The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine

their glances met, the Mexican's lids drooped and his face smoothed swiftly into its usual indolent indifference; but he was not quite quick enough to hide entirely that first look of searching speculation mingled with not a little venom.

      Stratton's own expression was the perfection of studied self-control. He half smiled, and yawned in a realistically bored manner.

      "You sure you don't know where the bunch went?" he asked. "I'm getting dead sick of hanging around doing nothing."

      "They don' say," shrugged the Mexican. "I wash dishes an' don' see 'em go. Mebbe back soon."

      "Not if they're moving a herd--I don't think!" retorted Buck. "Guess I'll ask Miss Thorne," he added, struck by a sudden inspiration.

      Without waiting for a reply, he walked briskly along the front of the house toward the further entrance. As he turned the corner he met the girl, booted, spurred, her face shaded becomingly by a wide-brimmed Stetson.

      "I was just going to find you," she said. "Rick wants to see you a minute."

      Stratton followed her into the living-room, where she paused and glanced back at him.

      "You haven't met my aunt, Mrs. Archer," she said in her low, pleasant voice. "Auntie, this is Buck Green, our new hand."

      From a chair beside one of the west windows, there rose a little old lady at the sight of whom Buck's eyes widened in astonishment. Just what he had expected Mrs. Archer to be he hardly knew, but certainly it wasn't this dainty, delicate, Dresden-China person who came forward to greet him. Tiny she was, from her old-fashioned lace cap to the tips of her small, trim shoes. Her gown, of some soft gray stuff, with touches of old lace here and there, was modishly cut yet without any traces of exaggeration. Her abundant white hair was beautifully arranged, and her cheeks, amazingly soft and smooth, with scarcely a line in them, were faintly pink. A more utterly incongruous figure to find on an outlying Arizona ranch would be impossible to imagine, and Buck was hard put to refrain from showing his surprise.

      "How do you do, Mr. Green?" she said in a soft agreeable voice, which Stratton recognized at once as the one he had overheard that morning. "My niece has told me how helpful you've been already."

      Buck took her outstretched hand gingerly, and looked down into her upturned face. Her eyes were blue, and very bright and eager, with scarcely a hint of age in them. For a brief moment they gazed steadily into his, searching, appraising, an underlying touch of wistful anxiety in their clear depths. Then a twinkle flashed into them and of a sudden Stratton felt that he liked her very much indeed.

      "I'm mighty glad to meet you," he said impulsively.

      The smile spread from eyes to lips. "Thank you," she replied. "I think I may say the same thing. I hope you'll like it here well enough to stay."

      There was a faint accent on the last word. Buck noticed it, and after she had left them, saying she was going to rest a little, he wondered. Did she want him to remain merely because of the short-handed condition of the ranch, or was there a deeper reason? He glanced at Miss Thorne to find her regarding him with something of the same anxious scrutiny he had noticed in her aunt. Her gaze was instantly averted, and a faint flush tinged her cheeks, to be reflected an instant later in Stratton's face.

      "By the way," he said hurriedly, annoyed at his embarrassment, "do you happen to know where the men are? I thought I'd hunt them up. There's no sense in my hanging around all afternoon doing nothing."

      * * * * *

      "They're down at the south pasture," she answered readily. "Tex thinks it will be better to move the cattle to where it won't be so easy for those rustlers to get at them. I'm just going down there and we can ride together, if you like." She turned toward the door. "When you're through with Rick you'll find me out at the corral."

      "Don't you want me to saddle up for you?"

      "Pedro will do that, thank you. Tell Rick if he wants anything while I'm gone all he has to do is to ring the bell beside his bed and Maria will answer it."

      She departed, and Buck walked briskly into the bedroom. Bemis lay in bed propped up with pillows and looking much better physically than he had done that morning. But his face was still strained, with that harassed, worried expression about the eyes which Stratton had noted before.

      "Yuh saw Doc Blanchard, didn't yuh?" he asked, as Buck sat down on the side of his bed. "What'd he say?"

      "Why, that you were doing fine. Not a chance in a hundred, he said, of your having any trouble with the wound."

      "Oh, I know that. But when'd he say I'd be on my feet?"

      Buck shrugged his shoulders. "He didn't mention any particular time for that. I should think it would be two or three weeks, at least."

      "Hell!" The young fellow's fingers twisted the coverlet nervously. "Don't yuh believe I could--er--ride before that?" he added, almost pleadingly.

      Stratton's eyes widened. "Ride!" he repeated. "Where the deuce do you want to ride to?"

      Bemis hesitated, a slow flush creeping into his tanned face. The glance he bent on Stratton was somewhat shamefaced.

      "Anywhere," he answered curtly, a touch of defiance in his tone. "You'll say I've lost my nerve, an' maybe I have. But after what's happened around this joint lately, and especially last night--"

      He paused, glancing nervously toward the door. Buck's expression had grown suddenly keen and eager.

      "Well?" he urged. "What did happen, anyhow? I had my suspicions there was something queer about that business, but--You can trust me, old man."

      Bemis nodded, his dark eyes searching Stratton's face. "I'll take a chance," he answered. "I got to. There ain't nobody else. They've kept Bud away, and Miss Mary--Well, she's all right, uh course, but Tex has got her buffaloed. She won't believe nothin' ag'in him. I told Bud I'd stay as long as he did, but--A man's got to look after himself some. They ain't likely to miss twice runnin'."

      "You mean to say--"

      Bemis stopped him with a cautious gesture. "Where's that sneaking greaser?" he asked in a low tone, his eyes shifting nervously to the open door.

      "Out saddling her horse."

      "Oh! Well, listen." The young puncher's voice sank almost to a whisper. "That sendin' me down to Las Vegas was a plant; I'm shore of it. My orders was to sleep days an' patrol around nights to get a line on who was after the cattle. I wasn't awful keen about it, but still an' all, I didn't think they'd dare do what they tried to."

      "You mean there weren't any rustlers at all?" put in Stratton impulsively.

      "Shore there was, but they didn't fire that shot that winged me. I'd just got sight of 'em four or five hundred yards away an' was ridin' along in the shadow tryin' to edge close enough to size 'em up an' mebbe pick off a couple. My cayuse was headin' south, with the rustlers pretty near dead ahead, when I come to a patch of moonlight I had to cross. I pulled out considerable to ride around a spur just beyond, so when that shot came I was facin' pretty near due east. The bullet hit me in the left leg, yuh recollect."

      Stratton's eyes narrowed. "Then it must have been fired from the north--from the direction of the--"

      He broke off abruptly as Rick's fingers gripped his wrist.

      "Look!" breathed Bemis, in a voice that was scarcely audible.

      He was staring over the low foot-board of the bed straight at the open door, and Buck swiftly followed the direction of his glance. For an instant he saw nothing. The doorway was quite empty, and he could not hear a sound. Then, of a sudden, his gaze swept on across the living-room and he caught his breath.

      On the further wall, directly opposite the bedroom door, hung a long mirror in a tarnished gilded frame. It reflected not only the other side of the doorway but a portion of the wall on either side of it--reflected clearly, among other things, the stooping figure of a woman, her limp calico skirts dragged cautiously back in one skinny hand, her sharp, swarthy face bent slightly forward in an unmistakable attitude of listening.