to-morrow or the day after at the latest.”
Pop looked surprised. “The day after?” he repeated. “What’s goin’ to keep yuh that long?”
“Will you be needing the horse sooner?”
“No, I dunno’s I will. But seems like yuh ought to be back by noon to-morrow. It ain’t more ’n eighteen miles.” He straightened abruptly and his blue eyes widened. “Say, young feller! Yuh ain’t thinkin’ of gettin a job out there, are yuh?”
Stratton hesitated for an instant. “Well, I don’t know,” he shrugged presently. “I’ve got to get to work right soon at something.”
Daggett took a swift step or two across the sagging porch, his face grown oddly serious. “Wal, I wouldn’t try the Shoe-Bar, nohow. There’s the Rockin’-R. They’re short a man or two. Yuh go see Jim Tenny an’ tell him – ”
“What’s the matter with the Shoe-Bar?” persisted Buck.
Pop’s glance avoided Stratton’s. “Yuh – wouldn’t like it,” he mumbled, glancing down the trail. “It – it ain’t like it was in Joe’s time. That there Tex Lynch – he – he don’t get on with the boys.”
“Who’s he? The foreman?”
“Yeah. Beauty Lynch, some calls him ’count uh his looks. I ain’t denyin’ he’s han’some, with them black eyes an’ red cheeks uh his, but somethin’ queer – Like I said, there ain’t nobody stays long at the Shoe-Bar. Yuh take my advice, Buck, an’ try the Rockin’-R. They’s a nice bunch there.”
Buck swung himself easily into the saddle; “I’ll think about it,” he smiled, gathering up the reins. “Well, so-long; see you in a day or so, anyway. Thanks for helping me out, old-timer.”
He loosened the reins, and the roan took the trail at a canter. Well beyond the last adobe house, Stratton glanced back to see old Pop Daggett still standing on the store porch and staring after him. Buck flung up one arm in a careless gesture of farewell; then a gentle downward slope in the prairie carried him out of sight of the little settlement.
“Acts to me like he was holding back something,” he thought as he rode briskly on through the wide, rolling solitudes. “Now, I wonder what sort of a guy is this Tex Lynch, and what’s going on at the Shoe-Bar that an old he-gossip like Pop Daggett is afraid to talk about?”
CHAPTER III
MISTRESS MARY – QUITE CONTRARY
But Stratton’s mind was too full of the amazing information he had gleaned from the old storekeeper to leave much room for minor reflections. He had been stunned at first – so completely floored that anyone save the garrulous old man intent on making the most of his shop-worn story could not have helped seeing that something was seriously wrong. Then anger came – a hot, raging fury against the authors of this barefaced, impudent attempt at swindle. From motives of policy he had done his best to conceal that, too, from Pop Daggett; but now that he was alone it surged up again within him, dyeing his face a deep crimson and etching hard lines on his forehead and about his straight-lipped mouth.
“Thought they’d put it over easy,” he growled behind set teeth, one clenched, gloved hand thumping the saddle-horn. “Saw the notice in the papers, of course, and decided it would be a cinch to rob a dead man. Well, there’s a surprise coming to somebody that’ll make mine look like thirty cents.”
His lips relaxed in a grim smile, which presently merged into an expression of puzzled wonder. Thorne, of all people, to try and put across a crooked deal like this! Stratton had never known the man really intimately, but during the several years of their business relationship the Chicago lawyer struck him as being scrupulously honest and upright. Indeed, when Buck came to enlist, it seemed a perfectly safe and natural thing to leave his deeds and other important papers in Andrew Thorne’s keeping.
“Shows how you can be fooled in a man,” murmured Stratton, as he followed the trail down into a shallow draw. “I sure played into his hands nice. He had the deeds and everything, and it would be simple enough to fake a transfer when he thought I was dead and knew I hadn’t any kin to make trouble. I wonder what the daughter’s like. A holy terror, I’ll bet, and tarred with the same brush. Well, she’ll get hers in about two hours’ time, and get it good.”
The grim smile flickered again on his lips for a moment, to vanish as he saw the head and shoulders of a horseman appear over the further edge of the draw. An instant later the bulk of a big sorrel flashed into view and thudded toward him.
On the open range men usually stop for a word or two when they meet, but this one did not. As he approached Stratton at a rapid speed there was a brief, involuntary movement as if he meant to pull up and then changed his mind. The next moment he had whirled past with a careless, negligent gesture of one hand and a keen, penetrating, questioning stare from a pair of hard black eyes.
Buck glanced over one shoulder at the flying dust-cloud and pursed his lips.
“Wonder if that’s the mysterious Tex?” he pondered, urging his horse forward. “Black eyes and red cheeks, all right. He’s a good looking scoundrel – too darn good looking for a man. All the same, I can’t say it was a case of love at first sight.”
Unconsciously his right hand dropped to the holster at his side, the fingers caressing for an instant the butt of his Colt. He had set out on his errand of exposure with an angry impulsiveness which gave no thought to details or possibilities. But in some subtle fashion that searching glance from the passing stranger brought him up with a little mental jerk. For the first time he remembered that he was playing a lone hand, that the very nature of his business was likely to rouse the most desperate and unscrupulous opposition. Considering the value of the stake and the penalties involved, the present occupant of the Shoe-Bar was likely to use every means in her power to prevent his accusations from becoming public. If the fellow who had just passed really was Tex Lynch, Buck had a strong intuition that he was the sort of a man who could be counted on to take a prominent hand in the game, and also that he wouldn’t be any too particular as to how he played it.
A mile beyond the draw the trail forked, and Stratton took the left-hand branch. The grazing hereabouts was poor, and at this time of year particularly the Shoe-Bar cattle were more likely to be confined to the richer fenced-in pastures belonging to the ranch. The scenery thus presenting no points of interest, Buck’s thoughts turned to the interview ahead of him. Marshaling his facts, he planned briefly how he would make use of them, and finally began to draw scrappy mental pen-pictures of the usurping Mary Thorne.
She would be tall, probably, and raw-boned – that domineering, “bossy” type he always associated with women who assumed men’s jobs – harsh-voiced and more than a trifle hard. He dwelt particularly on her hardness, for surely no other sort of woman could possibly have helped to engineer the crooked deal which Andrew Thorne and his daughter had so successfully put across. She would be painfully plain, of course, and doubtless also would wear knickerbockers like a certain woman farmer he had once met in Texas, smoke cigarettes constantly, and pack a gun. Having endowed the lady with a few other disagreeable qualities which pleased him mightily, Buck awoke to the realization that he was approaching the eastern extremity of the Shoe-Bar ranch. His eyes brightened, and, dismissing all thoughts of Miss Thorne, he began to cast interested, appraising glances to right and left as he rode.
There is little that escapes the eye of the professional ranchman, especially when he has been absent from his property for more than two years. Buck Stratton observed quite as much as the average man, and it presently became evident that what he saw did not please him. His keen eyes sought out
