Kitobni o'qish: «Shoe-Bar Stratton»

CHAPTER I
BACK FROM THE DEAD

Westward the little three-car train chugged its way fussily across the brown prairie toward distant mountains which, in that clear atmosphere, loomed so deceptively near. Standing motionless beside the weather-beaten station shed, the solitary passenger watched it absently, brows drawn into a single dark line above the bridge of his straight nose. Tall, lean, with legs spread apart a bit and shoulders slightly bent, he made a striking figure against that background of brilliant sky and drenching, golden sunlight. For a brief space he did not stir. Then of a sudden, when the train had dwindled to the size of a child’s toy, he turned abruptly and drew a long, deep breath.

It was a curious transformation. A moment before his face – lined, brooding, somber, oddly pale for that country of universal tan – looked almost old. At least one would have felt it the face of a man who had recently endured a great deal of mental or physical suffering. Now, as he turned with an unconscious straightening of broad shoulders and a characteristic uptilt of square, cleft chin, the lines smoothed away miraculously, a touch of red crept into his lean cheeks, an eager, boyish gleam of expectation flashed into the clear gray eyes that rested caressingly on the humdrum, sleepy picture before him.

Humdrum it was, in all conscience. A single street, wide enough, almost, for a plaza, paralleled the railroad tracks, the buildings, such as they were, all strung along the further side in an irregular line. One of these, ramshackle, weather-worn, labeled laconically “The Store,” stood directly opposite the station. The architecture of the “Paloma Springs Hotel,” next door, was very similar. On either side of these two structures a dozen or more discouraged-looking adobe houses were set down at uneven intervals. To the eastward the street ended in the corrals and shipping-pens; in the other direction it merged into a narrow dusty trail that curved northward from the twin steel rails and quickly lost itself in the encompassing prairie.

That was all. Paloma Springs in its entirety lay there in full view, drowsing in the torrid heat of mid-September. Not a human being was in sight. Only a brindled dog slept in a small patch of shade beside the store; and fastened to the hotel hitching-rack, two burros, motionless save for twitching tails and ears, were almost hidden beneath stupendous loads of firewood.

But to Buck Stratton the charm lay deeper than mere externals. As a matter of fact he had seen Paloma Springs only twice in his life, and then very briefly. But it was a typical little cow-town of the Southwest, and to the homesick cattleman the sight of it was like a refreshing draft of water in the desert. Pushing back his hat, Stratton drew another full breath, the beginnings of a smile curving the corners of his mouth.

“It sure is good to get back,” he murmured, picking up his bag. “Someway the very air tastes different. Gosh almighty. It don’t seem like two years, though.”

Abruptly the light went out of his eyes and his face clouded. No wonder the time seemed short when one of those years had vanished from his life as utterly and completely as if it had never been. Whenever Stratton thought of it, which was no oftener than he could help, he cringed mentally. There was something uncanny and even horrible in the realization that for the better part of a twelve-month he had been eating, sleeping, walking about, making friends, even, like any normal person, without retaining a single atom of recollection of the entire period.

Frowning, Buck put up one hand and absently touched a freshly healed scar half-hidden by his thick hair. Even now there were moments when he felt the whole thing must be some wild nightmare. Vividly he remembered the sudden winking out of consciousness in the midst of that panting, uphill dash through Belleau Wood. He could recall perfectly the most trifling event leading up to it – the breaking down of his motor-cycle in a strange sector just before the charge, his sudden determination to take part in it by hook or crook, even the thrill and tingle of that advance against heavy machine-gun fire.

The details of his awakening were equally clear. It was like closing his eyes one minute and opening them the next. He lay on a hospital bed, his head swathed in bandages. That seemed all right. He had been wounded in the charge against the Boche, and they had carried him to a field-hospital. He was darned lucky to have come out of it alive.

But little by little the conviction was forced upon him that it wasn’t as simple as that. At length, when he was well on the way to recovery, he learned to his horror that the interval of mental blankness, instead of being a few hours, or at the most a day or two, had lasted for over a year!

Without fully understanding certain technical portions of the doctor’s explanation, Stratton gathered that the bullet which had laid him low had produced a bone-pressure on the portion of his brain which was the seat of memory. The wound healing, he had recovered perfect physical health, but with a mind blank of anything previous to his awakening in the French hospital over a year ago. The recent operation, which was pronounced entirely successful, had been performed to relieve that pressure, and Stratton was informed that all he needed was a few weeks of convalescence to make him as good a man as he had ever been.

It took Buck all of that time to adjust himself to the situation. He was in America instead of France, without the slightest recollection of getting there. The war was over long ago. A thousand things had happened of which he had not the remotest knowledge. And because he was a very normal, ordinary young man with a horror of anything queer and eccentric, the thought of that mysterious year filled him with dismay and roused in him a passionate longing to escape at once from everything which would remind him of his uncanny lapse of memory. If he were only back where he belonged in the land of wide spaces, of clean, crisp air and blue, blue sky, he felt he would quickly forget this nightmare which haunted so many waking moments.

Unfortunately there were complications. To begin with he found himself in the extraordinary position of a man without identity. The record sent over from the hospital in France stated that he had been brought in from the field minus his tag and every other mark of identification. Buck was not surprised at this, nor at the failure of anyone in the strange sector to recognize him. Only a few hours before the battle the tape of his identification-disk had parted and he had thrust the thing carelessly into his pocket. He had seen too many wounded men brought into field-hospitals not to realize how easy it is to lose a blouse.

Recovering from the bullet-wound and unable to tell anything about himself, he had apparently passed under the name of Robert Green. Stratton wondered with a touch of grim amusement whether this christening was not the result of doughboy humor. He must have been green enough, in all conscience.

He was not even grimly amused by the ultimate discovery that the name of Roth Stratton had appeared months and months ago on one of the official lists of “killed or missing.” It increased his discomfort over the whole hateful business and made him thankful for the first time that he was alone in the world. At least no mother or sister had been tortured by this strange prank of fate.

But at last the miles of red tape had been untied or cut, and the moment his discharge came Stratton took the first possible train out of New York. He did not even wire Bloss, his ranch-foreman, that he was coming. As a matter of fact he felt that doing so would only further complicate an already sufficiently difficult situation.

The Shoe-Bar outfit, in western Arizona, had been his property barely a week before he left it for the recruiting-office. Born and bred in the Texas Panhandle, he inherited his father’s ranch when barely twenty-one. Even then many of the big outfits were being cut up into farms, public range-land had virtually ceased to exist, and one by one the cattlemen were driven westward before the slowly encroaching wave of civilization.

Two years later Stratton decided to give up the fight and follow them. During the winter before the war he sold out for a handsome figure, spent several months looking over new ground, and finally located and bought the Shoe-Bar outfit.

The deal was hurried through because of his determination to enlist. Indeed, he would probably not have purchased at all had not the new outfit, even to his hasty inspection, seemed to be so unusual a bargain and so exactly what he wanted. But buy he did, placed Joe Bloss, a reliable and experienced cattleman who had been with him for years, in charge, and departed.

From that moment he had never once set eyes on the Shoe-Bar. Bloss wrote frequent and painstaking reports which seemed to indicate that everything was going well. But all through the long and tedious journey ending at the little Arizona way-station, Stratton fumed and fretted and wondered. Even if Joe had failed to see his name amongst the missing, what must he have thought of his interminable silence? All through Buck’s brief training and the longer interval overseas, the foreman’s letters had come with fair regularity and been answered promptly and in detail. What had Bloss done when the break came? What had he been doing ever since?

A fresh wave of troubled curiosity sent Stratton swinging briskly across the street. Keeping inside the long hitching-rack, he crossed the sagging porch and stepped through the open door into the store. For a moment he thought it empty. Then a chair scraped, and over in one corner a short, stout, grizzled man dropped his feet from the window-sill and shuffled forward, yawning.

“Wal! Wal!” he mumbled, his faded, sleep-dazed eyes taking in Buck’s bag. “Train come in? Reckon I must of been dozin’ a mite.”

“Looks to me like the whole place was taking an afternoon nap,” smiled Stratton. “Not much doing this time of day, I expect.”

“You said it,” yawned the stout man, supporting himself against the rough pine counter. “Things is liable to brisk up in a hour or two, though, when the boys begin to drift in. Stranger around these parts, ain’t yuh?” he added curiously.

For a tiny space Buck hesitated. Then, moved by an involuntary impulse he did not even pause to analyze, he shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“I was out at the Shoe-Bar a couple of times about two years ago,” he answered. “Haven’t been around here since.”

“The Shoe-Bar? Huh?” Pop Daggett looked interested. “You don’t say so! Funny I don’t recollect yore face.”

“Not so very. I only passed through here to take the train.”

“That was it, eh? Two years ago must of been about the time the outfit was bought by that Stratton feller from Texas. Yuh know him well?”

“Joe Bloss, the foreman, was a friend of mine,” evaded Stratton. “He’s the one I stopped off now to see.”

Pop Daggett’s jaw sagged, betraying a cavernous expanse of sparsely-toothed gums. “Joe Bloss!” he ejaculated. “My land! I hope you ain’t traveled far fur that. If so, yuh sure got yore trouble for yore pains. Why, man alive! Joe Bloss ain’t been nigh the Shoe-Bar for close on to a year.”

Stratton’s eyes narrowed. “A year?” he repeated curtly. “Where’s he gone?”

“You got me. I did hear he’d signed up with the Flying-V’s over to New Mexico, but that might have been jest talk.” He sniffed disapprovingly. “There ain’t no doubt about it; the old Shoe-Bar’s changed powerful these two years. I dunno what we’re comin’ to with wimmin buttin’ into the cattle business.”

Buck stared at him in frank amazement. “Women?” he repeated. “What the dickens are you talking about, anyway?”

“I sh’d think I was plain enough,” retorted Pop Daggett with some asperity. “Mebbe female ranchers ain’t no novelty to yuh, but this is the first time I ever run up ag’in one m’self, an’ I ain’t much in love with the idear.”

Stratton’s teeth dug into his under lip, and one hand gripped the edge of the counter with a force that brought out a row of white dots across the knuckles.

“You mean to tell me there’s a – a – woman at the Shoe-Bar?” he asked incredulously.

“At it?” snorted the old man. “Why, by cripes, she owns it! Not only that, but folks say she’s goin’ to run the outfit herself like as if she was a man.” He paused to spit accurately and with volume into the empty stove. “Her name’s Thorne,” he added curtly. “Mary Thorne.”

CHAPTER II
CROOKED WORK

Stratton suddenly turned his back and stared blankly through the open door. With the same unconscious instinct which had moved him to conceal his face from the old man, he fumbled in one pocket and drew forth papers and tobacco sack. It spoke well for his self-control that his fingers were almost steady as he deliberately fashioned a cigarette and thrust it between his lips. When he had lighted it and inhaled a puff or two, he turned slowly to Pop Daggett again.

“You sure know how to shoot a surprise into a fellow, old-timer,” he drawled. “A woman rancher, eh? That’s going some around this country, I’ll say. How long has she – er – owned the Shoe-Bar?”

“Only since her pa died about four months back.” Pop Daggett assumed an easier pose; his tone had softened to one of garrulous satisfaction at having a new listener to a tale he had worn threadbare. “It’s consid’able of a story, but if yuh ain’t pressed for time – ”

“Go to it,” invited Buck, leaning back against the counter. “I’ve got all the time there is.”

Daggett’s small, faded blue eyes regarded him curiously.

“Did yuh ever meet up with this here Stratton?” he asked abruptly.

“I – a – know what he looks like.”

“It’s more’n I do,” grumbled Pop regretfully. “The only two times he was here I was laid up with a mean attack of rheumatiz, an’ never sot eyes on him. Still an’ all, there ain’t hardly anybody else around Paloma that more ’n glimpsed him passin’ through. He bought the outfit in a terrible hurry, an’ I thinks to m’self at the time he must be awful trustin’, or else a mighty right smart jedge uh land an’ cattle. He couldn’t of hardly rid over it even once real thorough before he plunks down his money, gets him a proper title, an’ hikes off to the war, leavin’ Joe Bloss in charge.”

He paused, fished in his pocket, and, producing a plug, carefully bit off one corner. Stratton watched him impatiently, a faint flush staining his clear, curiously white skin.

“Well?” he prodded presently. “What happened then? From what I know of Joe, I’ll say he made good all right.”

“Sure he did.” Pop spoke with emphasis, though somewhat thickly. “There ain’t nobody can tell Joe Bloss much about cattle. He whirled in right capable and got things runnin’ good. For a while he was so danged busy he’d hardly ever get to town, but come winter the work eased up an’ I used to see him right frequent. He’d set there alongside the stove evenings an’ tell me what he was doin’, or how he’d jest had a letter from Stratton, who was by now in France, an’ all the rest of it. Wal, to make a long story short, a year last month the letters stopped comin’. Joe begun to get worried, but I told him likely Stratton was too busy fightin’ to write, or he might even of got wounded. Yuh could have knocked me down with a wisp uh bunch-grass when one uh the boys come in one night with a Phoenix paper, an’ showed me Stratton’s name on a list uh killed or missin’!”

“When was that?” asked Buck briefly, seeing that Daggett evidently expected some comment. If only the man would get on!

“’Round the middle of September. Joe was jest naturally shot to pieces, him knowin’ young Stratton from a kid an’ likin’ him fine, besides bein’ consid’able worried about what was goin’ to happen to the ranch an’ him. Still an’ all, there wasn’t nothin’ he could do but go on holdin’ down his job, which he done until the big bust along the end of October.”

He paused again expectantly. Buck ground the butt of his cigarette under one heel and reached for the makings. He had an almost irresistible desire to take the garrulous old man by the shoulders and shake him till his teeth rattled.

“It was this here Thorne from Chicago,” resumed Daggett, a trifle disappointed. Usually at this point of the story, his listener broke in with exclamation or interested question. “He showed up one morning with the sheriff an’ claimed the ranch was his. Said Stratton had sold it to him an’ produced the deed, signed, sealed, an’ witnessed all right an’ proper.”

Match in one hand and cigarette in the other, Buck stared at him, the picture of arrested motion. For a moment or two his brain whirled. Could he possibly have done such a thing and not remember? With a ghastly sinking of his heart he realized that anything might have been possible during that hateful vanished year. Mechanically he lit his cigarette and of a sudden he grew calmer. According to the hospital records he had not left France until well into November of the preceding year. Tossing the match into the stove, he met Pop Daggett’s glance.

“How could that be?” he asked briefly. “Didn’t you say this Stratton was in France for months before he was killed?”

Pop nodded hearty agreement. “That’s jest what I said, an’ so did Bloss. But according to Thorne this here transfer was made a couple uh weeks before Stratton went over to France.”

“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Buck hotly. “How could he have – ”

He ceased abruptly and bit his lip. Daggett chuckled.

“Gettin’ kinda interested, ain’t yuh?” he remarked in a satisfied tone. “I thought you would ’fore I was done. I don’t say as it’s impossible, but it shore looked queer to me. As Joe says, why would he go an’ sell the outfit jest after buyin’ it without a word to him. Not only that but he kept on writin’ about how Joe was to do this an’ that an’ the other thing like he was mighty interested in havin’ it run good. Joe, he even got suspicions uh somethin’ crooked an’ hired a lawyer to look into it, Stratton not havin’ any folks. But that’s all the good it done him. He couldn’t pick no flaw in it at all. Seems Stratton was in Chicago on one of these here furloughs jest before he took ship. One uh the witnesses had gone to war, but they hunted out the other one an’ he swore he’d seen the deed signed.”

“Did this Thorne – What did you say his name was?”

“I don’t recolleck sayin’, but it was Andrew J.”

Buck’s lids narrowed; a curious gleam flashed for an instant in his gray eyes and was gone.

“Well, did Thorne explain why he let it go so long before making his claim?”

“Oh, shore! He was right there when it come to explainin’. Seems he had some important war business on his hands an’ wanted to get shed uh that before he took up ranchin’. Knowed it was in good hands, ’count uh Bloss bein’ on the job, an’ Stratton havin’ promised to write frequent an’ keep Joe toein’ the mark. Stratton, it seems, had sold out because he didn’t know what might happen to him across the water. Oh, Andrew J. was a right smooth talker, believe me, but still an’ all he didn’t make no great hit with folks around the country even after he settled down on the Shoe-Bar and brung his daughter there to live. There weren’t no tears shed, neither, when an ornery paint horse throwed him last May an’ broke his neck.”

“What about Bloss?” Stratton asked briefly.

“Oh, he got his time along with all the other cow-men. There shore was a clean sweep when Thorne whirled in an’ took hold. Joe hung around here a week or two an’ then drifted down to Phoenix. Last I heard he was goin’ to try the Flyin’-V’s, but that was six months or more ago.”

Buck’s shoulders straightened and his chin went up with a sudden touch of swift decision.

“Got a horse I can hire?” he asked abruptly.

Pop hesitated, his shrewd gaze traveling swiftly over Stratton’s straight, tall figure to rest reflectively on the lean, square-jawed, level-eyed young face.

“I dunno but I have,” he answered slowly. “Uh course I don’t know yore name even, an’ a man’s got to be careful how he – ”

“Oh, that’ll be all right,” interrupted Stratton, his white teeth showing briefly in a smile. “I’ll leave you a deposit. My name’s Bob Green, though folks mostly call me Buck. I’ve got a notion to ride over to the Shoe-Bar and see if they know anything about – Joe.”

“’T ain’t likely they will,” shrugged Daggett. “Still, it won’t do no harm to try. Yuh can’t ride in them things, though,” he added, surveying Stratton’s well-cut suit of gray.

“I don’t specially want to, but they’re all I’ve got,” smiled Buck. “When I quit ranching to show ’em how to run the war, I left my outfit behind, and I haven’t been back yet to get it.”

“Cow-man eh?” Pop nodded approvingly. “I thought so; yuh got the look, someway. Wal, yore welcome to some duds I bought off ’n Dick Sanders about a month ago. He quit the Rockin’-R to go railroadin’ or somethin’, an’ sold his outfit, saddle an’ all. I reckon they’ll suit.”

Stepping behind the counter, he poked around amongst a mass of miscellaneous merchandise and finally drew forth a pair of much-worn leather chaps, high-heeled boots almost new, and a cartridge-belt from which dangled an empty holster.

“There yuh are,” he said triumphantly, spreading them out on the counter. “Gun’s the only thing missin’. He kep’ that, but likely yuh got one of yore own. Saddle’s hangin’ out in the stable.”

Without delay Stratton took off his coat and vest and sat down on an empty box to try the boots, which proved a trifle large but still wearable. He already had on a dark flannel shirt and a new Stetson, which he had bought in New York; and when he pulled on the chaps and buckled the cartridge-belt around his slim waist Pop Daggett surveyed him with distinct approval.

“All yuh need is a good coat uh tan to look like the genuine article,” he remarked. “How come yuh to be so white?”

“Haven’t been out of the hospital long enough to get browned up.” Buck opened his bag and, fumbling for a moment, produced a forty-five army automatic. “This don’t go very well with the outfit,” he shrugged. “Happen to have a regular six-gun around the place you’ll sell me?”

Pop had, this being part of his stock in trade. Buck looked the lot over carefully, finally picking out a thirty-eight Colt with a good heft. When he had paid for this and a supply of ammunition, Pop led the way out to a shed back of the store and pointed out a Fraser saddle, worn but in excellent condition, hanging from a hook.

“It’s a wonder to me any cow-man is ever fool enough to sell his saddle,” commented Stratton as he took it down. “They never get much for ’em, and new ones are so darn ornery to break in.”

“Yuh said it,” agreed Daggett. “I’d ruther buy one second-hand than new any day. There’s the bridle. Yuh take that roan in the near stall. He ain’t much to look at, but he’ll travel all day.”

Fifteen minutes later the roan, saddled and bridled, pawed the dust beside the hitching rack in front of the store, while Buck Stratton made a small bundle of his coat, vest, and a few necessaries from his bag and fastened it behind the saddle. The remainder of his belongings had been left with Pop Daggett, who lounged in the doorway fingering a roll of bills in his trousers pocket and watching his new acquaintance with smiling amiability.

“Well, I’ll be going,” said Stratton, tying the last knot securely. “I’ll bring your cayuse back 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?”