Shoe-Bar Stratton

by Ames, Joseph Bushnell

  “Well, I admit you’ve got the bulge on me, as it were.” Buck’s voice suddenly broke the silence. “Still, I don’t see how you’re going to get out of this hole. You can’t stand like this forever.”

  Mary stared at him, amazed at his cool, drawling, matter-of-fact tone. She was still more puzzled to note that he seemed to be juggling with his revolver in a manner which seemed, to say the least, extraordinarily careless.

  “I can stand here till I get tired,” retorted Lynch. “After that— Well, I’d as soon end up down there as get a bullet through my ribs. One thing, I wouldn’t go alone.”

  “Suppose I offered to let you go free if you give up Miss Thorne?” Stratton asked with sudden earnestness.

  “Offer? Hell! Yuh can’t fool me with that kind of talk. Not unless yuh hand over yore gun, that is. Do that, an’ I might consider the proposition—not otherwise.”

  Buck hesitated, his eyes flashing from the weapon he whirled so carelessly between his fingers to Lynch, whose eyes regarded him intently over the girl’s shoulder.

  “That would be putting an awful lot of trust in you,” he commented. “Once you had the gun, what’s to prevent you from drilling me—Oh, damn!”

  He made a sudden, ineffectual grab at the gun, which had slipped from his fingers, and missed. As the weapon clattered against the rocks, Lynch’s covetous glance followed it involuntarily. What happened next was a bewildering whirl of violent, unexpected action.

  To Mary it seemed as if Buck cleared the space between them in a single amazing leap. He landed with one foot slipping on the ragged edge of the precipice, and apparently threw his whole weight sidewise against Lynch and the girl he held. Just how it happened she did not know, but in another moment Mary found herself freed from those hateful, gripping hands and flung back against her horse, while at her feet the two men grappled savagely.

  Over and over on the narrow confines of the sloping ledge they struggled fiercely, heaving, panting, with muscles cracking, each seemingly possessed with a grim determination to thrust the other into the abyss. Now Buck was uppermost; again Lynch, by some clever trick, tore himself from Stratton’s hold to gain a momentary advantage.

  Like one meshed in the thralls of some hateful nightmare, the girl crouched against her horse, her face so still and white and ghastly that it might well have been some clever sculptor’s bizarre conception of “Horror” done in marble. Only her eyes seemed to live. Wide, dilated, glittering with an unnatural light, they shifted constantly, following the progress of those two writhing bodies.

  Once, when Lynch’s horse snorted and moved uneasily, she caught his bridle and quieted him with a soothing word, her voice so choked and hoarse that she scarcely knew it. Again, as the men rolled toward the outer side of the ledge and seemed for a moment almost to overhang the precipice, she gave a smothered cry and darted forward, moved by some wild impulse to fling her puny strength into the scale against the outlaw.

  But with a heave of his big body, Buck saved himself as he had done more than once before, and the struggle was resumed. Back and forth they fought, over and over around that narrow space, until Mary was filled with the dazed feeling that it had been going on for ever, that it would never end.

  But not for an instant did she cease to follow every tiny variation of the fray, and of a sudden she gave another cry. Gripped in a fierce embrace, the two men rolled toward the entrance to the ledge, and all at once Mary saw one of Lynch’s hands close over and instantly seize the revolver Buck had dropped there.

  Instantly she darted forward and tried to wrest it from his grasp. Finding his strength too great, she straightened swiftly and lifting one foot, brought her riding boot down fiercely with all her strength on Lynch’s hand. With a smothered grunt his fingers laxed, and she caught up the weapon and stepped quickly back, wondering, if Lynch came uppermost, whether she would dare to try to shoot him.

  No scruples now deterred her. These had vanished utterly, and with them fear, nervousness, fatigue, and every thought of self. For the moment she was like the primitive savage, willing to do anything on earth to save—her man! But so closely were the two men entwined that she was afraid if she shot at Lynch the bullet might injure Buck.

  Once more the fight veered close to the precipice. Lynch was again uppermost; and, whether by his greater strength, or from some injury Buck had sustained against the rocks, the girl was seized by a horrible conviction that he had the upper hand. Knees gripping Stratton about the body, hands circling his throat, Lynch, apparently oblivious to the blows rained on his chest and neck, was slowly but surely forcing his opponent over the ragged margin of the ledge. It was at this instant that the frantic girl discovered that her weapon had suffered some damage when it fell and was quite useless.

  Already Buck’s head overhung the precipice, his face a dark, strangled red. Flinging the revolver from her, Mary rushed forward and began to beat Lynch wildly with her small, clenched fists.

  But she might as effectually have tried to move a rooted tree, and with a strangled cry, she wound her fingers in his coarse black hair and strove with all her strength to drag Lynch back.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXV

  THE DEAD HEART

  Vaguely, as of a sound coming from far distances, the crack of a revolver-shot penetrated to the girl’s numbed brain. It did not surprise her. Indeed, it roused only a feeling of the mildest curiosity in one whose nerves had been strained almost to the breaking-point. When Lynch, with a hoarse cry, toppled back against her, she merely stepped quickly to one side, and an instant later she was on her knees beside Stratton.

  “Buck!” she sobbed. “Oh, Buck!” clutching at him as if from some wild fear that he would topple into the abyss.

  Hands suddenly put her gently to one side, and some one dragged Stratton from his dangerous position and supported him against an upraised knee. It was Bud Jessup, and behind him loomed the figures of Sheriff Hardenberg and several of his men.

  Mary’s glance noted them briefly, incuriously, returning anxiously to the man beside her. His eyes were open now, and he was sucking in the air in deep, panting gulps.

  “How yuh feelin’?” asked Bud briefly.

  “All right—get my breath,” mumbled Buck.

  “Yuh hurt any place?” Jessup continued, after a brief pause.

  “Not to speak of,” returned Stratton in a stronger tone. “When I first jumped for the cuss, I hit my head the devil of a crack, and—pretty near went out. But that don’t matter—now.”

  His eyes sought the girl’s and dwelt there, longingly, caressingly. There was tribute in their depths, appreciation, and something stronger, more abiding which brought a faint flush into her tired face and made her heart beat faster. Presently, when he staggered to his feet and took a step or two toward her, she felt no shame in meeting him half way. Quite as naturally as his arm slipped around her shoulders, her lifted hands rested against the front of his flannel shirt, torn into ribbons and stained with grime.

  “For a little one,” he murmured, looking down into her eyes, “you’re some spunky fighter, believe me!”

  She flushed deeper and her lids drooped. Of a sudden Sheriff Hardenberg spoke up briskly:

  “That was a right nice shot, kid. You got him good.”

  He was standing beside the body sprawling on the ground, and the words had scarcely left his lips when Lynch’s eyes opened slowly.

  “Yes—yuh got me,” he mumbled.

  Slowly his glance swept the circle of faces until it rested finally on the man and girl standing close together. For a long moment he stared at them silently, his pale lips twitching. Then all at once a look of cunning satisfaction swept the baffled fury from his smoldering eyes.

  “Yuh got me,” he repeated in a stronger voice. “Looks like yuh got her, too. Maybe yuh think you’ve gobbled up the ranch, likewise, an’—an’ everything. That’s where yuh get stung.”

  He fell to coughing suddenly, and for a few minutes his g
reat body was racked with violent paroxysms that brought a bright crimson stain to the sleeve he flung across his mouth. But all the while his eyes, full of strange venomous triumph, never once left Stratton’s face.

  “Yuh see,” he choked out finally, “the ranch—ain’t—hers.”

  He paused, speechless; and Mary, looking down on him, felt merely that his brain was wandering and found room in her heart to be a little sorry.

  “Why ain’t it hers?” demanded Bud with youthful impetuosity. “Her father left it to her, an’—”

  “It wasn’t his to—to leave. He stole it.” Lynch’s voice was weaker, but his eyes still glowed with hateful triumph. “He forged the deed—from—from papers—Stratton left with him—when he went—to war.” He moistened his dry lips with his tongue. “When Stratton was—killed—he didn’t leave—no kin—to make trouble, an’ Thorne—took a chance.”

  His voice faltered, ceased. Mary stared at him dumbly, a slow, oppressive dread creeping into her heart. Little forgotten things flashed back into her mind. Her father’s financial reverses, his reticence about the acquisition of the Shoe-Bar, the strange hold Lynch had seemed to have on him, rose up to torment her. Suddenly she glanced quickly at Buck for reassurance.

  “It isn’t so!” she cried. “It can’t be. My father—”

  Slowly the words died on her lips. There was love, tenderness, pity in the man’s eyes, but no—denial!

  “Ain’t it, though?” Lynch spoke in a labored whisper; his eyes were glazing. “Yuh thinks—I’m—loco. I—ain’t. It’s—gospel truth. Yuh find Quinlan, the—the witness. No, Quinlan’s dead. It’s—it’s—Kaylor. Kaylor got—got— What was I sayin’.” He plucked feebly at his chap-belt. “I know. Kaylor got—a clean thousand for—for swearin’—the signature—was—Stratton’s. Yuh find Kaylor. Hardenberg ... thumbscrew ... the truth....”

  The low, uneven whisper merged into a murmur; then silence fell, broken only by the labored breathing of the dying man. Dazed, bewildered, conscious of a horrible conviction that he spoke the truth, Mary stood frozen, struggling against a wave of utter weariness and despair that surged over her. She felt the arm about her tighten, but for some strange reason the realization brought her little comfort.

  Suddenly Hardenberg broke the silence. He had been watching the girl, and could no longer bear the misery in her white, strained face.

  “You think you’ve turned a smart trick, don’t you?” he snapped with angry impulsiveness. “As a matter of fact the ranch belongs to him already. The man you’ve known as Green is Buck Stratton himself.”

  Lynch’s lids flashed up. “Yuh—lie!” he murmured. “Stratton’s—dead!”

  “Nothing like it,” retorted the sheriff. “The papers got it wrong. He was only badly wounded. This fellow here is Buck Stratton, and he can prove it.”

  A spasm quivered over Lynch’s face. He tried to speak, but only a faint gurgle came from his blood-flecked lips. Too late Hardenberg, catching an angry glance from Buck, realized and regretted his impulsive indiscretion. For Mary Thorne, turning slowly like a person in a dream, stared into the face of the man beside her, lips quivering and eyes full of a great horror.

  “You!” she faltered, in a pitiful, small voice. “You—”

  Stratton held her closer, a troubled tenderness sweeping the anger from his eyes.

  “But—but, Mary—” he stammered—“what difference does—”

  Suddenly her nerves snapped under the culminating strain of the past few hours.

  “Difference!” she cried hysterically. “Difference!” Her heart lay like a cold, dead thing within her; she felt utterly miserable and alone. “You—My father! Oh, God!”

  She made a weak effort to escape from his embrace. Then, abruptly, her slim, girlish figure grew limp, her head fell back against Stratton’s shoulder, her eyes closed.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  TWO TRAILS CONVERGE

  Mrs. Archer sat alone in the ranch-house living-room, doing absolutely nothing. As a matter of fact, she had little use for those minor solaces of knitting or crocheting which soothe the waking hours of so many elderly women. More than once, indeed, she had been heard to state with mild emphasis that when she was no longer able to entertain herself with human nature, or, at the worst, with an interesting book, it would be high time to retire into a nunnery, or its modern equivalent.

  Sitting there beside one of the sunny southern windows, her small, faintly wrinkled hands lying reposefully in her lap, she made a dainty, attractive picture of age which was yet not old. Her hair was frankly gray, but luxuriant and crisply waving. No one would have mistaken the soft, faded pink of her complexion, well preserved though it was, for that of a young woman. But her eyes, bright, eager, humorous, changing with every mood, were full of the fire of eternal youth.

  Just now there was a thoughtful retrospection in their clear depths. Occasionally she glanced interestedly out of the window, or turned her head questioningly toward the closed door of her niece’s bedroom. But for the most part she sat quietly thinking, and the tolerant, humorous curve of her lips showed that her thoughts were far from disagreeable.

  “Astonishing!” she murmured presently. “Really quite amazing! And yet things could scarcely have turned out more—” She paused, a faint wrinkle marring the smoothness of her forehead. “Really, I must guard against this habit of talking to myself,” she went on with mild vexation. “They say it’s one of the surest signs of age. Come in!”

  The outer door opened and Buck Stratton entered. Pausing for an instant on the threshold, he glanced eagerly about the room, his face falling a little as he walked over to where Mrs. Archer sat.

  She looked up at him for a moment in silence, surveying with frank approval his long length, his wide chest and lean flanks, the clean-cut face which showed such few signs of fatigue or strain. Then her glance grew quizzical.

  “You give yourself away too quickly,” she smiled. “Even an old woman scarcely feels complimented when a man looks downcast at the sight of her.”

  “Rubbish!” retorted Buck. “You know it wasn’t that.” Bending swiftly, he put an arm about her shoulders and kissed her. “You brought it on yourself,” he told her, grinning, as he straightened up. “You’ve no business to look so—pretty.”

  The pink in Mrs. Archer’s cheeks deepened faintly. “Aren’t you rather lavish this morning?” she murmured teasingly. “Hadn’t you better save those for—” Suddenly her face grew serious. “I do understand, of course. She hasn’t come out yet, but she’s dressing. I made her eat her breakfast in bed.”

  “Good business,” approved Buck. “How is she?”

  “Very much better, physically. Her nerves are practically all right again; but of course she’s very much depressed.”

  Stratton’s face clouded. “She still persists—”

  Mrs. Archer nodded. “Oh, dear me, yes! That is, she thinks she does. But there’s no need to look as if all hope were lost. Indeed, I’m quite certain that a little pressure at the right moment—” She broke off, glancing at the bedroom door. “I’ve an idea it would be better for me to do a little missionary work first. Suppose you go now and come back later. Come back,” she finished briskly, “when you see my handkerchief lying here on the window-ledge.”

  He nodded and was half way across the room when she called to him guardedly:

  “Oh, Buck! There’s a phrase I noticed in that rather lurid magazine Bud brought me two or three weeks ago.” Her eyes twinkled. “‘Cave-man stuff,’ I think it was.” Coming from her lips the words had an oddly bizarre sound. “It seemed descriptive. Of course one would want to use refinements.”

  “I get you!” Stratton grinned as he departed.

  His head had scarcely passed the window before the inner door opened and Mary Thorne appeared.

  Her face was pale, with deep shadows under the eyes, and her slim, girlish figure drooped listlessly. She walked slowly over to the table, took up a book,
fluttered the pages, and laid it down again. Then a pile of mail caught her eyes, and picking up the topmost letter, she tore it open and glanced through it indifferently.

  “From Stella,” she commented aloud, dropping it on the table. “They got home all right. She says she had a wonderful time, and asks after—”

  “After me, I suppose,” said Mrs. Archer, as Mary paused. “Give her my love when you write.” She hesitated, glancing shrewdly at the girl. “Don’t you want to hear the news, dear?” she asked.

  Mary turned abruptly, her eyes widening with sudden interest. “News? What news?”

  “Why, about everything that’s happened. They caught all of the men except that wretch, Pedro. The sheriff’s taken them to Perilla for trial. He says they’ll surely be convicted. Better yet, one of them has turned State’s evidence and implicated a swindler named Draper, who was at the bottom of everything.”

  “Everything?” repeated the girl in a slightly puzzled tone, as she dropped listlessly into a chair beside her aunt. “What do you mean, dear, by—everything?”

  “How dull I am!” exclaimed Mrs. Archer. “I hope that isn’t another sign of encroaching age. I quite forgot you hadn’t heard what it was all about. It seems there’s oil in the north pasture. Lynch found it and told this man Draper, and ever since then they’ve been trying to force you to sell the ranch so they could gobble it up themselves.”

  “Oil?” questioned Mary. “You mean oil wells, and that sort of thing?”

  “There’ll be wells in time, I presume; just now it’s merely in the ground. I understand it’s quite valuable.”

  She went on to explain in detail all she knew. Mary listened silently, head bent and hands absently plucking at the plaiting of her gown. When Mrs. Archer finally ceased speaking, the girl made no comment for a time, but sat quite motionless, with drooping face and nervously moving fingers.