The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine

the room, and as he reached the door Buck noticed a tiny wisp of smoke curling up from the floor to one side of the stove. Looking closer he saw that it was caused by the branding-iron, one corner of which rested on the end of a board where the rough flooring came in contact with the square of hard-packed earth beneath the stove. Bud Jessup saw it, too, and without comment he stepped over and moved the iron to a safer position.

      Still without words, the two left the bunk-house. But as they headed for the kitchen Buck's eyes narrowed slightly and he flashed a momentary glance at his companion which was full of curiosity and thoughtful speculation.

      CHAPTER V

      TEX LYNCH

      Supper, which was served in the ranch-house kitchen by Pedro, the Mexican cook, was not enlivened by much conversation. The food was plentiful and of good quality, and the punchers addressed themselves to its consumption with the single-hearted purpose of hungry men whose appetites have been sharpened by a long day in the saddle. Now and then someone mumbled a request to "pass the sugar," or desired more steak or coffee from the shuffling Pedro; but for the most part the serious business of eating occupied them exclusively.

      There was no sign of Miss Thorne. Buck decided that she took her meals elsewhere and approved the isolation. It must be pretty hard, he thought, for a girl like that to be living her young life in this out-of-the-way corner of the world with no women companions to keep her company. Then he remembered that for all he knew she might not be the only one of her sex on the Shoe-Bar, and when the meal was over and the men were straggling back toward the bunk-house, he put the question to Bud Jessup, who walked beside him.

      "Huh?" grunted the youngster, with a sharp, inquiring glance at his face. "What d'yuh want to know that for?"

      Stratton shrugged his shoulders. "No particular reason," he smiled. "I only thought she'd find it mighty dull alone on the ranch with a bunch of punchers."

      Bud continued to eye him intently. "Well, she ain't alone," he said briefly. "Mrs. Archer lives with her; an' uh course there's Pedro's Maria."

      "Who's Mrs. Archer?"

      "Her aunt. Kinda nice old lady, but she ain't got much pep. Maria's jest the other way. When she's got a grouch on she's some cat, believe me!"

      For some reason the subject appeared to be distasteful to Jessup, and Buck asked no more questions. Instead of following the others into the bunk-house they strolled on along the bank of the creek, which was lined with fair-sized cottonwoods. The sun had set, but the glow of it still lingered in the west. Glinting like a flame on the windows of the ranch-house, it even dappled the placid waters of the little stream with red-gold splotches, which mingled effectively with the mirrored reflections of the overhanging trees. From the kitchen chimney a wisp of smoke rose straight into the still clear air. In a corner of the corral half a dozen horses were bunched, lazily switching their tails at intervals. Through one of the pastures across the stream some cattle drifted, idly feeding their way to water.

      It was a peaceful picture, yet Stratton could not rid his mind of the curious feeling that the peacefulness was all on the surface. He had not missed that swift exchange of glances that heralded his first appearance in the bunk-house; and though Slim McCabe particularly had been almost effusively affable, Buck was none the less convinced that his presence here was unwelcome. That business of the branding-iron, too, was puzzling. Was it merely a bit of rough but harmless horse-play or had it a deeper meaning? Bud did not look like a fellow to lose his nerve easily, and the iron had certainly been hot enough to brand even the tough hide of a three-year-old steer.

      Buck glanced sidewise at his companion to find the blue eyes studying his face with a keen, questioning scrutiny. They were hastily withdrawn, and a faint color crept up, darkening the youngster's tan.

      "Trying to size me up," thought Stratton interestedly. "He's got something on his chest, too."

      But he gave no sign of what was in his mind. A moment or two later he paused and, leaning indolently against a tree, let his gaze sweep idly over the cattle in the near-by pasture.

      "Looks to me like a pretty good bunch of steers," he commented, and then added carelessly: "What sort of a guy is this Tex Lynch, anyhow?"

      Bud hesitated briefly, sending a swift, momentary glance toward the bunk-house.

      "Oh, he's all right, I guess," he answered slowly.

      Stratton grinned. "If you don't look out you'll be overpraising him, kid," he chuckled.

      Jessup shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't say I liked him," he defended. "He knows his business all right."

      "Oh, sure. Otherwise, I s'pose he wouldn't hold down his job. But what I want to know is the kind of boss he is. Does he treat the fellows white, or is he a sneak?"

      Bud's face darkened. "He treats some of 'em white enough," he snapped.

      "That so? Favorites, eh? I've met up with that kind before. Is he hard to get on the right side of?"

      "Dunno," growled the youngster. "I never tried."

      Buck chuckled again. "Well, kid, so long as you don't seem to think it's worth while, I dunno why I should take the trouble. Who else is on the outs with him?"

      Jessup flashed a startled glance at him. "How in blazes do you know--"

      "Oh, gosh! That's easy. That open-faced countenance of yours would give you away even if your tongue didn't. I'd say you weren't a bit in love with Lynch, or any of the rest of the bunch, either. Likely you got a good reason, an' of course it ain't any of my business; but if that stunt with the red-hot branding-iron is a sample of their playfulness, I should think you'd drift. There must be plenty of peaceful jobs open in the neighborhood."

      "But that's just what they want me to do," snapped Jessup hotly. "They're doin' their best to drive me----"

      His jaws clamped shut and a sudden suspicion flashed into his eyes, which caused Buck promptly to relinquish all hope of getting any further information from the boy. Evidently he had said the wrong thing and got the fellow's back up, though he could not imagine how. And so, when Jessup curtly proposed that they return to the bunk-house, Stratton readily acquiesced.

      They found the five punchers gathered around the table playing draw-poker under the light of a flaring oil lamp. McCabe extended a breezy invitation to Buck to join them, which he accepted promptly, drawing up an empty box to a space made for him between Slim and Butch Siegrist. With scarcely a glance at the group, Jessup selected a tattered magazine from a pile in one corner and sprawled out on his bunk, first lighting a small hand lamp and placing it on the floor beside him.

      Stratton liked poker and played a good game, but he soon discovered that he was up against a pretty stiff proposition. The limit was the sky, and Kreeger and McCabe especially seemed to have a run of phenomenal luck. Buck didn't believe there was anything crooked about their playing; at least he could detect no sign of it, though he kept a sharp lookout as he always did when sitting in with strangers. But he was rather uncomfortably in a hole and was just beginning to realize rather whimsically that for a while at least he had only a cow-man's pay to depend on for spending-money, when the door was suddenly jerked open and a tall, broad-shouldered figure loomed in the opening.

      "Well, it's all right, fellows," said the new-comer, blinking a little at the light. "I saw--"

      He caught himself up abruptly and glowered at Stratton.

      "Who the devil are yuh?" he inquired harshly, stepping into the room.

      Buck met his hard glance with smiling amiability.

      "Name of Buck Green," he drawled. "Passed you on the trail this afternoon, didn't I? You must be Tex Lynch."

      With a scarcely perceptible movement he shifted his cards to his left hand. His right, the palm half open, rested on the edge of the table just above his thigh. He didn't really believe the foreman would start anything, but one never knew, especially with a man of such evidently uncertain temper.

      "Huh!" grunted Lynch. "Why didn't yuh stop me then? Yuh might have saved yourself a ride." He continued