Buck nodded. “Of course, you can’t ever be certain about the quantity until you bore, but I went over some of the Oklahoma fields a few years ago, and this sure looks like something big.”
“Pretty soft for the lady,” commented Hardenberg. He paused, regarding Stratton curiously. “Just whereabouts do you come off?” he asked frankly. “I’ve been wondering about that all along, and you can see I’ve got to be dead sure of my facts before I get busy on this seriously.”
Though Buck had been expecting the question, he hesitated for an instant before replying.
“I’ll tell you,” he replied slowly at length, “but for the present I’d like to have you keep it under your hat. My name isn’t Green at all, but—Stratton.”
“Stratton?” repeated the sheriff in a puzzled tone. “Stratton?” A sudden look of incredulity flashed into his eyes. “You’re not trying to make out that you’re the Buck Stratton who owned the Shoe-Bar?”
Buck flushed a little. “I was afraid you’d find it hard to swallow, but it’s true,” he said quietly. “You 263 see, the papers got it wrong. I wasn’t killed at all, but only wounded in the head. For—for over a year I hadn’t any memory.”
Briefly he narrated the circumstances of the unusual case, and Hardenberg listened with absorbed attention, watching him closely, weighing every word, and noting critically the most trifling gesture or change of expression. For a while his natural skepticism struggled with a growing conviction that the man before him was telling the truth. It was an extraordinary experience, to be sure, but he quickly realized that Stratton had nothing to gain by a deliberate imposture.
“You can prove all that, of course?” he asked when Buck had finished.
“Of course. I haven’t any close relatives, but there are plenty of men who’ll swear to my identity.”
The sheriff sat silent for a moment. “Some experience,” he mused presently. “Rotten hard luck, too, I’ll say. Of course you never had a suspicion of oil when you sold the outfit to old man Thorne.”