Shoe-Bar Stratton

by Ames, Joseph Bushnell

  “It—it might not have been any of the gang,” murmured Bud, voicing a hope he did not feel.

  “Who else would be likely to come at this time of night?” demanded Stratton. “Lynch is on the outs with everybody around Perilla. They don’t go near the ranch unless they have to. It couldn’t have been one of Hardenberg’s men; he’s not expecting any one.”

  “Did—did she say anything else?” asked Jessup, after a brief pause.

  Buck hesitated. “Only that she—was afraid, and wanted us to—come quickly. Then the wire went dead as if it had been cut.”

  Silence fell, broken only by the thud of hoofs and the heavy breathing of the two horses. Bud’s slim, lithe figure had slumped a little in the saddle, and his eyes were fixed unseeingly on the wide, flat sweep of prairie unfolding before them, dim and mysterious under the brilliant stars.

  In his mind anxiety, rage, and apprehension contended with a dull, dead hopelessness which lay upon his heart like lead. For something in Buck’s tone made him realize in a flash a situation which, strangely, he had never even suspected. He wondered dully why he hadn’t ever thought of it before; perhaps because Buck was a new-comer who had seemed to see so little of Mary Thorne. Probably, also, the very friendly manner of Stella Manning had something to do with Jessup’s blindness. But his eyes were opened now, thoroughly and effectually, and for a space, how long or short he never knew, he fought out his silent battle.

  It ended in a victory. Down in his heart he knew that he had never really had any hope of winning Mary Thorne himself. He had cherished aspirations, of course, and dreamed wonderful dreams; but when it came down to hard actualities, romance did not blind him to the fact that she looked on him merely as a friend and nothing more. Indeed, though they were virtually of the same age, he had been aware at times of an oddly maternal note in her attitude toward him which was discouraging. Still, it was not easy definitely to relinquish all hope and bring himself to write “finis” to the end of the chapter. Indeed, he did not reach that state of mind until, glancing sidewise at his friend, there came to him a sudden, faintly bitter realization of the wide contrast between them, and of how much more Buck had to offer than himself.

  Stratton’s erect, broad shoulders, the lean length of him, the way he held his head, gave Jessup a curious, unexpected impression of strength and ability and power. Buck’s eyes were set straight ahead and his clean-cut profile, clearly visible in the luminous starlight, had a look of sensitiveness and refinement, despite the strength of his jaw and chin and the somberness of his eyes. Bud turned away with a little sigh.

  “I never had no chance at all,” he thought. “Someway he don’t look like a cow-puncher, nor talk quite like one. I wonder why?”

  Half a mile further on Buck suddenly broke the prolonged silence.

  “I’ve been thinking it over,” he said briefly. “The man on the horse was probably Lynch. He could easily have started off with the rest and then made a circuit around below the ranch-house. If he picked his ground, we’d never notice where he left the others, especially as we weren’t looking for anything of the sort.”

  “Who do you s’pose hid over the harness-room?”

  “It might have been Slim, or Kreeger, or even Pedro. The whole thing was certainly a put-up job—damn them!” His voice shook with sudden passion. “Well, we’ll soon know,” he finished, and his mouth clamped shut.

  Already the row of cottonwoods that lined the creek was faintly visible ahead, a low, vague mass, darker a little than the background of blue-black sky. Both spurred their jaded horses and a moment or two later pulled up with a jerk at the gate. Before his mount had come to a standstill, Bud was out of his saddle fumbling with the catch. When he swung it open, Stratton dashed through, swiftly crossed the shallow creek, and galloped up the long, easy slope beyond.

  A chill struck him as the ranch-house loomed up, ominously black and desolate as any long-deserted dwelling. He had forgotten for an instant the heavy, wooden shutters, and when, with teeth clenched and heart thudding in his throat, he reached the veranda corner, the sight of that yellow glow streaming from the open door gave him a momentary shock of supreme relief.

  An instant later he saw the shattered door, and the color left his face. In two strides he crossed the porch and, with fingers tightening about the butt of his Colt, he stared searchingly around the big, brightly-lighted, strangely empty-looking room.

  It held but a single occupant. Huddled in a chair on the further side of the long table was Mrs. Archer. Both hands rested on the polished oak, and clutched in her small, wrinkled hands was a heavy, cumbrous revolver, pointed directly at the door. Her white, strained face, stamped with an expression of hopeless tragedy, looked ten years older than when Buck had last seen it. As she recognized him she dropped the gun and tottered to her feet.

  “Oh!” she cried, in a sharp, wailing voice. “You! You!”

  In a moment Buck had her in his arms, holding her tight as one holds a hurt or frightened child. Mechanically he soothed her as she clung to him, that amazing self-control, which had upheld her for so long, snapping like a taut rope when the strain becomes too great. But all the while his eyes—wide, smoldering eyes, filled with a mingling of pity, of dread questioning and furious passion—swept the room searchingly.

  Over the little lady’s bowed gray head his glance took in swiftly a score of details—the dead fire, the dangling receiver of the useless telephone, a little pearl-handled revolver lying in a far corner as if it had been flung there, an upset chair. Suddenly his gaze halted at the edge of the shattered door and a faint tremor shook his big body. A comb lay on the floor there—a single comb of tortoise-shell made for a woman’s hair. But it was a comb he knew well. And as his eyes met Bud’s, staring from the doorway at the strange scene, they were the eyes of a man tortured.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXII

  BUCK RIDES

  Presently Mrs. Archer released her spasmodic grip on Stratton’s flannel shirt and fumbled for her handkerchief.

  “I’m a fool to—to waste time like this,” she faltered, dabbing her eyes with the crumpled square of cambric.

  “I think you’re rather wonderful,” returned Buck gently. He helped her to a chair. “Sit down here, and when you’re able, tell us just what—happened.”

  Her hands dropped suddenly to her lap and she looked up at him with wide, blazing eyes. Bud had approached and stood on the other side of the chair, listening intently.

  “It was that creature Lynch,” she said in a voice that trembled a little with anger and indignation. “He was the one who rode up on horseback. It was Pedro who was hidden in the loft. Mary told you about that before the telephone went dead.”

  “The wire was cut,” muttered Stratton. “That must have been the greaser’s work.”

  She gave a quick nod. “Very likely. He’s equal to anything. They met just outside the door and talked together. It seemed as if they’d never leave off whispering. Mary was over by the telephone and I stood here. She had that revolver, which she’d found in the other room.” Her eyes indicated the weapon on the table, and Buck was conscious of a queer thrill as he recognized it as his own. “We waited. At last the—the beast pounded at the door and called to us to open. We didn’t stir. Then he threw himself against the door, which cracked. Mary cried out that if he tried to force it, she’d shoot. The creature only laughed, and when she did fire, the bullet went wild.”

  She paused an instant, her fingers twitching at the handkerchief clasped in her lap.

  “And then he broke in?” questioned Buck, in a hard voice.

  She nodded. “Yes. I fired once, but it did no good. Before I could shoot again, Pedro came up from behind and snatched the revolver away. He must have forced his way into the kitchen. He threw me into a chair, while Lynch went after Mary.”

  Buck’s lips were pressed tightly together; his face was hard as stone. “Didn’t she fire again?”

  “No, I don’t know why.
I couldn’t see very well. Something may have gone wrong with the revolver; perhaps she had scruples. I should have had none.” Mrs. Archer’s small, delicate face looked almost savage. “I’d have gloried in shooting the brute. At any rate, she didn’t, and he took the weapon away from her and flung it on the table.”

  Again she hesitated briefly, overcome by her emotions. Stratton’s face was stony, save for a momentary ripple of the muscles about his mouth.

  “And then?” he questioned.

  “I—I tried to go to her, but Pedro held me in the chair.” Mrs. Archer drew a long, quivering breath. “Lynch had her by the wrist; I heard him say something about not hurting her; and then he said, quite plainly, that since she’d got him in this mess, she’d have to get him out. I couldn’t understand, but all at once I realized that if they did—take her away, they’d probably tie me up, or something, to prevent my giving the alarm, and so I pretended to faint.”

  She lifted her handkerchief to her lips and let it fall again. “It wasn’t easy to lie still in that chair and see the dear child—being dragged away. But I knew I’d be quite helpless against those two villains. She—she didn’t struggle much; perhaps she hadn’t the strength.” The old lady’s voice shook, and she began again plucking nervously at her handkerchief. “The minute they were out of the door, I got up and followed them. I thought perhaps I might be able to see which way they went. It was pitch-dark, and I crept along beside the house to the corner. I could just see their outlines over by the corral. Pedro was saddling two horses. When he had done, that creature, Lynch, made Mary mount and got on his own horse, which he had been leading. Then the two men began to talk. I couldn’t hear everything, but it sounded as if they were arranging to meet somewhere. They gave the name of a place.”

  Her eyes searched Buck’s face with a troubled, anxious scrutiny. “So many Arizona towns have a foreign sound, but somehow I—I’ve never even heard of Santa Clara.”

  “Santa Clara!” burst out Bud. “Why, that’s over in Sonora. If he should get her across the border—”

  Mrs. Archer sprang to her feet and caught Stratton by one arm. “Mexico!” she cried hysterically. “Oh, Buck! You must save her from that creature! You mustn’t let him—”

  “He sha’n’t. Don’t worry,” interrupted Stratton harshly. “Tell me as quickly as you can what else you heard. Was there anything said about the way he meant to take?”

  Mrs. Archer clenched her small hands and fought bravely for self-control. “He said he—he might be delayed. He didn’t dare take the road through Perilla, and the trail through the mountains was probably blocked by the sheriff.” Her forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “He said the only way was to—to go through the pass and turn south along the edge of the T-T land. That—that was all.”

  Buck’s face lighted with somber satisfaction. “It’s a good bit,” he said briefly. “When they started off did you notice which way they went?”

  “Pedro rode past the house toward the lower gate. Lynch went straight down the slope toward the bunk-house. He was leading Mary’s horse. I ran a little way after them and saw them cross the creek this side of the middle pasture gate.”

  Buck shot a glance at Jessup. “The north pasture!” he muttered. “He knows there’ll be no one around there, and it’ll be the safest way to reach the T-T trail. I’ll saddle a fresh cayuse and be off.” He turned to Mrs. Archer. “Don’t you worry,” he said, with a momentary touch on her shoulder that was at once a caress and an assurance. “I’ll bring her back.”

  “You must!” she cried. “They said something—It isn’t possible that he can—force her to—to marry him?”

  “A lot of things are possible, but he won’t have the chance,” replied Stratton grimly. “Bud, you stay here with Mrs. Archer, and I’ll—”

  “Oh, no!” protested the old lady. “You must both go. I don’t need any one. I’m not afraid of being here alone. No one will come—now.”

  “Why couldn’t I go after Hardenberg and get him to take a bunch around the south end of the hills,” suggested Jessup quickly. “They might be able to head him off.”

  “All right,” nodded Stratton curtly. “Go to it.”

  Inaction had suddenly grown intolerable. He would have agreed to anything save the suggestion that he delay his start even for another sixty seconds. With a hurried good-by to Mrs. Archer, he hastened from the room, swung into his saddle, and rode swiftly around to the corral. A brief search through the darkness showed him that only a single horse remained there. He lost not a moment in roping the animal, and was transferring his saddle from Pete, when Bud appeared.

  “You’ll have to catch a horse from the remuda,” he said briefly. “I’ve taken the last one. Turn Pete into the corral, will you, and give him a little feed.” Straightening up, he turned the stirrup, mounted swiftly, and spurred his horse forward. “So-long,” he called back over one shoulder.

  The thud of hoofs drowned Bud’s reply, and as the night closed about him, Buck gave a faint sigh of relief. There was a brief delay at the gate, and then, heading northwest, he urged the horse to a canter.

  He was taking a chance in following this short cut through the middle pasture, but he felt he had no choice. To attempt to trail Lynch would be futile, and if he waited until dawn, the scoundrel would be hopelessly in the lead. He knew of only one pass through the mountains to T-T ground, and for this he headed, convinced that it was also Lynch’s goal, and praying fervently that the scoundrel might not change his mind.

  He was under no delusions as to the task which lay before him. Lynch would be somewhat handicapped by the presence of the girl, especially if he continued to lead her horse. But he had a good hour’s start, and once in the mountains the handicap would vanish. The chase was likely to be prolonged, particularly as Lynch knew every foot of the mountain trail and the country beyond, which Stratton had never seen.

  But the presence of difficulties only strengthened Buck’s resolution and confidence. As he sped on through the luminous darkness, the cool night wind brushing his face, a seething rage against Tex Lynch dominated him. Now and then the thought of Mary Thorne came to torture him. Vividly he pictured the scene at the ranch-house which Mrs. Archer had described, imagining the girl’s fear and horror and despair, then and afterward, with a realism which made him wince. But always his mind flashed back to the man who was to blame for it all, and with savage curses he pledged himself to a reckoning.

  And so, with mind divided between alternating spasms of tenderness and fury, he came at last to the further side of middle pasture and dismounted to let down the fence. It was characteristic of the born and bred ranchman that instead of riding swiftly on and letting the cut wires dangle, he automatically obeyed one of the hard and fast rules of the range and fastened them behind him. He did not pause again until he reached the little sheltered nook in the face of the high cliffs, out of which led the trail.

  Had those two passed yet, or were they still out there somewhere in the sandy wastes of north pasture? He wondered as he reined in his horse. He scarcely dared hope that already he could have forestalled the crafty Lynch, but it was important to make sure. And so, slipping out of the saddle, he flung the reins over the roan’s head and, walking forward a few steps, lit a match and searched the ground carefully for any signs.

  Three matches had been consumed before he found what he was looking for—the fresh prints of two horses leading toward the trail. Hastily returning to his cayuse, he swung into the saddle and headed the roan toward the grade. They were ahead of him, then; but how far?

  It was impossible to make any speed along the rough uncertainties of this rocky trail, but Buck wasted no time. Down in the further hollow he turned aside to the spring, not knowing when he would again find water for his horse. He did not dismount, and as the roan plunged velvet nozzle into the spring, a picture rose in Buck’s mind of that other day—how long ago it seemed!—when he himself, sagging painfully in the saddle, had sucked the water with as g
reat an eagerness out of a woman’s soggy Stetson, and then, over the limp brim, gazed gratefully into a pair of tender hazel eyes which tried in vain to mask anxiety beneath a surface of lightness.

  He bit his lips and struck the saddle-horn fiercely with one clenched fist. When the horse had finished drinking, he turned him swiftly and, regaining the trail, pushed on feverishly at reckless speed.

  About an hour later the first pale signs of dawn began to lighten the darkness. Slowly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, a cold gray crept into the sky, blotting out the stars. Little by little the light strengthened, searching out shadowy nooks and corners, revealing this peak or that, widening the horizon, until at length the whole, wide, tumbled mass of peak and precipice, of cañon, valley, and tortuous, twisted mountain trail lay revealed in all its grim, lifeless, forbidding desolation.

  From his point of vantage at the summit of a steep grade, Buck halted and stared ahead with a restless, keen eagerness. He could see the trail curving over the next rise, and farther still he glimpsed a tiny patch of it rounding the shoulder of a hill. But it was empty, lifeless; and as he loosed the reins and touched the roan lightly with a spur, Stratton’s face grew blank and hard again.

  From somewhere amongst the rocks the long-drawn, quavering howl of a coyote sounded mournfully.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CARRIED AWAY

  The same dawn unrolled before the eyes of a man and a girl, riding southward along the ragged margin of the T-T ranch. Westward stretched the wide, rolling range-land, empty at the moment of any signs of life. And somehow, for the very reason that one expected something living there, it seemed even more desolate than the rough, broken country bordering the mountains on the other side.

  That, at least, was Mary Thorne’s thought. Emerging from the mountain trail just as dawn broke, her eyes brightened as she took in the flat, familiar country, even noting a distant line of wire fence, and for the first time in many hours despair gave place to sudden hope. Where there was range-land there must be cattle and men to tend them, and her experience with Western cow-men had not been confined to those of Lynch’s type. Him she knew now, to her regret and sorrow, to be the great exception. The majority were clean-cut, brave, courteous, slow of speech, perhaps, but swift in action; simple of mind and heart—the sort of man, in short, to whom a woman in distress might confidently turn for help.