"You sure know how to shoot a surprise into a fellow, old-timer," he drawled. "A woman rancher, eh? That's going some around this country, I'll say. How long has she--er--owned the Shoe-Bar?"
"Only since her pa died about four months back." Pop Daggett assumed an easier pose; his tone had softened to one of garrulous satisfaction at having a new listener to a tale he had worn threadbare. "It's consid'able of a story, but if yuh ain't pressed for time--"
"Go to it," invited Buck, leaning back against the counter. "I've got all the time there is."
Daggett's small, faded blue eyes regarded him curiously.
"Did yuh ever meet up with this here Stratton?" he asked abruptly.
"It's more'n I do," grumbled Pop regretfully. "The only two times he was here I was laid up with a mean attack of rheumatiz, an' never sot eyes on him. Still an' all, there ain't hardly anybody else around Paloma that more 'n glimpsed him passin' through. He bought the outfit in a terrible hurry, an' I thinks to m'self at the time he must be awful trustin', or else a mighty right smart jedge uh land an' cattle. He couldn't of hardly rid over it even once real thorough before he plunks down his money, gets him a proper title, an' hikes off to the war, leavin' Joe Bloss in charge."
He paused, fished in his pocket, and, producing a plug, carefully bit off one corner. Stratton watched him impatiently, a faint flush staining his clear, curiously white skin.
"Well?" he prodded presently. "What happened then? From what I know of Joe, I'll say he made good all right."
"Sure he did." Pop spoke with emphasis, though somewhat thickly. "There ain't nobody can tell Joe Bloss much about cattle. He whirled in right capable and got things runnin' good. For a while he was so danged busy he'd hardly ever get to town, but come winter the work eased up an' I used to see him right frequent. He'd set there alongside the stove evenings an' tell me what he was doin', or how he'd jest had a letter from Stratton, who was by now in France, an' all the rest of it. Wal, to make a long story short, a year last month the letters stopped comin'. Joe begun to get worried, but I told him likely Stratton was too busy fightin' to write, or he might even of got wounded. Yuh could have knocked me down with a wisp uh bunch-grass when one uh the boys come in one night with a Phoenix paper, an' showed me Stratton's name on a list uh killed or missin'!"