From: Shoe Bar Stratton
"Yuh out last night?" brusquely inquired Gabby, as they were dressing next
A direct question from the eccentric individual was so novel that Buck
paused in buckling on his cartridge-belt, and stared at him in frank
"Why, no," he returned promptly. "Were you, Bud?"
"I sure wasn't. I didn't budge after my head hit the mattress. What gave
yuh the notion, old-timer?"
"Door unlatched," growled Gabby, continuing his preparations for
"Is that all?" shrugged Bud. "Likely nobody thought to close it tight."
Gabby made no answer, but his expression, as he went silently about his
work, failed to show conviction.
"Ain't he a scream?" inquired Bud an hour later, when they had saddled up
and were on their way. "I don't wonder Tenny can't get nobody to stay in
camp with him. It would be about as cheerful as a morgue."
"Must have got soured in his youth," remarked Stratton. "I had to put up a
regular fight to get him to look after the pack-horse till somebody can
take it back to the ranch-house. Where do we hit this trail you were
telling me about?"
"About a mile and a half further on. It ain't much to boast of, but
chances are we won't meet up with a soul till we run into the main road a
mile or so this side of Perilla."
Bud's prediction proved accurate. They encountered no one throughout the
entire length of the twisting, narrow, little-used trail, and even when
they reached the main road early in the afternoon there was very little
"Reckon they're all taking their siesta," commented. Bud. "Perilla's a
great place for greasers, yuh know, bein' so near the border. There's a
heap sight more of 'em than whites."
Presently they began to pass small, detached adobe huts, some of them the
merest hovels. A few dark-faced children were in sight here and there, but
the older persons were all evidently comfortably indoors, slumbering
through the noonday heat.
Further on the houses were closer together, and at length Bud announced
that they were nearing the main street, one end of which crossed the road
they were on at right angles.
"That rickety old shack there is just on the corner," he explained. "It's
a Mexican eating-house, as I remember. Most of the stores an' decent
places are up further."
"Wonder where Hardenberg hangs out?" remarked Stratton.
"Yuh got me. I never had no professional use for him before. Reckon most
anybody can tell us, though. That looks like a cow-man over there. Let's
A moment or two later they stopped before the dingy, weather-beaten
building on the corner. Two horses fretted at the hitching-rack, and on
the steps lounged a man in regulation cow-boy garb. A cigarette dangled
from one corner of his mouth, and as the two halted he glanced up from the
newspaper he was reading.
"Hardenberg?" he repeated in answer to the question. "Yuh mean the
sheriff? Why, he's inside there."
Bud looked surprised and somewhat incredulous. "What the devil's he doin'
in that greaser eatin'-house?"
The stranger squinted one eye as the cigarette smoke curled up into his
face. "Oh, he ain't patronizin' the joint," he explained with a touch of
dry amusement. "He's after old Jose Maria for sellin' licker, I reckon.
Him an' one of his deputies rode up about five minutes ago."
After a momentary hesitation Stratton and Jessup dismounted and tied their
horses to the rack. Buck realized that the sheriff might not care to be
interrupted while on business of this sort, but their own case was so
urgent that he decided to take a chance. At least he could find out when
Hardenberg would be at leisure.
Pushing through the swinging door, they found themselves in a single, long
room, excessively dingy and rather dark, the only light coming from two
unshuttered windows on the north side. To Buck's surprise at least a score
of Mexicans were seated around five or six bare wooden tables eating and
drinking. Certainly if a raid was on they were taking it very calmly. The
next moment he was struck by two things; the sudden hush which greeted
their appearance, and the absence of any one who could possibly be the man
"Looks like that fellow must have given us the wrong tip," he said,
glancing at Jessup. "I don't see any one here who--"
He paused as a wizened, middle-aged Mexican got up from the other end of
the room and came toward them.
"Yo' wish zee table, senors?" he inquired. "P'raps like zee chile con
carne, or zee--"
"We don't want anything to eat," interrupted Stratton. "I understand
Sheriff Hardenberg is here. Could I see him a minute?"
"Oh, zee shereef!" shrugged the Mexican, with a characteristic gesture of
his hands. "He in zee back room with Jose Maria. Yo' please come zis
He turned and walked toward a door at the further end of the long room,
the two men following him between the tables. But Buck had not taken more
than half a dozen steps before he stopped abruptly. That curious silence
seemed to him too long continued to be natural; there was a hint of
tension, of suspense in it. And something about the attitude of the seated
Mexicans--a vague sense of watchful, stealthy scrutiny, of tense,
quivering muscles--confirmed his sudden suspicion.
"Hold up, Bud!" he warned impulsively. "There's something wrong here."
As if the words were a signal, the crowd about them surged up suddenly,
with the harsh scrape of many chair-legs and an odd, sibilant sound,
caused by a multitude of quick-drawn breaths. Like a flash Buck pulled his
gun and leveled it on the nearest greaser.
"Get out of the way," he ordered, taking a step toward the outer door.
The fellow shrank back instinctively, but to Buck's surprise--the average
Mexican is not noted for daredevil bravery--several others behind pushed
themselves forward. Suddenly Jessup's voice rose in shrill warning.
"Look out, Buck! Behind yuh--quick! That guy's got a knife."
Stratton whirled swiftly to catch a flashing vision of a tall Mexican
creeping toward him, a long, slim knife glittering in his upraised hand.
The fellow was so close that another step would bring him within striking
distance, and without hesitation Buck's finger pressed the trigger.
The hammer fell with an ominous, metallic click. Amazed, Buck hastily
pulled the trigger twice again without results. As he realized that in
some mysterious manner the weapon had been tampered with, his teeth
grated, but with no perceptible pause in the swiftness of his action he
drew back his arm and hurled the pistol straight into the greaser's face.
His aim was deadly. The heavy Colt struck the fellow square on the mouth,
and with a smothered cry he dropped the knife and staggered back, flinging
up both hands to his face. But others leaped forward to take his place, a
dozen knives flashing in as many hands. The ring closed swiftly, and from
behind him Stratton heard Bud cry out with an oath that his gun was
There was no time for conscious planning. It was instinct alone--that
primitive instinct of every man sore pressed to get his back against
something solid--that made Buck lunge forward suddenly, seize a Mexican
around the waist, and hurl him bodily at one side of the closing circle.
This parted abruptly and two men went sprawling. One of them Buck kicked
out of the way, feeling a savage satisfaction at the impact of his boot
against soft flesh and at the yell of pain that followed. Catching Jessup
by an arm he swept him toward one of the tables, snatched up a chair, and
with his back against the heavy piece of furniture he faced the mob. His
hat was gone, and as he stood there, big body braced, mouth set, and hair
crested above his smoldering eyes, he made a splendid picture of force and
strength which seemed for an instant to awe the Mexicans into inactivity.
But the pause was momentary. Urged on by a voice in the rear, they surged
forward again, two of the foremost hurling their knives with deadly aim.
One Stratton avoided by a swift duck of his head; the other he caught
dexterously on the chair-bottom. Then, over the heads of the crowd,
another chair came hurtling with unexpected force and precision. It struck
Buck's crude weapon squarely, splintering the legs and leaving him only
the back and precariously wobbling seat.
He flung this at one of the advancing men and floored him. But another,
slipping agilely in from the side, rushed at him with upraised knife. He
was the same greaser who, weeks before, had played that trick about the
letter; and Buck's lips twitched grimly as he recognized him.
As the knife flashed downward, Stratton squirmed his body sidewise so that
the blade merely grazed one shoulder. Grasping the slim wrist, he twisted
it with brutal force, and the weapon clattered to the floor. An instant
later he had gripped the fellow about the body and, exerting all his
strength, hurled him across the table and straight through the near-by
The sound of a shrill scream and the crash of shattered glass came
simultaneously. In the momentary, dead silence that followed, one could
have almost heard a pin drop.
Next: Sheriff Hardenberg Intervenes
Previous: The Secret Of North Pasture