bered that he could not utter it without giving
away more than he was willing to at the present moment. With an effort he
got a grip on himself, but though his voice was quiet enough, his eyes
still smoldered and his lips were hard.

"I see," he commented briefly. "You believe it all, of course?"

She had been watching him closely, and now a touch of troubled uncertainty
crept into her face.

"What else can I do?" she countered. "You admit getting the letter from
that Mexican, and I saw Tex take it out of your bag."

This information brought Buck's lips tightly together and he frowned.
"Could I see it--the letter, I mean?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment, and then, reaching across the table, took up the
shabby account-book he had seen before and drew from it a single sheet of
paper. The note was short and written in Spanish. It was headed, "_Amigo
Green_," and as Buck swiftly translated the few lines in which the writer
gave thanks for information purported to have been given about the middle
pasture and stated that the raid would take place that night according to
arrangement, his lips curled. From his point of view it seemed incredible
that anyone could be deceived by such a clumsy fraud. But he was forced to
admit that up to a few weeks ago the girl had never set eyes on him, and
knew nothing of his antecedents, whereas she trusted Lynch implicitly. So
he refrained from any comment as he handed back the letter.

"You don't--deny it?" asked the girl, an undertone of disappointment in
her voice.

"What's the use?" shrugged Stratton. "You evidently believe Lynch."

She did not answer at once, but stood silent, searching his face with a
troubled, wistful scrutiny.

"I don't know quite what to believe," she told him presently. "You--you
don't seem like a person who would--who would-- And yet some one must have
given information." Her chin suddenly tilted and her lips grew firm. "If
you'll tell me straight out that you're nothing but an ordinary
cow-puncher, that you have no special object in being here on the ranch,
that you're exactly what you seem and nothing more, then I--I'll believe
you."

Her words banished the last part of resentment lingering in Stratton's
mind. She was a good sort, after all. He found himself of a sudden
regarding her with a feeling that was almost tenderness, and wishing very
much that he might tell her everything. But that, of course, was
impossible.

"I can't quite do that," he