Shoe-Bar Stratton

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

  CHAPTER XII

  THWARTED

  Instantly a sense of elation, tingling as an electric shock, surged overStratton, and his grip on the Colt tightened. At last he was face to facewith something definite and concrete, and in a moment all the littledoubts and nagging nervous qualms which had assailed him from time to timeduring his long vigil were swept away. Cautiously drawing his gun intoposition, he felt for a match with the other hand and prepared to scratchit against the side of the bunk.

  Slowly, stealthily, with many a cautious pause, the crawling body drewsteadily nearer. Though the intense darkness prevented him from seeinganything, Buck felt at last that he had correctly gaged the position ofthe unknown plotter. Trying to continue that easy, steady breathing, whichhad been no easy matter, he slightly raised his weapon and then, with asudden, lightning movement, he drew the match firmly across the roughboard.

  To his anger and chagrin the head broke off. Before he could snatch upanother and strike it viciously, there came from close at hand a suddenrustle, a creak, the clatter of something on the floor, followed by deadsilence. When the light flared up, illumining dimly almost the wholelength of the room, there was nothing in the least suspicious to be seen.

  Nevertheless, with inward cursing, Stratton sprang up and lit the lamp hehad used early in the evening and which he had purposely left withinreach. With this added illumination he made a discovery that brought hislips together in a grim line.

  Someone lay stretched out in the bunk next to his own--Jessup's bunk,which had been empty when he went to bed.

  For a fleeting instant Buck wondered whether Bud could possibly havereturned and crawled in there unheard. Then, as the wick flared up, he notonly realized that this couldn't have happened, but recognized lying onthe youngster's rolled-up blankets the stout figure and round, unshavenface of--Slim McCabe.

  As he stood staring at the fellow, there was a stir from further down theroom and a sleepy voice growled:

  "What's the matter? It ain't time to get up yet, is it?"

  Buck, who had just caught a glint of steel on the floor at the edge of thebunk, pulled himself together.

  "No; I--I must have had a--nightmare," he returned in a realisticallydazed tone. "I was dreaming about--rustlers, and thought I heard somebodywalking around."

  Still watching McCabe surreptitiously, he saw the fellow's lids liftsleepily.

  "W'a's matter?" murmured Slim, blinking at the lamp.

  "Nothing. I was dreaming. What the devil are you doing in that bunk?"

  McCabe appeared to rouse himself with an effort and partly sat up, yawningprodigiously.

  "It was hot in my own, so I come over here to get the air from thewindow," he mumbled. "What's the idea of waking a guy up in the middle ofthe night?"

  Buck did not answer for a moment but, stepping back, trod as if byaccident on the end of his trailing blanket. As he intended, the movementsent his holster and belt tumbling to the floor, and with perfectnaturalness he stooped to pick them up. When he straightened, his facebetrayed nothing of the grim satisfaction he felt at having proved hispoint. The bit of steel was a hunting-knife with a seven-inch blade, sharpas a razor, and with a distinctive stag-horn handle, which Tex Lynch hadused only a few evenings before to remove the skin from a coyote he hadbrought down.

  "Sorry, but I was dreaming," drawled Stratton. "No harm done, though, isthere? You ain't likely to stay awake long."

  Without further comment he blew out the light and crawled into bed again.He found no difficulty now in keeping awake for the remainder of thenight; there was too much to think about and decide. Now that he hadmeasured the lengths to which Lynch seemed willing to go, he realized thata continuance of present conditions was impossible. An exact repetition ofthis particular attempt was unlikely, but there were plenty of variationsagainst which no single individual could hope to guard. He must bringthings to a head at once, either by quitting the ranch, by playing theimportant card of his own identity he had so far held back, or else byfinding some other way of tying Lynch's hands effectually. He was equallyreluctant to take either of the two former steps, and so it pleased himgreatly when at last he began to see his way toward working things out inanother fashion.

  "I'm blessed if that won't put a spoke in his wheel," he thoughtjubilantly, considering details. "He won't dare to touch me."

  When dawn came filtering through the windows, and one thing after anotherslowly emerged from the obscurity, Buck's eyes swiftly sought the floorbelow Bud's bunk. But though McCabe lay there snoring loudly, the knifehad disappeared.

  Though outwardly everything seemed normal, Buck noticed a slightrestlessness and laxing tension about the men that morning. There wasdelay in getting to work, which might have been accounted for by thecessation of one job and the starting of another. But knowing what he did,Stratton felt that the flat failure of their plot had much to do with it.

  He himself took advantage of the lull to slip away to the harness-room onthe plea of mending a rip in the stitching of his chaps. Pulling a boxover by the window where he could see anyone approaching, he producedpencil and paper and proceeded to write out a rather voluminous document,which he afterward read over and corrected carefully. He sealed it up inan envelope, wrote a much briefer note, and enclosed both in a secondenvelope which he addressed to Sheriff J. Hardenberg. Finally he feltaround in his pocket and pulled forth the scrawl he had composed the nightbefore.

  "They look about the same," he murmured, comparing them. "Nobody willnotice the difference."

  Buck was on the point of sealing the envelope containing the scrawl whenit occurred to him to read the contents over and see what he had written.

  The letter was headed "Dear Friend," and proved to be a curiouscomposition. With a mind intent on other things, Stratton had writtenalmost mechanically, intending merely to give an air of reality to hisoccupation. In the beginning the scrawl read very much as if the "friend"were masculine. Bits of ranch happenings and descriptions were jotted downas one would in writing to a cow-boy friend located on a distant outfit.But gradually, imperceptibly almost, the tone shifted. Buck himself hadbeen totally unaware of any change until he read over the last few pages.And then, as he took in the subtle undercurrent of meaning which laybeneath the penciled lines, a slow flush crept up into his face, and hefrowned.

  It was all rot, of course! He had merely written for the sake of writingsomething--anything. She was a nice little thing, of course, with anattractive feminine manner and an unexpected lot of nerve. He was sorryfor her, naturally, and would like to help her out of what he felt to be amost disagreeable, if not hazardous situation. But as for anythingfurther--

  Still frowning, he thrust the sheets back into the envelope and licked theflap. He was on the point of stubbornly scrawling a man's name on theoutside when he realized how foolish he would be not to carry out hisfirst and much more sensible intention.

  He wanted an excuse for asking permission to ride to town to post aletter. This, in itself, was an extremely nervy request and under ordinaryconditions almost certain to be profanely refused. But Buck had a shrewdnotion that after the failure of Lynch's plans, the foreman might welcomethe chance of talking things over with his confederates without danger ofbeing observed or overheard. On the other hand, if there should be theleast suspicion that his letter was not of the most innocent and harmlesssort, he would never in the world be allowed to get away with it.

  The result was that when he strolled out of the harness-room a littlelater the envelope bearing the name of Sheriff Hardenberg reposed withinhis shirt, while the other, addressed now to a mythical "Miss FlorenceDenby," at an equally mythical street number in Dallas, Texas, protrudedfrom a pocket of his chaps.

  "I don't s'pose you've got a stamp you'll sell me," he inquired of Lynch,whom he found in the bunk-house with McCabe. "I'd like to get this letteroff as soon as I can."

  Balancing the envelope in his hand, he held it so that the foreman couldeasily read the address.

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sp; "I might have," returned Lynch briefly. "Looks like that letter was heavyenough to need two."

  Buck allowed him to weigh it in his hand for an instant, and then, insimulated confusion, he snatched it back.

  "Must be writin' to yore girl," grinned McCabe, who had also beenregarding the address curiously.

  Stratton retorted in a convincingly embarrassed fashion, received hisstamps and then proffered his request, which was finally granted with anair of reluctance and much grumbling.

  "I wouldn't let yuh go, only I don't know what the devil's keepin' thatfool Bud," growled Lynch. "Yuh tell the son-of-a-gun I ain't expectin' himto stop in town the rest of his natural life. If them wagon-bolts ain'tcome, we'll have to do without 'em. Yuh bring him back with yuh, an' seeyuh both get here by dinner time without fail."

  Buck gave the desired promise and, hastily saddling up, departed. Aboutthree miles from the ranch, he rode off to the side of the trail anddismounted beside a stunted mesquite. Under its twisting branches, he duga hole with the toe of his boot and interred therein Miss Florence Denby'sletter, torn into small fragments.

  This done he swung himself into the saddle and headed again for PalomaSprings, and as he rode he began to whistle blithely.