Vaguely, as of a sound coming from far distances, the crack of a revolver-shot penetrated to the girl’s numbed brain. It did not surprise her. Indeed, it roused only a feeling of the mildest curiosity in one whose nerves had been strained almost to the breaking-point. When Lynch, with a hoarse cry, toppled back against her, she merely stepped quickly to one side, and an instant later she was on her knees beside Stratton.

“Buck!” she sobbed. “Oh, Buck!” clutching at him as if from some wild fear that he would topple into the abyss.

Hands suddenly put her gently to one side, and some one dragged Stratton from his dangerous position and supported him against an upraised knee. It was Bud Jessup, and behind him loomed the figures of Sheriff Hardenberg and several of his men.

Mary’s glance noted them briefly, incuriously, returning anxiously to the man beside her. His eyes were open now, and he was sucking in the air in deep, panting gulps. 340

“How yuh feelin’?” asked Bud briefly.

“All right—get my breath,” mumbled Buck.

“Yuh hurt any place?” Jessup continued, after a brief pause.

“Not to speak of,” returned Stratton in a stronger tone. “When I first jumped for the cuss, I hit my head the devil of a crack, and—pretty near went out. But that don’t matter—now.”

His eyes sought the girl’s and dwelt there, longingly, caressingly. There was tribute in their depths, appreciation, and something stronger, more abiding which brought a faint flush into her tired face and made her heart beat faster. Presently, when he staggered to his feet and took a step or two toward her, she felt no shame in meeting him half way. Quite as naturally as his arm slipped around her shoulders, her lifted hands rested against the front of his flannel shirt, torn into ribbons and stained with grime.

“For a little one,” he murmured, looking down into her eyes, “you’re some spunky fighter, believe me!”

She flushed deeper and her lids drooped. Of a sudden Sheriff Hardenberg spoke up briskly:

“That was a right nice shot, kid. You got him good.”

He was standing beside the body sprawling on the ground, and the words had scarcely left his lips when Lynch’s eyes opened slowly.

“Yes—yuh got me,” he mumbled. 341

Slowly his glance swept the circle of faces until it rested finally on the man and girl standing close together. For a long moment he stared at them silently, his pale lips twitching. Then all at once a look of cunning satisfaction swept the baffled fury from his smoldering eyes.

“Yuh got me,” he repeated in a stronger voice. “Looks like yuh got her, too. Maybe yuh think you’ve gobbled up the ranch, likewise, an’—an’ everything. That’s where yuh get stung.”

He fell to coughing suddenly, and for a few minutes his great body was racked with violent paroxysms that brought a bright crimson stain to the sleeve he flung across his mouth. But all the while his eyes, full of strange venomous triumph, never once left Stratton’s face.

“Yuh see,” he choked out finally, “the ranch—ain’t—hers.”

He paused, speechless; and Mary, looking down on him, felt merely that his brain was wandering and found room in her heart to be a little sorry.

“Why ain’t it hers?” demanded Bud with youthful impetuosity. “Her father left it to her, an’—”

“It wasn’t his to—to leave. He stole it.” Lynch’s voice was weaker, but his eyes still glowed with hateful triumph. “He forged the deed—from—from papers—Stratton left with him—when he went—to war.” He moistened his dry lips with his tongue. 342 “When Stratton was—killed—he didn’t leave—no kin—to make trouble, an’ Thorne—took a chance.”

His voice faltered, ceased. Mary stared at him dumbly, a slow, oppressive dread creeping into her heart. Little forgotten things flashed back into her mind. Her father’s financial reverses, his reticence about the acquisition of the Shoe-Bar, the strange hold Lynch had seemed to have on him, rose up to torment her. Suddenly she glanced quickly at Buck for reassurance.

“It isn’t so!” she cried. “It can’t be. My father—”

Slowly the words died on her lips. There was love, tenderness, pity in the man’s eyes, but no—denial!

“Ain’t it, though?” Lynch spoke in a labored whisper; his eyes were glazing. “Yuh thinks—I’m—loco. I—ain’t. It’s—gospel truth. Yuh find Quinlan, the—the witness. No, Quinlan’s dead. It’s—it’s—Kaylor. Kaylor got—got— What was I sayin’.” He plucked feebly at his chap-belt. “I know. Kaylor got—a clean thousand for—for swearin’—the signature—was—Stratton’s. Yuh find Kaylor. Hardenberg ... thumbscrew ... the truth....”

The low, uneven whisper merged into a murmur; then silence fell, broken only by the labored breathing of the dying man. Dazed, bewildered, conscious of a horrible conviction that he spoke the truth, Mary stood frozen, struggling against a wave of utter 343 weariness and despair that surged over her. She felt the arm about her tighten, but for some strange reason the realization brought her little comfort.

Suddenly Hardenberg broke the silence. He had been watching the girl, and could no longer bear the misery in her white, strained face.

“You think you’ve turned a smart trick, don’t you?” he snapped with angry impulsiveness. “As a matter of fact the ranch belongs to him already. The man you’ve known as Green is Buck Stratton himself.”

Lynch’s lids flashed up. “Yuh—lie!” he murmured. “Stratton’s—dead!”

“Nothing like it,” retorted the sheriff. “The papers got it wrong. He was only badly wounded. This fellow here is Buck Stratton, and he can prove it.”

A spasm quivered over Lynch’s face. He tried to speak, but only a faint gurgle came from his blood-flecked lips. Too late Hardenberg, catching an angry glance from Buck, realized and regretted his impulsive indiscretion. For Mary Thorne, turning slowly like a person in a dream, stared into the face of the man beside her, lips quivering and eyes full of a great horror.

“You!” she faltered, in a pitiful, small voice. “You—”

Stratton held her closer, a troubled tenderness sweeping the anger from his eyes. 344

“But—but, Mary—” he stammered—“what difference does—”

Suddenly her nerves snapped under the culminating strain of the past few hours.

“Difference!” she cried hysterically. “Difference!” Her heart lay like a cold, dead thing within her; she felt utterly miserable and alone. “You—My father! Oh, God!”

She made a weak effort to escape from his embrace. Then, abruptly, her slim, girlish figure grew limp, her head fell back against Stratton’s shoulder, her eyes closed.