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Title: Skeeter Bill comes to town

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: October 4, 2025 [eBook #76983]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Best Publications, Inc, 1948

Credits: Roger Frank

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKEETER BILL COMES TO TOWN ***

Skeeter Bill Comes to Town

A novelet by W. C. Tuttle

This salty seven-footer heads for Yellow Butte to celebrate a kid’s birthday—and does some plumb fast shooting on the way!

I

William Harrison Sarg, known as “Skeeter Bill,” leaned against the bar of the only saloon in Temple Rock, and considered the fly-specked back-bar. Skeeter was at least seven feet tall, in his high-heels and sombrero. He had wide shoulders, which tapered sharply to a wasp-like waist and a long pair of skinny legs, encased in tight-fitting, faded overalls. He wore a colorless shirt, a wispy, red handkerchief around his long neck, the ends held tight with a blue poker-chip. Around his thin waist was a home-made, form-fitting gun-belt, and his holstered Colt .45 hung low along his thigh.

Skeeter Bill was not handsome. His face was long, thin, with high cheek bones, and a gash-like mouth, and eyes that were just a little green tinted. He was not handsome, but he looked efficient. A fat bartender, one damp lock of hair plastered down over one eyebrow, looked questioningly at the tall cowpoke. Skeeter shook his head.

“If it was ice-cold I’d take more,” he said quietly, “but I jist cain’t go more’n three bottles of luke-warm pop.”

“Yuh’re the only pop-drinker I’ve met,” said the bartender. “Yuh won’t never git happy on that stuff.”

“No,” agreed Skeeter, “nor unhappy, either, my friend. How are things these days in Road-Runner Valley?”

“Oh, all right,” replied the bartender. “You’ve been there?”

“Not for a couple of years. Been down in the Panhandle, where I didn’t hear much news of this country. You been down there lately?”

“Couple months ago. I worked there for a year, tendin’ bar in the Seven-Up at Yellow Butte.”

“Yea-ah? I used to know Buck Hadley. He still own it?”

“Not now. It belongs to Slim Lacey.”

“Slim Lacey?” Skeeter stared at the bartender. “Yuh say that Slim Lacey owns the Seven-Up?”

“Well, he did a month ago, I know.”

Skeeter shoved his hat back and scratched his forehead. He seemed a little astonished.

He said: “Well, mebbe it’s all right. You’d prob’ly know Hooty Edwards.”

“No, I didn’t, but I’ve heard of him. He left there before I went to Yellow Butte.”

Skeeter cuffed his hat sideways on his head, leaned his elbows on the bar and scowled at the fat bartender.

“You mean that Hooty Edwards ain’t down there no more?” he asked incredulously.

The bartender shook his head. “Didn’t you know about him?”

“Know what about him?” asked Skeeter quickly.

“That he went to the pen for twenty years.”

Skeeter’s head and shoulders sagged momentarily, and he blinked in amazement.

“You ain’t jokin’—I hope you are, Mister,” he said huskily.

“I wouldn’t joke on a thing like that. He’s been gone quite a while, they told me. He wrecked the bank in Yellow Butte. Never did have another one.”

“I’m a sea-serpent’s sister!” whispered Skeeter. “Tell me what yuh know about it, will yuh?”

The bartender told him that “Hooty” Edwards had forced the banker and his wife from their home to the bank. There he had compelled the banker to open the vault. Then he tied them both up and took his own time in looting the vault. It was close to morning, and the sheriff, coming from an all-night poker game, looked into the bank window and saw moonlight shining through the open doorway at the rear of the room.

He ran around to the rear of the building, just as the robber was riding away. They exchanged shots, and the sheriff said he scored a hit, but the man got away.

Later in the day they found Hooty Edwards sprawled beside a trail near his own ranchhouse, his white horse tangled up in the brush near him. The bandit had ridden a white horse. Edwards still had the black mask around his neck. The doctor said he had been shot and would have eventually bled to death, if they hadn’t found him.

Skeeter listened to the whole tale, his face a mask of his feelings.

“Yuh see,” remarked the bartender, “he wasn’t able to prove no alibi. His wife said he left home after supper, comin’ to Yellow Butte. Hooty said he didn’t know what happened. He had a few drinks in Yellow Butte, but everythin’ is a blank after that, except that he remembers gettin’ on his horse. They gave him twenty years—but they didn’t get the money back. They say he cached it, but he swore he didn’t remember what he done.”

“He was married,” said Skeeter slowly, “and had two kids.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em; a boy and a girl.”

“The boy,” said Skeeter huskily, “is named William S. Edwards. They named him after me, Bill Sarg. He’ll be twelve years of age in a few days, and I was aimin’ to help him celebrate his birthday. Came all the way from Texas to do that. Yuh see, he’s the only kid that ever was named after me.”

“That’s hard luck, Sarg. So you’re Skeeter Bill Sarg. I’ve heard of you. They say you can drop a dollar with yore right hand from yore hip, draw yore gun and hit the dollar before it hits the ground.”

“I have,” nodded Skeeter soberly, “and I’m also shy the little toe on my right foot. They used to say that I had more brains in my right hand than I have in my head, too. Mebbe it’s ’cause I use it more. I wonder what Mrs. Edwards is doin’ to support her family.”

“Worked in a restaurant, when I was there, slingin’ hash. She’s a pretty woman, I’ll say that.”

“She’s awful nice, too,” said Skeeter. “I wouldn’t like to hear anybody say she ain’t. And that kid was named after me, too. Well, I reckon I’ll be movin’ on. See yuh later.”

“Are you goin’ down to see the kid, Sarg?”

Skeeter nodded. “After all,” he replied, “no matter what happened, he’ll have his twelfth birthday in a few days.”

“Tell him hello for me,” said the bartender. “Jist say that Fatty, the bartender, said Happy Birthday.”

“We both appreciate that,” said Skeeter, smiling faintly. “I’ll tell him.”

A pall of dust hung over the town of Yellow Butte as Skeeter Bill rode in. They were loading cattle at the big corrals down at the railroad tracks. Yellow Butte was the shipping point for all of Road-Runner Valley. There was nothing beautiful about Yellow Butte, with its crooked, narrow streets, sandblasted signs and false-fronted buildings.

Lazily Skeeter Bill dismounted and tied his horse at a hitchrack which was mercifully in the shade of the Seven-Up Saloon. On the other side of the street Skeeter could see the faded and scarred gold lettering on a large window, BANK OF YELLOW BUTTE. It was used now as a store-room for the general merchandise store.

Skeeter Bill was familiar with all of Yellow Butte, even those places of business whose signs had long since faded out. He went into the Seven-Up Saloon. It was quite a large establishment, with gambling layouts along one side, and a long bar on the other. It smelled of stale beer and spilled liquor, but it was cool in there.

Several men were at the long bar, and Skeeter recognized them at a glance—Sam Keenan, owner of the Tumbling K, Al Creedon, the big sheriff, Muddy Poole, his deputy and Slim Lacey who the bartender at Temple Rock had said was the new owner of the Seven-Up Saloon.

Muddy Poole was the first to recognize Skeeter Bill in the subdued light of the room, and he emitted a yip of delight.

“If it ain’t Old Skeet!” he exclaimed. “Welcome back among us!”

“Hyah, Muddy,” grinned Skeeter Bill. “Gents, howdy.”

They all shook hands with Skeeter, but not all were as enthusiastic as Muddy Poole, who said:

“Where on earth did you drop from, Skeet?”

“Oh, I just drifted in, Muddy. Thought I’d see what the old place looked like again. How’s everybody?”

“Finer’n frawg-hair—mostly.”

Skeeter looked curiously at Slim Lacey. When Skeeter Bill left Yellow Butte, Slim Lacey was a down-at-the-heel swamper in a little saloon at the other end of town, and without a decent shirt to his back, but now he was wearing white silk shirts, broadcloth pants and patent-leather shoes. Slim’s smile was always sickly, and it hadn’t changed much.

Skeeter Bill said, “How yuh comin’, Slim?”

“Fine, Skeet. Yuh’re lookin’ good. Glad to see yuh back. Have a drink?”

“You never knowed Skeet to take a drink,” reminded Muddy.

“Thank yuh,” smiled Skeeter Bill. “You’ve got a memory, Muddy.”

“It ain’t hard to remember them what don’t drink, Skeet.”

“Well, I’ve got to go back to the corral,” said Keenan, placing his glass on the bar. “We’re shippin’ today, Skeet.”

“Yeah, I saw the dust in the air, Sam. How’s the market?”

“Just fair. It’s always down when I’ve got stuff to ship.”

Muddy Poole walked outside with Skeeter Bill. Muddy knew of the friendship between Skeeter Bill and Hooty Edwards.

“Do yuh know about Hooty?” asked the deputy quietly.

Skeeter Bill nodded. “I saw Fatty, the bartender, in Temple Rock, and he told me about Hooty. First I’d heard, Muddy. It shore hurt to hear a thing like that, don’tcha know it?”

“Hurt me, too,” said Muddy. “Hooty was fine. Margie is workin’ down in the New York Chop House, doin’ her best to keep the kids goin’. We’ve tried to help her, Skeet, but she’s proud.”

“Yeah, I bet she is. Whatever became of the Circle E, after they sent Hooty away?”

“Well, the law took it over for the bank. Yuh see, the bank was busted flat, and so was most folks around here. Yuh never can sell a thing like that for what it’s worth. In fact, nobody was in shape to buy it, but Sam Keenan finally bought it for about two-bits on the dollar.”

Skeeter Bill nodded slowly. “I can understand that, Muddy. But how come Slim Lacey owns the Seven-Up? When I left here he didn’t have a cent.”

“Well, it does sound kind of funny, but it jist goes to prove that yuh never can tell which way a dill-pickle will squirt. Buck Hadley wanted to sell out and go back East, and Slim got himself a idea. He was tendin’ bar for Buck at the time. So Slim borrowed money to pay down on the place, and paid it off so much a month. Maybe it ain’t all paid off yet, but he’s doin’ all right. Slim shore turned over a new leaf.”

“I’m glad to see him gettin’ ahead,” said Skeeter Bill. “Well, I’ll be headin’ for some food, I reckon, Muddy. See yuh later.”

Margie Edwards dropped a tray of dishes flat on the floor, and stood there, staring at Skeeter Bill, ignoring the broken glass and crockery. Only a few people were in the little restaurant at the time. The crash was terrific, bringing the cook-proprietor, Shorty Hale, from the kitchen on the run. He blurted:

“My gawsh, can’t yuh even—” and then he stopped, staring up at Skeeter Bill.

“Howdy, Shorty,” said Skeeter calmly.

“Well—huh—howdy! Skeeter Bill Sarg!”

“I’m sorry,” said the woman quietly. “It—it slipped.”

“That’s all right,” assured Shorty. “I’ll get a broom.”

Margie Edwards looked at Skeeter and down at the mess on the floor. She said, “I’ll be off shift in about ten minutes, Skeeter.”

“Sorry I scared yuh,” he smiled slowly.

“You didn’t. You shocked me, Skeeter.”

Shorty came back with a broom and a dust-pan.

Skeeter said, “Shorty, I’d like to have about six eggs, sunny side up, and a lot of coffee. The pie can wait until I’m through.”

“Comin’ right up,” grinned Shorty. “My, my, you ain’t changed a bit, Skeeter. Six eggs and coffee—and the pie awaits. Set down with him, Miz Edwards, I’ll do the waitin’ this time.”

II

Less than an hour later, Skeeter sat with Mrs. Edwards on the porch of their little house, which was only an unpainted shack, discussing the misfortunes of the Edwards family. Margie Edwards was still a pretty woman, in spite of her hard work, trying to keep her family together. The two children were in school.

“I hear from Hooty almost every week,” she told Skeeter. “He’s grown bitter.”

“If Hooty pulled that job, why wouldn’t he be bitter?” asked Skeeter.

“He didn’t!” declared Margie flatly. “I don’t care what the law says. Everybody was against him, because the breaking of the bank just about broke everybody in the valley. They took the ranch and all the stock, trying to get something out of it.”

“Did Hooty need money, Margie?”

The woman nodded. “He did, but only to expand. Hooty wanted to raise better cattle, and breeding stock is expensive. The bank wouldn’t help him. They said he had hare-brained ideas.”

Skeeter sighed and wiped his forehead with a sleeve.

“I can’t figure out why Hooty didn’t know what happened.”

“He couldn’t either, Skeeter. He says he only took three drinks in the Seven-Up Saloon that night, but he barely remembers getting on his horse. After that, it was a blank, he says.”

“At the trial,” said Skeeter, “did any testimony show that Hooty had only three drinks?”

Mrs. Edwards nodded. “Yes, it did. Slim Lacey was tending bar at that time, and he said Hooty didn’t drink enough to be drunk. He didn’t think he had more than three drinks.”

“Slim Lacey must have done pretty darn well,” remarked Skeeter. “He was broke when I left here.”

Mrs. Edwards nodded. “I guess he was. I never speak to him. One day he got fresh with me, and Hooty knocked out his front teeth. If you look close, he has a bridge for two front teeth.”

“I’d like to have seen that!” Skeeter Bill smiled.

Mrs. Edwards admitted that she wasn’t making much money and that Shorty Hale wasn’t the best boss on earth.

She said, “He was all ready to explode over the broken dishes, when he saw you, Skeeter. He’d have probably fired me on the spot.”

“Yeah, I reckon so.” Skeeter grinned. “Sometimes I believe I have a calmin’ influence on folks, Margie.”

They sat there and talked, until the two children came home.

Nellie was nine, a slip of a girl, with big, blue eyes, looking very much like her mother, but Bill was husky, redheaded, and had eyes like his father. Nellie was shy of this tall stranger, but Bill let out a whoop. He remembered Skeeter Bill, and shook hands with him.

“Gee!” he said, “It’s kind of like home, Mom. Where have you been, Mr. Sarg?”

“Down in Texas, Bill, followin’ dogies. Yuh’re sure growin’ up fast. How old are yuh, Bill?”

“I’ll be twelve next Saturday.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Twelve years old. Bill, I was the first outsider to poke a finger at yuh, don’tcha know it?”

“Mom told me you was. We were talkin’ about you a while ago, kind of wonderin’ where you were. And now you’re here.”

“Talkin’ about me?” marveled Skeeter Bill. “Well, I do know! Bill, what would yuh like to have for yore birthday?”

Young Bill thought it over soberly.

Finally he said, “If I could have just what I want, I’d take—my dad.”

Skeeter looked at Bill’s mother, and there were tears in her eyes. No one had any comments, until Skeeter said quietly:

“Yeah, I reckon we’d all like that, Bill. Well, I guess I’ll kind of drift back and see who I can talk to. Yuh never know who is glad to see yuh back. I’ll see yuh some more, folks.”

“You are welcome to stay here with us, Skeeter,” said Mrs. Edwards quickly. “Our home is your home.”

“That’s shore sweet of yuh, Margie,” he said soberly. “No, I couldn’t do that. But I’ll be around.”

Skeeter Bill picked up his big hat and went slowly up the dirt street.

Young Bill said, “Mom, he’s an awful lot like Dad.”

Margie nodded thoughtfully and went into the house.

Nellie said, “Gee, Bill, is that the man you was named after?”

“That’s right, Sis. I hope I grow up with long legs and big hands like he’s got. They say he can take a mean steer and stand him right on his head.”

“Why?” asked Nellie.

“Aw, you’re just a girl—you wouldn’t understand. Let’s go in and help Mom get supper.”

Skeeter Bill wandered up to the Seven-Up Saloon. Few people were in the place, and Slim Lacey was sitting at a card-table, reading a newspaper. He nodded to Skeeter, who went over and sat down with Slim.

“How does the old place look to yuh?” asked Slim, folding the paper and tossing it aside.

“Same as ever. Slim, I want to ask yuh a few questions. I heard about Hooty Edwards in Temple Rock. On that night, how many drinks did Hooty take in here?”

Slim smiled shortly. “Skeeter, I can’t swear to it but I think he took about three. Mebbe it was four. But no more.”

“Whisky?”

“Yeah. I don’t believe he ever drank anythin’ else.”

“Any special kind of whisky, Slim?”

“No. Just bar-whisky, out of a barrel. What’s this all about?”

Skeeter looked thoughtfully at Slim for several moments.

“Slim,” he said confidentially, “I’m goin’ to prove that Hooty never robbed that bank.”

“How?” asked Slim blankly.

“A lot of other folks would like to know, too, Slim. Keep this under yore hat, will yuh? I don’t want to be interrupted in my job. You’ll know later, but keep it dark, Slim. See yuh later.”

Skeeter went over to the general store, where he bought a package of tobacco and cigarette papers. Then he sat down on the shaded porch to enjoy a smoke and commune with his own soul.

“Bill Sarg,” he told himself, “yuh’re crazy, but it’s pleasant. If I can make enough people believe that I know somethin’, I might find out more’n I know now. Anyway, one more lie won’t hurt my immortal soul, I reckon.”

He was sitting there when a lone rider came into town, started to draw up at the Seven-Up Saloon, but swung around and came over to the hotel hitchrack. Skeeter Bill grinned slowly. The rider was Fuzzy Davis, owner of the Bar D spread, and one of the most explosive characters Skeeter had ever known.

Fuzzy was only a few inches over five feet tall, and in wet weather he might weigh a hundred pounds but that hundred pounds was all fighting man. He wore a five, triple A boot, but his .45 was as big as anybody carried on their hip.

He tied his horse, swore a little under his breath as he stepped up on the sidewalk, and then he saw Skeeter Bill. He didn’t say anything at once. He blinked, looked away, adjusted his neckerchief and cleared his throat raspingly. Then he looked at Skeeter once more.

“Mebbe,” he remarked quietly, “it’s the heat, and ag’in mebbe it’s my general run-down condition but doggone it—you look like somebody I’ve known. Set my mind at rest, will yuh?”

“Hyah yuh, Fuzzy,” Skeeter Bill said with a grin.

“You ole pelicano!” snorted Fuzzy. “You darned ole— How are yuh, Skeet?”

“Finer’n the down on a gnat, Fuzzy. Set down, you little anteater. How’ve yuh been, anyway?”

Fuzzy sat down and drew a deep breath. “I’m terrible,” he whispered. “I’m mad, and when I’m mad, I’m terrible.”

“You look fine, Fuzzy.”

“That’s the whole trouble with me, Skeet. The finer I look, the worse I am. I’ll betcha that when I’m dead, they’ll say, ‘Well, well, there’s Fuzzy Adams, I never seen him look better.’”

“You ain’t sick, are yuh?” asked Skeeter Bill.

Frowning, the pint-sized rancher shook his head. “Shucks, no! I’m mad, I tell yuh! Listen, will yuh? This mornin’ I went over to my big water-hole at Hangin’ Rock. You know the place. It’s fenced, along with about seven hundred acres. Water’s scarce around here, and there was only enough for my few dogies. Well, sir, some sticky-rope son-of-a-gun had tied off on about a quarter-mile of almost new barb-wire all over creation. My spring was almost dry and around it was every blasted Tomahawk, JML and Tumblin’ K cow in the valley.”

“That,” remarked Skeeter Bill, “don’t sound like a joke.”

“It wasn’t intended as no joke, Skeet. The ends was cut as slick as a whistle. I dunno if I’ll ever git that water-hole cleaned out and built up again. See why I’m mad? Yuh do? Well, yuh’re an observin’ sort of a feller, Skeet. How come yore back here, and where yuh been?”

“Been down in Texas, Fuzzy. Yuh see, I—well, you knew that Hooty Edwards named his boy after me, didn’t yuh?”

“Hooty,” replied Fuzzy, “was prone to do fool things. Go on with yore alibi, son.”

“Well, I came back to help the kid celebrate his twelfth birthday, Fuzzy. And look what I found out!”

“Yuh mean—about Hooty? Oh, yeah. Well, that was bad, Skeet. I’d have sworn that Hooty was honest, even if he did name his kid after you. Honest, but slightly ignorant, as yuh might say.”

“I appreciate yore sympathy for the boy,” said Skeeter soberly. “But just what are yuh goin’ to do about that water-hole?”

“Me? What am I goin’ to do about it? Huh! I’m goin’ to get the sheriff to swear out a warrant for Dan Houk. Me and him ain’t friends, yuh understand. We ain’t been for years. It’s jist like the big spit-in-the-crick to do a thing like that.”

“Any proof, Fuzzy?”

“There yuh go! Dad blame it, yuh’re as bad as Emmy! Proof? You’ll git sued for false charges. Dad blast it, ain’t this a free country? You stilt-legged gallinipper, comin’ up here from Texas, tellin’ me what to do! It’s my water-hole, ain’t it? Well, don’t set there and grin like a monkey with a stomach ache. Say somethin’.”

“How is Aunt Emmy, Fuzzy?”

“Well, that ain’t exactly changin’ the subject. She’s fine.”

“Still actin’ as yore guardian angel, eh?”

“She sniffs my breath, if that’s what yuh mean. Got the best nose for alcohol in the world. Her ma was scared by a bloodhound. Emmy is all right, except that she uses the Bible as a rule-book. She’s ag’in the Devil, I know that. I ain’t never knowed anybody so set against a entire stranger as she is ag’in the Devil. Pers’nally, I’d like to meet him and ask him how he stands it.”

“Mebbe it’s the heat, Fuzzy. If yuh get hot enough yuh can stand anythin’. How’s the Bar D goin’, except for the water-hole?”

“Well, pretty good, Skeet. Have yuh got a horse here? Yuh have? Go hang the hull on him, and we’ll be goin’.”

“Yuh mean, yuh’re invitin’ me out to the ranch?” asked Skeeter.

“I am not—I’m orderin’ yuh. Emmy’d never forgive me if I told her you was in town and didn’t come out with me. And you know what it means to not have forgiveness for yore sins, Skeet.”

Skeeter Bill had known Aunt Emma Davis for years. Tall, rawboned, severe-looking, her wispy, colorless hair drawn tightly to a frizzly-looking knob at the back of her head, she stood on the porch of the Bar D ranchhouse, shading her eyes against the sun as Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy rode up to the porch.

“Emmy,” called Fuzzy, “I found me a prodigal son.”

Skeeter grinned, and Mrs. Davis leaned out further, clinging with one hand to a porch-post.

“Skeeter Bill!” she half-screamed. “You—you git off that horse and come here! Where on earth did you come from?”

“Aunt Emma, I’m fresh from Texas,” he grinned.

“You’re fresh from any place you come from, young man. Unpin yourself from that saddle. My, my! You’re the last man I ever expected to see! I had a hunch that you two was the sheriff and deputy, comin’ in to tell me that Fuzzy was in jail or among the angels. Yuh see, he had a awful mad expression when he left here. No, I ain’t goin’ to kiss you, Skeeter. Fuzzy’s the only man I ever kissed, and don’t make any funny remarks about it. I realize that I’ve missed a lot in life.”

III

Fuzzy took the two horses down to the stable, while Skeeter Bill sat down on the shaded porch with Mrs. Davis. She didn’t ask questions but waited for Skeeter Bill to tell what he wanted to tell.

“Yuh’re lookin’ fine, Aunt Emma,” remarked Skeeter.

“I look just like I’ve looked for twenty years and it ain’t fine. Time don’t improve me, Skeeter. You ain’t changed.”

“I’m so good-lookin’,” said Skeeter soberly, “that any change would have to be for the worse. I feel good, too. Yuh remember that Hooty and Margie named their boy after me, don’t yuh?”

Aunt Emma nodded. “A terrible thing to wish upon a helpless young one, Skeeter, but go ahead.”

“He’s twelve next Saturday. I asked him what he wanted for his birthday and he said he wanted his dad.”

Mrs. Davis looked sharply at Skeeter Bill. “You wasn’t here, when Hooty Edwards—got in trouble, Skeeter. You don’t know what it meant to the folks of Road-Runner Valley. It busted the bank, and busted all of us. Most of us ain’t got back on our feet since—I know we ain’t. I feel awful sorry for Margie and her two kids, but I can’t feel sorry for Hooty.”

“You feel sure that he done it, Aunt Emma?”

She nodded quickly. “It’s a cinch, Skeeter. It didn’t take the jury five minutes all to agree that he was guilty. Even his own lawyer said they didn’t have a leg to stand on. It made it awful hard for Margie. Lots of folks act like she was guilty, too, but she didn’t have no hand in it. The two kids had a hard time in school, too. Most of their parents went busted in the deal, and it ain’t nice for kids, havin’ fingers pointed at ’em.”

“Hooty was my friend, Aunt Emma,” said Skeeter slowly.

“I know he was. You two was thicker than seven fingers on one hand but hard facts are hard facts, Skeeter.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. What became of the banker and his wife?”

“Oh, they moved away. Henry Weldon ran the bank for Phoenix men, and they closed it. Never opened since. The loot was close to a hundred thousand dollars, they said, but nobody ever found where Hooty cached it. He swore he didn’t know what he done.”

Fuzzy came up from the stable and sat down, mopping his brow.

“How’d yuh like to ride out to Hangin’ Rock Spring?” he asked. “I’ve got my two cow-pokes out there, tryin’ to bring order out of chaos, as Emmy says.”

“I’d like to,” said Skeeter, rising.

“Don’t be too late,” said Mrs. Davis. “I’ll have supper ready at six o’clock.”

“I ain’t never been late to a meal out here, Aunt Emma,” Skeeter said with a grin, and added, “and, as a matter of fact, I ain’t had a good meal since.”

On the way out there Fuzzy explained about water troubles in Road-Runner Valley.

“I had to fence Hangin’ Rock,” he explained. “The other spreads have got more water than I have and they wanted to keep me from havin’ any. It was my property and not open range. The court decided that for me. But—well, you can see what happened.”

“You and Dan Houk ain’t friends, eh?”

“Never have been, Skeet. He’d like to run me out.”

“They tell me that the bank took over Hooty’s place and sold it to Sam Keenan.”

“Yeah, that’s right. The bank sold the stock, but sold the ranch to Sam. He got it dirt-cheap, too.”

They found Len Riggs and Ollie Ashley, Fuzzy’s two cowpunchers, at the spring, working with shovels, trying to repair the damage that the cattle had made. Both of them remembered Skeeter Bill.

Skeeter rode over and looked at the tangled wires, where they had been left. This was a real menace to range stock, no matter what the brand. He rode down along the fence-line, looking it over. Some of the posts had been set so loosely the wire had pulled them out.

Skeeter was sitting on his horse, studying the situation, when his gaze fell upon an object beside some trampled brush. He swung down, without dismounting, and picked it up. It was a rawhide honda with about a foot of hard-twist lariat rope still attached. Evidently a rope had snapped from the wires or a post and the honda had been flung aside where the rider had not been able to find it.

Skeeter looked it over carefully, took off the piece of rope and put the honda in his pocket before riding back to the spring, where Fuzzy was working with the two cowboys.

They had the spring pretty well cleaned out, but it would do little good without a fence. They tied their lariat ropes to the tangled wires, and managed to straighten them out. It was quite a job, getting the fence back where it would obstruct cattle from the spring and putting the wire back where it would not tangle cattle.

“Who’s ridin’ for Dan Houk now?” asked Skeeter, as they rode back to the ranchhouse.

“Ab Steele, Jim Grush and Andy Case,” replied Fuzzy.

“Does Sam Keenan still ramrod his own outfit?”

“No, he’s got a feller named Johnny Greer. He’s a good man, too.”

“Looks to me like a turkey-necked gun-slinger from Texas,” declared Len Riggs. “Chaws his tobacco and his right hand is always crooked, ready to fit a gun-butt.”

“Len is a natural-born fault-finder,” Fuzzy explained. “Why, he can’t even see any good in me.”

“That,” said Skeeter, smiling, “is an intelligent state of bein’.”

Len whooped and slapped his leg with a quirt. “That’s a good one!” he declared. “I still don’t like Johnny Greer.”

“If he wasn’t all right, Sam Keenan wouldn’t have him, yuh can bet on that,” declared Fuzzy. “Sam’s particular.”

Mrs. Davis had a big supper ready for them and they all did justice to it. Skeeter declared it was the first real meal he had eaten since he left Road-Runner Valley. He wanted to go back to town that evening but the Davises vetoed that at once.

Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy went to Yellow Butte next day. Fuzzy wanted to talk with the sheriff about the vandalism, as he called it. Al Creedon, the sheriff, listened attentively, and said he’d see what could be done about it. While they were talking, Sam Keenan and his foreman, Johnny Greer, walked in. Keenan introduced Greer to Skeeter Bill, and Fuzzy told them what happened at Hanging Rock.

“Well, did yuh get yore fence fixed again?” asked Keenan.

“Yeah, after a fashion, Sam.”

“Well, if yuh need more men, I’ll send some over, Fuzzy.”

“No, we got it fixed pretty good. It’ll need a little more wire, but I’ve got that at the ranch.”

“The only thing is,” remarked the sheriff, “will it be torn down again by the same persons? If they done it once—yuh know.”

“Might be interestin’.” Skeeter Bill was grinning. “If they come back again, they might be surprised, ’cause I’m watchin’ that particular part of these United States.”

“What do yuh mean, Skeet?” asked the sheriff curiously.

“Just what I said, Sheriff. They hadn’t better come back and start grabbin’ wire again.”

“That watchin’,” said the sheriff. “It might be a long job.”

“Yeah, it might. But who has more time than I have? They don’t need to hurry. I like to loaf in the shade.”

Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy left the office and went up the street. The little cattleman was grimly serious.

He said, “What’d yuh tell ’em that for, Skeet?”

“Well, it’s true, Fuzzy.”

“True, shucks! You ain’t goin’ to watch that water-hole.”

Skeeter stopped short and looked down at Fuzzy.

“Who’s goin’ to stop me—you?” he asked.

Fuzzy shoved his hands deep in his pockets and glared up at Skeeter Bill.

“You ain’t tryin’ to antagonize me, are yuh?” he asked.

“I’m tellin’ yuh to stay down on yore own level. Don’t contradict a grown man, Fuzzy. I’m goin’ to watch that water-hole.”

Fuzzy cuffed his old sombrero over one eye and spat into the dusty street.

“Well, if yuh are,” he said complainingly, “why tell everybody what yuh’re goin’ to do. That ain’t usin’ good sense.”

“I don’t care who knows it, Fuzzy. That way, I won’t have to shoot some innocent friend of mine. I’d hate that.”

“Yore logic,” declared Fuzzy, “is as uneven as a corduroy bridge over a rock-pile. If they know yo’re watchin’ ’em, they won’t come out there.”

“And the fence don’t get torn down again,” added Skeeter.

“Yuh’ve got me beat,” sighed Fuzzy. “When yuh left for Texas yuh was at least half-witted—but yuh deteriorated—badly.”

Skeeter Bill’s eyes twinkled. “I like bein’ crazy,” he said. “It makes thinkin’ so easy on the head. And another thing, Fuzzy—when yuh’re crazy, nobody can figure out why yuh do crazy things.”

“Mebbe it’s the heat,” sighed Fuzzy, “I dunno, I reckon we better go back to the ranch, where mebbe Emmy can talk some sense into yore empty head, Skeet.”

They went back to the ranch and Fuzzy told his wife what Skeeter Bill insisted on doing. To his surprise, she said:

“Well, I think that is just lovely of him!”

“You—u-u-uh—why, shore it is,” agreed Fuzzy. “You ain’t ailin’ nowhere, are yuh, Emmy?”

“Why?”

“Well, I dunno—I jist thought—oh, well, let it lay. He wants a couple blankets, a pair of overalls, a shirt and a old hat.”

“What’s he going to do—impersonate an Injun?”

“I dunno, Emmy. If yuh want my opinion, I’d say—”

“I don’t, Fuzzy,” interrupted Aunt Emma sharply. “If Skeeter wants something, get it for him.”

“Yes’m, shore. Bein’ as you both act crazy, maybe I’m the one that’s plumb loco. I dunno.”

It was after dark when Skeeter Bill rode away from the Bar D ranchhouse, blankets and clothes tied behind his saddle. He also carried some doughnuts, a tin cup and a canteen of cold water. He refused to say what he intended doing out there, just grinned.

He did not ride up to the spring but tied his horse in a mesquite thicket and walked the last two hundred yards in the brush. The brush crowded in fairly close to the spring but to the north was a spread of open country, covered only with knee-high growth. Near the spring was a pile of old posts, left over from the fencing.

Skeeter scouted the country fairly well, but it was too dark for him to see any considerable distance. He cut some brush and sat down behind the pile of posts, working in the dark. Skeeter was not an artist, and his creation wouldn’t even have fooled a wary crowd, but from a distance it might be mistaken for a man.

The neck and head was a broken piece of fencepost, to which he tied a stick, over which he fitted the old coat. After due deliberation he fastened it into the post-pile, with only the head and shoulders showing above the pile. Then he draped the overalls over the posts, giving the right effect for anyone viewing the spring from the south side. Skeeter did not have light enough to look it over critically. Then he took his blankets back in the mesquite, found an opening, and stretched out for the night, looking up at the stars.

“This is Tuesday night,” he said half-aloud, “and Bill’s birthday is Saturday. Maybe I’m seven kinds of a darned fool but I ain’t quittin’ on Bill’s druthers—until I have to quit.”

Skeeter Bill’s range training had taught him to awaken at any unusual sound, but he slept right through until the light of a false-dawn painted the hills for a few minutes. It was cold up there in the brush.

He watched the real dawn spread slowly across the divide, sending streamers of color onto the high points around the valley. He sat up in his blankets, buckled on his gun-belt and drew in deep breaths of the morning air.

Suddenly he jerked to his knees, flinging the blankets aside. From somewhere, fairly close, came the whip-like crack of a rifle. Twice more it blasted, the echoes clattering back from the hills. Skeeter Bill was on his feet, gun in hand, hunched low. Then he went swiftly out along the brush to where he could see the spring and the pile of posts. His dummy was piled up at the foot of the post-pile, the hat six feet away!

IV

Cautiously, Skeeter lifted his head. The shots had come from the north, and Skeeter caught sight of something moving. It was a man, or men, on horseback. Skeeter’s view was only momentary but Skeeter Bill was not being fooled by anybody. He stayed right there for at least fifteen minutes. There was not a sound. Several cows drifted in from the south and began drinking.

Skeeter Bill walked out and looked at his dummy. One bullet had hit the hat, gone through the thin piece of fence post, mushroomed badly, and blown a hole five inches across at the front of the old hat. Another bullet had struck about a foot lower on the post, and had split it into two pieces. The bullet-hole was a foot below the top of the collar. The third bullet had missed.

“Mighty good shootin’ in that light,” said Skeeter Bill, his face grim. “Either of those bullets would have blasted the life out of a man.”

Skeeter Bill took the coat, hat and overalls. He threw them on his blankets before starting up the slope. He was careful, as he went up through the brush. The killer might not be quite satisfied with his own convictions, and come back to verify them. Bill worked his way slowly, watching the ground. He had gone about a hundred yards when he found where a boot-heel had cut into the dirt.

Then he found where a horse had been tied, and more boot-prints. It was not difficult for Skeeter Bill to backtrack those high-heel tracks, because the man had made no attempt to disguise his trail. Finally he found the spot where the man had rested, waiting for daylight, and here he discovered three empty brass hulls where the man’s rifle had flung them. They were of thirty-thirty caliber and of a well-known brand. Skeeter looked them over carefully and put them in his pocket.

Then he got down on his hands and knees, examining every inch of the dirt around where the man had waited. He rolled and smoked a cigarette before going back to his blankets, which he rolled up, with the bullet-marked clothes, and went to his horse.

Breakfast was almost ready at the ranchhouse as Skeeter dismounted and carried his bundle up to the house. Fuzzy greeted him at the door.

Skeeter Bill merely unrolled the bundle, handed the hat to Fuzzy for examination, and held up the coat for him to look through. Fuzzy squinted at Skeeter, his jaw sagging a little.

“I made up a dummy,” said Skeeter, “and that’s what they done to it. Three shots—two of ’em dead-center.”

Aunt Emma and the two cowboys came in to look at the remains, and they all stood around, solemn-faced.

Fuzzy said, “That kind of ruins my appetite for breakfast, Skeet.”

“Dead-center—twice!” breathed Len Riggs. “How far, Skeet?”

“At least a hundred yards—and in awful bad light, too.”

“Breakfast is ready,” said Aunt Emma soberly.

There was little conversation at breakfast. For once in her life, Aunt Emma had no suggestions. This was a serious business. When they had finished Skeeter and Fuzzy stood outside together.

Fuzzy said, “Skeet, you must have been lookin’ for somethin’ like this, or yuh wouldn’t have made up that dummy.”

Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Just a hunch, Fuzzy—a hunch that worked out.”

“I’m still fightin’ my hat,” said Fuzzy. “Yuh mean to say that they want water so bad that they’re willin’ to murder to keep that spring unfenced?”

Skeeter shook his head slowly. “I don’t, Fuzzy. This deal goes back a couple years, I believe. Somebody don’t want Skeeter Bill Sarg in circulation.”

“Hu-u-uh? You mean—they’re gunnin’ for you Skeet?”

“They knew I was watchin’ that water-hole, Fuzzy, and they believed I was dumb enough to set on that post-pile. My hunch is that the water ain’t got a thing to do with it.”

Fuzzy Davis’ eyes held a strained, nervous expression, as he tried to get the situation straight in his own mind. It was difficult to puzzle out anyone’s reasons for wanting to kill Skeeter Bill. Finally he said:

“I don’t sabe the deal, Skeet. You ain’t had no trouble with anybody around here. Shucks, you jist got here.”

“Take a look at that old hat,” said Skeeter soberly, “and don’t forget they thought my head was inside it.”

Skeeter Bill wanted to go to town, so Fuzzy went with him. They tied their horses to the rail in front of the general store where Skeeter wanted to buy more tobacco. Emory Van Ness, the old merchant, shook hands warmly with Skeeter Bill, and sold him the tobacco.

“I heard you was in town, Skeeter,” he said. “Going to stay with us for a while, I hope.”

“Yuh can’t never tell about me,” replied Skeeter Bill. “I’m a tumble-weed, Emory.”

Skeeter’s eyes swept over the supply of rifle and revolver ammunition on a shelf behind him, but did not see the brand of rifle cartridges he had found at the water-hole.

“Do yuh need some shells?” asked Fuzzy.

“I’ve got plenty for my six-shooter,” replied Skeeter. “Have you got a thirty-thirty, Fuzzy?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one, but the firin’-pin is busted. Been layin’-off to get it fixed, but there ain’t no gunsmith around here.”

Skeeter mentioned the brand of the shells he had found at the water-hole, but Van Ness shook his head slowly.

“We ain’t had none of them for a couple months. Got some ordered. Sam Keenan bought the last box I had. Them others are the same thing. In fact, I have more calls for them.”

They left the store, and Skeeter Bill drifted down to the New York Chop House to say hello to Margie Edwards but she was not in evidence. Another woman was waiting on the tables.

Shorty Hale, the owner, came out from the kitchen, his face just a bit sheepish. Skeeter Bill asked about Margie.

Shorty said, “She quit the job last night.”

“Yea-a-ah? Did she get a better job, Shorty?”

“She—she didn’t say. Just left.”

Skeeter went down to the little house and found Mrs. Edwards laboring over a wash-tub.

“Shorty told me you’d quit the restaurant, Margie,” Skeeter said.

“Shorty must be getting polite,” she said. “He fired me.”

Skeeter looked sharply at her. “What for, Margie?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t have any trouble. Everything was going along all right but when my shift was finished, he told me that I didn’t need to come back.” She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I don’t know what I am going to do now.”

Skeeter Bill turned abruptly and left the house, his long legs taking long strides, as he went back to the restaurant. Shorty came out to the counter and found Skeeter Bill waiting for him. The expression on Skeeter’s face was not pleasant, as he said quietly:

“Why did yuh lie to me, Shorty Hale? She didn’t quit.”

Shorty swallowed painfully, but tried to bluster.

“After all—well, she—”

“Go ahead, Shorty. What did she do—or say?”

“Nothin’,” admitted Shorty miserably. “Listen, Skeeter—this is between me and you—I don’t own this place—I work here. The owner said to get rid of her and I had to do it. Honest I did.”

“Who owns it, Shorty?”

Shorty Hale shook his head. “I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. If I did, I’d lose my job. I’m supposed to own the place. Don’t tell anybody that I don’t. I jist had to tell you.”

“Sam Keenan?” asked Skeeter quietly. Shorty blinked rapidly.

“I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. It’s my job.”

“Shorty, I want an honest answer; does Sam Keenan try to hang around Margie Edwards?”

“I—I hear he does,” whispered Shorty. “I don’t reckon it’s any secret. He kinda liked her—before Hooty got sent up. It ain’t none of my business, but I heard that he asked her to get a divorce and marry him only a week ago—and she refused. She’s kind of foolish. Sam could give her everythin’ and take care of them two kids.”

“Much obliged, Shorty. I won’t mention it.”

“I—I hope yuh don’t. I need this job, Skeeter.”

Fuzzy Davis was waiting for Skeeter Bill in front of the general store. Skeeter said, “Fuzzy, let’s ride out to the Tumblin’ K and see Sam Keenan. We can cut across the hills from there.”

Grumpily, Fuzzy said it was all right with him, but wondered why Skeeter wanted to go to the Tumbling K. In fact, he was trying hard to understand this tall, long-legged cowpuncher, who had always been more or less of an enigma. On the way out Skeeter said:

“Fuzzy, did you ever know that Sam Keenan was tryin’ to shine around Margie Edwards?”

“Well—uh—oh, I’ve heard he was. Never paid no attention, myself. Why?”

“I just wondered,” replied Skeeter Bill.

Sam Keenan’s place was a regular bachelor ranchhouse, with very few refining touches. There was a long, rickety porch. A man was sitting on the steps, working over a gun. He was “Arizona” Ashley, who had been Keenan’s cook for years, a thin, wiry old-timer. He shook hands violently with Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy, and invited them to sit in the shade.

Ashley said, “Sam went to Silver Springs yesterday afternoon and the boys are all workin’. Sam’ll prob’ly be back late this afternoon. How have yuh been, Skeeter?”

“Just fine, Arizona. Yuh’re lookin’ well.”

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

“What are yuh doin’—gettin’ ready for a war?” asked Fuzzy.

Arizona grinned. “No, I hope I ain’t, Fuzzy. The boys are allus kickin’ about the way this gun shoots, so I thought I’d tinker it a little. Just gettin’ ready to try it out. See that tin can on top of the mesquite out there, Skeet? See if you can hit it.”

Skeeter took the rifle, cuddled the butt against his shoulder, and carefully squeezed the trigger. The tin can jumped into the air and disappeared. Skeeter Bill levered out the empty shell, and handed the gun to Arizona, who said:

“See anythin’ wrong with that gun, Skeet?”

“It shoots where yuh hold it, Arizona.”

“That’s what I allus tell the boys—it ain’t the gun, it’s you.”

“Skeet always could shoot the eye out of a gnat,” said Fuzzy.

“And never lift its eyebrow,” added Arizona soberly. “It’s jist a gift, that’s all. Some folks never can learn. Are yuh stayin’ at Fuzzy’s place, Skeet?”

“Yeah, for a few days. I’m sort of a drifter, Arizona.”

“I know yuh are, and I’m sorry, Skeet. It don’t pay. I used to want to keep movin’, but I finally got smart, and I says to me:

“‘Arizony, yuh’re gettin’ old. A rollin’ stone gathers no moss. You get a good, steady job and stick with it.’ And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve been here eighteen years, and look what I’ve got.”

“What have yuh got?” asked Skeeter Bill.

“A steady job and I only owe three dollars and six bits. Yuh never can tell how I’d be fixed if I kept on driftin’.”

“Yuh’ve made a lot of sacrifices to git where yuh are, too,” remarked Fuzzy. “I ’member when yuh didn’t have anythin’.”

“That’s before I got smart, Fuzzy.”

V

Declining to wait and eat supper at the Tumbling K, Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy cut across the hills to the Bar D. Aunt Emma was a little worried.

She said, “After what happened this mornin’, I’d naturally worry.”

“Nobody wants to hurt Fuzzy,” said Skeeter Bill.

“They shot up a dummy, didn’t they?”

“I resent that, Emmy,” protested Fuzzy. “Mebbe the heat has affected yore good manners. Set down and fan yourself.”

“I think I will,” she smiled. “I’ve got the mulligan simmering on the stove, and the biscuits ready to shoot into the oven. That old stove is hotter than what sinners have facing them. Any news in Yellow Butte?”

“We didn’t find any,” sighed Fuzzy, fanning himself with his hat. “At least, I didn’t—I dunno about Skeet. I seen him come from the New York Chop House, walkin’ like the devil was proddin’ him. He was gone a few minutes, and came back faster’n that. Into the Chop House he goes, stays a minute or two, and comes out.”

“Keepin’ cases on me, eh?” Skeeter Bill. “I’d like to ask yuh a question, Fuzzy; did you ever hear that Sam Keenan owns the New York Chop House?”

“Sam Keenan? No, I never did, Skeet. Where’d yuh get that idea?”

“Things kind of come to me,” replied Skeeter Bill.

“How is Margie Edwards?” asked Aunt Emma.

“She got fired,” replied Skeeter Bill. “Shorty told me she quit, and she said she was fired. So I put it up to Shorty and he said that he didn’t own the cafe but took orders from the owner, and that the owner had told him to fire Margie.”

“Aw, I think he’s tryin’ to crawl out of it, Skeet.”

“If I thought he was, I’d drown him in his own soup.”

“By golly, that’s it!” exclaimed Fuzzy.

“What’s it?” asked Skeeter Bill quickly.

“A sensible use for Shorty Hale’s soup. At that, it might be too thin to drown a man. You can breathe it without difficulty.”

“Fuzzy!” exclaimed Aunt Emma. “That is ridiculous. But, Skeeter, what on earth gave you the idea that Sam Keenan might own that restaurant?”

“I dunno,” sighed Skeeter Bill, “I suppose I had a hunch.”

“You and yore hunches!” snorted Fuzzy.

“Go look at that old hat, Fuzzy, and the back of the coat.”

“Yea-a-ah, I reckon yuh do have flashes of intelligence. Sometimes I get smart, too.”

“When?” asked Aunt Emma soberly.

Fuzzy turned to Skeeter. “Ain’t it like a woman—allus tryin’ to pin yuh down to a exact date?”

“And never gettin’ an answer,” said Aunt Emma, heading back for the kitchen.

Ollie Ashley and Len Riggs wanted to go to Yellow Butte, and Skeeter Bill decided to go with them, against the protests of Fuzzy Davis, who declared that Skeeter might run into trouble, especially in the dark.

“Trouble is my middle name, Fuzzy,” Skeeter Bill told him. “I’ll be all right. Besides that, I’ve got two good men with me.”

“Them two?” scoffed Fuzzy. “Lot of help they’d be. I can snap my fingers and make ’em both go for cover.”

“When, for instance?” asked Ollie soberly.

“Aw, yuh’re just like Emmy, allus askin’ for dates. Go ahead and get killed. Might improve the country—I dunno.”

Ollie and Len tied their horses at the Seven-Up Saloon, but Skeeter rode straight down to the Edwards house. He tied his horse to the rickety fence and went up to the lighted house. Young Bill came to the door to welcome Skeeter Bill. Margie and Nellie were reading a book. They were delighted to see Skeeter.

Margie said, “You went out of here so fast yesterday that I had a feeling you were mad at me.”

“Shucks, I never get mad at my friends,” said Skeeter with a smile. “I just had somethin’ on my mind at that time.”

They sat and talked for an hour, before the two children went to bed. After they were gone Skeeter Bill asked Margie if she knew who owned the New York Chop House.

“Shorty Hale,” she replied.

“Shorty says he don’t, and that he had orders from the owner to fire you.”

“That’s funny, Skeeter; everybody believes that Shorty owns it. And if there were another owner, why would he want to fire me? I haven’t done anything—not that I know about.”

Skeeter Bill shook his head, hunched forward in an old rocker. Then he looked at her and said quietly:

“Margie, I don’t want to pry into yore private affairs, but I’d like to know if Sam Keenan ever made love to you?”

Margie Edwards’ laugh sounded forced, but she said, “It wouldn’t be anything new—if he did, Skeeter.”

“Wanted to marry yuh, eh?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t marry him, Skeeter. I told him I was waiting for Hooty to come back, and he said—well, he said I’d have a mighty long wait. I told him I’d get along all right.”

“Were Hooty and Sam Keenan good friends?”

“Well I don’t know if they were good friends, but they certainly weren’t enemies, Skeeter. But what is all this about? You ask questions like a lawyer.”

“I’m tryin’ to make two and two equal six, Margie. I kind of feel that I’ve woke up some sleepin’ dogs in Road-Runner Valley, and they ain’t happy about havin’ their sleep interrupted. I’ll be on my way to the ranch, I reckon, but I’ll be seein’ yuh again, I hope.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “I don’t know what you are trying to do, but it is probably something dangerous.”

“I like it,” he said, smiling at her. “Don’t worry, Margie; this is only Tuesday.”

He closed the door behind him, leaving her wondering what he meant about this only being Tuesday.

It was very dark out at the old fence, and Skeeter Bill almost had to find his horse by feel rather than by sight. As he slid the reins over the horse’s head, something told him that danger was near him. There had not been a sound, but some sixth sense warned him.

Instantly he ducked low, intending to slide under the horse but a hissing rope slashed across his face, jerking tight over the bridge of his nose, and he was yanked backwards into the dirt. The horse whirled in against the fence when Skeeter Bill went down, and a voice snapped a curse.

Skeeter came down on one hip and elbow, and for a fraction of a second the rope slacked. In that fraction, Skeeter Bill drew his gun and shot blindly, trying to use that tightening rope as a guide. A man yelled sharply, and the rope fell away.

Quickly Bill jerked the rope from his eyes, going flat, gun ready. A shot blasted out, and the whirling horse went completely over Skeeter Bill but did not strike him. He heard a man running away along the fence as he got to his feet and caught his horse. Margie called from the doorway:

“Skeeter Bill! Skeeter, are you hurt?”

“I’m all right, Margie,” he called. “Somebody was just foolin’. See yuh later.”

The two kids crowded in behind their mother, questioning her about the shooting but she was unable to tell them what happened, except that Skeeter Bill said he was all right.

“I’ll betcha he’s a ring-tailed wolf in a fight,” declared young Bill proudly. “Look at them shoulders! Man, I hope I grow up to be as good a man as he is. Mom, I bet dad would like that.”

“Yes, I believe he would, Bill. Now go back to bed and forget it. Skeeter Bill can take care of himself.”

Skeeter rode back to the Bar D. Fuzzy and his wife were still up. Ollie and Len had already returned home and were in the bunkhouse. Skeeter’s nose was skinned, and there was a rope-burn over his left eye. He told them what happened.

Fuzzy said, “Skeet, things like that ain’t no joke.”

“I ain’t jokin’, Fuzzy. It’s got me puzzled tryin’ to figger why they tried to rope me. What their idea was I don’t know, unless they figured on draggin’ me around. Anyway, it turned out all right. I shot once, but I don’t reckon I hit anybody. Come to think of it,” said Skeeter thoughtfully, “I heard a man yelp.”

“Well, that’s the doggoneddest thing I ever heard!” exclaimed the little cowman. “Skeet, can’t yuh tell us why they’re aimin’ to ease you off this mortal coil?”

“Yore guess is almost as good as mine, Fuzzy.”

“Yeah, almost,” said Fuzzy dryly. “Emmy, why don’t you get into this discussion? Ain’t you got no ideas?”

Aunt Emma shook her head, and almost lost her glasses.

“I reckon we might as well go to bed,” sighed Fuzzy, “unless yuh want to stay up, Skeet, so as not to disappoint ’em if they come out here to finish up on yuh.”

“No, I think they’re too disappointed to try again tonight.”

They were getting ready for bed, when they heard horses coming up to the house. Fuzzy went over by the door, waiting for the visitors to knock when a voice called:

“Fuzzy, this is Al Creedon!”

“The law is among us,” whispered Fuzzy, and opened the door.

It was the sheriff, with his deputy, Muddy Poole. Skeeter Bill was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, and called a greeting to the officers.

“Ridin’ late, ain’t yuh, Al?” asked Fuzzy.

“Kinda. Glad yuh’re home, Skeeter. We hoped you’d be.”

“What’s eatin’ yuh, Al?” asked Skeeter curiously.

“About what happened tonight—at Edwards’ house, Skeet. Several of us heard the two shots fired, but we had a hard time findin’ where it was. Mrs. Edwards told us that it happened in front of her place, and that you said you was all right.”

“That’s right,” admitted Skeeter. “Somebody tried to rope me in the dark.”

“He’s still got rope-burns on his eye and nose,” said Aunt Emma.

The sheriff nodded. “Skeeter,” he said, “did you know a feller named Dutch Held?”

Skeeter Bill shook his head. “I don’t believe I ever did, Al.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Fuzzy. “They say he’s a bad boy.”

“Was,” said the sheriff. “Skeet, how many times did you shoot?”

“Once. Somebody shot at me, too. Just two shots fired. I’ve got a kind of hunch that I hit somebody.”

“So have I,” said the sheriff quietly.

Skeeter Bill looked sharply at the sheriff.

“What do yuh mean, Al?” he asked curiously.

“Where was yore horse, when you started to climb on him?”

“Why—right in front of the gate.”

“Uh-huh. That makes the corner of the fence about twenty feet away. Well, Skeeter, we found Dutch Held at the corner of the fence, dead as a door-knob. He had one bullet through his right arm. In fact, it busted his arm at the elbow. The other bullet was in the back of his head. That one killed him instantly.”

Skeeter Bill stared thoughtfully at the floor. That other shot had not been fired at him, but into the back of Dutch Held’s head.

Fuzzy said, “It don’t make sense, Al.”

“What do you think, Skeeter?” asked Muddy Poole.

“There’s only one thing to think, Muddy,” replied Skeeter Bill. “The man who was with Dutch Held didn’t want to fool around with a crippled man, so he blasted him down.”

“That would be a terrible thing to do!” exclaimed Aunt Emma.

“Would yuh mind doin’ a little talkin’, Skeet?” asked the sheriff.

Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Go ahead,” he said, “I ain’t got no favorite subjects, so select yore poison, Al.”

“One of the boys from this spread intimated that somebody tried to murder you this mornin’, Skeeter. They tried it again tonight. It just happens that I’m the sheriff of this county and things like that are my business. What’s yore opinion?”

“I agree with yuh, Sheriff. Go right ahead and find out who is tryin’ to kill me. It’s all right with me.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Sheriff,” replied Skeeter Bill seriously, “if I knew—sure—yuh don’t think I’d be waitin’ for them to try it again, do yuh?”

“Like I told yuh on the way out here, Al, we’re wastin’ our time,” said Muddy Poole. The sheriff sighed and got to his feet.

“I reckon yuh’re right, Muddy. I hope I see you again, Skeeter.”

“That’s a cinch,” said Skeeter soberly. “You go ahead and hope that I can see you.”

After the two officers had gone, Skeeter Bill said:

“Fuzzy, what do yuh know about this Dutch Held?”

“Well, he was a bad boy, Skeet. Suspected of rustlin’, horse-stealin’, smugglin’—finally, murder. Shot a feller in a holdup in Yuma. Dutch used to be around here once in a while, when he worked for the Double Circle Seven, north of Silver Springs. I hadn’t heard anythin’ about him lately.”

“Much obliged, Fuzzy. Well, folks I reckon we can go to bed and get a good sleep. I think that somebody is awful disappointed over tonight’s work—and it ain’t me. Goodnight, folks.”

“You better say your prayers,” advised Aunt Emma.

Skeeter grinned at her and said, “Aunt Emma, how about you doin’ it for me? My prayers never seemed to go high enough to do any good.”

“I’d like that,” said Fuzzy seriously. “It’ll give her less time to implore the Lord to make me a better man. I dunno who she’s holdin’ up as an example.”

VI

Although Fuzzy went to Yellow Butte with Skeeter Bill next day, he was not enthused over it at all. They talked with the sheriff, who told them that the inquest would be held Saturday forenoon, delayed because Doctor Boardman had to go to Crescent City on business. Skeeter Bill lost no time in going down to see the doctor, who was ready to drive away.

“I wanted to ask yuh a question, Doc,” said Skeeter Bill. “On the day or two after Hooty Edwards was shot, was you called on to treat any sort of a gunshot wound?”

The gray-haired doctor shook his head. “No, I’m sure I wasn’t, Sarg. I would have remembered it, I’m sure.”

Skeeter Bill thanked him and went back to the main street, where he found Fuzzy Davis and told him he was going to Silver Springs.

“I’ll be back for that inquest,” he told Fuzzy. “Don’t worry—I’ll be here.”

“Who’s worryin’?” demanded the little cowman. “You must think yuh’re awful important. Go ahead and get yourself shot. Silver Springs is a awful nice place to die. I’ll tell Emmy to pray for yuh.”

“Every little helps.” Skeeter flashed a smile. “Much obliged, Fuzzy.”

It was late Friday night when Skeeter Bill came back to the Bar D ranch. Aunt Emma fixed supper for him, and Fuzzy did a lot of hinting, but Skeeter did not mention why he went to Silver Springs.

Aunt Emma said, “Fuzzy and I have to be at the inquest tomorrow and they said you’ve got to be there, too. I saw Margie Edwards and they’ve told her to be present and bring the two kids.”

Skeeter Bill smiled over his coffee. “We’ll have a regular old-timers’ reunion,” he said. “Anythin’ new, Fuzzy?”

“Nothin’ unusual. I went out to Hangin’ Rock water-hole but the fence is all right yet. Nobody shot at yuh in Silver Springs?”

“No, they treated me all right. Nice place over there.”

“You can have it,” replied Fuzzy. “Yuh’re goin’ to the inquest, ain’t yuh?”

“If I live—yeah.”

“My goodness!” exclaimed Aunt Emma. “You ain’t figurin’ on gettin’ killed between now and then, are yuh, Skeet?”

“Livin’ in a benighted land like this, Aunt Emma, it don’t do for anybody to plan too far ahead.”

Saturday was always a big day in Yellow Butte. It was the shopping day for almost everybody in Road-Runner Valley and they not only brought their kids, but their dogs, as well. By ten o’clock all the available hitchrack space was taken. Fuzzy and Aunt Emma tied their horses behind the sheriff’s office, along with Skeeter’s horse.

They held the inquest in the courtroom at the courthouse, with Doctor Boardman, the coroner, officiating. The room was filled, long before the inquest was called to order. Mrs. Edwards and her two children, Fuzzy and Aunt Emma and Skeeter Bill, all being witnesses, were accorded a special number of seats at the front.

From his position Skeeter Bill could look over most of the crowd. Many of them he had known for a long time. In the front row of seats he could see Slim Lacey and Sam Keenan. Behind Lacey was Johnny Greer, Keenan’s foreman, and some of his men. In the selection of a jury, Sam Keenan was chosen, along with five other men of Yellow Butte.

Sheriff Al Creedon and his deputy, Muddy Poole, had seats near the coroner, basking in the gaze of the proletariat.

Doctor Boardman opened the proceedings, outlining the circumstances of the finding of Dutch Held’s body, and giving the cause of his death.

“In my opinion,” stated the doctor, “someone held a forty-five almost against the back of Dutch Held’s head and fired the fatal shot, the gun held so closely that it burned his hair.”

He waited for that fact to soak into the crowd and then said:

“We will now call Skeeter Bill Sarg to the stand.”

The coroner clumsily administered the oath for Skeeter Bill to tell the truth, and Skeeter swore that he would.

Skeeter took the chair, stretching his long legs. He shoved his holstered gun to a handy position.

The coroner said, “It is hardly proper to wear a gun on the witness stand.”

“Who is liable to have more need of one, Doc?” asked Skeeter, and the crowd laughed. The doctor nodded, and said:

“Go ahead and tell the jury what happened in front of Mrs. Edwards’ home.”

Skeeter told them in detail of the attack on him, how he got out of it, and said that he didn’t know anyone had been killed.

“I thought that shot was fired at me,” he confessed, “until the sheriff came out to the Bar D and told me what happened.”

“I understand that you do not know—did not know—Dutch Held, and that you do not know why the attack was made on you,” said the doctor.

“I never met Dutch Held, but I deny the last statement, Doc.”

The doctor stared at Skeeter for several moments, and asked quietly, “Do you mean to say you know why you were attacked?”

“I do,” replied Skeeter Bill coldly. “They tried it before, Doc, but they shot a dummy, instead of me. It was good shootin’, too, but yuh can’t kill a fencepost, even if it is wearin’ a hat. Yuh see,” he continued, after a pause, “the dry-gulcher made a mistake. He never picked up the empty shells from his rifle. Almost every rifle leaves its own mark on a shell. Mebbe it’s the way the firin’-pin hits the primer, a scratch on the shell, always in the same place. Doc, I found those shells and I shot a gun, just to get the empty shell—and they match.

“But wait a minute! This deal is older’n just a few days. It goes back to the conviction of Hooty Edwards. Yuh see, gents, a bartender put dope into Hooty’s whisky that night, and that’s why Hooty didn’t know what happened. It’s a cinch that no doped man could have robbed that bank. That man had to be cold sober.

“The sheriff swapped shots with the bank-robber that mornin’ and the sheriff was sure he hit the man. Gentlemen, he did, but it wasn’t Hooty Edwards. The man he hit went to a doctor for treatment of a gunshot wound next day, but not to Doc Boardman. He was scared to do that.”

There was a long silence in that big room. Every eye was on Skeeter Bill, waiting for him to continue. He moved his long legs, pulling his feet in close to his chair. Then he said in a brittle voice:

“Slim Lacey, keep yore hands in sight.”

Suddenly Skeeter Bill flung himself sideways, landing on his knees, six feet away from the witness chair just as a bullet smashed into the back of the chair. Johnny Greer, hunched behind Slim Lacey, had drawn a gun, unnoticed by anybody, except Skeeter Bill, who had seen his shoulder action.

Skeeter Bill’s gun flamed from his kneeling position, the bullet slashing across Lacey’s shoulder, but centering Greer. The room was instantly in an uproar. Keenan, in the jury box, flung a man away from in front of him, giving him room to shoot. He fairly screamed:

“You dirty bloodhound, I’ll—”

Skeeter’s gun flamed again, and Keenan went to his knees over empty chairs, flinging his gun ahead of him. Men were clawing at each other, crashing over chairs, trying to get away from the line of fire. Someone yelled:

“Slim Lacey is gettin’ away! Stop him!”

There was no chance to get through that milling crowd. Skeeter Bill whirled to the front windows. They were not built to be opened, but Skeeter hurled a chair through one of them, and went out onto the sidewalk as Slim Lacey ran from the entrance. The gambler saw Skeeter Bill, whirled, gun in hand, but caught his heel and went flat on his back, firing one shot straight into the air, before Skeeter’s toe caught the gun and kicked it halfway across the street.

Men were piling out of the courthouse. Skeeter yanked the gambler to his feet. Al Creedon and Muddy Poole had fought their way loose from the crowd, and came running. One of the men was the gray-haired prosecutor, who had sent Hooty Edwards to the penitentiary, and his face was just a little white.

“I’ll talk!” panted the frightened Lacey, cringing at the expression of the faces around him. “I—I didn’t kill anybody. I gave Hooty the dope in his drink, but Keenan paid me to do it. I put it in his last drink, when he said he was going home.”

“Keep goin’,” said Skeeter Bill tensely.

The gambler blurted out his confession hastily, in a high-pitched voice. “Sam Keenan was broke, and he robbed the bank, and put the deadwood on Hooty Edwards. He—he wanted Edwards’ wife. Then Keenan bought the Seven-Up and the New York Chop House. I didn’t own the saloon, but everybody thought I did.”

“Why did they try to kill me?” asked Skeeter Bill.

“Because they thought you knew too much. They wanted to make Fuzzy Davis sell the Bar D. That’s why Keenan hired Greer, and Greer was an old bunkie of Dutch Held. Greer was the best shot in the state. He says he shot Dutch accidentally, when Dutch ducked in front of him. He was tryin’ to kill you, Skeeter. That’s all I know. But I didn’t murder anybody—honest, I didn’t!”

Muddy Poole snapped handcuffs on Slim Lacey and headed for the jail with him. Keenan wasn’t dead, but badly hurt. They carried him outside; he was conscious. He said to Al Creedon and the prosecutor:

“Mrs. Edwards can have the Tumblin’ K—it’s hers. Where’s Skeeter Bill?”

“Right here, Sam,” replied the sheriff, pushing the tall cowpuncher forward.

Sam Keenan scowled up at Skeeter Bill, his voice weakening, as he said:

“You win, Sarg. But I’d like to live long enough to kill Doc Higgins over at Silver Springs, for tellin’ you that he doctored a bullet-wound on me the day they got Hooty.”

Skeeter Bill hunched down lower, his face grim, as he said:

“Yuh’re wrong, Sam. Doc didn’t tell me that. Yuh see, he wasn’t comin’ back to Silver Springs until today, so I couldn’t wait.”

“You—uh—” Keenan blinked painfully, as he realized what had happened. Then he said, “But you found that matchin’ thirty-thirty shell, Skeeter.”

“No, I didn’t, Sam,” denied Skeeter. “I tried to, but the blamed extractor flung the shell through a crack in the porch floor, and I didn’t have a chance to shoot twice.”

“What did yuh have?” whispered Keenan.

“All I had was a rawhide honda, which I found at Fuzzy’s spring, after the wires was torn loose. It’s got a JG mark, done with a hot wire. That sounded like Johnny Greer, and that’s all I had—except the knowledge that when a man’s guilty, he’ll fall for a lie, and you was guilty, Sam.”

Skeeter Bill turned away. Fuzzy, Aunt Emma, Margie Edwards and her two children were talking excitedly.

Fuzzy said, “We’ll have Hooty back here in two shakes, I tell yuh. You’ll own the Tumblin’ K, too. Whooee-ee! Ole Skeet shore mussed up that rat’s nest in a hurry, didn’t yuh, Skeet? I jist shook hands with Dan Houk. We was both so darned excited that we forgot to be enemies. He invited me to have a drink, but Emmy was listenin’. Well, darn yore long hide, why don’tcha say somethin’?”

Skeeter Bill smiled slowly, his eyes shifting from face to face, until he was looking at young Bill Edwards, his blue eyes slightly red, cheeks just a trifle tear-stained. His eyes were just a bit wide, as he looked at Skeeter Bill.

Skeeter Bill said, very softly: “Happy Birthday, Bill!”

“It—sure—is,” whispered young Bill, and Skeeter walked away, yanking his hat down over his eyes.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Fall, 1948 issue of Giant Western magazine.

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Table of Contents

Skeeter Bill Comes to Town

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