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 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.