Part 35 (1/2)

A chill struck him as the ranch-house loomed up, ominously black and desolate as any long-deserted dwelling. He had forgotten for an instant the heavy, wooden shutters, and when, with teeth clenched and heart thudding in his throat, he reached the veranda corner, the sight of that yellow glow streaming from the open door gave him a momentary shock of supreme relief.

An instant later he saw the shattered door, and the color left his face.

In two strides he crossed the porch and, with fingers tightening about the b.u.t.t of his Colt, he stared searchingly around the big, brightly-lighted, strangely empty-looking room.

It held but a single occupant. Huddled in a chair on the further side of the long table was Mrs. Archer. Both hands rested on the polished oak, and clutched in her small, wrinkled hands was a heavy, c.u.mbrous revolver, pointed directly at the door. Her white, strained face, stamped with an expression of hopeless tragedy, looked ten years older than when Buck had last seen it. As she recognized him she dropped the gun and tottered to her feet.

”Oh!” she cried, in a sharp, wailing voice. ”You! You!”

In a moment Buck had her in his arms, holding her tight as one holds a hurt or frightened child. Mechanically he soothed her as she clung to him, that amazing self-control, which had upheld her for so long, snapping like a taut rope when the strain becomes too great. But all the while his eyes--wide, smoldering eyes, filled with a mingling of pity, of dread questioning and furious pa.s.sion--swept the room searchingly.

Over the little lady's bowed gray head his glance took in swiftly a score of details--the dead fire, the dangling receiver of the useless telephone, a little pearl-handled revolver lying in a far corner as if it had been flung there, an upset chair. Suddenly his gaze halted at the edge of the shattered door and a faint tremor shook his big body. A comb lay on the floor there--a single comb of tortoise-sh.e.l.l made for a woman's hair.

But it was a comb he knew well. And as his eyes met Bud's, staring from the doorway at the strange scene, they were the eyes of a man tortured.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

BUCK RIDES

Presently Mrs. Archer released her spasmodic grip on Stratton's flannel s.h.i.+rt and fumbled for her handkerchief.

”I'm a fool to--to waste time like this,” she faltered, dabbing her eyes with the crumpled square of cambric.

”I think you're rather wonderful,” returned Buck gently. He helped her to a chair. ”Sit down here, and when you're able, tell us just what--happened.”

Her hands dropped suddenly to her lap and she looked up at him with wide, blazing eyes. Bud had approached and stood on the other side of the chair, listening intently.

”It was that creature Lynch,” she said in a voice that trembled a little with anger and indignation. ”He was the one who rode up on horseback. It was Pedro who was hidden in the loft. Mary told you about that before the telephone went dead.”

”The wire was cut,” muttered Stratton. ”That must have been the greaser's work.”

She gave a quick nod. ”Very likely. He's equal to anything. They met just outside the door and talked together. It seemed as if they'd never leave off whispering. Mary was over by the telephone and I stood here. She had that revolver, which she'd found in the other room.” Her eyes indicated the weapon on the table, and Buck was conscious of a queer thrill as he recognized it as his own. ”We waited. At last the--the beast pounded at the door and called to us to open. We didn't stir. Then he threw himself against the door, which cracked. Mary cried out that if he tried to force it, she'd shoot. The creature only laughed, and when she did fire, the bullet went wild.”

She paused an instant, her fingers twitching at the handkerchief clasped in her lap.

”And then he broke in?” questioned Buck, in a hard voice.

She nodded. ”Yes. I fired once, but it did no good. Before I could shoot again, Pedro came up from behind and s.n.a.t.c.hed the revolver away. He must have forced his way into the kitchen. He threw me into a chair, while Lynch went after Mary.”

Buck's lips were pressed tightly together; his face was hard as stone.

”Didn't she fire again?”

”No, I don't know why. I couldn't see very well. Something may have gone wrong with the revolver; perhaps she had scruples. I should have had none.” Mrs. Archer's small, delicate face looked almost savage. ”I'd have gloried in shooting the brute. At any rate, she didn't, and he took the weapon away from her and flung it on the table.”

Again she hesitated briefly, overcome by her emotions. Stratton's face was stony, save for a momentary ripple of the muscles about his mouth.

”And then?” he questioned.

”I--I tried to go to her, but Pedro held me in the chair.” Mrs. Archer drew a long, quivering breath. ”Lynch had her by the wrist; I heard him say something about not hurting her; and then he said, quite plainly, that since she'd got him in this mess, she'd have to get him out. I couldn't understand, but all at once I realized that if they did--take her away, they'd probably tie me up, or something, to prevent my giving the alarm, and so I pretended to faint.”

She lifted her handkerchief to her lips and let it fall again. ”It wasn't easy to lie still in that chair and see the dear child--being dragged away. But I knew I'd be quite helpless against those two villains.