"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."