The low, uneven whisper merged into a murmur; then silence fell, broken only by the labored breathing of the dying man. Dazed, bewildered, conscious of a horrible conviction that he spoke the truth, Mary stood frozen, struggling against a wave of utter 343 weariness and despair that surged over her. She felt the arm about her tighten, but for some strange reason the realization brought her little comfort.
Suddenly Hardenberg broke the silence. He had been watching the girl, and could no longer bear the misery in her white, strained face.
“You think you’ve turned a smart trick, don’t you?” he snapped with angry impulsiveness. “As a matter of fact the ranch belongs to him already. The man you’ve known as Green is Buck Stratton himself.”
Lynch’s lids flashed up. “Yuh—lie!” he murmured. “Stratton’s—dead!”
“Nothing like it,” retorted the sheriff. “The papers got it wrong. He was only badly wounded. This fellow here is Buck Stratton, and he can prove it.”
A spasm quivered over Lynch’s face. He tried to speak, but only a faint gurgle came from his blood-flecked lips. Too late Hardenberg, catching an angry glance from Buck, realized and regretted his impulsive indiscretion. For Mary Thorne, turning slowly like a person in a dream, stared into the face of the man beside her, lips quivering and eyes full of a great horror.
“You!” she faltered, in a pitiful, small voice. “You—”
Stratton held her closer, a troubled tenderness sweeping the anger from his eyes. 344
“But—but, Mary—” he stammered—“what difference does—”
Suddenly her nerves snapped under the culminating strain of the past few hours.