“Skeeter Bill shore is fitted to this new job. Havin’ been a real good
horse-thief, he’s able to think like one; and that helps a lot, when
yo’re huntin’ one.”
All of which shows that Skeeter Bill’s past did not interfere with his
present and future. Until his election he had been working for the KG7
outfit, twenty miles south of Crescent City, the county seat. He and
Kaintuck had bunked together, and it was entirely fitting that he make
Kaintuck his deputy.
Kaintuck was the opposite physically to Skeeter Bill. He was not over
five feet seven inches in height, rather stout and bow-legged. He tried
hard to wear a mustache, but it was rather a dismal failure; being wispy
and yellow, one end insisting on twisting toward his chin, while the
other pointed indifferently toward his eye.
“Looks like somebody had pasted a danged S on yore lip,” was Skeeter’s
opinion. “Yuh ought to get a crutch for one end, or hang a weight on the
other.”
Crescent City was a nondescript cattle town. A branch line of the N. W.
railroad swung in out of the desert, wound its way through a pass, and
into the valley; only to leave by another heavily graded pass.
The main street of the town was crooked, as though one end of the place
did not care to have the other end know what it was doing. Being the
county seat, it naturally became the center of industry. Twenty miles to
the north was a fairly new mining district, which outfitted at Crescent
City, although the Silver Bell mine was the only one to employ any great
number of men.
A two-horse stage made tri-weekly trips to the Silver Bell district,
carrying the mail and express. It was a bad road, built with an idea of
economy, and naturally followed the lines of least resistance. An empty
buggy was a good load for two horses, but the turns were so short and
the road so narrow that four horses would have been just two too many.
There were a number of cattle outfits in the valley, but the Tin Cup and
the Lazy H were the largest. The Tin Cup brand was owned by “Monk”
Clark, who raised both horses and cattle, while the Lazy H, Sam Ertle’s
brand, raised only such horses as were needed in handling their cattle.
Both Clark and Ertle had worked against Skeeter in the campaign. Clark
had thought himself sort of a political boss in Moon River County, and a
defeat did not please him in the least.
Monk Clark was a big, burly man, middle-aged, and with a hair-trigger
disposition. Sam Ertle was small, wiry, soft-spoken, and a very capable
cattleman. He had only operated the Lazy H for about fifteen months,
having bought it in at a sale, after Cleve Hart, the original owner, had
been killed.
Skeeter Bill had never had any serious trouble with either of them, and
their opposition to his election was merely because of political
differences.
For several minutes after Moran left the office Skeeter silently
contemplated his two counterfeit dollars. Kaintuck continued to tear
papers and spill tobacco.
“You got any silver dollars?” asked Skeeter. Kaintuck looked up at him.
“Have I got any silver dollars?” Kaintuck rubbed his chin and squinted
at Skeeter. “Cowboy, I reckon I know what yo’re thinkin’ about, and all
I can do is shake my head and hope you’ll believe me. I know how yuh
feel about them two dollars that just spoiled on yuh. Yo’re melancholy,
that’s all—and misery likes company.”
“But it ain’t ethical for yuh to spend bad money.”
“I ain’t spendin’ it, am I?”
“That’s true. If I was a detective I’d know what to do. Dang that
feller, anyway! I’m supposed to investigate on the quiet. Investigate
what?”
“Counterfeitin’,” grinned Kaintuck. “Kinda make a house-to-house
canvass, and ask everybody if they’ve seen anybody makin’ bad money. Yuh
might start out by—”
“Gettin’ killed,” finished Skeeter. “When it comes to detectin’, me and
you run a dead-heat.”
“Prob’ly. Still there’s one satisfaction, Skeeter; yuh don’t have to
catch ’em. There ain’t nothin’ in yore oath of office that says you’ve
got to catch counterfeiters.”
“No, that’s right, too, Kaintuck. I wish somebody would rob a bank or
steal a horse to take this off my mind.”
“Mine too,” said Kaintuck seriously. “I ain’t took a shot at anybody
since I’ve been a deputy. ——! If I thought that all sheriffs and
deputies was as incompetent as we are, I’d resign right now and take up
horse stealin’. I shore would, Skeeter.”
Kaintuck walked to the office door and slouched against the side.
“Train’s in,” he announced.