Shoe-Bar Stratton

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 José 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, señors?” 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 José 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, José 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.