gh the rear door. Most of the Mexicans were natives of Perilla, and
one and all swore that they were as innocent of evil intent as unborn
children. They had merely happened to be there getting a meal when the
fracas started. The miscreants who had drawn knives on the two whites were
quite unknown to them, and must be the ones who had escaped.

Hardenberg knew perfectly well that they were lying, but for the moment he
let it pass. He had an idea that Stratton could throw some light on the
situation, and leaving the prisoners to digest a few pithy truths, he took
the cow-puncher into his private room to hear his story.

Though Buck tried to make this as brief as possible, it took some time,
especially as the sheriff showed an absorbing interest from the start and
persisted in asking frequent questions and requesting fuller details.
When he had finally heard everything, he leaned back in his chair,
regarding Stratton thoughtfully.

"Mighty interesting dope," he remarked, lighting a cigarette. "I've had my
eyes on Tex Lynch for some time, but I had no idea he was up to anything
like this. You're dead sure about that oil?"

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 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