
three horses, finally returning with a cup of steaming liquid to where
Buck lay exhausted with closed eyes.

His face was drawn and haggard, and his lashes, long and soft and thick,
lay against a skin drained of every particle of color. A sudden choking
sob rose to the girl's lips, but she managed to force it back, and when
the man's lids slowly lifted, she smiled tremulously.

"Here's some coffee," she said, kneeling down and holding the rim of the
cup to his lips.

Buck drank obediently in slow gulps.

"You're all nerve," he murmured when the cup was empty. He lay silent for
a few moments. "Don't you think you'd better be starting back?" he asked
at length.

"How can I go and leave you like this?" she protested. "You're so weak.
You might get fever. Anything might happen."

"But you certainly can't stay," he retorted with unexpected decision. "Let
alone a whole lot of other reasons," he went on, watching her mutinous
face, "if you did, Tex would have a posse out hunting for you in no time.
Sooner or later they'd find this place, and you know what that would mean.
I'm feeling better every minute--honest. By to-morrow I'll be able to
hobble around and look after myself fine."

His logic was irresistible, and for a time she sat silent, torn by a
conflict of emotions. Then all at once her face brightened.

"I've got it!" she cried. "Why can't I send Bud out? He's to be trusted
surely?"

Buck's eyes lit up in a way that brought to the girl a curious, jealous
pang.

"Bud? Sure, he's all right. That's one fine idea. You'll have to be
careful Lynch doesn't know where he's going, though."

"I'll manage that all right."

Reluctant to go, yet feeling that she ought to make haste, the girl got
out some crackers and placed them, with a pail of water, within his reach.
Then she listened while Stratton told her of a short cut out to the middle
pasture.

"I understand," she nodded. "You'll promise to be careful, won't you? Bud
ought to be here in a couple of hours, though he may be delayed a little
longer. You'd better not try and move until he comes."

"I won't," Buck answered. "I'm too darn comfortable."

"Well, good-by, then," she said briefly, moving over to her horse.

"Good-by; and--thank you a thousand times!"

She made no answer, but a faint, enigmatic smile quivered for an instant
on her lips as she turned the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle.
When Freckles had reached a little distance, she glanced back and waved
her hand. From where he lay Stratton could see almost the whole length of
the little canyon, and as long as the slight figure on the big gray horse
remained in sight, his eyes followed her intently, a sort of wistful
hunger in their depths. But when she disappeared, the man's head fell back
limply on the blankets and his eyes closed.




CHAPTER XXIII

WHERE THE WHEEL TRACKS LED


Bud Jessup removed a battered stew-pan from the fire and set it aside to
cool a little.

"Well, by this time I reckon friend Tex is all worked up over what's
become of me," he remarked in a tone of satisfaction, deftly shifting the
coffee-pot to a bed of deeper coals. "He's sure tried often enough to get
rid of me, but I don't guess he quite relishes my droppin' out of sight
like this."

Buck Stratton, his back resting comfortably against a rock a little way
from the fire, nodded absently.

"You're sure you didn't leave any trace they could pick up?" he asked with
a touch of anxiety.

"Certain sure," returned Jessup confidently. "When Miss Mary came in
around four, I was in the wagon-shed, the rest of the crowd bein' down in
south pasture. Like I told yuh before, she had a good-sized package all
done up nice in her hand, an' it didn't take her long to tell me what was
up. Then we walks out together an' stops by the kitchen door.

"'Yuh better get yore supper at the hotel,' she says, an' ride back
afterwards. 'I meant to send in right after dinner to mail the package,
but I got held up out on the range.'

"Then she seems to catch sight of the greaser for the first time jest
inside the door, though I noticed him snoopin' there when we first come
up.

"'I hope yuh got somethin' left from dinner, Pedro,' she says, with one of
them careless natural smiles of hers, like as if she hadn't a care on her
mind except food. 'I'm half starved.'"

Bud sighed and finished with a note of admiration. "Some girl, all
right!"

"You've said it," agreed Buck fervently.

His appearance had improved surprisingly in the ten days that had passed
since his accident. The head-bandage was gone, and his swollen ankle,
though still tender at times, had been reduced to almost normal size by
constant applications of cold water. His body was still tightly strapped
up with yards and yards of bandage, which Mary Thorne had thoughtfully
packed, with a number of other first-aid necessities, in the parcel which
was Bud's excuse for making a trip to town.

Stratton was not certain that a rib had been broken after all. When Jessup
came to examine him he found the flesh terribly bruised and refrained from
any unnecessary prodding. It was still somewhat painful to the touch, but
from the ease with which he could get about, Buck had a notion that at
the worst the bone was merely cracked.

"They wouldn't be likely to notice where you left the Paloma trail, would
they?" Buck asked, after a brief retrospective silence.

"Not unless they're a whole lot better trackers than I think for," Jessup
assured him. "I picked a rocky place this side of the gully, an' cut
around the north end of middle pasture, where the land slopes down a bit,
an' yuh can't be seen from the south more 'n a quarter of a mile. I kept
my eyes peeled, believe me! an' didn't glimpse a soul all the way. I
wouldn't fret none about their followin' me here."

"I reckon it is foolish," admitted Stratton. "But lying around not able to
do anything makes a fellow think up all kinds of trouble. Lynch isn't a
fool, and there's no doubt when you didn't come back that night he'd begin
to smell a rat right off."

"Sure. An' next day he likely sent in to town, where he'd find out from
old Pop that I never showed up there at all. After that, accordin' to my
figgerin', he'd be up against it hard. Yuh can bank on Miss Mary playin'
the game, an' registerin' surprise an' worry an' all the rest of it. There
ain't a chance in the world of his thinkin' to look for me here."

"I reckon that's true. Of course we've got to remember that so far as he
knows I'm out of the way for good."

Bud took up coffee-pot and stew-pan and set them down beside Stratton,
where the rest of the meal was spread.

"Sure," he chuckled, dropping down against the ledge. "Officially, you're
a corpse. That's yore strong point, old-timer. By golly!" he added, with a
sudden, fierce revulsion of spirit. "I only hope I'll be on hand when he
gets what's comin' to him, the damn', cowardly skunk!"

"Maybe you will," commented Buck grimly. "Well, let's eat. Seems like I do
nothing but eat and sleep and loaf around. I've a good notion to bust up
the monotony," he added, after a few minutes had passed in the silent
consumption of food, "and take that trip to north pasture to-morrow."

"Don't be loco," Bud told him hastily. "Yuh ain't fit for nothin' like
that yet."

"I did it a few days ago," Stratton reminded him, "and I'm feeling a
hundred per cent. better now."

"Mebbe so; but what's the use in takin' chances? We got plenty of time."

"I'm not so sure of that," Buck said seriously. "You say that Lynch thinks
I'm dead and out of the way. Well, maybe he does; but unless he's a lot
bigger fool than I think for, he's not going to leave a body around in
plain sight for anybody to find. He'll be slipping down into that gulch
one of these days to get rid of it, and when he finds there ain't any
body--then what?"

"He'll begin to see he's got into one hell of a mess, I reckon," commented
Jessup.

"Right. And he'll be willing to do anything on earth to crawl out safe.
Like enough he'll connect your disappearance with the business, and that
would worry him more than ever. He might even get scared enough to throw
up the whole game and beat it; and believe me, that wouldn't suit me at
all."

"Yuh said a mouthful!" snarled Jessup. "If that hellion should get
away--Say, Buck, why couldn't yuh get him for attempted murder?"

"I might, but the witnesses are all on his side, and there'd be a good
chance of his slipping out. Besides, I'm set on finding out first what his
game is. I'm dead certain now it's connected somehow with the north
pasture, and I've an idea it's something big. That car I told you about,
and everything--Well, there's no sense guessing any longer when we can
make a stab at finding out. We'll start the first thing to-morrow."

Bud made no further protest, and at dawn next morning they left camp and
set out northward through the hills. It was a slow journey, and toward the
end of it Buck felt rather seedy. But this was only natural, he told
himself, after lying around and doing nothing; and he even wished he had
made the move sooner.

Both he and Jessup were conscious of a growing excitement as they neared
the goal from which circumstances had held them back so long. Were they
going to find out something definite at last? Or would fate thrust another
unexpected obstacle in their way? Above all, if fortune proved kind, what
would be the character of their discovery?

Immensely intrigued and curious, Bud chattered constantly throughout the
ride, suggesting all sorts of solutions of the problem, some of which were
rather far-fetched. Gold was his favorite--as it has been the favorite
lure for adventurers all down the ages--and he drew an entrancing picture
of desert sands sprinkled with the yellow dust. He thought of other
precious metals, too, and even gave a passing consideration to a deposit
of diamonds or some other precious or semi-precious stones. Once he
switched off oddly on the subject of prehistoric remains, and Stratton's
surprised inquiry revealed the fact that three years ago he had worked for
a party of scientific excavators in Montana.

"Them bones and skeletons as big as houses bring a pile of money, believe
me!" he assured his companion. "The country up there ain't a mite
different from this, neither."

Buck himself was unusually silent and abstracted. During the last ten days
of enforced idleness he had considered the subject for hours at a time and
from every conceivable angle, with the result that a certain possibility
occurred to him and persisted in lingering in his mind, in spite of its
seeming improbability. It was so vague and unlikely that he said nothing
about it to Bud; but now, mounting the steep trail, the thought of it came
back with gathering strength, and he wondered whether it could possibly be
true.

Advancing with every possible precaution, they gained the summit and
passed on down the other side. Before them lay the desert, glittering and
glowing in the morning sun, without a sign of alien presence. Keeping a
sharp lookout, they reached the little, half-circular recess in the cliffs
that formed the end of the trail, and paused.

No rain had fallen in the last ten days and the print of motor-tires was
almost as clear and unmistakable as the day it had been made. They could
make out easily where the car had been driven in, the footprints about it,
and the marks left by its turning; and with equal lack of difficulty they
picked out the track made as it departed.

The latter headed north, but Stratton was not interested in it. Without
hesitation he selected the incoming trail, and the two followed it out
into the desert. For a few hundred yards they rode almost due east. Then
the wheel-marks turned abruptly to the south, and a little further on Buck
noted the prints of a galloping horse beside them.

"Lynch, I reckon," he commented, pointing them out to his companion. "When
he saw me up on the cliffs down yonder, he must have hustled to catch up
with the car."

Neither of them spoke again until they reached the spot where Buck had
seen the car stop and the men get out and walk about. Here they dismounted
and followed the footprints with careful scrutiny. Bud saw nothing
significant, and when they had covered the ground thoroughly, he expressed
his disappointment freely. Stratton merely shrugged his shoulders.

"We'll follow the back track and see where else they stopped," he said
curtly.

His voice was a little hoarse, and there was an odd gleam in his eyes.
When they were in the saddle again, he urged his horse forward at a speed
which presently brought a protest from Jessup.

"Yuh better take it easy, old man," he cautioned. "If that cayuse steps in
a hole, you're apt to get a jolt that'll put you out of business."

"I don't guess it'll hurt me," returned Stratton with preoccupied
brevity.

Bud gave a resigned shrug, and for ten minutes the silence remained
unbroken. Then all at once Buck gave a muttered exclamation and pulled
his horse up with a jerk.

They were on the rim of a wide, shallow depression in the sand. There was
nothing remarkable about it at first sight, save, perhaps, the total
absence of desert vegetation for some distance all around. But Stratton
slid hastily out of his saddle, flung the reins over Pete's head, and
walked swiftly forward. Thrilled with a sudden excitement and suspense,
Bud followed.

"What is it?" he questioned eagerly, as Buck bent down to scoop up a
handful of the trampled sand. "What have yuh--"

He broke off abruptly as Stratton turned suddenly on him, eyes dilated and
a spot of vivid color glowing on each cheek-bone.

"Don't you see?" he demanded, thrusting his hand toward the boy. "Don't
you understand?"

Staring at the open palm, Jessup's eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"Good Lord!" he gasped. "You don't mean that it--it's--"

He paused incredulously, and Buck nodded.

"I'm sure of it," he stated crisply.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE SECRET OF NORTH PASTURE


Jessup swallowed hard. "But--but--" he faltered, "there ain't never been
any found around here. The nearest fields are hundreds of miles away,
ain't they?"

Stratton dropped the lump of sand. A number of particles still clung to
his palm, and over the skin there spread an oily, slightly iridescent
film. His manner had suddenly grown composed, though his eyes still shone
with suppressed excitement.

"Just the same, it's--oil!" he returned quietly. "There's no doubt at all
about it. Look at the ground there."

Mechanically Bud's glance shifted to the wide, shallow depression in the
desert. The sand was noticeably darker, and here and there under the sun's
rays, it held that faintly iridescent glint that was unmistakable. At a
distance he would have said there was a spring somewhere beneath the
surface. But no water ever had that look, and now that he was prepared for
it he even noticed a faint, distinctive odor in the air.

"By golly!" he cried excitedly. "You mean to say the whole pasture's full
of it?"

"Not likely, but it looks to me as if there was a-plenty. There were
traces back there where we stopped, and there's no telling how many
more--"

"But I didn't see nothin'," interrupted Bud in surprise.

"You weren't looking for it, that's why," shrugged Stratton. "I was.
Thinking it all over this past week, I got to wondering if oil might not
just possibly be what we ought to look for. I was so doubtful I didn't say
anything about it. Like you said, nobody's ever struck it anywhere around
these parts, but I reckon you never can tell."

"Wough!" Bud suddenly exploded in a tremendous exhalation of breath. "I
can't seem to get it through my nut. Why, it means a fortune for Miss
Mary! No wonder that skunk tried his best to do her out of it."

Buck stared at him oddly. A fortune for Mary Thorne! Somehow, until this
moment he had not realized that this must seem to every one to be the
object of his efforts--to rid Mary Thorne of all her cares and troubles
and bring her measureless prosperity. Ignorant of Stratton's identity and
of all the circumstances of her father's treachery and double-dealing, she
must hold that view herself. The thought disturbed Buck, and he wondered
uncomfortably what her feelings would be when she learned the truth.

"What's the matter?" inquired Bud suddenly. "What yuh scowlin' that way
for?"

"Nothing special," evaded Buck. "I was just thinking." After all, there
was no use crossing bridges until one came to them. "We'd better get
started," he added briskly. "We've found out all we want here, and there's
no sense in taking chances of running up against the gang."

"What's the next move?" asked Bud, when they had mounted and started back
over their trail.

"Look up Hardenberg and put him wise to what we know," answered Stratton
promptly. "We've done about all we can; the rest of it's up to him."

"I reckon so," agreed Jessup. "I never met up with him, but they say he's
a good skate. Perilla's some little jaunt from here, though. Yuh thinkin'
of riding all the way?"

"Why not? It'll be quicker in the end than going to Harpswell and taking
the train. We'll likely need the cayuses, too, when we get there. I've
done forty miles at a stretch plenty of times."

"So've I, but not with a bad ankle and a bunged-up side," returned Bud
dryly. "How yuh feelin'?"

"Fine! I've hardly had a twinge all day. That bandage stuff is great dope
for keeping a fellow strapped up comfortable."

"Well, if you're up to it, I reckon that would be better than the train,"
Bud admitted. "For one thing, if we take the trail around south of the
Rocking-R we ain't likely to meet up with anybody who'll put Lynch wise,
an' I take it that's important."

"I'll say so!" agreed Buck emphatically. "The chances are that even if he
got wind of you and me being together, he'd realize the game was up, and
probably beat it for the border. As long as we can manage to keep out of
the spot-light, he may suspect a lot of things, but considering the size
of the stake, he's likely to take a chance and hang on."

"Let's hope he don't take it into his head to ride up here this morning,"
remarked Jessup, glancing apprehensively across the desert wastes toward
the south. "That would spill the beans for fair."

The very possibility made them urge the horses to an even greater speed,
and neither of them really breathed freely until they had gained the
little sheltered depression in the cliffs, from which the trail led over
the shoulder of the mountain.

"I reckon we're safe enough now," commented Stratton, drawing rein. "I
didn't see a sign of anybody as we came along."

Halting for ten minutes to rest the horses, they started up the trail in
single file, Bud going first. For a greater part of the distance the
rocky spurs shielded them from any save a very limited field of
observation. But at the summit there was an almost level stretch of twenty
feet or more from which an extended view could be had, not only of a wide
sweep of desert country, but of a section of the northern end of middle
pasture as well. Reaching this point, Buck glanced back searchingly. An
instant later he was out of the saddle and crouching against the rocky
wall.

"Lead Pete around the corner," he urged Jessup sharply. "Get out of sight
as quick as you can."

Bud obeyed without question, and Stratton hastily took out his
field-glasses and focused them on the three figures he had glimpsed riding
along the northern extremity of the Shoe-Bar pasture. He recognized them
instantly, pausing only long enough to make out that they did not seem to
be in haste, and that so far as he could tell they were not looking in the
direction of the trail. Then he thrust the glasses back into the case, and
slipping around the buttress rejoined his companion.

"Lynch, with McCabe and Kreeger," he explained curtly, gathering up the
reins and swinging himself into the saddle.

"Did they see yuh?"

"I don't think so. They seemed to be taking things easy, and weren't
looking this way at all. I wonder what they're up to?"

"Couldn't we stick around here for a while and watch them?" Bud asked
eagerly.

Buck hesitated an instant. "I guess we'd better not take a chance," he
replied at length. "Such a whale of a lot depends on his not knowing that
I'm alive and kicking; I'd hate like the devil to spoil everything now by
his getting a glimpse of me. Besides, for all we know they may be coming
through here to meet somebody--the rest of the gang, perhaps, or--"

"That's right," interrupted Bud hastily. "Let's go. Sooner we're off this
here trail the better."

Without further delay they rode on down the slope, paused for a moment or
two at the spring in the hollow to water the horses, and then pushed on
again. Passing the entrance to the gulch, Jessup glanced that way
curiously.

"Mebbe they're on their way to dispose of yore corpse, Buck," he
chuckled.

Stratton grinned. "I thought of that, and I rather hope it's so. They'd be
puzzled and suspicious, maybe, but they couldn't be really sure of
anything. It would be a whole lot better than to have them run across our
tracks in the sand back there. That would give away the show completely."

Twenty minutes or so later they reached the gully through which they had
come out on the trail. Though there had been no further signs of the
Shoe-Bar men, their vigilance did not relax. Pushing on with all possible
speed, they covered the distance to the little camp in very much less time
than it had taken in the morning.

Here the horses had a brief rest while the two men collected their few
belongings and loaded them on the pack-horse, for they had decided to go
on at once. Both felt that no time should be lost in finding the sheriff
and setting the machinery of the law in motion. Moreover, they were down
to the last scrap of food and unless they stirred themselves they were
likely to go hungry that night.

An hour later found them riding southward, following the route through the
mountains used by the cattle-rustlers. Making the same cautious circuit
Buck had taken around the southern end of the Shoe-Bar, they reached
Rocking-R land without adventure and pulled up before the door of Red
Butte camp about six o'clock.

Gabby Smith was cooking supper and greeted them with his customary lack of
enthusiasm. Bud, who had never seen him before, was much diverted by his
manner, and during the meal kept up a constant chatter of comment and
question for the purpose, as he afterward confessed, of making the
taciturn puncher go the limit in the matter of loquacity. His effort,
though it could scarcely be termed successful, evidently got on Gabby's
nerves, for afterward he turned both men out of the cabin while he
cleared up, a process lasting until nearly bedtime.

It was not until then that Stratton, by a chance remark, learned that
three or four days after his departure from the camp two weeks earlier, a
stranger had been there making inquiries about him. Gabby's stenographic
brevity made it difficult to extract details, but apparently the fellow
had passed himself off as an old friend of Buck's from Texas, desirous of
looking him up. He was a stranger to Gabby, slight, dark, with eyes set
rather closely together, and he rode a Shoe-Bar horse. Apparently he had
hung around camp until nearly dusk, and then departed only when Gabby got
rid of him by suggesting that his man had probably ridden in to spend the
night at the Rocking-R ranch-house.

Stratton and Jessup discussed the incident while making brief preparation
for bed. So far as Bud knew there had been no stranger on the Shoe-Bar at
that time; but it seemed certain that the fellow must have been sent by
Lynch to spy around and find out where Buck was.

"I s'pose he went to the ranch-house first and Tenny sent him down here,
knowing he wouldn't get much out of Gabby," remarked Stratton. "Well, as
far as I can see he had his trouble for his pains. Unless he hung around
for two or three days he couldn't very well be certain I wasn't somewhere
on the ranch."

Save as a matter of curiosity, however, the whole affair lay too far in
the past to be of the least importance now, and it was soon dismissed.
Having removed boots and outer clothing, and spread their blankets in one
of the pair of double-decked bunks, the two men lost no time crawling
between them, and fell almost instantly asleep.




CHAPTER XXV

THE TRAP


"Yuh out last night?" brusquely inquired Gabby, as they were dressing next
morning.

A direct question from the eccentric individual was so novel that Buck
paused in buckling on his cartridge-belt, and stared at him in frank
surprise.

"Why, no," he returned promptly. "Were you, Bud?"

"I sure wasn't. I didn't budge after my head hit the mattress. What gave
yuh the notion, old-timer?"

"Door unlatched," growled Gabby, continuing his preparations for
breakfast.

"Is that all?" shrugged Bud. "Likely nobody thought to close it tight."

Gabby made no answer, but his expression, as he went silently about his
work, failed to show conviction.

"Ain't he a scream?" inquired Bud an hour later, when they had saddled up
and were on their way. "I don't wonder Tenny can't get nobody to stay in
camp with him. It would be about as cheerful as a morgue."

"Must have got soured in his youth," remarked Stratton. "I had to put up a
regular fight to get him to look after the pack-horse till somebody can
take it back to the ranch-house. Where do we hit this trail you were
telling me about?"

"About a mile and a half further on. It ain't much to boast of, but
chances are we won't meet up with a soul till we run into the main road a
mile or so this side of Perilla."

Bud's prediction proved accurate. They encountered no one throughout the
entire length of the twisting, narrow, little-used trail, and even when
they reached the main road early in the afternoon there was very little
passing.

"Reckon they're all taking their siesta," commented. Bud. "Perilla's a
great place for greasers, yuh know, bein' so near the border. There's a
heap sight more of 'em than whites."

Presently they began to pass small, detached adobe huts, some of them the
merest hovels. A few dark-faced children were in sight here and there, but
the older persons were all evidently comfortably indoors, slumbering
through the noonday heat.

Further on the houses were closer together, and at length Bud announced
that they were nearing the main street, one end of which crossed the road
they were on at right angles.

"That rickety old shack there is just on the corner," he explained. "It's
a Mexican eating-house, as I remember. Most of the stores an' decent
places are up further."

"Wonder where Hardenberg hangs out?" remarked Stratton.

"Yuh got me. I never had no professional use for him before. Reckon most
anybody can tell us, though. That looks like a cow-man over there. Let's
ask him."

A moment or two later they stopped before the dingy, weather-beaten
building on the corner. Two horses fretted at the hitching-rack, and on
the steps lounged a man in regulation cow-boy garb. A cigarette dangled
from one corner of his mouth, and as the two halted he glanced up from the
newspaper he was reading.

"Hardenberg?" he repeated in answer to the question. "Yuh mean the
sheriff? Why, he's inside there."

Bud looked surprised and somewhat incredulous. "What the devil's he doin'
in that greaser eatin'-house?"

The stranger squinted one eye as the cigarette smoke curled up into his
face. "Oh, he ain't patronizin' the joint," he explained with a touch of
dry amusement. "He's after old Jose Maria for sellin' licker, I reckon.
Him an' one of his deputies rode up about five minutes ago."

After a momentary hesitation Stratton and Jessup dismounted and tied their
horses to the rack. Buck realized that the sheriff might not care to be
interrupted while on business of this sort, but their own case was so
urgent that he decided to take a chance. At least he could find out when
Hardenberg would be at leisure.

Pushing through the swinging door, they found themselves in a single, long
room, excessively dingy and rather dark, the only light coming from two
unshuttered windows on the north side. To Buck's surprise at least a score
of Mexicans were seated around five or six bare wooden tables eating and
drinking. Certainly if a raid was on they were taking it very calmly. The
next moment he was struck by two things; the sudden hush which greeted
their appearance, and the absence of any one who could possibly be the man
they sought.

"Looks like that fellow must have given us the wrong tip," he said,
glancing at Jessup. "I don't see any one here who--"

He paused as a wizened, middle-aged Mexican got up from the other end of
the room and came toward them.

"Yo' wish zee table, senors?" he inquired. "P'raps like zee _chile con
carne_, or zee--"

"We don't want anything to eat," interrupted Stratton. "I understand
Sheriff Hardenberg is here. Could I see him a minute?"

"Oh, zee shereef!" shrugged the Mexican, with a characteristic gesture of
his hands. "He in zee back room with Jose Maria. Yo' please come zis
way."

He turned and walked toward a door at the further end of the long room,
the two men following him between the tables. But Buck had not taken more
than half a dozen steps before he stopped abruptly. That curious silence
seemed to him too long continued to be natural; there was a hint of
tension, of suspense in it. And something about the attitude of the seated
Mexicans--a vague sense of watchful, stealthy scrutiny, of tense,
quivering muscles--confirmed his sudden suspicion.

"Hold up, Bud!" he warned impulsively. "There's something wrong here."

As if the words were a signal, the crowd about them surged up suddenly,
with the harsh scrape of many chair-legs and an odd, sibilant sound,
caused by a multitude of quick-drawn breaths. Like a flash Buck pulled his
gun and leveled it on the nearest greaser.

"Get out of the way," he ordered, taking a step toward the outer door.

The fellow shrank back instinctively, but to Buck's surprise--the average
Mexican is not noted for daredevil bravery--several others behind pushed
themselves forward. Suddenly Jessup's voice rose in shrill warning.

"Look out, Buck! Behind yuh--quick! That guy's got a knife."

Stratton whirled swiftly to catch a flashing vision of a tall Mexican
creeping toward him, a long, slim knife glittering in his upraised hand.
The fellow was so close that another step would bring him within striking
distance, and without hesitation Buck's finger pressed the trigger.

The hammer fell with an ominous, metallic click. Amazed, Buck hastily
pulled the trigger twice again without results. As he realized that in
some mysterious manner the weapon had been tampered with, his teeth
grated, but with no perceptible pause in the swiftness of his action he
drew back his arm and hurled the pistol straight into the greaser's face.

His aim was deadly. The heavy Colt struck the fellow square on the mouth,
and with a smothered cry he dropped the knife and staggered back, flinging
up both hands to his face. But others leaped forward to take his place, a
dozen knives flashing in as many hands. The ring closed swiftly, and from
behind him Stratton heard Bud cry out with an oath that his gun was
useless.

There was no time for conscious planning. It was instinct alone--that
primitive instinct of every man sore pressed to get his back against
something solid--that made Buck lunge forward suddenly, seize a Mexican
around the waist, and hurl him bodily at one side of the closing circle.

This parted abruptly and two men went sprawling. One of them Buck kicked
out of the way, feeling a savage satisfaction at the impact of his boot
against soft flesh and at the yell of pain that followed. Catching Jessup
by an arm he swept him toward one of the tables, snatched up a chair, and
with his back against the heavy piece of furniture he faced the mob. His
hat was gone, and as he stood there, big body braced, mouth set, and hair
crested above his smoldering eyes, he made a splendid picture of force and
strength which seemed for an instant to awe the Mexicans into inactivity.

But the pause was momentary. Urged on by a voice in the rear, they surged
forward again, two of the foremost hurling their knives with deadly aim.
One Stratton avoided by a swift duck of his head; the other he caught
dexterously on the chair-bottom. Then, over the heads of the crowd,
another chair came hurtling with unexpected force and precision. It struck
Buck's crude weapon squarely, splintering the legs and leaving him only
the back and precariously wobbling seat.

He flung this at one of the advancing men and floored him. But another,
slipping agilely in from the side, rushed at him with upraised knife. He
was the same greaser who, weeks before, had played that trick about the
letter; and Buck's lips twitched grimly as he recognized him.

As the knife flashed downward, Stratton squirmed his body sidewise so that
the blade merely grazed one shoulder. Grasping the slim wrist, he twisted
it with brutal force, and the weapon clattered to the floor. An instant
later he had gripped the fellow about the body and, exerting all his
strength, hurled him across the table and straight through the near-by
window.

The sound of a shrill scream and the crash of shattered glass came
simultaneously. In the momentary, dead silence that followed, one could
have almost heard a pin drop.




CHAPTER XXVI

SHERIFF HARDENBERG INTERVENES


During that brief lull Buck found time to wonder why no one had sense
enough to use a gun to bring them down. But almost as swiftly the answer
came to him; they dared not risk the sound of a shot bringing interference
from without. He flashed a glance at Bud, who sagged panting against the
table, the fragments of a chair in his hands and a trickle of blood
running down his face. Somehow the sight of that blood turned Buck into a
raging savage.

"Come on, you damned coyotes!" he snarled. "Come and get yours."

For a brief space it looked as if no one had nerve enough to accept his
challenge, and Buck shot a sudden appraising glance toward the outer door,
between which and them their assailants crowded thickest. But before he
could plan a way to rush the throng, that same sharp voice sounded from
the rear which before had stirred the greasers into action, and six or
seven of them began to creep warily forward. Their movements were plainly
reluctant, however, and of a sudden Stratton gave a spring which carried
him within reaching distance of the two foremost. Gripping each by a
collar, he cracked their heads together thrice in swift succession, hurled
their limp bodies from him, grabbed another chair from the floor, and was
back beside Jessup before any of their startled companions had time to
stir.

"Now's the time to rush 'em, kid," he panted in Jessup's ear. "When I give
the word--"

He broke off abruptly as the front door was flung suddenly open and a
sharp, incisive, dominant voice rang through the room.

"What in hell 's doing here?"

For a fraction of a second the silence was intense. Then like a flash a
man leaped up and flung himself through the window, while three others
plunged out of the rear door and disappeared. Others were crowding after
them when there came a sudden spurt of flame, the sharp sound of a
pistol-shot, and a bullet buried itself in the casing of the rear door.

"Stand still, every damn' one of you," ordered the new-comer.

He strode down the room through the light powder-haze and paused before
Stratton, tall, wide-shouldered, and lean of flank, with a thin, hawklike
face and penetrating gray eyes.

"Well?" he questioned curtly. "What's it all about? That scoundrel been
selling licker again?"

"Not to us," snapped Buck. "Are you Hardenberg?" he added, with sudden
inspiration.

"I am."

"Well, you're the cause of our being in here."

The gray eyes studied him narrowly. "How come?"

"I came to town to see you specially and was told by a man outside that
you were making a raid on this joint. We hadn't been inside three minutes
before we found it was a plant to get us here and knife us."

"I don't get you," remarked the sheriff in a slightly puzzled tone.

By this time Buck's momentary irritation at the hint that it was all
merely a drunken quarrel was dying away.

"I don't wonder," he returned in a more amiable tone. "It's a long
story--too long to tell just now. I can only say that we were attacked
without cause by the whole gang here, and if you hadn't shown up just now,
it's a question whether we'd have gotten away alive."

The sheriff's glance swept over the disordered room, taking in the
shattered window, the bodies on the floor, the Mexican who crouched
moaning in a corner, and returned to Stratton's face.

"I'm not so sure about that last," he commented, with a momentary grim
smile. "What's your name?"

"Buck Green."

"Oh! You wrote me a letter--"

"Sure. I'll explain about that later. Meanwhile--"

He broke off and, bending swiftly, pulled his Colt from under the table.
Breaking the weapon, he ejected a little shower of empty brass shells, at
the sight of which his lips tightened. Still without comment, he rapidly
filled it from his belt, Hardenberg watching him intently the while.

"Meanwhile, you'd like a little action, eh?" drawled the sheriff. "You're
right. Either of you hurt?"

He glanced inquiringly at Jessup, who was just wiping the blood from his
cut face.

"Not me," snapped Bud. "This don't amount to nothin'. Say, was there a guy
hangin' around outside when yuh came in--short, with black hair an' eyes
set close together?"

Buck gave a slight start; the sheriff shook his head.

"I might have known he'd beat it," snorted Bud. "But I'll get the lyin'
son-of-a-gun yet; it was him told us yuh were in here."

Hardenberg's gray eyes narrowed slightly. "That'll come later. We'll round
up this bunch first. If you two will ride around to Main Street and get
hold of half a dozen of my deputies, I'll stay here and hold this bunch."

Rapidly he mentioned the names of the men he wanted and where they could
be found, and Stratton and Jessup hastily departed. Outside they found
three horses, their own, tied to the hitching-rack as they had left them,
and a big, powerful black, who stood squarely facing the door, reins
merely trailing and ears pricked forward. The two that had been there when
they first rode up were gone.

"Just like I thought," said Jessup, as they mounted and swung around the
corner. "That guy was planted there a-purpose to get us into the
eatin'-house. What's more, I'll bet my saddle he was the same one who came
snoopin' around Red Butte camp two weeks ago. Recollect, Gabby said he was
small, with black hair an' eyes close together?"

Buck nodded. "It's a mighty sure thing he was there again last night and
pulled our loads," he added in a tone of chagrin. "We're a pretty dumb
pair, kid. Next time we'll believe Gabby when he says his door was opened
in the night."

"I'll say so. But I thought the old bird was just fussing. Never even
looked at my gun. But why the devil should we have suspected anythin'?
Why, Lynch don't even know yore alive!"

"He must have found out someway," shrugged Stratton, "though I can't
imagine how. No use shedding tears over it, though. What we've got to do
is get Hardenberg moving double-quick. Here's George Harley; I'll take
him, and you go on to the next one."

Rapidly the deputies were gathered together and hurried back to the
eating-house to find Hardenberg holding the Mexicans without difficulty.
Half an hour later these were safely lodged in the jail, and the sheriff
began a rigorous examination, which lasted until late in the afternoon.

The boldness of the affair angered him and made him determined to get at
the bottom of it; but this proved no easy matter. To begin with, Jose
Maria, the proprietor of the restaurant, was missing. Either he had merely
rented his place to the instigator of the plot, and was prudently
absenting himself for a while, or else he was one of those who had escaped
through the rear door. Most of the Mexicans were natives of Perilla, and
one and all swore that they were as innocent of evil intent as unborn
children. They had merely happened to be there getting a meal when the
fracas started. The miscreants who had drawn knives on the two whites were
quite unknown to them, and must be the ones who had escaped.

Hardenberg knew perfectly well that they were lying, but for the moment he
let it pass. He had an idea that Stratton could throw some light on the
situation, and leaving the prisoners to digest a few pithy truths, he took
the cow-puncher into his private room to hear his story.

Though Buck tried to make this as brief as possible, it took some time,
especially as the sheriff showed an absorbing interest from the start and
persisted in asking frequent questions and requesting fuller details.
When he had finally heard everything, he leaned back in his chair,
regarding Stratton thoughtfully.

"Mighty interesting dope," he remarked, lighting a cigarette. "I've had my
eyes on Tex Lynch for some time, but I had no idea he was up to anything
like this. You're dead sure about that oil?"

Buck nodded. "Of course, you can't ever be certain about the quantity
until you bore, but I went over some of the Oklahoma fields a few years
ago, and this sure looks like something big."

"Pretty soft for the lady," commented Hardenberg. He paused, regarding
Stratton curiously. "Just whereabouts do you come off?" he asked frankly.
"I've been wondering about that all along, and you can see I've got to be
dead sure of my facts before I get busy on this seriously."

Though Buck had been expecting the question, he hesitated for an instant
before replying.

"I'll tell you," he replied slowly at length, "but for the present I'd
like to have you keep it under your hat. My name isn't Green at all,
but--Stratton."

"Stratton?" repeated the sheriff in a puzzled tone. "Stratton?" A sudden
look of incredulity flashed into his eyes. "You're not trying to make out
that you're the Buck Stratton who owned the Shoe-Bar?"

Buck flushed a little. "I was afraid you'd find it hard to swallow, but
it's true," he said quietly. "You see, the papers got it wrong. I wasn't
killed at all, but only wounded in the head. For--for over a year I hadn't
any memory."

Briefly he narrated the circumstances of the unusual case, and Hardenberg
listened with absorbed attention, watching him closely, weighing every
word, and noting critically the most trifling gesture or change of
expression. For a while his natural skepticism struggled with a growing
conviction that the man before him was telling the truth. It was an
extraordinary experience, to be sure, but he quickly realized that
Stratton had nothing to gain by a deliberate imposture.

"You can prove all that, of course?" he asked when Buck had finished.

"Of course. I haven't any close relatives, but there are plenty of men
who'll swear to my identity."

The sheriff sat silent for a moment. "Some experience," he mused
presently. "Rotten hard luck, too, I'll say. Of course you never had a
suspicion of oil when you sold the outfit to old man Thorne."

Again Buck hesitated. Somehow he found this part of the affair
extraordinarily hard to put into words. But he knew that it must be done.

"I didn't sell it," he said curtly at length. "That transfer of Thorne's
was a forgery. He was a man I'd had a number of business dealings with,
and when I went to France I left all my papers in his charge. I suppose
when he saw my name on the list of missing, he thought he could take a
chance. But his daughter knew nothing whatever about it. She's white all
through and thinks the ranch is honestly hers. That's the reason why I
want you to keep quiet about this for a while. You can see how she'd feel
if this came out."

A faint, fleeting smile curved the corners of Jim Hardenberg's straight
mouth. Accustomed by his profession to think the worst of people, and to
probe deeply and callously for hidden evil motives, it amused and rather
pleased him to meet a man whose extraordinary story roused not the
faintest doubt in his critical mind.

"Some dirty business," he commented at length. "Still, it's come out all
right, and at that you're ahead of the game. That oil might have laid
there for years without your getting wise to it. Well, let's get down to
cases. It's going to take some planning to get that scoundrel Lynch, to
say nothing of the men higher up. Tell me about those fellows in the car
again."

Buck readily went over that part of his story, describing the fat man and
his driver as accurately as he was able. The sheriff's eyes narrowed
thoughtfully as he listened.

"Think you know him?" Buck asked curiously.

"I'm not sure. Description sounds a bit familiar, but descriptions are
apt to fool you. I wish you'd managed to get the number of the car."

"That would likely be a fake one," Stratton reminded him.

"Maybe. Well, I'll make a few inquiries." He stood up stretching. "I'd
like mighty well to start for the Shoe-Bar to-night, but I'm afraid I
can't get a posse together soon enough. We'll need some bunch to round up
that gang. You'll be at the United States Hotel, I suppose? Well, I'll get
busy now, and after supper I'll drop around to let you know how things are
going. With what you've told me I'll see if I can't squeeze some
information out of those greasers. It may help."

They left the room together, the sheriff pausing outside to give some
instructions to his assistant. Buck gathered in Jessup, who had been
waiting, and the two left the building and walked toward the hotel, where
they had left their horses.

Perilla was a town of some size, and at this hour the main street was
fairly well crowded with a picturesque throng of cowboys, Mexicans, and
Indians from the near-by reservation, with the usual mingling of more
prosaic-looking business men. Not a few motor-cars mingled with horsemen
and wagons of various sorts in the roadway, but as Buck's glance fell on a
big, shiny, black touring-car standing at the curb, he was struck by a
sudden feeling of familiarity.

Mechanically he noted the license-number. Then his eyes narrowed as he saw
the pudgy, heavily-built figure in the tan dust-coat on the point of
descending from the tonneau.

An instant later they were face to face. For a second the fat man glanced
at him indifferently with that same pouting droop to the small lips which
Stratton knew he never could forget. Then, like a flash, the round eyes
widened and filled with horror, the jaw dropped, the fat face turned to a
pale, sickly green. A choking gurgle burst from the man's lips, and he
seemed on the point of collapse when a hand reached out and dragged him
back into the car, which, at a hasty word from the occupant of the back
seat, shot from the curb and hummed rapidly away.

Thinking to stop them by shooting up the tires. Buck's hand dropped
instinctively to his gun. But he realized in time that such drastic
methods were neither expedient nor necessary. Instead, he turned and
halted a man of about forty who was passing.

"Any idea who that fellow is?" he asked, motioning toward the car, just
whirling around the next corner. "He's short and fat, in a big black
Hammond car."

"Short and fat in a Hammond car?" repeated the man, staring down the
street. "Hum! Must be Paul Draper from Amarillo. He's the only one I know
around these parts who owns a Hammond. Come to think, though, his car is
gray."

"He's probably had it painted lately," suggested Stratton quietly. "Much
obliged. I thought I'd seen him before some place."




CHAPTER XXVII

AN HOUR TOO LATE


"I had an idea that's who it was when you described him," said Sheriff
Hardenberg, to whom Stratton returned at once with the news. "There's only
one 'Paul' around here who fits the bill, and he sure does to
perfection."

"Who is he?" asked Buck curiously.

Hardenberg's eyes narrowed. "The slickest piece of goods in the State of
Arizona, I'd say. He's been mixed up in more crooked deals than any man I
ever ran up against; but he's so gol-darn cute nobody's ever been able to
catch him with the goods."

"He sure don't look it," commented Stratton. "With that baby stare of his
and--"

"I know," interrupted the sheriff. "That's part of his stock in trade;
it's pulled many a sucker. He's got a mighty convincing way about him,
believe me! He can tell the damnedest bunch of lies, looking you straight
in the eyes all the time, till you'd swear everything he said was gospel.
But his big specialty is egging somebody else on to do the dirty work, and
when the dangerous part is over, he steps in and hogs most of the
profits. He's organized fake mining companies and stock companies. Last
year he got up a big cattle-raising combine, persuaded three or four men
over in the next county to pool their outfits, and issued stock for about
three times what it was worth. It busted up, of course, but not before
he'd sold a big block to some Eastern suckers and got away with the
proceeds."

"I'd think that would have been enough to land him."

"You would, wouldn't you?" returned Hardenberg with a shrug. "But the
law's a tricky business sometimes, and he managed to shave the line just
close enough to be safe. Well, it looks as if we had a chance of bagging
him at last," he added in a tone of heartfelt satisfaction.

"Going to arrest him before we start for the Shoe-Bar?" asked Buck.

Hardenberg laughed shortly. "Hell, no! You don't know Paul Draper if you
think he could be convicted on your statement, unsupported by witnesses.
Believe me, by this time he's doped out an iron-clad alibi, or something,
and we wouldn't have a chance. But if one of the Shoe-Bar gang should turn
State's evidence, that's another matter."

"Aren't you afraid he may beat it if you let him go that long?"

"I'll see to that. One of my men will start for Amarillo right away and
keep him in sight till we come back. By the way, we've got Jose Maria, and
that guy you fired through the window. Caught the old fox sneaking back of
those shacks along the north road."

"Going to warn Lynch, I reckon," suggested Buck crisply.

"That's what I thought, so I strung some men along at likely points to
pick up any more that may try the same trick. I haven't got anything out
of Jose yet, but a little thumbscrewing may produce results. I'll tell you
about it to-night."

It was late when he finally appeared at the hotel lobby, and he had no
very favorable news to impart. Jose Maria, it appeared, had stuck to the
story of being engaged by an alleged Federal official to apprehend two
outlaws, whose descriptions fitted Buck and his companion perfectly. He
admitted having engaged the other Mexicans to help him, but swore that he
had never intended any harm to the two men. Their instructions were merely
to capture and hold them until the arrival of the supposed official.

"All rot, of course," Hardenberg stated in conclusion. "But it hangs
together a bit too well for any greaser to have thought out by himself. I
reckon that cow-man who got you into the joint was responsible for the
yarn and told Jose to give it out in case things should go wrong. Well, I
won't waste any more time on the bunch. You two be around about seven
to-morrow. I'd like to start sooner, but some of the boys have to come in
from a distance."

Buck and Jessup were there ahead of time, but it was more than an hour
later when the posse left Perilla. There were about twenty men in all, for
Hardenberg planned to send a portion of them across country to guard the
outlet of that secret trail through the mountains of which Buck had told
him. If Lynch and his men had any warning of their coming, or happened to
be out on the range, the chances were all in favor of their making for the
mountains and trying to escape by the cattle rustlers' route.

During the ride the thought of Mary Thorne was often in Buck's mind. He
did not fear for her personal safety. Alf Manning was there, and though
Stratton did not like him he had never doubted the fellow's courage or his
ability to act as a protector to the three women, should the need arise.
But that such a need would arise seemed most unlikely, for Lynch had
nothing to gain by treating the girl save with respect and consideration.
He had no compunction about robbing her, but she could scarcely be
expected to enter further into his schemes and calculations, especially at
a time when his whole mind must be a turmoil of doubt and fear and
uncertainty as to the future.

Nevertheless, Buck wished more than once that he had been able to get in
touch with her since that memorable afternoon when he had watched her
ride out of sight down the little canyon, if only to prepare her for what
was going on. It must have been very hard for her to go about day after
day, knowing nothing, suspecting a thousand things, fretting, worrying,
with not a soul to confide in, yet forced continually to present an
untroubled countenance to those about her.

"Thank the Lord it'll soon be over and she'll be relieved," he thought,
when they finally came in sight of the ranch-house.

As the posse swept through the lower gate and up the slope, Buck's eyes
searched the building keenly. Not a soul was in sight, either there or
about the corrals. He had seen it thus apparently deserted more than once
before, and told himself now that his uneasiness was absurd. But when the
girl suddenly appeared on the veranda and stood staring at the approaching
horsemen, Buck's heart leaped with a sudden spasm of intense relief, and
unconsciously he spurred his horse ahead of the others.

As he swung himself out of the saddle, she came swiftly forward, her face
glowing with surprise and pleasure.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come," she said in a low, quick voice, clasping
his outstretched hand. "We've been worrying--You--you're quite all right
now?"

"Fine and dandy," Buck assured her. "Thanks to you, and Bud, I'm perfectly
whole again."

She greeted Jessup, who came up smiling, and then Sheriff Hardenberg was
presented.

"Very glad to meet you, Miss Thorne," he said. There was a faint twinkle
in his eyes as he glanced toward Stratton for an instant, his belief
confirmed as to the principal reason for Buck's desire to keep the secret
of the Shoe-Bar ownership. Then he became businesslike.

"Where's Lynch and the rest of 'em?" he asked briskly.

The girl's face grew suddenly serious. "I don't know," she answered
quickly. "They were all working about the barns until a strange cow-boy
rode in about two hours ago. I saw him pass the window but didn't think
much about it. About half an hour or so later I went out to give some
orders to Pedro; he's the cook, you know. But he wasn't there and neither
was Maria, and when I went out to the barns the men were gone. Of course
something urgent might easily have taken them out on the range, but
neither Maria nor Pedro has been off the place for weeks. Besides, when I
peeped into the bunk-house everything was tossed about in confusion, as
if--Well, I was afraid something--had happened."

"Something has," stated the sheriff grimly. "The truth is, that scoundrel
Lynch has got to the end of his rope, and we're after him."

The girl's face paled, then flushed deeply. "What--what is it?" she asked
in a low, troubled voice. "What has he--"

"It's rather a long story, and I'm afraid there isn't time to stop and
tell you now," explained the sheriff as she paused. "We've got to make
every minute count. You have no idea which way they went?"

"It must have been west or south," the girl answered promptly. "If they'd
gone any other way I should have seen them."

"Fine," said Hardenberg, wheeling his horse. "Don't you worry about
anything," he added over one shoulder. "We'll be back in a jiffy."

As he and his men spurred down the slope toward the entrance to middle
pasture, the girl's eyes sought Stratton's.

"You--"

"I must." He quickly answered her unspoken question. "They'll need us to
show them the way. We'll be back, though, as soon as we possibly can.
You're not nervous, are you? You're perfectly safe, of course, with--"

"Of course," she assured him promptly. "Lynch has gone. There'll be
nothing for us to worry about here. Good-by, then, for a while. And do be
careful--both of you."

Her face was a trifle pale, and about her mouth and chin were traced a few
faint lines which hinted vaguely of forced composure. As Buck hastened to
overtake the posse, he recalled her expression, and wondered with a
troubled qualm whether she wasn't really more nervous than she let herself
appear. Perhaps she might have been more comfortable if he or Bud had
remained at the ranch-house.

"Probably it's all my imagination," he decided at length. "With Manning
there, she's perfectly safe, especially as we've got the whole gang on the
run. The ranch-house would be the very last place they'd head for."




CHAPTER XXVIII

FOREBODINGS


Almost at once they struck a fresh trail, made by a number of horsemen
riding in a bunch, which led diagonally across middle pasture. It was easy
to follow, and Hardenberg pushed his men hard to make up for delays which
were likely to come later on. For a time Buck rode beside the sheriff,
discussing their plans and explaining the lay of the land. Then he fell
back a little to chat with Jessup.

"I'm sure glad of one thing," Bud said emphatically, after a few desultory
remarks. "Miss Mary won't be bothered no more now with that son-of-a-gun
hangin' around an' makin' eyes."

Stratton turned on him suddenly. "Who the devil do you mean?" he demanded
sharply.

"Why, Tex, of course," shrugged Jessup. "He used to put in considerable
time soft-soapin' around her. A hell of a nerve, I'll say, makin' up to
such as her."

Buck scowled. "I never saw anything like that," he said brusquely, "except
maybe once," he added. With a sudden recollection of that afternoon they
moved the herd out of south pasture.

"Likely not," returned Bud. "He wasn't so bad till after yuh went. I got
the notion he took to courtin' her, yuh might say, as a kind of last hope.
If he could figger on gettin' her to marry him, he'd have the ranch an'
everythin' on it without no more trouble at all. You'd think even a
scoundrel like him would see she wouldn't look at him."

"Did he-- Was he--"

"Oh, no! Nothin' raw a-tall," returned Bud, divining the thought in
Stratton's mind. "He just hung around the ranch-house a lot, an' was awful
sweet, an' used them black eyes of his consid'able. Sorta preparing the
way, I reckon. But he didn't get far." He chuckled reminiscently. "I'll
tell the world, she didn't waste no time sendin' him about his business."

For a time Buck rode on in frowning silence. The very thought enraged him
and added deeply to the score that was piling up so rapidly against the
scoundrel.

Presently Bud's voice broke in upon his savage reverie.

"Funny we didn't see nothin' of the Mannings back there," he commented.
"The lady couldn't of known yuh was around." He glanced slyly at Buck.
"Besides," he added, seeing that his friend's expression did not lighten,
"with somethin' like this doin', you'd think his lordship would want to
strut around in them baggy pants an' yellow boots, an' air his views on
how to go about to catch the gang."

Stratton turned his head abruptly. "But they must be there!" he said
sharply. "They surely can't have gone away."

"There wasn't no talk of it when I left," shrugged Bud. "Still, an' all,
me an' his nibs wasn't on exactly confidential terms, an' he might have
forgot to tell me about his plans. Yuh got to remember, too, I've been
gone over a week."

A worried wrinkle dodged into Buck's forehead. All along he had taken the
presence of the Mannings so entirely for granted that the possibility of
their having left the ranch never once occurred to him. But now, in a
flash, he realized that by this time, for all he knew, they might be back
in Chicago. As Bud said, it certainly seemed odd that neither of them had
appeared when the posse rode up to the ranch-house. What a fool he had
been not to make sure about it. Why hadn't he asked the question
outright?

"But I did mention it while we were talking," he thought, trying to
reconstruct that brief interview with Mary Thorne. "Hang it all! No, I
didn't. I was going to, but she interrupted. But she must have known what
I referred to."

Suddenly there came back the vivid recollection of the girl's face as she
said good-by. Outwardly cheerful and composed, that faint pallor and the
few lines of strain etched about her mouth and chin struck him now with a
tremendous significance. She had known what was in his mind, but purposely
refrained from revealing the truth for fear of becoming a drag and hamper
to him. She was game through and through.

The realization brought a wave of tenderness surging over the man,
followed swiftly by a deepening sense of trouble and uneasiness.

"I don't like it at all, Bud," he burst out abruptly. "I wish to thunder
we'd found out for sure about those Mannings. If they have gone, one of us
at least ought to have stayed."

"Well, of course I'm only guessin'. Quite likely they're there yet, only
it just seemed funny not to see them. But even if she is left alone with
only Mrs. Archer, yuh ain't worryin' about anythin' really happenin' to
her, are yuh? It'll be darn lonesome, an' all that, but Lynch an' the
whole gang has beat it--"

"How do we know where they have gone?" cut in Stratton curtly. "They had a
good hour's start, and more. It'll be getting dusk pretty quick. What's to
prevent one or more of 'em circling back by the southeast? Lynch is
capable of anything, and after what you've just told me--"

Bud's eyes widened. "But what would he have to gain--"

"Gain?" repeated Buck irritably. "How the devil do I know what's in that
polecat's mind? He's quite capable of hiding behind a woman's skirts. He's
even capable of carrying her off and trying to force her to marry him, or
something like that. I've half a mind to--"

He broke off, frowning. Bud, now thoroughly alarmed, stared at him
uneasily. "You'd better let me go back," he said quickly. "They'll need
yuh more."

"I don't give a damn whether they need me or not," retorted Buck swiftly.
"I've got a better idea, though. We'll hit Las Vegas inside of ten
minutes. The 'phone's still working, isn't it?"

"It was the last I knew."

"I'll take a chance. There's been nothing to put it out of business. By
calling up we'll know how things stand a whole lot quicker. If she and
Mrs. Archer are alone, I'll chase back at once and you can show Hardenberg
the way into the mountains."

Though Bud's face showed no particular pleasure in the plan, he made no
comment, and they rode on in silence. Presently the sheriff turned and
called to Stratton. The trail was spreading out, he said, and growing more
and more difficult to follow in the waning light.

"I don't understand why they rode so far apart," he said, "unless it was
to make it hard for any one to track them. Looks to me, though, as if they
were heading straight for that cut into the mountains you told me about.
Is it much further off?"

"About a quarter of a mile below the little 'dobe shack we're coming to,"
Stratton answered. "The creek takes a sharp turn to the southeast, and
right at the bend you cross and ride straight west into a narrow draw that
doesn't look like it went anywhere. Further on it twists around and leads
into a short canyon that brings you through to a sort of valley lying
between the hills. After that everything's plain sailing. It's almost as
plain as a regular trail."

"Good," nodded Hardenberg. "Anything to mark the draw?"

Buck thought a minute. "As I remember, there's a low ridge on the north
side, and a big clump of mesquite on the right just before you leave the
flats."

"Well, you'll be with us to act as guide. I wish we'd had an hour's
earlier start, though. It won't be any cinch traveling through these
mountains in the dark. Still, at the worst, we can count on Dick Jordan's
bunch to nab them as they come out."

Buck nodded. "I'm not sure I can stick along with you much longer," he
added briefly. "But Jessup can show you the way quite as well. There seems
to be some doubt now about those people I spoke of being still at the
ranch."

"Humph! That would mean that Miss Thorne would be there alone?"

"Yes, except for her aunt. I may be worrying unnecessarily, but with a
scoundrel like Lynch--"

"You never can tell," finished the sheriff as he hesitated. "That's true
enough. We mustn't take any chances. But how--"

"Telephone. There's a line from the ranch-house to Las Vegas camp just
ahead." Buck pointed where, through the gathering dusk, the outlines of
the adobe shack showed dimly. "If I find there's no one with her, I'll
ride back."

"Go to it," nodded the sheriff. "If you don't show up I'll understand. At
a pinch I reckon we could find the trail ourselves from your directions."

As Stratton pulled off to the right, he waved his hand and swept onward
with the posse. Buck reached the door and swung out of the saddle,
flinging the reins over Pete's head. Then he found that Bud had followed
him.

"I'm goin' to wait an' hear what yuh find out," the youngster stated
resolutely. "I can catch up with 'em easy enough."

"All right."

Buck hastily entered the shack, which was almost pitch-dark. A faint
glint of metal came from the telephone, hanging beside one window; and as
he swiftly crossed the room and fumbled for the bell, there stirred within
him a sudden sense of apprehension that was almost dread.




CHAPTER XXIX

CREEPING SHADOWS


With her back against the veranda pillar, Mary Thorne watched the group of
mounted men canter down the slope, splash across the creek, and file
briskly through the gate leading to middle pasture. Perhaps it would be
more accurate to say that, for the most part, her glance followed one of
them, and when the erect, jaunty, broad-shouldered figure on the big roan
had disappeared, she gave a little sigh.

"He looks better--much better," she murmured.

Her eyes grew dreamy, and in her mind she saw again that little hidden
canyon with its overhanging ledge beneath which the man lay stretched out
on his blankets. Somehow, the anxiety and suspense, the heart-breaking
worry and weariness of that strange experience had faded utterly. There
remained only a very vivid recollection of the touch of her hand against
his damp forehead, the feeling of his crisp, dark hair as she pushed it
gently back, the look of those long, thick lashes lying so still against
his pallid face.

Not seldom she had wished those fleeting moments might have been
prolonged. Once or twice she was even a little jealous of Bud Jessup's
ministrations; just as, thinking of him now, she was jealous of his
constant nearness to Buck and the manner in which he seemed so intently to
share all the other's plans and projects, and even thoughts.

"Well, anyway," she said suddenly aloud, "I'm glad Stella's not here."

Then, realizing that she had spoken aloud, she blushed and looked hastily
around. No one was in sight, but a moment or two later Mrs. Archer
appeared on the veranda.

"I thought I heard voices a little while ago," she said, glancing around.
"Have the men come back?"

Mary turned to meet her. "No, dear. That was the--the sheriff and some of
his men."

"The sheriff!" An expression of anxiety came into Mrs. Archer's pretty,
faded face. "But what has happened? What--?"

"I'm not quite sure; they had no time to explain." The girl put an arm
reassuringly around the older woman's shoulder. "But they're after Tex and
the other hands. They've done something--"

"Ha!" In any other person the sound would have seemed suspiciously like a
crow of undisguised satisfaction. "Well, I'm thankful that at last
somebody's shown some common sense."

"Why, auntie!" Astonished, the girl held her off at arm's length and
stared into her face. "You don't mean to say you've suspected--?"

Mrs. Archer sniffed. "Suspected! Why, for weeks and weeks I've been
perfectly certain the creature was up to no good. You know I never trusted
him."

"Yes; but--"

"The last straw was his bringing that ridiculous charge against Buck
Green," Mrs. Archer interrupted with unexpected spirit. "That stamped him
for what he was; because a nicer, cleaner, better-mannered young man I've
seldom seen. He could no more have stolen cattle than--than I could."

A mental picture of her tiny, delicate, fragile-looking aunt engaged in
that strenuous and illicit operation brought a momentary smile to Mary
Thorne's lips. Then her face grew serious.

"But you know I didn't believe it--really," she protested. "I offered to
keep him on if he'd only assure me he wasn't here for any--any secret
reason. But he wouldn't, and at the time there seemed nothing to do but
let him go."

"I suppose he might have had some other private reason than stealing
cattle," commented Mrs. Archer.

"He had," returned Mary, suppressing a momentary sense of annoyance that
her aunt had shown the greater faith. "As nearly as I can make out, he was
here to shadow Tex. As a matter of fact he really wanted to leave the
ranch and work from a different direction, so it turned out all right in
the end. He thinks it was Tex himself who secretly instigated the
cattle-stealing."

"The villain!" ejaculated Mrs. Archer energetically. "But where
has--er--Buck been all this time? Where is he now?"

The girl smiled faintly. "He was here a little while ago. He and Bud are
both with the sheriff's posse. They believe the men are heading for the
mountains and have gone after them."

Mrs. Archer glanced sharply at her niece, noted a faint flush on the
girl's face, and pursed her lips.

"When are they coming back?" she asked, after a little pause.

Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Not until they catch them, I suppose."

"Which certainly won't be to-night. I'm rather surprised at Buck. It seems
to me that he ought to have stayed here to look after things, instead of
rushing off to chase outlaws."

"It wasn't his fault," defended Mary quickly. "He thought Alf and Stella
were here."

"Alf and Stella! Good gracious, child! How could he, when they left four
days ago?"

"He didn't know that. He took it for granted they were still here, and I
let him think so. They needed him to guide the posse, and I knew if I told
him, he'd insist on staying behind. After all, dear, there's nothing for
us to worry about. It'll be a bit lonesome to-night, but--"

"Worry! I'm not worrying--about myself." Mrs. Archer regarded her niece
with a curiously keen expression that seemed oddly incongruous in that
delicate fragile-looking face. "I'm not blind," she went on quickly. "I've
noticed what's been going on--the wretch! You're afraid of him, too, I can
see, and no wonder. I wish somebody had stayed--Still, we must make the
best of it. What are you going to do about the stock?"

"Feed them," said Mary laconically, quelling a little shiver that went
over her. "Let's go and do it now."

Together they walked around to the corral, where Mary forked down some hay
for the three horses, and filled the sunken water-barrel from the tank.
Already shadows were creeping up from the hollows, and the place seemed
very still and deserted.

In the kitchen the sense of silent emptiness was even greater, accustomed
as they were to the constant presence of Pedro and his wife. The two women
did not linger longer than was necessary to fill a tray with supper, which
they carried into the living-room. Here Mary closed the door, lit two
lamps, and touched a match to the wood piled up in the big fireplace.

"It'll make things more cheerful," she remarked with an attempt at
casualness which was not altogether successful. "I don't see why we
shouldn't heat some water here and make tea," she added with sudden
inspiration.

Mrs. Archer, who liked her cup of tea, made no objections, and Mary sprang
up and went back to the kitchen. Filling a saucepan from the pump, she got
the tea-caddy out of a cupboard, and then paused in the middle of the
room, staring out into the gathering dusk.

Neither doors nor windows in the ranch-house were ever locked, and, save
on really cold nights, they were rarely even closed. But now, of a sudden,
the girl felt she would be much more comfortable if everything were shut
up tight, and setting down the pan and caddy on the table, she went over
to the nearest window.

It looked out on the various barns and sheds clustered at the back of the
ranch-house. The harness-room occupied the ground floor of the nearest
shed, with a low, seldom-entered loft above, containing a single, narrow
window without glass or shutters.

As Mary approached the open kitchen window, herself invisible in the
shadows of the room, a slight sense of movement in that little square
under the eaves of the shed roof drew her glance swiftly upward. To her
horror she caught a momentary glimpse of a face framed in the narrow
opening. It vanished swiftly--far too swiftly to be recognized. But
recognition was not necessary. The mere knowledge that some one was hidden
in the loft--had probably been hidden there all along--turned the girl
cold and instantly awakened her worst fears.




CHAPTER XXX

LYNCH SCORES


How long she stood there staring fearfully at the empty window of the
shed, Mary Thorne had no idea. She seemed frozen and incapable of
movement. But at last, with a shiver, she came to herself, and bending
out, drew in the heavy wooden, shutters and fumbled with the catch. The
bolt was stiff from disuse, and her hands shook so that she was scarcely
able to thrust it into the socket. Still trembling, she closed and bolted
the door and made fast the other windows. Then she paused in the middle of
the room, slim fingers clenched tightly together, and heart beating loudly
and unevenly.

"What shall I do?" she said aloud in a strained whisper. "What shall I
do?"

Her glance sought the short passage, and, through it, the cozy brightness
of the living-room.

"I mustn't let her know," she murmured.

After a moment more of indecision she stepped into the small room opening
off the kitchen, which had been occupied by Pedro and his wife. Having
bolted the shutters of the single window, she came back into the kitchen
and stood beside the table, making a determined effort for self-control.
Suddenly the sound of her aunt's voice came from the living-room.

"What are you doing, Mary? Can I help you?"

For a second the girl hesitated, nails digging painfully into her palms.
Then she managed to find her voice.

"No thanks, dear. I'll be there in just a minute." Resolutely she took up
the saucepan and caddy and walked slowly toward the lighted doorway. She
felt that a glance at her face would probably tell Mrs. Archer that
something was wrong, and so, entering the living-room, she went straight
over to the fireplace. Kneeling on the hearth, she took the poker and made
a little hollow amongst the burning sticks in which she placed the covered
saucepan. When she stood up the heat had burned a convincingly rosy flush
into her cheeks.

"I was closing the shutters," she explained in a natural tone. "While the
water's boiling I think I'll do the same in the other rooms. Then we'll
feel quite safe and snug."

Mrs. Archer, who was arranging their supper on one end of the big table,
agreed briefly but made no other comment. When Mary had secured the
living-room door and windows, she took the four bedrooms in turn, ending
in the one whose incongruously masculine appointments had once aroused
the curiosity of Buck Green.

How long ago that seemed! She set her candle on the dresser and stared
around the room. If only she wasn't such a helpless little ninny!

"And I'm such a fool I wouldn't know how to use a revolver if I had it,"
thought the girl forlornly. "I don't even know what I did with Dad's."

Then, of a sudden, her glance fell upon the cartridge-belt hanging on
the wall, from whose pendant holster protruded the butt of an
efficient-looking six-shooter--Stratton's weapon, which, like everything
else in the room, she had left religiously as she found it.

Stepping forward, she took hold of it gingerly and managed to draw it
forth--a heavy, thirty-eight Colt, the barrel rust-pitted in a few places,
but otherwise in excellent condition. She had no idea how to load it, but
presently discovered by peering into the magazine that the shells seemed
to be already in place. Then all at once her eyes filled and a choking
little sob rose in her throat.

"Oh, if you were only here!" she whispered unevenly.

It would be hard to determine whether she was thinking of Stratton, that
dreamlike hero of hers, whose tragic death she had felt so keenly, or of
another man who was very much alive indeed. Perhaps she scarcely knew
herself. At all events it was only a momentary little breakdown. Pulling
herself together, she returned to the living-room, carrying the big
six-shooter half hidden by her skirts, and managed to slip it, apparently
unseen, on a little stand above which hung the telephone to Las Vegas
camp. By this time the water was boiling, and having made tea, she carried
the pot back to the big table and sat down opposite Mrs. Archer.

For a minute or two she was busy with the cups and had no occasion to
observe her aunt's expression. Then, chancing to glance across the table,
she was dismayed to find the older woman regarding her with searching
scrutiny.

"Well?" questioned Mrs. Archer briefly. "What is it?"

Mary stared at her guiltily. "What's--what?" she managed to parry.

"Why beat about the bush?" retorted her aunt. "Something's happened to
frighten you. I can see that perfectly well. You know how I detest being
kept in the dark, so you may as well tell me at once."

Mary hesitated. "But it--it may not--come to anything," she stammered. "I
didn't want to--to frighten you--"

"Rubbish!" An odd, delicately grim expression came into the little old
lady's face. "I'd rather be frightened unnecessarily than have something
drop on me out of a clear sky. Out with it!"

Then Mary gave in and was conscious of a distinct relief in having a
confident.

"It's only this," she said briefly. "When I went to close the back kitchen
window a little while ago, I saw a--a face looking out of that little
window above the harness-room. Some one's--hiding there."

For an instant Mrs. Archer's delicately pretty, faded face turned quite
pale. Then she rallied bravely.

"Who--who was it?" she asked in a voice not altogether steady.

"I--don't know. It disappeared at once. But I'm sure it wasn't
imagination."

For a moment or two her aunt sat thinking. Then she glanced quickly across
the room. "Is that gun loaded?" she asked.

The girl nodded; she had ceased to be surprised at anything. For a space
Mrs. Archer regarded her untouched cup of tea thoughtfully. When she
looked up a bright spot of pink was glowing in each wrinkled cheek.

"It's not pleasant, but we must face it," she said. "It may be Pedro, or
even Maria. Both of them are cowards. On the other hand it may be Lynch.
There's no use shutting one's eyes to possibilities."

Abruptly she rose and walked quickly into her bedroom, returning in a
moment or two with a little chamois case from which she drew a tiny
twenty-two caliber revolver, beautifully etched and silver-mounted, with
a mother-of-pearl stock.

"Your uncle gave it to me many years ago and showed me how to use it," she
explained, laying it beside her plate. "I've never shot it off, but I see
no reason why--"

She broke off with a gasp, and both women started and turned pale, as a
harsh, metallic rattle rang through the room.

"What is it?" whispered Mary, half rising.

"The telephone! I can't get used to that strange rattle. Answer it,
quickly!"

Springing up, Mary flew across the room and took down the receiver.

"Hello," she said tremulously. "Who is--_Oh, Buck!_" Her eyes widened and
the blood rushed into her face. "I'm so glad! But where are you?... I see.
No, they're not here.... I know I did, but I thought--I wish now I'd told
you. We--we're frightened.... What?.... No, not yet; but--but there's some
one hiding in the loft over the harness-room.... I don't know, but I saw a
face at the window.... Yes, everything's locked up, but--"

Abruptly she broke off and turned her head a little, the blood draining
slowly from her face. A sound had come to her which struck terror to her
heart. Yet it was a sound familiar enough on the range-land--merely the
beat of a horse's hoofs, faint and far away, but growing rapidly nearer.

"Wait!" she called into the receiver, "Just a--minute."

Her frightened eyes sought Mrs. Archer and read confirmation in the elder
woman's strained attitude of listening.

"Some one's coming," the girl breathed. Suddenly she flung herself
desperately at the telephone. "Buck!" she cried. "There's some one riding
up.... I don't know, but I'm--afraid.... Yes, do come quickly.... What's
that?"

With a little cry she rattled the hook and repeatedly pressed the round
button which operated the bell. "Buck! Buck!" she cried into the
receiver.

The thud of hoofs came clearly to her now; it was as if the horse was
galloping up the slope from the lower gate.

"What's the matter?" demanded Mrs. Archer, in a hoarse, dry voice.

With a despairing gesture the girl dropped the receiver and turned a face
drained of every particle of color.

"The wire's--dead," she said hopelessly.

Mrs. Archer caught her breath sharply, but made no other sound. In the
silence that followed they could hear the horse pull up just beyond the
veranda, and the sound of a man dropping lightly to the ground. Then came
very faintly the murmur of voices.

To the two women, standing motionless, with eyes riveted on the door, the
pause that followed lengthened interminably. It seemed as if that low,
stealthy, sibilant whispering was going on forever. Mrs. Archer held her
little pearl-handled toy with a spasmodic grip which brought out a row of
dots across her delicate knuckles, rivaling her face in whiteness. Mary
Thorne's gray eyes, dilated with emotion, stood out against her pallor
like deep wells of black. One clenched hand hung straight at her side; the
other rested on the butt of the Colt, lying on the stand below the useless
instrument.

Suddenly the tension snapped as the heavy tread of feet sounded across the
porch and a hand rattled the latch.

"Open up!" called a harsh, familiar voice.

There was no answer. Mrs. Archer reached out to steady herself against the
table. Mary's grip on the Colt tightened convulsively.

"Open up, I tell yuh," repeated the voice. "I ain't aimin' to--hurt yuh."

Then apparently a heavy shoulder thrust against the door, which shook and
creaked ominously. Suddenly the girl's slim figure straightened and she
brought her weapon around in front of her, holding it with both hands.

"If--if you try to force that door, I--I'll shoot," she called out.

The only answer was an incredulous laugh, and an instant later the man's
shoulder struck the panels with a crash that cracked one of them and
partly tore the bolt from its insecure fastenings.

Promptly the girl cocked her weapon, shut both eyes, and pulled the
trigger. The recoil jerked the barrel up, and the bullet lodged in the
ceiling. Before she could recover from the shock, there came another
crash, the shattered door swung inward, and Tex Lynch sprang across the
threshold.

Again Mary lifted the heavy weapon and tried to nerve herself to fire. But
somehow this was different from shooting through a solid wooden door, and
she could not bring herself to do it. Mrs. Archer had no such scruples.
Her small, delicately-chiseled face was no longer soft and gentle. It had
frozen into a white mask of horror, out of which the once-soft eyes blazed
with fierce determination. Bending across the table, she leveled her
toylike weapon at the advancing outlaw, and by the merest chance sent a
bullet flying so close to his head that he ducked instinctively. An
instant later Pedro darted through the passage from the kitchen, snatched
the weapon from her hand, and flung her roughly into a chair.

Her aunt's half-stifled cry stung Mary like a lash and roused her from the
almost hypnotic state in which, wide-eyed and terrified, she had been
watching Lynch's swift advance.

"Oh!" she cried furiously. "You--you beast!"

He was within a few feet of her now, and moved by the double impulse of
fear and anger, her finger pressed the trigger. But there was no response,
and too late the girl realized that she had failed to cock the weapon. In
another moment Lynch had wrenched it from her hand.




CHAPTER XXXI

GONE


Motionless in his saddle, save for an occasional restless stamp of his
horse, Bud Jessup waited patiently in front of the adobe shack at Las
Vegas camp. His face was serious and thoughtful, and his glance was fixed
on the open door through which came the broken, indistinguishable murmur
of Buck Stratton's voice. Once, thinking he heard an unusual sound, the
youngster turned his head alertly and stared westward through the shadows.
But a moment later his eyes flashed back to that narrow, black oblong, and
he resumed his uneasy pondering as to what Buck might possibly be finding
out.

Suddenly he gave a start as Stratton's voice, harsh, startled, came to him
distinctly.

"Mary! Mary! Why don't you answer? What's happened?"

The words were punctuated by a continuous rattle, and ended abruptly with
the clatter of metal against metal.

"Hell!" rasped Buck, in a hoarse, furious voice with an undercurrent of
keen apprehension that made Bud's nerves tingle. "The wire's been cut!"

An instant later he appeared, running. Snatching the reins, he gained the
saddle in a single bound, jerked his horse around, and was off across the
pasture.

"Come on!" he shouted back over one shoulder. "There's trouble at the
ranch."

Bud dug spurs into his cayuse and followed, but it was some minutes before
he managed to catch up with his friend.

"What is it?" he cried anxiously. "What's wrong? Have the Mannings--"

"They've gone, as I thought," snapped Stratton. "The two women are alone.
But that isn't the worst." A sudden spasm of uncontrolled fury rose in his
throat and choked him momentarily. "There's some one hidden in the loft
over the harness-room," he managed to finish hoarsely.

Bud stared at him in dismay. "Who the devil--"

"I don't know. She just got a glimpse of a--a face in the window while she
was closing up the kitchen."

"Do you suppose it's--Tex?"

"I don't know," retorted Buck through his clenched teeth. "What difference
does it make, anyhow? Some one hid there for a--a purpose. By God! What
fools we were not to make a search!"

"It seemed so darn sure they'd all beat it," faltered Bud. "Besides, I
don't guess any of us would of thought to look in that loft."

"Maybe not. It doesn't matter. We didn't." Stratton's voice was brittle.
"But if anything happens--"

"Have they locked up the whole house?" Jessup asked as Stratton paused.

"Yes, but what good'll that do with two able-bodied men set on getting in?
There isn't a door or shutter that wouldn't--"

"Two!" gasped Bud. "You didn't say--"

"Didn't I? It was just at the end. She was telling me about seeing the
face and locking up the house. Then all at once she broke off." Buck's
tone was calmer now, but it was the hard-won calm of determined will, and
every now and then there quivered through it a faint, momentary note that
told eloquently of the mingled dread and fury that were tearing his nerves
to pieces. "I asked what was the matter and she said to wait a minute. It
seemed like she stopped to listen for something. Then all of a sudden she
cried out that some one was riding up."

"It--it might not have been any of the gang," murmured Bud, voicing a hope
he did not feel.

"Who else would be likely to come at this time of night?" demanded
Stratton. "Lynch is on the outs with everybody around Perilla. They don't
go near the ranch unless they have to. It couldn't have been one of
Hardenberg's men; he's not expecting any one."

"Did--did she say anything else?" asked Jessup, after a brief pause.

Buck hesitated. "Only that she--was afraid, and wanted us to--come
quickly. Then the wire went dead as if it had been cut."

Silence fell, broken only by the thud of hoofs and the heavy breathing of
the two horses. Bud's slim, lithe figure had slumped a little in the
saddle, and his eyes were fixed unseeingly on the wide, flat sweep of
prairie unfolding before them, dim and mysterious under the brilliant
stars.

In his mind anxiety, rage, and apprehension contended with a dull, dead
hopelessness which lay upon his heart like lead. For something in Buck's
tone made him realize in a flash a situation which, strangely, he had
never even suspected. He wondered dully why he hadn't ever thought of it
before; perhaps because Buck was a new-comer who had seemed to see so
little of Mary Thorne. Probably, also, the very friendly manner of Stella
Manning had something to do with Jessup's blindness. But his eyes were
opened now, thoroughly and effectually, and for a space, how long or short
he never knew, he fought out his silent battle.

It ended in a victory. Down in his heart he knew that he had never really
had any hope of winning Mary Thorne himself. He had cherished
aspirations, of course, and dreamed wonderful dreams; but when it came
down to hard actualities, romance did not blind him to the fact that she
looked on him merely as a friend and nothing more. Indeed, though they
were virtually of the same age, he had been aware at times of an oddly
maternal note in her attitude toward him which was discouraging. Still, it
was not easy definitely to relinquish all hope and bring himself to write
"finis" to the end of the chapter. Indeed, he did not reach that state of
mind until, glancing sidewise at his friend, there came to him a sudden,
faintly bitter realization of the wide contrast between them, and of how
much more Buck had to offer than himself.

Stratton's erect, broad shoulders, the lean length of him, the way he held
his head, gave Jessup a curious, unexpected impression of strength and
ability and power. Buck's eyes were set straight ahead and his clean-cut
profile, clearly visible in the luminous starlight, had a look of
sensitiveness and refinement, despite the strength of his jaw and chin and
the somberness of his eyes. Bud turned away with a little sigh.

"I never had no chance at all," he thought. "Someway he don't look like a
cow-puncher, nor talk quite like one. I wonder why?"

Half a mile further on Buck suddenly broke the prolonged silence.

"I've been thinking it over," he said briefly. "The man on the horse was
probably Lynch. He could easily have started off with the rest and then
made a circuit around below the ranch-house. If he picked his ground, we'd
never notice where he left the others, especially as we weren't looking
for anything of the sort."

"Who do you s'pose hid over the harness-room?"

"It might have been Slim, or Kreeger, or even Pedro. The whole thing was
certainly a put-up job--damn them!" His voice shook with sudden passion.
"Well, we'll soon know," he finished, and his mouth clamped shut.

Already the row of cottonwoods that lined the creek was faintly visible
ahead, a low, vague mass, darker a little than the background of
blue-black sky. Both spurred their jaded horses and a moment or two later
pulled up with a jerk at the gate. Before his mount had come to a
standstill, Bud was out of his saddle fumbling with the catch. When he
swung it open, Stratton dashed through, swiftly crossed the shallow creek,
and galloped up the long, easy slope beyond.

A chill struck him as the ranch-house loomed up, ominously black and
desolate as any long-deserted dwelling. He had forgotten for an instant
the heavy, wooden shutters, and when, with teeth clenched and heart
thudding in his throat, he reached the veranda corner, the sight of that
yellow glow streaming from the open door gave him a momentary shock of
supreme relief.

An instant later he saw the shattered door, and the color left his face.
In two strides he crossed the porch and, with fingers tightening about the
butt of his Colt, he stared searchingly around the big, brightly-lighted,
strangely empty-looking room.

It held but a single occupant. Huddled in a chair on the further side of
the long table was Mrs. Archer. Both hands rested on the polished oak, and
clutched in her small, wrinkled hands was a heavy, cumbrous revolver,
pointed directly at the door. Her white, strained face, stamped with an
expression of hopeless tragedy, looked ten years older than when Buck had
last seen it. As she recognized him she dropped the gun and tottered to
her feet.

"Oh!" she cried, in a sharp, wailing voice. "You! You!"

In a moment Buck had her in his arms, holding her tight as one holds a
hurt or frightened child. Mechanically he soothed her as she clung to him,
that amazing self-control, which had upheld her for so long, snapping like
a taut rope when the strain becomes too great. But all the while his
eyes--wide, smoldering eyes, filled with a mingling of pity, of dread
questioning and furious passion--swept the room searchingly.

Over the little lady's bowed gray head his glance took in swiftly a score
of details--the dead fire, the dangling receiver of the useless
telephone, a little pearl-handled revolver lying in a far corner as if it
had been flung there, an upset chair. Suddenly his gaze halted at the edge
of the shattered door and a faint tremor shook his big body. A comb lay on
the floor there--a single comb of tortoise-shell made for a woman's hair.
But it was a comb he knew well. And as his eyes met Bud's, staring from
the doorway at the strange scene, they were the eyes of a man tortured.




CHAPTER XXXII

BUCK RIDES


Presently Mrs. Archer released her spasmodic grip on Stratton's flannel
shirt and fumbled for her handkerchief.

"I'm a fool to--to waste time like this," she faltered, dabbing her eyes
with the crumpled square of cambric.

"I think you're rather wonderful," returned Buck gently. He helped her to
a chair. "Sit down here, and when you're able, tell us just
what--happened."

Her hands dropped suddenly to her lap and she looked up at him with wide,
blazing eyes. Bud had approached and stood on the other side of the chair,
listening intently.

"It was that creature Lynch," she said in a voice that trembled a little
with anger and indignation. "He was the one who rode up on horseback. It
was Pedro who was hidden in the loft. Mary told you about that before the
telephone went dead."

"The wire was cut," muttered Stratton. "That must have been the greaser's
work."

She gave a quick nod. "Very likely. He's equal to anything. They met just
outside the door and talked together. It seemed as if they'd never leave
off whispering. Mary was over by the telephone and I stood here. She had
that revolver, which she'd found in the other room." Her eyes indicated
the weapon on the table, and Buck was conscious of a queer thrill as he
recognized it as his own. "We waited. At last the--the beast pounded at
the door and called to us to open. We didn't stir. Then he threw himself
against the door, which cracked. Mary cried out that if he tried to force
it, she'd shoot. The creature only laughed, and when she did fire, the
bullet went wild."

She paused an instant, her fingers twitching at the handkerchief clasped
in her lap.

"And then he broke in?" questioned Buck, in a hard voice.

She nodded. "Yes. I fired once, but it did no good. Before I could shoot
again, Pedro came up from behind and snatched the revolver away. He must
have forced his way into the kitchen. He threw me into a chair, while
Lynch went after Mary."

Buck's lips were pressed tightly together; his face was hard as stone.
"Didn't she fire again?"

"No, I don't know why. I couldn't see very well. Something may have gone
wrong with the revolver; perhaps she had scruples. I should have had
none." Mrs. Archer's small, delicate face looked almost savage. "I'd have
gloried in shooting the brute. At any rate, she didn't, and he took the
weapon away from her and flung it on the table."

Again she hesitated briefly, overcome by her emotions. Stratton's face was
stony, save for a momentary ripple of the muscles about his mouth.

"And then?" he questioned.

"I--I tried to go to her, but Pedro held me in the chair." Mrs. Archer
drew a long, quivering breath. "Lynch had her by the wrist; I heard him
say something about not hurting her; and then he said, quite plainly, that
since she'd got him in this mess, she'd have to get him out. I couldn't
understand, but all at once I realized that if they did--take her away,
they'd probably tie me up, or something, to prevent my giving the alarm,
and so I pretended to faint."

She lifted her handkerchief to her lips and let it fall again. "It wasn't
easy to lie still in that chair and see the dear child--being dragged
away. But I knew I'd be quite helpless against those two villains.
She--she didn't struggle much; perhaps she hadn't the strength." The old
lady's voice shook, and she began again plucking nervously at her
handkerchief. "The minute they were out of the door, I got up and followed
them. I thought perhaps I might be able to see which way they went. It was
pitch-dark, and I crept along beside the house to the corner. I could just
see their outlines over by the corral. Pedro was saddling two horses.
When he had done, that creature, Lynch, made Mary mount and got on his own
horse, which he had been leading. Then the two men began to talk. I
couldn't hear everything, but it sounded as if they were arranging to meet
somewhere. They gave the name of a place."

Her eyes searched Buck's face with a troubled, anxious scrutiny. "So many
Arizona towns have a foreign sound, but somehow I--I've never even heard
of Santa Clara."

"Santa Clara!" burst out Bud. "Why, that's over in Sonora. If he should
get her across the border--"

Mrs. Archer sprang to her feet and caught Stratton by one arm. "Mexico!"
she cried hysterically. "Oh, Buck! You must save her from that creature!
You mustn't let him--"

"He sha'n't. Don't worry," interrupted Stratton harshly. "Tell me as
quickly as you can what else you heard. Was there anything said about the
way he meant to take?"

Mrs. Archer clenched her small hands and fought bravely for self-control.
"He said he--he might be delayed. He didn't dare take the road through
Perilla, and the trail through the mountains was probably blocked by the
sheriff." Her forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. "He said the only way was
to--to go through the pass and turn south along the edge of the T-T land.
That--that was all."

Buck's face lighted with somber satisfaction. "It's a good bit," he said
briefly. "When they started off did you notice which way they went?"

"Pedro rode past the house toward the lower gate. Lynch went straight down
the slope toward the bunk-house. He was leading Mary's horse. I ran a
little way after them and saw them cross the creek this side of the middle
pasture gate."

Buck shot a glance at Jessup. "The north pasture!" he muttered. "He knows
there'll be no one around there, and it'll be the safest way to reach the
T-T trail. I'll saddle a fresh cayuse and be off." He turned to Mrs.
Archer. "Don't you worry," he said, with a momentary touch on her shoulder
that was at once a caress and an assurance. "I'll bring her back."

"You must!" she cried. "They said something--It isn't possible that he
can--force her to--to marry him?"

"A lot of things are possible, but he won't have the chance," replied
Stratton grimly. "Bud, you stay here with Mrs. Archer, and I'll--"

"Oh, no!" protested the old lady. "You must both go. I don't need any one.
I'm not afraid of being here alone. No one will come--now."

"Why couldn't I go after Hardenberg and get him to take a bunch around the
south end of the hills," suggested Jessup quickly. "They might be able to
head him off."

"All right," nodded Stratton curtly. "Go to it."

Inaction had suddenly grown intolerable. He would have agreed to anything
save the suggestion that he delay his start even for another sixty
seconds. With a hurried good-by to Mrs. Archer, he hastened from the room,
swung into his saddle, and rode swiftly around to the corral. A brief
search through the darkness showed him that only a single horse remained
there. He lost not a moment in roping the animal, and was transferring his
saddle from Pete, when Bud appeared.

"You'll have to catch a horse from the _remuda_," he said briefly. "I've
taken the last one. Turn Pete into the corral, will you, and give him a
little feed." Straightening up, he turned the stirrup, mounted swiftly,
and spurred his horse forward. "So-long," he called back over one
shoulder.

The thud of hoofs drowned Bud's reply, and as the night closed about him,
Buck gave a faint sigh of relief. There was a brief delay at the gate, and
then, heading northwest, he urged the horse to a canter.

He was taking a chance in following this short cut through the middle
pasture, but he felt he had no choice. To attempt to trail Lynch would be
futile, and if he waited until dawn, the scoundrel would be hopelessly in
the lead. He knew of only one pass through the mountains to T-T ground,
and for this he headed, convinced that it was also Lynch's goal, and
praying fervently that the scoundrel might not change his mind.

He was under no delusions as to the task which lay before him. Lynch would
be somewhat handicapped by the presence of the girl, especially if he
continued to lead her horse. But he had a good hour's start, and once in
the mountains the handicap would vanish. The chase was likely to be
prolonged, particularly as Lynch knew every foot of the mountain trail and
the country beyond, which Stratton had never seen.

But the presence of difficulties only strengthened Buck's resolution and
confidence. As he sped on through the luminous darkness, the cool night
wind brushing his face, a seething rage against Tex Lynch dominated him.
Now and then the thought of Mary Thorne came to torture him. Vividly he
pictured the scene at the ranch-house which Mrs. Archer had described,
imagining the girl's fear and horror and despair, then and afterward, with
a realism which made him wince. But always his mind flashed back to the
man who was to blame for it all, and with savage curses he pledged himself
to a reckoning.

And so, with mind divided between alternating spasms of tenderness and
fury, he came at last to the further side of middle pasture and dismounted
to let down the fence. It was characteristic of the born and bred ranchman
that instead of riding swiftly on and letting the cut wires dangle, he
automatically obeyed one of the hard and fast rules of the range and
fastened them behind him. He did not pause again until he reached the
little sheltered nook in the face of the high cliffs, out of which led the
trail.

Had those two passed yet, or were they still out there somewhere in the
sandy wastes of north pasture? He wondered as he reined in his horse. He
scarcely dared hope that already he could have forestalled the crafty
Lynch, but it was important to make sure. And so, slipping out of the
saddle, he flung the reins over the roan's head and, walking forward a few
steps, lit a match and searched the ground carefully for any signs.

Three matches had been consumed before he found what he was looking
for--the fresh prints of two horses leading toward the trail. Hastily
returning to his cayuse, he swung into the saddle and headed the roan
toward the grade. They were ahead of him, then; but how far?

It was impossible to make any speed along the rough uncertainties of this
rocky trail, but Buck wasted no time. Down in the further hollow he turned
aside to the spring, not knowing when he would again find water for his
horse. He did not dismount, and as the roan plunged velvet nozzle into the
spring, a picture rose in Buck's mind of that other day--how long ago it
seemed!--when he himself, sagging painfully in the saddle, had sucked the
water with as great an eagerness out of a woman's soggy Stetson, and then,
over the limp brim, gazed gratefully into a pair of tender hazel eyes
which tried in vain to mask anxiety beneath a surface of lightness.

He bit his lips and struck the saddle-horn fiercely with one clenched
fist. When the horse had finished drinking, he turned him swiftly and,
regaining the trail, pushed on feverishly at reckless speed.

About an hour later the first pale signs of dawn began to lighten the
darkness. Slowly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, a cold gray crept into
the sky, blotting out the stars. Little by little the light strengthened,
searching out shadowy nooks and corners, revealing this peak or that,
widening the horizon, until at length the whole, wide, tumbled mass of
peak and precipice, of canyon, valley, and tortuous, twisted mountain trail
lay revealed in all its grim, lifeless, forbidding desolation.

From his point of vantage at the summit of a steep grade, Buck halted and
stared ahead with a restless, keen eagerness. He could see the trail
curving over the next rise, and farther still he glimpsed a tiny patch of
it rounding the shoulder of a hill. But it was empty, lifeless; and as he
loosed the reins and touched the roan lightly with a spur, Stratton's face
grew blank and hard again.

From somewhere amongst the rocks the long-drawn, quavering howl of a
coyote sounded mournfully.




CHAPTER XXXIII

CARRIED AWAY


The same dawn unrolled before the eyes of a man and a girl, riding
southward along the ragged margin of the T-T ranch. Westward stretched the
wide, rolling range-land, empty at the moment of any signs of life. And
somehow, for the very reason that one expected something living there, it
seemed even more desolate than the rough, broken country bordering the
mountains on the other side.

That, at least, was Mary Thorne's thought. Emerging from the mountain
trail just as dawn broke, her eyes brightened as she took in the flat,
familiar country, even noting a distant line of wire fence, and for the
first time in many hours despair gave place to sudden hope. Where there
was range-land there must be cattle and men to tend them, and her
experience with Western cow-men had not been confined to those of Lynch's
type. Him she knew now, to her regret and sorrow, to be the great
exception. The majority were clean-cut, brave, courteous, slow of speech,
perhaps, but swift in action; simple of mind and heart--the sort of man,
in short, to whom a woman in distress might confidently turn for help.

But presently, as the rising sun, gilding the peaks that towered above
her, emphasized the utter emptiness of those sweeping pastures, the light
died out of her eyes and she remembered with a sinking heart the blackleg
scourge which had so recently afflicted the T-T outfit. There had been
much discussion of it at the Shoe-Bar, and now she recalled vaguely
hearing that it had first broken out in these very pastures. Doubtless, as
a method of prevention, the surviving stock had been moved elsewhere, and
her chances for help would be as likely in the midst of a trackless desert
as here.

The reaction made her lips quiver and there swept over her with renewed
force that wave of despair which had been gaining strength all through
those interminable black hours. She had done her best to combat it. Over
and over again she told herself that the situation was far from hopeless.
Something must happen. Some one--mostly she thought of Buck, though she
did not name him even to herself--would come to her aid. It was incredible
that in this day and generation a person could be successfully carried off
even by one as crafty, resourceful, and unscrupulous as Tex Lynch. But in
spite of all her reasoning there remained in the back of Mary's mind a
feeling of cold horror, born of those few sentences she had overheard
while Pedro was saddling the horses. Like a poisonous serpent, it reared
its ugly head persistently, to demolish in an instant her most specious
arguments. The very thought of it now filled her with the same fear and
dread that had overwhelmed her when the incredible words first burned into
her consciousness, and made her glance with a sudden, sharp terror at the
man beside her. She met a stare from his bold, heavy-lidded eyes that sent
the blood flaming into her cheeks.

"Well?" queried Lynch, smiling. "Feelin' better, now it's mornin'?"

The girl made no answer. Hastily averting her eyes, she rode on in
silence, lips pressed together and chin a little tilted.

"Sulking, eh?" drawled Lynch. "What's the good? Yuh can't keep that sort
of thing up forever. After we're--married--"

He paused significantly. The girl's lip quivered but she set her teeth
into it determinedly. Presently, with an effort, she forced herself to
speak.

"Aren't you rather wasting time trying to--to frighten me with that sort
of rubbish?" she asked coldly. "In these days marriage isn't something
that can be forced."

The man's laugh was not agreeable. "Oh, is that so?" he inquired. "You're
likely to learn a thing or two before long, I'll say."

His tone was so carelessly confident, so entirely assured, that in an
instant her pitiful little pretense of courage was swept away.

"It isn't so!" she cried, turning on him with wide eyes and quivering
lips. "You couldn't-- There isn't a--real clergyman who'd do--do such a
thing. No one could force me to--to-- Why, I'd rather die than--"

She paused, choking. Lynch shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, no, yuh wouldn't," he drawled. "Dyin' is mighty easy to talk about,
but when yuh get right down to it, I reckon you'd change yore mind. I
don't see why yore so dead set against me," he added. "I ain't so hard to
look at, am I? An' with me as yore husband, things will--will be mighty
different on the ranch. You'll never have to pinch an' worry like yuh do
now."

Tears blinded her, and, turning away quickly, she stared unseeing through
a blurring haze, fighting desperately for at least a semblance of
self-control. He was so confident, so terribly sure of himself! What if he
could do the thing he said? She did not see how such a ghastly horror
could be possible; but then, what did she know of conditions in the place
to which he was taking her?

Suddenly, as she struggled against that overpowering weight of misery and
despair, her thoughts flew longingly to another man, and for an instant
she seemed to look into his eyes--whimsical, a little tender, with a faint
touch of suppressed longing in their clear gray depths.

"Buck! Oh, Buck!" she yearned under her breath.

Then of a sudden she felt a hand on her bridle and became aware that Lynch
was speaking.

"We'll stop here for a bit," he informed her briefly. "You'd better get
down and stretch yoreself."

She looked at him, a little puzzled. "I'm quite comfortable as I am," she
returned stiffly.

"I expect yuh are," he said meaningly. "But I ain't takin' any chances."
With a wave of his hand he indicated a steepish knoll that rose up on
their left. "I'm goin' up there to look around an' see what the country
looks like ahead," he explained. "I'll take both cayuses along, jest in
case yuh should take the notion to go for a little canter. Sabe?"

Without a word she slipped out of the saddle and, moving to one side,
listlessly watched him gather up the reins of her horse and ride toward
the foot of the hill. Its lower levels sloped easily, and in spite of the
handicap of the led horse, who pulled back and seemed reluctant to follow,
Lynch took it with scarcely a pause.

There came a point, however, about half way to the summit, from which he
would have to proceed on foot. Lynch dismounted briskly enough and tied
both horses to a low bush. Then, instead of starting directly on the
brief upward climb, he turned and glanced back to where Mary stood.

That glance, indicating doubt and suspicion, set the girl suddenly to
wondering. Ever so little her slim figure straightened, losing its
discouraged droop. Was it possible? He seemed to think so, or why had he
looked back so searchingly? Guardedly her glance swept to right and left.
A hundred feet or so to the south a spur of the little hill thrust out,
hiding what lay beyond. If she could reach it, might there not possibly be
some spot in all that jumble of rocks and gullies where she at least might
hide?

Filled with a new wild hope; realizing that nothing she might do could
make her situation worse, Mary's eyes returned to the climbing man, and
she watched him narrowly. Little by little, when his back was toward her,
she edged toward the spur. She told herself that when he reached the top
she would make a dash, but in the end her tense, raw nerves played her
false. Quivering with eagerness, she held herself together until he was
within twenty feet or more of the summit, and then her self-control
snapped abruptly.

She had covered scarcely a dozen yards over the rough ground when a hoarse
shout of surprise came from Lynch, followed by the clatter of rolling
stones as he plunged back down the hill. But she did not turn her head;
there was no time or need. Running as she had never run before, she
rounded the spur and with a gasp of dismay saw that the cliffs curved back
abruptly, forming an intervening open space that seemed to extend for
miles, but which, in reality, was only a few hundred yards across.

Still she did not halt, but sped on gamely, heading for the mouth of the
nearest gully. Presently the thud of hoofs terrified her, but stung her to
even greater effort. Nearer the hoofs-beats came, and nearer still.
Breathless, panting, she knew now she could never reach the gully. The
realization sent her heart sinking like a lead plummet, but fear drove her
blindly on. Suddenly the bulk of a horse loomed beside her and a man's
easy, sneering laugh bit into her soul like vitriol. An instant later
Lynch leaped from his saddle and caught her around the waist.

"Yuh would, would yuh?" he cried, gazing down into her flushed, frightened
face. "Tried to shake me, eh?"

For a moment he held her thus, devouring her with his eyes, holding the
bridles of both horses in his free hand. Then all at once he laughed
again, hatefully, and crushing her to him, he kissed her, roughly,
savagely--kissed her repeatedly on the lips and cheeks and throat.

Mary cried out once and tried to struggle. Then of a sudden her muscles
relaxed and she lay limply in his arms, eyes closed, wishing that she
might die, or, better yet, that some supreme force would suddenly strike
the creature dead.

How long she lay there shuddering with disgust and loathing, she did not
know. It seemed an eternity before she realized that his lips no longer
touched her, and opening her eyes she was startled at the sight of his
face.

It was partly turned away from her as he stared southward across the
flats. His eyes were wide, incredulous, and filled with a mingling of
anger and dismay. In another moment he jerked her roughly to her feet,
dragged her around to the side of her horse, and fairly flung her into the
saddle. Vaulting into his own, he spurred the beast savagely and rode back
toward the out-thrust spur at a gallop, dragging the unwilling Freckles
with him.

Gripping the saddle-horn to keep her precarious seat, Mary yet found time
for a hurried backward glance before she was whisked out of sight of that
wide stretch of open country to the south. But that glance was enough to
make her heart leap. Dots--moving dots which she had no difficulty in
recognizing as horsemen--were sweeping northward along the edge of the
breaks. Who they were she neither knew nor cared. It was enough that they
were men. Her eyes sparkled, and a wild new hope flamed up within her,
even though she was being carried swiftly away from them.

Once in the shelter of the spur, Lynch did not halt but rode on at full
speed, heading northward. For half a mile or so the thudding hoof-beats of
the two horses alone broke the silence. Then, as their advance opened up a
fresh sweep of country, Lynch jerked his mount to a standstill with a
suddenness that raised a cloud of dust about them.

"Hell!" he rasped, staring from under narrowing lids.

For full half a minute he sat motionless, his face distorted with baffled
fury and swiftly growing fear. Then his eyes flashed toward the hills on
the right and swept them searchingly. A second later he had turned his
cayuse and was speeding towards a narrow break between two spurs, keeping
a tight hold on the girl's bridle.

"You try any monkey tricks," he flung back over one shoulder, "and
I'll--kill yuh."

Mary made no answer, but the savage ferocity of his tone made her shiver,
and she instantly abandoned the plan she had formed of trying, by little
touches of hand and heel, to make Freckles still further hamper Lynch's
actions. Through the settling dust-haze she had seen the cause of his
perturbation--a single horseman less than a mile away galloping straight
toward them--and felt that her enemy was cornered. But the very strength
of her exultation gave her a passionate longing for life and happiness,
and she realized vividly the truth of Lynch's callous, sneering words,
that when one actually got down to it, it was not an easy thing to die.
She must take no chances. Surely it could be only a question of a little
time now before she would be free.

But presently her high confidence began to fade. With the manner of one on
perfectly familiar ground, Lynch rode straight into the break between the
rocks, which proved to be the entrance to a gully that widened and then
turned sharply to the right. Here he stopped and ordered Mary to ride in
front of him.

"You go ahead," he growled, flinging her the reins. "Don't lose any time,
neither."

Without question she obeyed, choosing the way from his occasional, tersely
flung directions. This led them upward, slowly, steadily with many a twist
and turn, until at length, passing through a narrow opening in the rocks,
Mary came out suddenly on a ledge scarcely a dozen feet in width. On one
side the cliffs rose in irregular, cluttered masses, too steep to climb.
On the other was a precipitous drop into a canyon of unknown depth.

"Get down," ordered Lynch, swinging out of his saddle.

As she slid to the ground he handed her his bridle-reins.

"Take the horses a ways back an' hold 'em," he told her curtly. "An'
remember this: Not a peep out of yuh, or it'll be yore last. Nobody yet's
double-crossed me an' got away with it, an' nobody ain't goin' to--not
even a woman. That canyon's pretty deep, an' there's sharp stones a-plenty
at the bottom."

White-faced and tight-lipped, she turned away from him without a word and
led the two horses back to the point he indicated. The ledge, which sloped
sharply upward, was cluttered with loose stones, and she moved slowly,
avoiding these with instinctive caution and trying not to glance toward
the precipice. A dozen feet away she paused, holding the horses tightly by
their bridles and pressing herself against the lathered neck of Freckles,
who she knew was steady. Then she glanced back and caught her breath with
a swift, sudden intake.

Kneeling close to the opening, but a little to one side, Lynch was
whirling the cylinder of his Colt. Watching him with fascinated horror,
Mary saw him break the weapon, closely inspect the shells, close it again,
and test the trigger. Then, revolver gripped in right hand, he settled
himself into a slightly easier position, eyes fixed on the opening and
head thrust a little forward in an attitude of listening.

Only too well she guessed his purpose. He was waiting in ambush to "get"
that solitary horseman they had seen riding from the north. Whether or not
he had come here for the sole purpose of luring the other to his death,
Mary had no notion. But she could see clearly that once this stranger was
out of the way, Lynch would at least have a chance to penetrate into the
mountains before the others from the south arrived to halt him.

Slowly, interminably the minutes ticked away as the girl stood motionless,
striving desperately to think of something she might do to prevent the
catastrophe. If only she had some way of knowing when the stranger was
near she might cry out a warning, even at the risk of Lynch's violence.
But thrust here in the background as she was, the unknown was likely to
come within range of Lynch's gun before she even knew of his approach.

Suddenly, out of the dead silence, the clatter of a pebble struck on the
girl's raw nerves and made her wince. She saw the muscles of Lynch's back
stiffen and the barrel of his Colt flash up to cover the narrow entrance
to the ledge. For an instant she hesitated, choked by the beating of her
heart. Should she cry out? Was it the man really coming? Her dry lips
parted, and then all at once a curious, slowly moving object barely
visible above the rocky shoulder that sheltered Lynch, startled her and
kept her silent.

In that first flash she had no idea what it was. Then abruptly the truth
came to her. It was the top of a man's Stetson. The ledge sloped upward,
and where she stood it was a good two feet higher than at the entrance. A
man was riding up the outer slope and, remembering the steepness of it,
Mary knew that, in a moment, more of him would come into view before he
became visible to Lynch.

White-faced, dry-lipped, she waited breathlessly. Now she could see the
entire hat. A second later she glimpsed the top of an ear, a bit of
forehead, a sweeping look of dark-brown hair--and her heart died suddenly
within her.

The man was Buck Green!




CHAPTER XXXIV

THE FIGHT ON THE LEDGE


In that instant of supreme horror, Mary Thorne found time to be thankful
that terror struck her momentarily dumb. For now, with lips parted and a
cry of warning trembling there, she saw that it was too late. Like a
pointer freezing to the scent, Lynch's whole body had stiffened; one hand
gripped the leveled Colt, a finger caressed the trigger. At this juncture
a cry would almost surely bring that tiny, muscular contraction which
might be fatal.

From behind the ledge Buck's hat had disappeared, and a faint creak of
saddle-leather told the girl that he had dismounted and by so doing must
have moved a trifle out of range.

Sick with horror and desperation, the girl's eye fell upon a stone lying
at her feet--a jagged piece of granite perhaps twice the size of a
baseball. In a flash she dropped the bridle-reins and, bending, caught it
up stealthily. Freckles pricked his ears forward, but with a fleeting,
imploring touch of one hand against his sweaty neck, Mary steadied herself
for a moment, slowly drew back her arm, and, with a fervent, silent
prayer for strength, she hurled the stone.

It grazed Lynch's face and struck his wrist with a force that jerked up
the barrel of the revolver. The spurt of flame, the sharp crack of the
shot, the clatter of the Colt striking the edge of the precipice, all
seemed to the girl to come simultaneously. A belated second afterward
Lynch's furious curses came to her. With dilated eyes she saw him snatch
frantically at the sliding weapon, and as it toppled out of sight into the
canyon barely an inch ahead of his clutching, striving fingers, she
thrilled with sudden fierce joy.

"Curse you!" he frothed, springing up and rushing at her. "You--"

"Buck!" she screamed. "Quick! His gun's gone! He--"

A blow from his fist struck her mouth and flung her backward against the
horse. Half fainting, she saw Freckles lunge over her shoulder and heard
the vicious click of his teeth snapping together. But Lynch, ducking out
of reach of the angry horse, caught Mary about the waist and dragged her
toward the precipice.

Involuntarily she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, stirred by
the curious silence and the sudden cessation of all movement, she found
herself staring dazedly into the face of Buck Green.

He stood very quietly just inside the narrow entrance to the ledge, not
more than ten feet from her. In one hand was a six-shooter; the other hung
straight at his side, the fingers tightly clenched. As he met her
bewildered glance, his eyes softened tenderly and the corners of his lips
curved in a momentary, reassuring smile. Then abruptly his face froze
again.

"Yuh take another step an' down she'll go," said a hoarse voice close to
the girl's ear.

It was Lynch; and Mary, her senses clearing, knew whose hands gripped her
so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. Glancing sidewise, she hastily
averted her eyes. She was standing within six inches of the edge of the
precipice. For the first time she could look down into those sheer depths,
and even that hurried glimpse made her shiver.

"Well, I admit you've got the bulge on me, as it were." Buck's voice
suddenly broke the silence. "Still, I don't see how you're going to get
out of this hole. You can't stand like this forever."

Mary stared at him, amazed at his cool, drawling, matter-of-fact tone. She
was still more puzzled to note that he seemed to be juggling with his
revolver in a manner which seemed, to say the least, extraordinarily
careless.

"I can stand here till I get tired," retorted Lynch. "After that-- Well,
I'd as soon end up down there as get a bullet through my ribs. One thing,
I wouldn't go alone."

"Suppose I offered to let you go free if you give up Miss Thorne?"
Stratton asked with sudden earnestness.

"Offer? Hell! Yuh can't fool me with that kind of talk. Not unless yuh
hand over yore gun, that is. Do that, an' I might consider the
proposition--not otherwise."

Buck hesitated, his eyes flashing from the weapon he whirled so carelessly
between his fingers to Lynch, whose eyes regarded him intently over the
girl's shoulder.

"That would be putting an awful lot of trust in you," he commented. "Once
you had the gun, what's to prevent you from drilling me--Oh, damn!"

He made a sudden, ineffectual grab at the gun, which had slipped from his
fingers, and missed. As the weapon clattered against the rocks, Lynch's
covetous glance followed it involuntarily. What happened next was a
bewildering whirl of violent, unexpected action.

To Mary it seemed as if Buck cleared the space between them in a single
amazing leap. He landed with one foot slipping on the ragged edge of the
precipice, and apparently threw his whole weight sidewise against Lynch
and the girl he held. Just how it happened she did not know, but in
another moment Mary found herself freed from those hateful, gripping hands
and flung back against her horse, while at her feet the two men grappled
savagely.

Over and over on the narrow confines of the sloping ledge they struggled
fiercely, heaving, panting, with muscles cracking, each seemingly
possessed with a grim determination to thrust the other into the abyss.
Now Buck was uppermost; again Lynch, by some clever trick, tore himself
from Stratton's hold to gain a momentary advantage.

Like one meshed in the thralls of some hateful nightmare, the girl
crouched against her horse, her face so still and white and ghastly that
it might well have been some clever sculptor's bizarre conception of
"Horror" done in marble. Only her eyes seemed to live. Wide, dilated,
glittering with an unnatural light, they shifted constantly, following the
progress of those two writhing bodies.

Once, when Lynch's horse snorted and moved uneasily, she caught his bridle
and quieted him with a soothing word, her voice so choked and hoarse that
she scarcely knew it. Again, as the men rolled toward the outer side of
the ledge and seemed for a moment almost to overhang the precipice, she
gave a smothered cry and darted forward, moved by some wild impulse to
fling her puny strength into the scale against the outlaw.

But with a heave of his big body, Buck saved himself as he had done more
than once before, and the struggle was resumed. Back and forth they
fought, over and over around that narrow space, until Mary was filled with
the dazed feeling that it had been going on for ever, that it would never
end.

But not for an instant did she cease to follow every tiny variation of the
fray, and of a sudden she gave another cry. Gripped in a fierce embrace,
the two men rolled toward the entrance to the ledge, and all at once Mary
saw one of Lynch's hands close over and instantly seize the revolver Buck
had dropped there.

Instantly she darted forward and tried to wrest it from his grasp. Finding
his strength too great, she straightened swiftly and lifting one foot,
brought her riding boot down fiercely with all her strength on Lynch's
hand. With a smothered grunt his fingers laxed, and she caught up the
weapon and stepped quickly back, wondering, if Lynch came uppermost,
whether she would dare to try to shoot him.

No scruples now deterred her. These had vanished utterly, and with them
fear, nervousness, fatigue, and every thought of self. For the moment she
was like the primitive savage, willing to do anything on earth to
save--her man! But so closely were the two men entwined that she was
afraid if she shot at Lynch the bullet might injure Buck.

Once more the fight veered close to the precipice. Lynch was again
uppermost; and, whether by his greater strength, or from some injury Buck
had sustained against the rocks, the girl was seized by a horrible
conviction that he had the upper hand. Knees gripping Stratton about the
body, hands circling his throat, Lynch, apparently oblivious to the blows
rained on his chest and neck, was slowly but surely forcing his opponent
over the ragged margin of the ledge. It was at this instant that the
frantic girl discovered that her weapon had suffered some damage when it
fell and was quite useless.

Already Buck's head overhung the precipice, his face a dark, strangled
red. Flinging the revolver from her, Mary rushed forward and began to beat
Lynch wildly with her small, clenched fists.

But she might as effectually have tried to move a rooted tree, and with a
strangled cry, she wound her fingers in his coarse black hair and strove
with all her strength to drag Lynch back.




CHAPTER XXXV

THE DEAD HEART


Vaguely, as of a sound coming from far distances, the crack of a
revolver-shot penetrated to the girl's numbed brain. It did not surprise
her. Indeed, it roused only a feeling of the mildest curiosity in one
whose nerves had been strained almost to the breaking-point. When Lynch,
with a hoarse cry, toppled back against her, she merely stepped quickly to
one side, and an instant later she was on her knees beside Stratton.

"Buck!" she sobbed. "Oh, Buck!" clutching at him as if from some wild fear
that he would topple into the abyss.

Hands suddenly put her gently to one side, and some one dragged Stratton
from his dangerous position and supported him against an upraised knee. It
was Bud Jessup, and behind him loomed the figures of Sheriff Hardenberg
and several of his men.

Mary's glance noted them briefly, incuriously, returning anxiously to the
man beside her. His eyes were open now, and he was sucking in the air in
deep, panting gulps.

"How yuh feelin'?" asked Bud briefly.

"All right--get my breath," mumbled Buck.

"Yuh hurt any place?" Jessup continued, after a brief pause.

"Not to speak of," returned Stratton in a stronger tone. "When I first
jumped for the cuss, I hit my head the devil of a crack, and--pretty near
went out. But that don't matter--now."

His eyes sought the girl's and dwelt there, longingly, caressingly. There
was tribute in their depths, appreciation, and something stronger, more
abiding which brought a faint flush into her tired face and made her heart
beat faster. Presently, when he staggered to his feet and took a step or
two toward her, she felt no shame in meeting him half way. Quite as
naturally as his arm slipped around her shoulders, her lifted hands rested
against the front of his flannel shirt, torn into ribbons and stained with
grime.

"For a little one," he murmured, looking down into her eyes, "you're some
spunky fighter, believe me!"

She flushed deeper and her lids drooped. Of a sudden Sheriff Hardenberg
spoke up briskly:

"That was a right nice shot, kid. You got him good."

He was standing beside the body sprawling on the ground, and the words had
scarcely left his lips when Lynch's eyes opened slowly.

"Yes--yuh got me," he mumbled.

Slowly his glance swept the circle of faces until it rested finally on the
man and girl standing close together. For a long moment he stared at them
silently, his pale lips twitching. Then all at once a look of cunning
satisfaction swept the baffled fury from his smoldering eyes.

"Yuh got me," he repeated in a stronger voice. "Looks like yuh got her,
too. Maybe yuh think you've gobbled up the ranch, likewise, an'--an'
everything. That's where yuh get stung."

He fell to coughing suddenly, and for a few minutes his great body was
racked with violent paroxysms that brought a bright crimson stain to the
sleeve he flung across his mouth. But all the while his eyes, full of
strange venomous triumph, never once left Stratton's face.

"Yuh see," he choked out finally, "the ranch--ain't--hers."

He paused, speechless; and Mary, looking down on him, felt merely that his
brain was wandering and found room in her heart to be a little sorry.

"Why ain't it hers?" demanded Bud with youthful impetuosity. "Her father
left it to her, an'--"

"It wasn't his to--to leave. He stole it." Lynch's voice was weaker, but
his eyes still glowed with hateful triumph. "He forged the
deed--from--from papers--Stratton left with him--when he went--to war." He
moistened his dry lips with his tongue. "When Stratton was--killed--he
didn't leave--no kin--to make trouble, an' Thorne--took a chance."

His voice faltered, ceased. Mary stared at him dumbly, a slow, oppressive
dread creeping into her heart. Little forgotten things flashed back into
her mind. Her father's financial reverses, his reticence about the
acquisition of the Shoe-Bar, the strange hold Lynch had seemed to have on
him, rose up to torment her. Suddenly she glanced quickly at Buck for
reassurance.

"It isn't so!" she cried. "It can't be. My father--"

Slowly the words died on her lips. There was love, tenderness, pity in the
man's eyes, but no--denial!

"Ain't it, though?" Lynch spoke in a labored whisper; his eyes were
glazing. "Yuh thinks--I'm--loco. I--ain't. It's--gospel truth. Yuh find
Quinlan, the--the witness. No, Quinlan's dead. It's--it's--Kaylor.
Kaylor got--got-- What was I sayin'." He plucked feebly at his
chap-belt. "I know. Kaylor got--a clean thousand for--for swearin'--the
signature--was--Stratton's. Yuh find Kaylor. Hardenberg ... thumbscrew
... the truth...."

The low, uneven whisper merged into a murmur; then silence fell, broken
only by the labored breathing of the dying man. Dazed, bewildered,
conscious of a horrible conviction that he spoke the truth, Mary stood
frozen, struggling against a wave of utter weariness and despair that
surged over her. She felt the arm about her tighten, but for some strange
reason the realization brought her little comfort.

Suddenly Hardenberg broke the silence. He had been watching the girl, and
could no longer bear the misery in her white, strained face.

"You think you've turned a smart trick, don't you?" he snapped with angry
impulsiveness. "As a matter of fact the ranch belongs to him already. The
man you've known as Green is Buck Stratton himself."

Lynch's lids flashed up. "Yuh--lie!" he murmured. "Stratton's--dead!"

"Nothing like it," retorted the sheriff. "The papers got it wrong. He was
only badly wounded. This fellow here is Buck Stratton, and he can prove
it."

A spasm quivered over Lynch's face. He tried to speak, but only a faint
gurgle came from his blood-flecked lips. Too late Hardenberg, catching an
angry glance from Buck, realized and regretted his impulsive indiscretion.
For Mary Thorne, turning slowly like a person in a dream, stared into the
face of the man beside her, lips quivering and eyes full of a great
horror.

"You!" she faltered, in a pitiful, small voice. "You--"

Stratton held her closer, a troubled tenderness sweeping the anger from
his eyes.

"But--but, Mary--" he stammered--"what difference does--"

Suddenly her nerves snapped under the culminating strain of the past few
hours.

"Difference!" she cried hysterically. "Difference!" Her heart lay like a
cold, dead thing within her; she felt utterly miserable and alone.
"You--My father! Oh, God!"

She made a weak effort to escape from his embrace. Then, abruptly, her
slim, girlish figure grew limp, her head fell back against Stratton's
shoulder, her eyes closed.




CHAPTER XXXVI

TWO TRAILS CONVERGE


Mrs. Archer sat alone in the ranch-house living-room, doing absolutely
nothing. As a matter of fact, she had little use for those minor solaces
of knitting or crocheting which soothe the waking hours of so many elderly
women. More than once, indeed, she had been heard to state with mild
emphasis that when she was no longer able to entertain herself with human
nature, or, at the worst, with an interesting book, it would be high time
to retire into a nunnery, or its modern equivalent.

Sitting there beside one of the sunny southern windows, her small, faintly
wrinkled hands lying reposefully in her lap, she made a dainty, attractive
picture of age which was yet not old. Her hair was frankly gray, but
luxuriant and crisply waving. No one would have mistaken the soft, faded
pink of her complexion, well preserved though it was, for that of a young
woman. But her eyes, bright, eager, humorous, changing with every mood,
were full of the fire of eternal youth.

Just now there was a thoughtful retrospection in their clear depths.
Occasionally she glanced interestedly out of the window, or turned her
head questioningly toward the closed door of her niece's bedroom. But for
the most part she sat quietly thinking, and the tolerant, humorous curve
of her lips showed that her thoughts were far from disagreeable.

"Astonishing!" she murmured presently. "Really quite amazing! And yet
things could scarcely have turned out more--" She paused, a faint wrinkle
marring the smoothness of her forehead. "Really, I must guard against this
habit of talking to myself," she went on with mild vexation. "They say
it's one of the surest signs of age. Come in!"

The outer door opened and Buck Stratton entered. Pausing for an instant on
the threshold, he glanced eagerly about the room, his face falling a
little as he walked over to where Mrs. Archer sat.

She looked up at him for a moment in silence, surveying with frank
approval his long length, his wide chest and lean flanks, the clean-cut
face which showed such few signs of fatigue or strain. Then her glance
grew quizzical.

"You give yourself away too quickly," she smiled. "Even an old woman
scarcely feels complimented when a man looks downcast at the sight of
her."

"Rubbish!" retorted Buck. "You know it wasn't that." Bending swiftly, he
put an arm about her shoulders and kissed her. "You brought it on
yourself," he told her, grinning, as he straightened up. "You've no
business to look so--pretty."

The pink in Mrs. Archer's cheeks deepened faintly. "Aren't you rather
lavish this morning?" she murmured teasingly. "Hadn't you better save
those for--" Suddenly her face grew serious. "I do understand, of course.
She hasn't come out yet, but she's dressing. I made her eat her breakfast
in bed."

"Good business," approved Buck. "How is she?"

"Very much better, physically. Her nerves are practically all right again;
but of course she's very much depressed."

Stratton's face clouded. "She still persists--"

Mrs. Archer nodded. "Oh, dear me, yes! That is, she thinks she does. But
there's no need to look as if all hope were lost. Indeed, I'm quite
certain that a little pressure at the right moment--" She broke off,
glancing at the bedroom door. "I've an idea it would be better for me to
do a little missionary work first. Suppose you go now and come back later.
Come back," she finished briskly, "when you see my handkerchief lying here
on the window-ledge."

He nodded and was half way across the room when she called to him
guardedly:

"Oh, Buck! There's a phrase I noticed in that rather lurid magazine Bud
brought me two or three weeks ago." Her eyes twinkled. "'Cave-man stuff,'
I think it was." Coming from her lips the words had an oddly bizarre
sound. "It seemed descriptive. Of course one would want to use
refinements."

"I get you!" Stratton grinned as he departed.

His head had scarcely passed the window before the inner door opened and
Mary Thorne appeared.

Her face was pale, with deep shadows under the eyes, and her slim, girlish
figure drooped listlessly. She walked slowly over to the table, took up a
book, fluttered the pages, and laid it down again. Then a pile of mail
caught her eyes, and picking up the topmost letter, she tore it open and
glanced through it indifferently.

"From Stella," she commented aloud, dropping it on the table. "They got
home all right. She says she had a wonderful time, and asks after--"

"After me, I suppose," said Mrs. Archer, as Mary paused. "Give her my love
when you write." She hesitated, glancing shrewdly at the girl. "Don't you
want to hear the news, dear?" she asked.

Mary turned abruptly, her eyes widening with sudden interest. "News? What
news?"

"Why, about everything that's happened. They caught all of the men except
that wretch, Pedro. The sheriff's taken them to Perilla for trial. He says
they'll surely be convicted. Better yet, one of them has turned State's
evidence and implicated a swindler named Draper, who was at the bottom of
everything."

"Everything?" repeated the girl in a slightly puzzled tone, as she
dropped listlessly into a chair beside her aunt. "What do you mean, dear,
by--everything?"

"How dull I am!" exclaimed Mrs. Archer. "I hope that isn't another sign of
encroaching age. I quite forgot you hadn't heard what it was all about. It
seems there's oil in the north pasture. Lynch found it and told this man
Draper, and ever since then they've been trying to force you to sell the
ranch so they could gobble it up themselves."

"Oil?" questioned Mary. "You mean oil wells, and that sort of thing?"

"There'll be wells in time, I presume; just now it's merely in the ground.
I understand it's quite valuable."

She went on to explain in detail all she knew. Mary listened silently,
head bent and hands absently plucking at the plaiting of her gown. When
Mrs. Archer finally ceased speaking, the girl made no comment for a time,
but sat quite motionless, with drooping face and nervously moving
fingers.

"Did you hear about--about--" she began in an uncertain voice, and then
stopped, unable to go on.

"Yes, dear," returned Mrs. Archer simply. "Bud told me. It's a--a terrible
thing, of course, but I think--" She paused, choosing her words. "You
mustn't spoil your life, my dear, by taking it--too seriously."

Mary turned suddenly and stared at her, surprise battling with the misery
in her face.

"Too seriously!" she cried. "How can I possibly help taking it seriously?
It's too dreadful and--and horrible, almost, to think of."

"It's dreadful, I admit," returned the old lady composedly. "But after
all, it's your father's doings. You are not to blame."

The girl made a swift, dissenting gesture with both hands. "Perhaps not,
in the way you mean. I didn't do the--stealing." Her voice was bitter. "I
didn't even know about it. But I--profited. Oh, how could Dad ever have
done such an awful thing? When I think of his--his deliberately robbing
this man who--who had given his life bravely for his country, I could die
of shame!"

Her lips quivered and she buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Archer
reached out and patted her shoulder consolingly.

"But he didn't die for his country," she reminded her niece practically.
"He's very much alive, and here. He's got his ranch back, with the
addition of valuable oil deposits, or whatever you call them, which, Bud
tells me, might not have been discovered for years but for this." She
paused, her eyes fixed intently on the girl. "Do you--love him, Mary?" she
asked abruptly.

The girl looked up at her, a slow flush creeping into her face. "What
difference does that make?" she protested. "I could never make up to him
for--for what--father did."

"It makes every difference in the world," retorted Mrs. Archer positively.
"As for making up-- Why, don't you know that you're more to him than
ranches, or oil wells, or--anything on earth? You must realize that in
your heart."

Placing her handkerchief on the window-ledge, she rose briskly.

"I really must go and change my shoes," she said in quite a different
tone. "These slippers seem to--er--pinch a bit."

If they really did pinch, there was no sign of it as she crossed the room
and disappeared through a door at the farther end. Mary stared after her,
puzzled and a little hurt at the apparent lack of sympathy in one to whom
she had always turned for comfort and understanding. Then her mind flashed
back to her aunt's farewell words, and her brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

A knock at the door made her start nervously, and for a long moment she
hesitated before replying. At the sight of Buck Stratton standing on the
threshold, she flushed painfully and sprang to her feet.

"Good morning," he said gently, as he came quickly over to her. "I hope
you're feeling a lot better."

"Oh, yes," she answered briefly. "I'm really quite all right now."

He had taken her hand and still held it, and somehow the mere pressure of
his fingers embarrassed her oddly and seemed to weaken her resolution.

"You don't quite look it," he commented. "I reckon it'll take some time to
get rid of those--those shadows and hollows and all."

He was looking down at her with that same tender, whimsical smile that
quirked the corners of his mouth unevenly, and the expression in his eyes
set Mary's heart to fluttering. She could not bear it, somehow! To give
him up was even harder than she had expected, and suddenly her lids
drooped defensively to hide the bright glitter that smarted in her eyes.

Suddenly he broke the brief silence. "When are you going to marry me,
dear?" he asked quietly.

Her lids flew up and she stared at him through a blurring haze of tears.
"Oh!" she cried unsteadily. "I can't! I--can't. You--you don't know how I
feel. It's all too--dreadful! It doesn't seem as if I could ever--look you
in the face again."

Swiftly his arms slid about her, and she was drawn gently but irresistibly
to him.

"Don't try just now, dear, if you'd rather not," he murmured, smiling down
into her tear-streaked face. "You'll have a long time to get used to it,
you know."

Instinctively she tried to struggle. Then all at once a wave of incredible
happiness swept over her. Abruptly nothing seemed to matter--nothing on
earth save this one thing. With a little sigh like that of a tired child,
her arm stole up about his neck, her head fell gently back against his
shoulder.

                   *       *       *       *       *

"Oh!" Mary said abruptly, struck by a sudden recollection. It was an hour
later, and they sat together on the sofa. "I had a letter from Stella
to-day." A faintly mischievous light sparkled in her eyes. "She sent her
love--to you."

Buck flushed a little under his tan. "Some little kidder, isn't she, on
short acquaintance?" he commented.

"Short!" Mary's eyes widened. "Why, she knew you before I did!"

"Maybe so, but I didn't know her."

Buck had rather dreaded the moment when he would have to tell her of that
beastly, vanished year, but somehow he did not find it hard.

"As long as you don't ever let it happen again, I sha'n't mind," she
smiled, when he had finished. "I simply couldn't bear it, though, if you
should lose your memory--now."

"No danger," he assured her, with a look that deepened the color in her
radiant face.

For a moment she did not speak. Then all at once her smile faded and she
turned quickly to him.

"The--the ranch, dear," she said abruptly. "There's something, isn't
there, I should do about--about turning it over--to you?"

He drew her head down against his shoulder. "No use bothering about that
now," he shrugged. "We're going to be made one so soon that-- How about
riding to Perilla to-morrow and--"

"Oh, Buck!" she protested. "I--I couldn't."

His arm tightened about her. "Well, say the day after," he suggested. "I'm
afraid we'll have to spend our honeymoon right here getting things to
rights, so you won't have to get a lot of new clothes and all that.
There's nothing unlucky about Thursday, is there?"

She hid her face against his coat. "No-o; but I don't see how--I can--so
soon. Well, maybe--perhaps--"




     The greatest pleasure in life is that of reading. Why not then
     own the books of great novelists when the price is so small

Of all the amusements which can possibly be imagined for a hard-working
man, after his daily toil, or, in its intervals, there is nothing like
reading an entertaining book. It calls for no bodily exertion. It
transports him into a livelier, and gayer, and more diversified and
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evils of the present moment. Nay, it accompanies him to his next day's
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