Shoe-Bar Stratton - Chapter 3

But Stratton's mind was too full of the amazing information he had gleaned¹ from the old storekeeper to leave much room for minor² reflections. He had been stunned³ at first--so completely floored that anyone save the garrulous⁴ 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 barefaced⁶, impudent⁷ attempt at swindle. From motives⁸ of policy he had done his best to conceal⁹ that, too, from Pop Daggett; but now that he was alone it surged up again within him, dyeing his face a deep crimson¹¹ and etching hard lines on his forehead and about his straight-lipped mouth.

 

"Thought they'd put it over easy," he growled¹² behind set teeth, one clenched¹³, gloved hand thumping¹⁴ the saddle-horn. "Saw the notice in the papers, of course, and decided¹⁵ 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 merged¹⁶ into an expression of puzzled wonder. Thorne, of all people, to try and put across a crooked¹⁷ 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 scrupulously¹⁸ honest and upright. Indeed, when Buck¹⁹ came to enlist²⁰, it seemed a perfectly²¹ 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 kin⁵ 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 flickered²² 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, negligent²³ gesture of one hand and a keen, penetrating²⁴, 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 caressing²⁶ for an instant the butt²⁷ of his Colt. He had set out on his errand of exposure with an angry impulsiveness²⁸ 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 lone¹⁰ hand, that the very nature of his business was likely to rouse the most desperate and unscrupulous opposition²⁹. 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 accusations³⁰ 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 ranch³¹. The scenery thus presenting no points of interest, Buck's thoughts turned to the interview ahead of him. Marshaling his facts, he planned briefly³² how he would make use of them, and finally began to draw scrappy mental pen-pictures of the usurping³³ Mary Thorne.

 

She would be tall, probably, and raw-boned--that domineering, "bossy³⁴" 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 mightily³⁵, Buck awoke to the realization³⁶ that he was approaching the eastern extremity³⁷ of the Shoe-Bar ranch. His eyes brightened, and, dismissing all thoughts of Miss Thorne, he began to cast interested, appraising³⁸ 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 sagging³⁹ fence-wire where staples⁴⁰, drawn⁴¹ or fallen out, had never been replaced. Here and there a rotting post leaned at a precarious⁴² angle, or gates between pastures needed repairing badly. What cattle were in sight seemed in good condition but their number was much less than he expected. Only once did he observe any signs of human activity, and then the loafing attitude of the two punchers riding leisurely⁴³ through a field half a mile away was but too apparent. By the time he came within sight of the ranch-house, nestling pleasantly in a little grove⁴⁴ of cottonwoods beyond the creek⁴⁵, his face was set in a hard scowl⁴⁶.

 

"Looks to me like they were letting the whole outfit⁴⁷ go to pot," he muttered angrily. "It sure is time I whirled in and took a hand."

 

Urging the roan forward, he rode splashing through the shallow stream, up the gentle slope, and swung out of his saddle close to the kitchen door. This stood open, and striding up to it Buck met the languid gaze of a swarthy middle-aged⁴⁸ Mexican who lounged just within the portal.

 

"Miss Thorne around?" he asked curtly⁴⁹.

 

"Sure," shrugged⁵⁰ the Mexican. "I t'ink she in fron' house. Yoh try aroun' other door, mebbe fin²⁵' her."

 

In the old days the kitchen entrance had been the one most used, but Buck remembered that there was another at the opposite end of the building which opened directly into the ranch living-room. He sought it now, observing with preoccupied⁵¹ surprise that a small covered veranda⁵² had been built out from the house, found it ajar like the other, and knocked.

 

"Come in," said a voice.

 

Stratton crossed the threshold, instinctively⁵³ removing his hat. As he remembered it, the room, though of good size and comfortable enough, had been a clutter⁵⁴ of purely⁵⁵ masculine belongings⁵⁶. He was quite unprepared for the colorful gleam of Navajo rugs, the curtained windows, the general air of swept and garnished⁵⁷ tidiness which seemed almost luxury. Briefly his sweeping⁵⁸ glance took in a bowl of flowers on the center-table and then came to rest abruptly⁵⁹ on a slight, girlish figure just risen from a chair beside it.

 

"I'd like to see Miss Thorne, please," he said, stifling⁶⁰ his momentary⁶¹ surprise.

 

The girl took a step forward, her slim, tanned, ringless fingers clasped loosely about a book she held.

 

"I'm Miss Thorne," she answered in a low, pleasant voice.

 

Buck gasped⁶² and his eyes widened. Then he recovered himself swiftly.

 

"I mean Miss Mary Thorne," he explained; "the--er--owner of this outfit."

 

The girl smiled faintly, a touch of veiled wistfulness in her eyes.

 

"I'm Mary Thorne," she said quietly. "There's only one, you know."

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