“Yuh got me,” he repeated in a stronger voice. “Looks like yuh got her, too. Maybe yuh think you’ve gobbled up the ranch, likewise, an’—an’ everything. That’s where yuh get stung.”
He fell to coughing suddenly, and for a few minutes his great body was racked with violent paroxysms that brought a bright crimson stain to the sleeve he flung across his mouth. But all the while his eyes, full of strange venomous triumph, never once left Stratton’s face.
“Yuh see,” he choked out finally, “the ranch—ain’t—hers.”
He paused, speechless; and Mary, looking down on him, felt merely that his brain was wandering and found room in her heart to be a little sorry.
“Why ain’t it hers?” demanded Bud with youthful impetuosity. “Her father left it to her, an’—”
“It wasn’t his to—to leave. He stole it.” Lynch’s voice was weaker, but his eyes still glowed with hateful triumph. “He forged the deed—from—from papers—Stratton left with him—when he went—to war.” He moistened his dry lips with his tongue. 342 “When Stratton was—killed—he didn’t leave—no kin—to make trouble, an’ Thorne—took a chance.”
His voice faltered, ceased. Mary stared at him dumbly, a slow, oppressive dread creeping into her heart. Little forgotten things flashed back into her mind. Her father’s financial reverses, his reticence about the acquisition of the Shoe-Bar, the strange hold Lynch had seemed to have on him, rose up to torment her. Suddenly she glanced quickly at Buck for reassurance.
“It isn’t so!” she cried. “It can’t be. My father—”
Slowly the words died on her lips. There was love, tenderness, pity in the man’s eyes, but no—denial!
“Ain’t it, though?” Lynch spoke in a labored whisper; his eyes were glazing. “Yuh thinks—I’m—loco. I—ain’t. It’s—gospel truth. Yuh find Quinlan, the—the witness. No, Quinlan’s dead. It’s—it’s—Kaylor. Kaylor got—got— What was I sayin’.” He plucked feebly at his chap-belt. “I know. Kaylor got—a clean thousand for—for swearin’—the signature—was—Stratton’s. Yuh find Kaylor. Hardenberg ... thumbscrew ... the truth....”