Shoe-Bar Stratton

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

  CHAPTER XXVI

  SHERIFF HARDENBERG INTERVENES

  During that brief lull Buck found time to wonder why no one had senseenough to use a gun to bring them down. But almost as swiftly the answercame to him; they dared not risk the sound of a shot bringing interferencefrom without. He flashed a glance at Bud, who sagged panting against thetable, the fragments of a chair in his hands and a trickle of bloodrunning down his face. Somehow the sight of that blood turned Buck into araging 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 hischallenge, and Buck shot a sudden appraising glance toward the outer door,between which and them their assailants crowded thickest. But before hecould plan a way to rush the throng, that same sharp voice sounded fromthe rear which before had stirred the greasers into action, and six orseven of them began to creep warily forward. Their movements were plainlyreluctant, however, and of a sudden Stratton gave a spring which carriedhim within reaching distance of the two foremost. Gripping each by acollar, he cracked their heads together thrice in swift succession, hurledtheir limp bodies from him, grabbed another chair from the floor, and wasback beside Jessup before any of their startled companions had time tostir.

  "Now's the time to rush 'em, kid," he panted in Jessup's ear. "When I givethe word--"

  He broke off abruptly as the front door was flung suddenly open and asharp, 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 aman leaped up and flung himself through the window, while three othersplunged out of the rear door and disappeared. Others were crowding afterthem when there came a sudden spurt of flame, the sharp sound of apistol-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 beforeStratton, tall, wide-shouldered, and lean of flank, with a thin, hawklikeface and penetrating gray eyes.

  "Well?" he questioned curtly. "What's it all about? That scoundrel beenselling licker again?"

  "Not to us," snapped Buck. "Are you Hardenberg?" he added, with suddeninspiration.

  "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 thatyou were making a raid on this joint. We hadn't been inside three minutesbefore 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 allmerely a drunken quarrel was dying away.

  "I don't wonder," he returned in a more amiable tone. "It's a longstory--too long to tell just now. I can only say that we were attackedwithout 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 theshattered window, the bodies on the floor, the Mexican who crouchedmoaning in a corner, and returned to Stratton's face.

  "I'm not so sure about that last," he commented, with a momentary grimsmile. "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, atthe sight of which his lips tightened. Still without comment, he rapidlyfilled it from his belt, Hardenberg watching him intently the while.

  "Meanwhile, you'd like a little action, eh?" drawled the sheriff. "You'reright. Either of you hurt?"

  He glanced inquiringly at Jessup, who was just wiping the blood from hiscut face.

  "Not me," snapped Bud. "This don't amount to nothin'. Say, was there a guyhangin' around outside when yuh came in--short, with black hair an' eyesset 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 roundup this bunch first. If you two will ride around to Main Street and gethold 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 couldbe found, and Stratton and Jessup hastily departed. Outside they foundthree horses, their own, tied to the hitching-rack as they had left them,and a big, powerful black, who stood squarely facing the door, reinsmerely trailing and ears pricked forward. The two that had been there whenthey first rode up were gone.

  "Just like I thought," said Jessup, as they mounted and swung around thecorner. "That guy was planted there a-purpose to get us into theeatin'-house. What's more, I'll bet my saddle he was the same one who camesnoopin' around Red Butte camp two weeks ago. Recollect, Gabby said he wassmall, with black hair an' eyes close together?"

  Buck nodded. "It's a mighty sure thing he was there again last night andpulled our loads," he added in a tone of chagrin. "We're a pretty dumbpair, kid. Next time we'll believe Gabby when he says his door was openedin the night."

  "I'll say so. But I thought the old bird was just fussing. Never evenlooked 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'timagine how. No use shedding tears over it, though. What we've got to dois get Hardenberg moving double-quick. Here's George Harley; I'll takehim, and you go on to the next one."

  Rapidly the deputies were gathered together and hurried back to theeating-house to find Hardenberg holding the Mexicans without difficulty.Half an hour later these were safely lodged in the jail, and the sheriffbegan a rigorous examination, which lasted until late in the afternoon.

  The boldness of the affair angered him and made him determined to get atthe bottom of it; but this proved no easy matter. To begin with, JoseMaria, the proprietor of the restaurant, was missing. Either he had merelyrented his place to the instigator of the plot, and was prudentlyabsenting himself for a while, or else he was one of those who had escapedthrough the rear door. Most of the Mexicans were natives of Perilla, andone and all swore that they were as innocent of evil intent as unbornchildren. They had merely happened to be there getting a meal when thefracas started. The miscreants who had drawn knives on the two whites werequite unknown to them, and must be the ones who had escaped.

  Hardenberg knew perfectly well that they were lying, but for the moment helet it pass. He had an idea that Stratton could throw some light on thesituation, and leaving the prisoners to digest a few pithy truths, he tookthe 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 andpersisted 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 myeyes on Tex Lynch for some time, but I had no idea he was up to anythinglike this. You're dead sure about that oil?"

  Buck nodded. "Of course, you can't ever be certain about the quantityuntil you bore, but I went over some of the Oklahoma fields a few yearsago, and this sure looks like something big."

  "Pretty soft for the lady," commented Hardenberg. He paused, regardingStratton 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 bedead sure of my facts before I get busy on this seriously."

  Though Buck had been expecting
the question, he hesitated for an instantbefore replying.

  "I'll tell you," he replied slowly at length, "but for the present I'dlike 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 suddenlook of incredulity flashed into his eyes. "You're not trying to make outthat you're the Buck Stratton who owned the Shoe-Bar?"

  Buck flushed a little. "I was afraid you'd find it hard to swallow, butit's true," he said quietly. "You see, the papers got it wrong. I wasn'tkilled at all, but only wounded in the head. For--for over a year I hadn'tany memory."

  Briefly he narrated the circumstances of the unusual case, and Hardenberglistened with absorbed attention, watching him closely, weighing everyword, and noting critically the most trifling gesture or change ofexpression. For a while his natural skepticism struggled with a growingconviction that the man before him was telling the truth. It was anextraordinary experience, to be sure, but he quickly realized thatStratton 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 menwho'll swear to my identity."

  The sheriff sat silent for a moment. "Some experience," he musedpresently. "Rotten hard luck, too, I'll say. Of course you never had asuspicion of oil when you sold the outfit to old man Thorne."

  Again Buck hesitated. Somehow he found this part of the affairextraordinarily 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'swas 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 supposewhen he saw my name on the list of missing, he thought he could take achance. But his daughter knew nothing whatever about it. She's white allthrough and thinks the ranch is honestly hers. That's the reason why Iwant you to keep quiet about this for a while. You can see how she'd feelif this came out."

  A faint, fleeting smile curved the corners of Jim Hardenberg's straightmouth. Accustomed by his profession to think the worst of people, and toprobe deeply and callously for hidden evil motives, it amused and ratherpleased him to meet a man whose extraordinary story roused not thefaintest doubt in his critical mind.

  "Some dirty business," he commented at length. "Still, it's come out allright, and at that you're ahead of the game. That oil might have laidthere for years without your getting wise to it. Well, let's get down tocases. It's going to take some planning to get that scoundrel Lynch, tosay nothing of the men higher up. Tell me about those fellows in the caragain."

  Buck readily went over that part of his story, describing the fat man andhis driver as accurately as he was able. The sheriff's eyes narrowedthoughtfully as he listened.

  "Think you know him?" Buck asked curiously.

  "I'm not sure. Description sounds a bit familiar, but descriptions areapt 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'dlike mighty well to start for the Shoe-Bar to-night, but I'm afraid Ican't get a posse together soon enough. We'll need some bunch to round upthat gang. You'll be at the United States Hotel, I suppose? Well, I'll getbusy now, and after supper I'll drop around to let you know how things aregoing. With what you've told me I'll see if I can't squeeze someinformation out of those greasers. It may help."

  They left the room together, the sheriff pausing outside to give someinstructions to his assistant. Buck gathered in Jessup, who had beenwaiting, and the two left the building and walked toward the hotel, wherethey had left their horses.

  Perilla was a town of some size, and at this hour the main street wasfairly well crowded with a picturesque throng of cowboys, Mexicans, andIndians from the near-by reservation, with the usual mingling of moreprosaic-looking business men. Not a few motor-cars mingled with horsemenand wagons of various sorts in the roadway, but as Buck's glance fell on abig, shiny, black touring-car standing at the curb, he was struck by asudden feeling of familiarity.

  Mechanically he noted the license-number. Then his eyes narrowed as he sawthe pudgy, heavily-built figure in the tan dust-coat on the point ofdescending from the tonneau.

  An instant later they were face to face. For a second the fat man glancedat him indifferently with that same pouting droop to the small lips whichStratton knew he never could forget. Then, like a flash, the round eyeswidened and filled with horror, the jaw dropped, the fat face turned to apale, sickly green. A choking gurgle burst from the man's lips, and heseemed on the point of collapse when a hand reached out and dragged himback into the car, which, at a hasty word from the occupant of the backseat, shot from the curb and hummed rapidly away.

  Thinking to stop them by shooting up the tires. Buck's hand droppedinstinctively to his gun. But he realized in time that such drasticmethods were neither expedient nor necessary. Instead, he turned andhalted a man of about forty who was passing.

  "Any idea who that fellow is?" he asked, motioning toward the car, justwhirling around the next corner. "He's short and fat, in a big blackHammond car."

  "Short and fat in a Hammond car?" repeated the man, staring down thestreet. "Hum! Must be Paul Draper from Amarillo. He's the only one I knowaround these parts who owns a Hammond. Come to think, though, his car isgray."

  "He's probably had it painted lately," suggested Stratton quietly. "Muchobliged. I thought I'd seen him before some place."