“Not to us,” snapped Buck. “Are you Hardenberg?” he added, with sudden inspiration.
“I am.”
“Well, you’re the cause of our being in here.”
The gray eyes studied him narrowly. “How come?”
“I came to town to see you specially and was told by a man outside that you were making a raid on this joint. We hadn’t been inside three minutes before we found it was a plant to get us here and knife us.”
“I don’t get you,” remarked the sheriff in a slightly puzzled tone.
By this time Buck’s momentary irritation at the hint that it was all merely a drunken quarrel was dying away.
“I don’t wonder,” he returned in a more amiable tone. “It’s a long story—too long to tell just now. I can only say that we were attacked without cause by the whole gang here, and if you hadn’t shown up just now, it’s a question whether we’d have gotten away alive.”
The sheriff’s glance swept over the disordered room, taking in the shattered window, the bodies on the floor, the Mexican who crouched moaning in a corner, and returned to Stratton’s face.
“I’m not so sure about that last,” he commented, with a momentary grim smile. “What’s your name?”