“That woman must have had a tough time, Calamity.”
“She died before she started the trip,” laughed Calamity. “They took her
no’th in a casket. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Well, I s’pose I’ve got to unload
that trunk. Oh, I ain’t foolin’ myself. I know what a woman’s trunk
usually weighs.”
Joy laughed and ran up the front steps into the house, while Gregory
helped Calamity remove the trunk. Joy looked around the living-room, a
frown between her eyes. Everywhere was dirt. She kicked aside a Navajo
rug, disclosing a great accumulation. Calamity had made the cleaning as
easy as possible for himself.
Her father and Calamity came in with the trunk and found her inspecting
Calamity’s trash-heap.
“That’s a woman for yuh,” wailed Calamity. “They’ve got to uncover all
the scandal they can find. Them dirt-heaps has been as safe as a church
all this time.” Calamity shook his head sadly. “I suppose you’ll be
washin’ winders next.”
“They need it,” said Joy. “Why, you can’t see through any of them.”
“Well, why should yuh? There ain’t nothin’ to look at out there, Joy.
And nobody can shoot yuh through a winder they can’t see through. Ha,
ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, I’d rather be shot than to live like a pig,” retorted Joy. “Put a
kettle of water on the stove.”
“Yes’m.” Calamity became very meek and hastened to comply with her
orders.
He knew that his usual equivocations would have little effect on Joy.
He put a big kettle of water on the stove, filled up the firebox and
went outside, where he joined Gregory, who was unhitching the team.
“Joy goin’ to stay here?” asked Calamity.
“Yeah. Where in —— else can she stay?”
“Yuh don’t need to git mad at me about it, Hank. I jist asked, tha’sall.
A year has shore made a lot of difference with that girl, Hank. She’s a
woman.”
“Uh-huh.”
Gregory stripped the harness off a horse and let the animal loose. He
hung up the harness and leaned against a corner of the shed, watching
two riders who were coming in from the west.
* * * * *
It was Monk Clark and Frank Moran, the government detective, who had
talked with Skeeter Bill. They rode up to Gregory and Calamity. Clark
had seen Joy through the open door, as he rode past the house.
“Howdy, gents,” he greeted them.
They returned the greeting in kind. Clark jerked a gloved thumb toward
the house, as though in interrogation.
“Joy came this mornin’,” said Gregory. “I got a letter from her last
night, and had to drive in this mornin’. Her aunt died in Cheyenne, and
she had to come home.”
“Huh!”
Clark turned his head and squinted toward the house, where Joy was
hanging some Navajo rugs over the railing of the porch.
“Young lady, eh?” smiled Moran.
“Woman,” corrected Calamity.
Monk Clark smiled. He was a big, rawboned individual, possibly forty
years of age. His face was heavily lined, rather sullen in repose, his
eyes scarcely ever more than half-open. His mouth was wide, thin-lipped,
and decorated with a black, brushlike mustache.
Clark wanted to boss Moon River Valley politically, and had succeeded
fairly well until the recent election. His candidates for prosecuting
attorney and sheriff had both been defeated, and those were the two
offices that Clark particularly wanted to dominate.
“Yeah, she’s a woman now,” nodded Clark.
“And a pretty one,” added Moran. “I’d like to meet her, Gregory.”
Hank Gregory squinted at Moran.
“Yeah? Well, I reckon yuh can. C’mon.”
The four men walked to the porch, and Joy shook hands with Monk Clark
before she was introduced to Frank Moran. After the introduction Joy
excused herself and went back to her work.
“Hm-m-m-m,” mused Clark aloud. “And she’s only been away a little over a
year, eh? Big change, Hank. Goin’ to keep her here at the ranch?”
“Until she mates up with some cowpuncher, I s’pose.”
“And that won’t be long,” laughed Moran. “I haven’t seen many like her
in Moon River Valley.”
“Don’t let yore rope drag too much,” advised Clark coldly.
Moran laughed softly.
“My rope ain’t draggin’, Boss. But I’ve got a good pair of eyes.”
A few minutes later Clark and Moran left the ranch and rode toward
Crescent City. Clark seemed very thoughtful, and his demeanor drew a
smile from Moran.
“That HG ranch ain’t such a nice place for a young lady,” offered Moran.
“No,” said Clark shortly. “Joy is a nice girl.”
“Looks nice.”
“Yeah.”
* * * * *
They rode into Crescent City and tied their horses at the Half-Moon
hitch-rack. It was in the middle of the week, and there was little
activity in Crescent City, except on Saturday and Sunday.
Curley Adams was coming up the street, and met them at the door of the
Half-Moon.
“How soon can yuh give me my time, Monk?” asked Curley.
“Eh? You quittin’ the Tin Cup, Curley?”
“Yeah. I just bought out the old Box X brand.”
Clark shoved the sombrero back on his head and squinted at Curley.
“You bought the old Box X ranch?”
“Well, there wasn’t much to buy,” admitted Curley. “The old buildings
are pretty badly shot to pieces, and there ain’t nothin’ much left,
except the brand—but it’s a start.”
“Yea-a-ah, I suppose it is,” Monk Clark grinned slowly. “All yuh need is
some cattle and horses, Curley.”
“Well, they’ll come, Monk.”
“Uh-huh,” Monk scratched his chin reflectively and smiled at Curley.
“One thing yuh got to remember, young man—there’s a maverick law in this
country now. All mavericks belong to the Cattlemen’s Association. It
ain’t what it used to be.”
“When you started, eh?”
Moran laughed, when Monk’s ears turned red. It was well known that Monk
Clark had been a great gatherer of mavericks—unbranded calves, which had
been weaned, and on which any man might put his own brand.
It had been a legitimate procedure, until the practice became such a
source of profit that some men did not wait for the calf to desert its
mother. They forced the issue and got rich on the results. It was a
common occurrence for one man’s cows to bring in twin calves, while the
cows of his neighbor brought in nothing but a sad expression.
“Well, yuh might say that things have changed,” admitted Monk Clark
coldly.
He did not relish having any one laugh at him.
“You’ve got about thirty-five dollars comin’, ain’t yuh, Curley? I’ll
buy a drink. C’mon.”
They entered the saloon, ordered their drinks, and Clark counted out the
money to Adams.
“So yo’re goin’ to be a cattleman, eh?” queried Monk. “It’s a long, hard
pull, Curley. Better stick to a salary.”
Curley shook his head.
“Not for mine, Monk. I’ve got to get somethin’ for myself, and I don’t
know anythin’ but cows.”
“You own a horse and a rope, don’t yuh?” asked Moran.
Curley turned his head and looked at Moran.
“Yeah.”
“Well, what more could yuh want? Many a puncher has got rich—if he
didn’t get hung in his own loop.”
“Thank yuh,” coldly.
“Oh, yuh don’t need to get frosty, Adams. I don’t know how yuh ever
expect to make a livin’ off that old Box X—and keep honest.”
“Maybe I won’t make a livin’, Moran.”
Moran laughed sneeringly.
“Oh, I guess you’ve got it figured out all right.”
_Splat!_ Curley’s fist landed just beneath Moran’s left cheek-bone,
knocking him the full length of the bar, where he went flat on his back.
A little lower and Moran would have been completely knocked out, but as
it was he was so badly dazed that he goggled foolishly, while his left
eye puffed rapidly, assuming a deep mauve tint.
“I’d swear to gosh, that was some punch,” observed the bartender
blandly.
He was used to scenes of violence. Curley started toward the prostrate
Moran, but Monk Clark stopped him.
“That’s a-plenty,” said Clark. “Let him get up now.”
Moran got slowly to his feet, and Clark stepped aside, as though to give
Moran a chance to retaliate; but the fight had all been taken out of
Moran. He leaned against the bar and felt tenderly of his eye, which was
completely shut now.
“Next time,” said Curley softly, “yuh might do a little thinkin’ before
yuh speak, Moran.”
“I might,” nodded Moran. “Mebbe I will, and mebbe I won’t.”
He picked up his hat, yanked it viciously down on his head and strode
toward the door.
Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck were coming in, and Moran halted to let them
in before he went out. Kaintuck squinted at the swollen eye and whistled
softly.
“Stick flew up and hit yuh, eh?” he questioned.
Moran snarled an unintelligible answer and brushed past them into the
street.
“Must ’a’ been at least a cord of wood,” declared Kaintuck, as they
turned toward the bar. Curley was caressing his sore knuckles, but
grinned at them.
“What happened?” asked Kaintuck.
Monk Clark moved away from the bar, but did not speak to either Skeeter
Bill or Kaintuck.
“Moran spoke before he thought,” said the bartender.
“Didn’t amount to anythin’,” said Curley easily. “Merely a difference of
opinion.”
“Must ’a’ been quite a difference,” grinned Kaintuck. “I heard that yuh
bought the old Box X, Curley.”
“Uh-huh—today, Kaintuck.”
“By golly, that’s fine. And the next thing will be the weddin’ bells, I
suppose. Whooee! Won’t we have some shivaree!”
“I’m afraid that’s a long time off,” said Curley.
“Picked the girl, ain’tcha?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Say! Yo’re half married right now. Will she have yuh?”
“Wait a minute,” cautioned Skeeter Bill. “This ain’t no place to discuss
such things, Kaintuck. Let’s have a drink.” Skeeter turned and motioned
to Monk Clark.
“Have a drink?”
“No, thank yuh.” Clark shook his head and walked out of the saloon.
Moran was not in sight. Clark crossed the street and walked to the
little post-office, where he secured the ranch mail. Old Abe Neeley, who
wore his glasses on the end of his nose and chewed tobacco so violently
that the glasses seemed to oscillate continually, was the postmaster.
“How’s everythin’ at the Tin Cup, Monk?” he asked.
“All right, Abe. What’s new around here?”
“New, ——! Nothin’ ever happens around here. Didja know that Hank
Gregory’s daughter came home t’day? Changed a lot in a year. Stopped
here for the mail, and I didn’t hardly know her. Thought Joy Gregory was
goin’ t’ be one of them runty kind of females; but she sure talled up
considerable.
“Shouldn’t be surprized ’f we had a weddin’ around here after while,
unless I’ve read the signs all wrong.”
“Weddin’? Who’s goin’ to get married?” asked Monk.
Old Abe chawed reflectively for several moments.
“Well, as I done said, the signs look right. For the past year I’ve been
gettin’ letters for Curley Adams, sent from Cheyenne; and every few days
he posts one to Miss Joy Gregory, Cheyenne. Big, fat letters too, Monk.
A feller don’t waste two-cent stamps and good paper, ’less he means
somethin’.”
Monk nodded thoughtfully. So that was who Kaintuck Kennedy had meant, he
mused. Curley Adams had bought out the Box X, and was going to marry Joy
Gregory.
“Of course, I may be wrong,” admitted old Abe.
“Yuh may be,” nodded Monk. “If I was you I wouldn’t tell any more people
about it. Yuh might get yore foot in it, Abe.”
“Well, yeah, I s’pose that’s right, too.”
Clark left the post-office and met Moran at the hitch-rack, where they
mounted their horses and started toward the Tin Cup ranch.
“Does yore eye hurt yuh much?” asked Clark.
“Not much,” sullenly.
“Get a piece of fresh beef from the cook and bind it on. It’ll take the
swellin’ out.”
“Yeah. I suppose that —— fool thinks he can do things like that and get
away with it.”
Monk Clark turned in his saddle and looked at the disgruntled Moran.
“You shot off yore face too much, Moran, and got what was comin’ to yuh.
Let it drop now. Curley is touchy about his honesty. He’s on the square;
so let him alone, _sabe_?”
“All right. Just the same—”
“We won’t argue about it, Frank. He knocked yuh loose from yore boots
and made yuh goggle like an owl. If it had been guns instead of fists,
you’d be gettin’ a measure for a pine overcoat. Curley Adams is just
too —— smart with a gun for you.”
“You talk like he was yore best friend, Monk.”
“Well, he’s not,” denied Clark. “But I like to give the devil his due.
I’m just tellin’ yuh this, Frank; it might save yuh a lot of skin to
know that Curley Adams can whip yuh at any mark in the road, and if yuh
intend to swap lead with him—don’t let him know it ahead of time,
tha’sall.”
“Much obliged, Monk.”
“Oh, ——, yo’re welcome.”
* * * * *
Kaintuck hungered for action. Neither he nor Skeeter Bill had seen
anything of Frank Moran since Curley Adams had hit him, which was
several days ago. Kaintuck complained audibly because Skeeter Bill would
not share his clue with him. Then he grew skeptical, pessimistic.
“You ain’t got no clue, Skeeter,” he declared.
“I’ve got one,” grinned Skeeter, “but I dunno how good it is. Let’s me
and you ride out and see what Curley Adams is doin’ to the poor old Box
X.”
“That’s a good idea, Skeeter. I’m shore tired of the fish-pots of
civilization, and I crave a ride on a horse.”
“Yuh mean flesh-pots, don’tcha, Kaintuck?”
“I stand corrected, but not convinced. A man’s a sucker to stick around
a town—and if a sucker ain’t fish, I’m a camel.”
They saddled their horses and rode out of town. The Box X was located
northeast of Crescent City and about midway between the Tin Cup and the
HG. It was a tumbledown sort of a place, the oldest brand in the valley,
and in recent years it had gone from bad to worse.
Ownership had finally descended to Mike Gower, proprietor of a general
merchandise store, who had probably taken it for a debt. There were
several good water-holes, a running stream and a well-known brand.
Perhaps Curley Adams had visions of building it up again and making it a
producing outfit. It would take several hundred dollars to repair the
buildings—and it takes money to start a herd—but Curley was young and
optimistic.
Skeeter and Kaintuck rode north out of town, left the main highway and
went into the hills. There was no hurry; so they poked along lazily. The
average cowpuncher is not a fast rider, except in an emergency.
They rode up a long slope through greasewood and sage, following one of
the ages-old trails, which led out over a pinnacle, giving them a fine
view of the Moon River Valley, although slightly hazy in the heat.
To the west, far down the valley they could see the green line of
foliage which marked the course of Moon River. It swung in to the south
of Crescent City, fading to a thin line where it entered San Gregario
cañon.
Northward they could follow the course of the road, which led to the
higher hills at the Silver Bell mine, where the deep cañons already
showed purple in the haze. To the east stretched the broken hills of the
Tin Cup and Box X ranches.
A bunch of range horses filed slowly out of the cañon to the north,
stopped against the skyline and considered the two riders on the
pinnacle. Evidently not caring for closer associations, they wheeled and
disappeared over the ridge.
Skeeter Bill puffed slowly on his cigaret, his eyes half closed against
the strong light.
“Must ’a’ been quite a lot of noise around here when this country was in
the makin’, Kaintuck. Some of it got blowed up and some got blowed
down.”
“Uh-huh,” said Kaintuck meditatively. “I’ve often wondered if this
country was made on purpose.”
“I reckon there was a reason, Kaintuck. But me and you ain’t goin’ to
argue about it jist now. Let’s move on.”
They were within about a mile of the Box X, riding around the head of a
brushy coulée, when Skeeter reined in his horse and squinted down across
the hills.
“Whatcha see?” asked Kaintuck, reining in his horse.
“Couple of coyotes,” said Skeeter.
He looped one leg around the horn of his saddle and began rolling a
cigaret.
“Couple of coyotes?” queried Kaintuck. “My gosh, this sure is awful! Yuh
don’t reckon they’ll bite us, do yuh, mister?”
“Yuh never can tell about a coyote,” said Skeeter seriously, as he
scratched a match on his chaps and lighted his cigaret.
“Do yuh reckon we better turn back?” grinned Kaintuck.
“No, we’ll turn down. C’mon.”
Skeeter rode straight down the side of the coulée, fairly sliding his
horse through the thick brush. Kaintuck swore at Skeeter for being a
fool, but followed him down.
About a hundred yards from where they had entered the coulée, Skeeter
pulled up his horse and they dismounted.
“Them coyotes came out of the coulée just about here,” said Skeeter.
“Smell it, Kaintuck?”
“Somethin’ has been dead,” nodded Kaintuck, wrinkling his nose.
Skeeter circled back through the brush, while Kaintuck held the two
horses. In a few minutes he heard Skeeter calling him.
“Tie them horses and come over here,” called Skeeter.
Kaintuck had little trouble locating Skeeter, and he could see that
Skeeter was deadly serious.
* * * * *
Kaintuck shoved his way through the brush and stood beside Skeeter, who
was looking down at the skeleton of a man. The coyotes had torn the
bones apart, and there were only shreds of cloth to show that the body
had once been clothed.
“That’s what my hunch done for me,” said Skeeter softly. “When I seen
them two coyotes, I got a hunch to see what they had been feedin’ on.”
Kaintuck squatted on his heels and looked at the bones. It was the first
time he had ever seen the skeleton of a man, and there was something
fascinating about the grisly, grinning skull, which had once been the
head of a man.
“Ain’t a darned thing left to show who he was,” stated Skeeter
mournfully. “Mebbe some old prospector that died a natural death.”
“Might be,” said Kaintuck sadly. “He ain’t been dead so awful long.”
They rolled smokes and considered their find. A couple of magpies
swooped up the swale, cackling angrily when they discovered that some
human beings were interfering with their prospective meal.
“No, I don’t reckon he’s been dead so awful long,” said Skeeter. “The
coyotes and magpies would pick him pretty clean in a week. I dunno what
we’re goin’ to do with him, Kaintuck. It’s a cinch we can’t carry him
back on our horses, and we ain’t got no right to bury him.
“Suppose we hang the bones up in a tree and come back later for ’em. The
magpies will prob’ly get at ’em, but they can’t hurt ’em much now.”
“Wish I had gloves,” complained Kaintuck, as Skeeter drew a pair from
under his cartridge-belt.
“I’ll hang ’em,” smiled Skeeter.
He assembled the bones and was about to pick them up, when something
attracted his eye. It had been lodged in the vertebrae, and rolled loose
when Skeeter moved the upper part of the skeleton.
Skeeter picked it up, looking it over closely.
“This feller didn’t die of his own accord, Kaintuck. Here’s the bullet
that done the job, I reckon.”
Together they examined the bit of metal, which was as perfect in shape
as the day it came from the bullet mold, except for the markings of the
lands, which had shaped its course through the revolver barrel.
“Looks like a .41,” observed Skeeter. “Didja ever see a more perfect
bullet, Kaintuck?”
“Never did. Probably didn’t hit a bone, ’cause the nose of it ain’t even
dented. Must ’a’ kinda got lodged in the spine and stayed there until
now. But that don’t mean nothin’, Skeeter.”
“Well, not much,” admitted Skeeter. “Who shoots a .41?”
“I used to,” said Kaintuck thoughtfully. “Never liked it. That was down
in Texas. I dunno who uses one around here.”
Skeeter put the bullet in his vest pocket and proceeded to place the
bones in a stunted cottonwood. They searched the ground thoroughly, but
were unable to find anything more.
“It’s kinda funny where his clothes went to,” said Skeeter, as they
mounted their horses.
“Mebbe he didn’t have any on,” suggested Kaintuck.
“Yeah, that might be true. By golly, you’ve got all the instincts of a
detective.”
They rode along for quite a while, both of them wondering who the
unfortunate had been. As far as they knew there had not been any one
reported missing.
“It’s kinda hard luck,” said Kaintuck slowly. “Nobody will ever know who
he is—none of his friends, if he had any.”
“That’s right. Let’s keep it dark for a while, Kaintuck. It can’t hurt
him none to hang there in a tree for a while. If somebody killed him,
they’ll shut up like a steel trap if his skeleton is found. They’re as
safe as a church—now.”
“All right,” grudgingly.
Kaintuck liked to talk, and he had visions of much telling about their
discovery.
They did not find Curley at the Box X, although there were evidences
that he had been there recently. An old shed had been torn down to
furnish boards for some repairs on the ranch-house; a stove had been
installed in the kitchen, and a small stock of groceries adorned the
shelves.
* * * * *
The old Box X ranch-house faced the north, a weathered old wreck of a
place, with little of its former beauty left as far as paint was
concerned. The roof sagged in the middle, the shingles stood up in
ungallant array, and the chimney looked like the top of the badly
decayed tooth of some prehistoric creature.
The stable was almost roofless, its door swinging from one hinge. To the
west of the house was a flat piece of ground, extending out about a
hundred feet to the edge of a creek bank. Brush grew almost to the front
porch on the north, and to the northeast was a deep washout filled with
greasewood and wild rose bushes.
Skeeter and Kaintuck walked around, looking the place over, wondering
how long it would take Curley Adams to make the old place habitable.
“Got a lot of work ahead of him,” grinned Kaintuck. “But I’m bettin’
that Curley will get a lot of fun out of it.”
“He’s got the right idea, anyway,” said Skeeter. “Let’s go over to the
Gregory ranch. I’d kinda like to get a look at that girl.”
“She’s prob’ly engaged,” warned Kaintuck seriously.
“’Sall right with me,” laughed Skeeter. “I’m a detective—not a Romeo.
And, anyway, a sheriff ought to get acquainted with the folks.”
“I thought yuh was goin’ to say ‘friend’,” said Kaintuck. “I’ve heard
that Gregory trailed along with Monk Clark, tryin’ to beat yuh for
office.”
“Tha’sall right, Kaintuck. I prob’ly wouldn’t ’a’ voted for Gregory if
he’d been runnin’ for sheriff. But that’s no reason why I should keep
away from him.”
“I s’pose that’s a pious way of lookin’ at it, Skeeter. Forgive yore
enemies, but don’t forget ’em. An old preacher down in Texas explained
all that to me—about forgivin’ my enemies. I told him that his argument
was one-sided, ’cause the enemies might not know it.
“He told me all about turnin’ the other cheek, when somebody slapped
yuh, and I asked him how many times he’d been slapped. It jist don’t
work out, Skeeter Bill.”
“Lotsa things don’t, Kaintuck. The idea is fine. If yuh happen to hate
somebody, it ain’t so hard to kinda forgive ’em. Yuh can do it. Life is
too short to go around with yore heart full of hate agin’ anybody.”
“Shore,” nodded Kaintuck. “Yeah, that’s fine. But suppose somebody hates
you? That makes ’em an enemy, don’t it? And all the forgivin’ yuh can
boil up in yore system ain’t goin’ to stop ’em from bustin’ yuh one, if
they get a good chance.”
Skeeter grinned at the bobbing ears of his horse and shook his head
slowly.
“I can’t argue agin’ that, Kaintuck. Mebbe a preacher could show yuh how
it works out—I can’t.”
“Yeah! Jist like a jigger down in Texas. He showed me a non-refillable
whisky bottle. It shore looked great. He was goin’ to make a million
dollars on it. I never did see a feller as happy as he was—until I asked
him how in —— he was goin’ to get the whisky into it in the first place.
“When it comes to religion, I ain’t got a leg to stand on in an
argument—not a leg. But when it comes to whisky bottles, I shore am
conversant with the subject, from the distillery to the delirium
tremens.”
They rode to the Gregory ranch, but found only Calamity at home. He
masticated violently, squinted at Skeeter’s badge, and wiped the back of
his hand across his mouth.
“Yo’re the new sheriff, eh? Name’s Sarg, ain’t it? I’m Calamity. Rode
the range before yuh could even find barb-wire in a dictionary. Yessir,
I can remember when Sittin’ Bull was a calf. They had reg’lar sheriffs
in them days, by ginger!”
“I’ve heard that you was an old-timer,” smiled Skeeter.
“Old-timer! My ——, I sh’d say so.”
“Where’s Gregory?” asked Skeeter.
“Gregory? Oh, yeah. Ex-cuse me. Yuh see, everybody calls him Hank, and
yuh kinda had me confused f’r a minute. Gregory—yeah. Well, I dunno
where he is. Said he was goin’ to town.”
“Prob’ly that’s where he went,” said Kaintuck dryly.
“His daughter came back a few days ago, didn’t she?”—thus Skeeter,
trying to act indifferently.
Calamity opened his mouth widely, closed it slowly and spat audibly.
“Oh, that’s the Gregory yuh wanted to see, eh? Huh! Well,” Calamity
turned his head and looked toward the hills. “She piled on to a
jug-headed roan a while ago and said she was goin’ to find out if they’d
moved any of the hills since she went away. —— only knows where she is
now.”
They did not stay long at the HG ranch. Calamity wanted them to listen
to him tell about how the early day sheriffs handled bad men, but
neither of them cared to hear it.
Back in Crescent City, they stabled their horses and sat down in their
office. Skeeter took the bullet from his pocket and looked it over.
Outside of the scorings on it, there was nothing to show that it had
ever been fired. The rim of the blunt point was as clear cut as it could
be made.
“I wish that darn thing could talk,” said Kaintuck.
He had opened his tobacco and book of papers, preparatory to making
another attempt at one-handed rolling.
Skeeter had taken out his knife and was testing the quality of the
bullet. It did not cut like lead.
“Kaintuck,” he said softly, “this bullet is _silver_!”
“No!” Kaintuck swept his papers aside and leaned across the table. “How
do yuh know, Skeeter?”
“Look at it. Try to cut the edge of it. You never seen any lead as hard
as that. If it ain’t silver—what is it?”
Kaintuck examined it closely, tested it. He took a dollar from his
pocket and whittled at the milled edge.
“They cut about the same, Skeeter. But why in —— would any one mold a
silver bullet to shoot a man with?”
Skeeter shook his head and took the bullet.
“I dunno. I can _sabe_ why a man would counterfeit a dollar, but I’ll be
darned if I know why he’d counterfeit a bullet—in silver.”
“Find the man who shoots silver bullets,” grinned Kaintuck.
“Yeah—find him. But for gosh sake, don’t mention this to a single soul,
Kaintuck.”
“Why not?” blankly.
“My gosh, if yuh do we’ll never find out. Listen, Kaintuck; if the man
who fired that shot knew we was lookin’ for the man who shot a silver
bullet, wouldn’t he cover his tracks so danged deep that we’d never find
out?”
“I s’pose,” dubiously. “But how in —— are yuh goin’ to find out anythin’
if yuh don’t ask questions? We’ve got a skeleton in a tree and a silver
bullet in yore pocket, but we don’t dare to mention it. This is a —— of
a job!”
“It sure is a fine job,” grinned Skeeter.
“You’ll tell Moran, won’t yuh, Skeeter?”
“Tell nobody. These are our clues, Kaintuck. Let Moran find some for
himself—if he can. Where would a man get silver to mold into bullets?”
“Silver Bell mine, or they might melt a dollar.”
“Uh-huh,” Skeeter grew thoughtful. “And the Silver Bell ain’t in the
habit of givin’ away silver, I don’t suppose.”
“A feller could buy some, couldn’t he?”
“Yeah, I suppose he could. Anyway, in the mornin’ me and you are goin’
to the Silver Bell mine, Kaintuck.”
“All right. We’ve had so much in our mind today that we’ve plumb forgot
to eat. I could fold m’self plumb around some ham and aigs and feel like
a medder-lark.”
Skeeter shoved the mysterious bullet deep down in his pocket and they
headed for a restaurant.
“I think we’re gettin’ along good,” said Skeeter. “For once in our lives
we’re usin’ our brains.”
* * * * *
It was shortly after Skeeter and Kaintuck had left the Gregory ranch
that Monk Clark rode up to the ranch-house and dismounted.
Calamity had watched him from a front window, a quizzical expression on
his seamed face, as he noted that Clark was “all dressed up.” It was
seldom that Clark dressed up; so seldom that Calamity could not remember
the time.
Calamity went out on the porch and squinted at Clark, who was
self-conscious of his appearance. A spotless, white bosom, which bulged
badly, a high collar, red four-in-hand tie, and an old cutaway coat
covered the upper half of his body. From his waist downward, he remained
as usual.
“Did somebody die?” queried Calamity in awe-struck tones.
“What do yuh mean?” growled Clark.
“All duded up thataway. Yuh ought to use glue on that shirt. It kinda
gaps open and shows yore red undershirt, Monk. And jist one more thing;
yuh better git a lower collar or move yore ears up another notch or two,
’cause yo’re sure sawin’ ’em off close to yore head.”
“My looks are none of yore —— business!” snapped Monk.
“I s’pose not. I remember a dude, back in 1866. He—”
“I don’t care a —— what you remember! Where’s Gregory?”
“I dunno. Said he was goin’ to town.”
Monk moved past Calamity and peered into the living-room.
“No, she ain’t here either,” said Calamity. “I shore appreciate havin’
yuh dress up thataway to come over to see me, but it don’t impress me
a —— of a lot. Back in 1866—”
“Aw-w-w-w, stop it!” exploded Monk. “Calamity, I wonder how you ever
lived as long as you have.”
“I ain’t never met my match,” said Calamity seriously.
“Mm-m-m-yah! I suppose that’s true,” Monk sat down in a rocking-chair
and his bosom immediately bulged beyond his chin.
Calamity chuckled hoarsely and went into the house. He knew that Monk’s
patience was stretched to the breaking point. While many of the others
felt that Clark was a man who must be treated with great respect,
Calamity did not.
In fact, he hated Monk Clark. Not such a strange thing, at that, because
Calamity hated nearly everybody. And he was not afraid of anybody. It
was not often that Calamity was amused sufficiently to chuckle, but he
was now. To think of Monk Clark coming to see Joy Gregory almost made
Calamity laugh.
But it was no laughing matter with Monk Clark. He planted his feet
against the railing and swore to himself. At times Calamity peered out
to see if Monk was still there—and he was. At least Monk was no quitter.
It was late in the afternoon when Hank Gregory came home and found Monk
on the porch. Calamity came out, after Monk and Hank had exchanged
greetings. Hank noticed Monk’s attire, but said nothing.
“Where’s Joy?” asked Gregory.
“I dunno,” said Calamity. “She rode away jist a short time after you
left, Hank.”
“Rode away? Where was she goin’?”
“I never asked her.”
“Huh! No, I don’t suppose yuh did. Go alone?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t, eh? Who was she with?”
“Cowpuncher.”
“Who?”
“Curley Adams.”
Monk glared at Calamity. He had been sitting on that porch for hours
waiting for her to come home. Calamity actually chuckled and went back
in the house. The chuckle grated on the soul of Monk Clark.
“—— curly-headed cowpuncher!” he muttered.
“Who—Calamity?”
“Calamity, ——!”
For several minutes there was only silence. Then Monk Clark cleared his
throat harshly and leaned closer to Gregory.
“Hank, are you goin’ to let yore daughter marry Adams?”
“Am I goin’ to let her?” Gregory laughed shortly. “Joy is of age, Monk.”
“Of age, eh?”
“Yeah—couple of years past.”
“Means that you ain’t got nothin’ to say about who she marries, eh?”
“Just about that, Monk. Curley is all right, I guess. Just bought the
old Box X ranch, I heard.”
Monk snorted with disgust.
“Old Box X! What in —— does that amount to?”
“I dunno, Monk. Anyway, it’s their business. Say, what interest have you
got in this matter?”
“Well,” slowly, “I’m free, white and twenty-one.”
“You—uh—say, Monk, you—” Gregory checked a laugh. “Monk, you wasn’t
figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, was yuh?”
“What in —— is so funny about that?”
“Oh, I see.”
“I could give her more than a forty-a-month puncher could.”
“I suppose yuh could—mebbe.”
“Why the ‘mebbe’?”
“I reckon she loves Adams, Monk.”
“And yuh think she’ll marry him?”
“I kinda look for it.”
“And starve to death with him on the Box X.”
“No-o-o-o, I wouldn’t say that, Monk. Yuh see, there ain’t nobody ever
starved to death in Moon River Valley.”
“All right,” Monk got to his feet and hitched up his belt. “I reckon
I’ll be goin’.”
He went down to his horse just as Curley and Joy rode in through the
gate.
They continued on up to the porch and dismounted. Curley suppressed a
grin with difficulty. It was the first time he had ever seen Monk Clark
dressed like that.
“How do you do, Mr. Clark?” said Joy pleasantly.
“Howdy,” grunted Clark. “Well, I’ll be goin’.”
Calamity had appeared on the porch again.
“Don’t hurry away,” said Joy. “Won’t you sit down a while?”
Calamity chuckled again, and Clark swung into his saddle.
“Thank yuh,” he said ungraciously. “I’ve set long enough.”
“Back in 1866, I knowed about a hen that set for two months on a basket
of Chiny aigs—” began Calamity seriously.
Clark swung his horse around and galloped toward the gate. Down in his
heart was a desire to kill Calamity. Joy’s burst of laughter floated to
his ears, and he felt that she knew he had made a fool of himself.
“Go ahead and laugh,” he muttered. “I sure made a —— fool of myself.”
* * * * *
Back in the hills, he stopped long enough to divest himself of the white
shirt, collar and tie, which he threw away. Then he knotted a black
muffler around his neck and rode on.
At first Clark was in a rage against Calamity. If Calamity had told him
that Joy was riding with Curley Adams, it would have been all right, but
to keep him sitting out on that porch for hours, dressed up—that was the
rub.
And he knew that Joy had laughed at him. A laugh hurt Monk Clark more
than a blow—a laugh from a girl. He wondered bitterly if they were all
laughing at him now. It was the first time he had ever dressed up to
visit a girl—and the last.
He rode past the Box X, but drew rein long enough to look at the place.
The setting sun threw long shadows from the old buildings. There was
such an air of utter desolation about the place, like the ruins of some
ancient dwelling, that Monk Clark shook his big head as he remembered
that Curley Adams intended to marry Joy Gregory and bring her there to
live.
He rode on, reaching the Tin Cup ranch just at dark. The well-lighted
ranch-house, nestled in a group of huge sycamores and cottonwoods, the
wide veranda, the huge red stable looming up against the hills, the
well-kept fences, all spoke of prosperity, good management—a fit home
for any daughter of the ranges. Yet she chose the Box X.
He stabled his horse and walked to the house. The boys were eating
supper in the long dining-room, and he halted near the door long enough
to hear his name mentioned.
“I tell yuh he went courtin’,” insisted one of the boys. “I seen him. He
had on a boiled shirt and a red tie. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Had on his funeral
coat, too. I’ll make yuh a little bet that he went to see Joy Gregory.”
He did not wait to hear more, but went to his room, where he changed
shirts, took a stiff drink of liquor and sat down to think it over; to
think what a fool he had been.
Some of the boys found his horse in the stable and notified Wong, the
cook, who hurried up to Clark’s room, and timidly knocked on the door.
“Come in!” snapped Clark.
Wong opened the door and bobbed his head.
“Yo’ like some sluppah, Misser Clark?”
“No!” roared Clark. “Get to —— out of here!”
Wong shut the door softly and padded back to the kitchen, shaking his
head slowly.
“Too much love one time—no good,” he decided.
* * * * *
It was the following day that a heavy wagon came creaking down over the
grades from the Silver Bell mine. The rear wheels were locked, the team
was holding back as much as possible, but even at that there were times
when the wagon threatened to run over the team.
On the one seat sat the driver, a stolid-faced, round-headed sort of
person, who regularly hauled supplies from Crescent City to the Silver
Bell mine, and with him sat the two well-dressed men who had inquired of
Skeeter Bill about the stage to the mines.
There was little chance for conversation among the three, as it required
all their efforts to cling to the jerking, bouncing seat. While the
driver braced heavily against the brake with his foot and held tightly
to the lines, he was able to maintain an equilibrium of sorts, but the
two passengers had nothing except the wagon-box and the seat to keep
them from being flung off the equipage.
Lurching and jerking, the rear wheels almost skidding off the narrow
grade, they swung around a sharp curve on to a piece of comparatively
level road.
The two passengers relaxed slightly, with sighs of relief, but jerked
back to attention when two masked men dropped off the upper side of the
road and leveled rifles at them.
“Whoa!” The driver threw his weight on the brake so suddenly that his
passengers almost left the seat.
The two masked men came forward, still covering the driver and
passengers.
“Git down,” ordered one of the masked men.
The passengers were so cramped from their ride and frightened that they
were hardly able to climb down over the wheel. One of them slipped and
almost fell off the grade, and a masked man chuckled with amusement.
“Go back past the wagon, all three of yuh,” ordered the spokesman.
Wonderingly they filed to the rear, herded by one of the holdup men,
while the other climbed to the driver’s seat, kicked the brake loose and
drove away.
They could hear the wagon rattling along the rocky grades, the sound
growing more faint until it died away in the distance. For possibly ten
minutes more the masked man kept them covered. Then he motioned down the
road.
“I reckon I can git along without you fellers,” he said.
“We can go now?” asked the driver wonderingly.
“I don’t care a —— what yuh do now.” The masked man backed around the
curve and disappeared.
For a space of time the three men grouped together on the grade, hardly
knowing just what to do.
“That was a crazy thing to do,” declared the driver. “Who in —— ever
heard of anybody holdin’ up a tote-wagon?”
The two passengers looked at each other helplessly.
“And stealin’ a few hundred pounds of lead,” continued the driver.
“A few hundred pounds of lead,” echoed one of the men. “You fool, that
wasn’t lead—it was silver!”
“The —— it was! Why Sam Rugg said—”
“No matter what Sam Rugg said!” snapped the other. “There was
approximately a thousand pounds of silver bullion in that wagon.”
“Geeminy gosh! Why did he ever send it—”
The driver took off his hat and mopped his brow. He had wondered why Sam
Rugg, superintendent of the Silver Bell, had loaded his wagon with lead
bars.
Some one had told him that these two strangers were Belden and
Stanfield, owners of the Silver Bell, and he had heard hints that they
had come to see why the silver production had fallen so heavily in a
year.
There had also been rumors of high-grading—ore stealing—at the Silver
Bell, although none of the workmen seemed to know whether there was any
truth in the matter or not. But this matter of a thousand pounds of
silver was almost beyond the imagination of the driver.
“And it was our own suggestion,” said Frank Belden disconsolately. “It
seemed the safe thing to do. There has been a leak somewhere, Ed.”
“And rather a heavy leak, it seems,” nodded Stanfield. “No doubt the
high-graders have accomplices at the mine.” He shrugged his heavy
shoulders. “I suppose we may as well start walking.”
“Might as well,” agreed the driver. “It’s a —— of a long walk to
Crescent City, but it’s mostly all downhill.”
They started down the grades without further comment. Far below them
stretched the Moon River Valley, hazy in the morning sun.
“That’s a pretty big steal of silver,” said Stanfield. “I don’t see how
they can ever use it, Frank. A thousand pounds of silver won’t be an
easy thing to dispose of—especially with some one watching for it.”
“I’ve been wondering about that part of it,” replied Belden. “They’ll
have to carry it in the wagon, and it might not be hard to trace that
outfit.”
“Might as well save your breath,” advised the driver. “It’s a long walk
to town, and that sun is sure goin’ to be hot.”
* * * * *
And while the three men drifted along the grades, Skeeter Bill Sarg and
Kaintuck Kennedy were coming up the lower grades out of the valley,
heading for the Silver Bell.
Because of the steep road they traveled slowly, stopping at times to
give their horses a chance to rest, while they scanned the country.
Neither of them had ever been at the Silver Bell mine.
“I never could see why they don’t discover mines close to town,”
complained Kaintuck. “They’d save a lot on the haulin’.”
“Yuh ought to take it up with ’em,” grinned Skeeter. “Mebbe they never
thought of it.”
“I s’pose not. Any danged fool that’ll dig for a livin’ ain’t got much
sense. I might git a patent on it, Skeeter.”
They laughed and rode on up the grades. About a mile farther on they
stopped again. Just beyond them, the road circled the head of a deep
cañon, swinging back along the cañon rim opposite them. It was about two
hundred yards on an air-line across the cañon to the opposite grade, at
a point where the road disappeared around another right-hand curve.
And just at this curve stood a team and wagon, where two or three men
were working frantically to unload something.
Skeeter and Kaintuck watched them for several moments.
“Whatcha s’pose they’re tryin’ to do, Skeeter?” queried Kaintuck.
“I dunno. Mebbe they broke down and have to unload.”
It was too far for Skeeter and Kaintuck to recognize any of the men. The
heavy growth of jack-pines and underbrush grew up against the lower side
of the grade, and it seemed as if these men were unloading into this
brush.
One of the men sprang from the rear of the wagon into the brush, while
another climbed down over the right front wheel, leaving one man in the
wagon. These two seemed to be arguing over something.
Another man clambered from the brush at the lower side of the grade and
joined the one at the front wheel.
“Four men,” muttered Skeeter.
As if in answer to his statement, one of the men looked across the cañon
and saw them.
His discovery seemed to electrify the other three. They ran around the
rear of the wagon, while the fourth man climbed over the opposite side
of the wagon-box.
“What in —— do you reckon that means?” asked Kaintuck.
“Trouble!” snapped Skeeter.
He had seen a man appear over the top of the wagon, holding a rifle.
They whirled their horses around and spurred them into a run down the
grade, heading for a protecting curve, while the rocks beside them
splattered lead. The curve was within twenty feet of the two riders,
when Kaintuck’s horse lurched sideways, went down on one shoulder,
flinging Kaintuck over the edge of the grade and turning a complete
somersault.
Skeeter’s horse barely made the turn, its hind feet throwing rocks off
the grade, as Skeeter whirled it back against the upper side and fell
out of the saddle.
Drawing his gun, he ran back to the curve, calling Kennedy’s name. The
horse was dead, its body half off the grade, blocked against a pine
snag. But Kaintuck did not answer. Skeeter slid along the bank, trying
to get another view of the men at the wagon.
A bullet smashed against the rocks near his head, apprising him of the
fact that the men were still anxious to kill him. Skeeter squinted
ruefully at his six-shooter. It was about three hundred yards from there
to the wagon.
“I’ve gotta lot of chance against rifles,” he grunted, shoving the gun
back in his holster.
Another bullet struck the ground near the dead horse, and showered him
with gravel. He withdrew around the curve, while two more bullets whined
past him.
“Them fellers are sure enterprising,” he announced to himself.
“Kaintuck! Hey! Kaintuck!”
But Kaintuck did not answer.
“Went and got himself killed,” mourned Skeeter. “Well, I’ve got to find
him, I reckon. I wish I knowed why they’re shootin’ at me, and what
they’re doin’ with that wagon.”
Keeping the point of rock at the curve between himself and the wagon, he
slipped off the grade and began working back toward the spot where
Kaintuck had gone over.
He could not see the team now, and had no idea what the four men were
doing. In fact, they were of less interest to him than Kaintuck was just
now. He slipped and slid along the side of the hill around the curve,
clinging to the jack-pines.
Then he heard a welcome sound—Kaintuck swearing. At least, thought
Skeeter, he is not dead yet.
“Where are yuh, Kaintuck?” asked Skeeter cautiously.
“Gee-o-graphically speakin’, I dunno where in —— I am,” replied Kaintuck
disgustedly. “Part of me is on the ground and part of me is in
a —— tree.”
“Which end is in the tree?”
“South. —— it, I’ve got my ankle hung up in the crotch of a snag, and I
can’t hump high enough to get loose.”
“Why don’tcha slip yore foot out of the boot?”
“Think yo’re smart, don’tcha? C’mon down and show me how yuh think I
ought to do it.”
Skeeter slid down to him and managed to extricate the boot. Kaintuck
slumped down on the ground and grinned painfully. His face was
scratched, his shirt badly torn, and one leg of his overalls had been
ripped open from thigh to knee.
“Yuh didn’t get hurt none, didja?” asked Skeeter anxiously.
“Didn’t I? Huh! Horse dead?”
“Yeah. Turned over once and quit cold. My gosh, you sure turned a
hooligan, Kaintuck.”
“Didn’t I?” Kaintuck laughed convulsively and squinted back toward the
grade. “I jist sailed down here, all spraddled out like a flyin’
squirrel, hooked one foot in the top of that snag and went ’round and
’round, like a—say, what became of them jiggers that was shootin’ at
us?”
“Still there, I reckon—” dryly. “I went back to take a look, and they
shot at me some more. If yuh feel like goin’ back to the road, we’ll
take another look at ’em.”
Kaintuck shook his head, rubbing his knee with both hands.
“Nawsir. Them danged fools ain’t got no better sense than to shoot right
at yuh, and they’ve got rifles. Say, I shore put a lot of strain on this
one leg. I’ll betcha she’s a foot longer than the other one.”
“Can yuh walk on it, Kaintuck?”
Kaintuck got to his feet, grimacing with pain.
“Don’t think I can make it, Skeeter. Mebbe it’ll ease up a little if I
set down a while. First time I ever played _pop-the-whip_ with my leg,
and I sure took all the kinks out. F’r instance, I used to have a bulge,
which was knowed as a knee, but I yanked it all out.”
“Prob’ly be a cripple for life,” nodded Skeeter. “Let a thing like that
rest too long and yuh never can get it unhooked. Yuh never can tell
about it, Kaintuck. Yore knee might bend the other way, like a stork’s
does.”
“Git me a bill and spear frogs,” nodded Kaintuck, flexing his knee.
“That doohickey that keeps it from bendin’ the wrong way is all right;
so I reckon I’m all right. Let’s try and git back to the road.”
With much swearing, Kaintuck managed to pull himself up the hill,
favoring his left leg as much as possible. They worked around the point
and reached the road near Skeeter’s horse.
As they stood on the road, debating their next move, they heard the
rattle of a wagon coming down the hill.
They exchanged a swift glance and moved in against the rocky bank,
drawing their guns.
“Got a lot of nerve,” gritted Skeeter. “Good luck, Kaintuck.”
“Same to you,” said Kaintuck evenly, his six-shooter balanced in his
right hand. “They’ll pay for that horse.”
* * * * *
The rattle and crunch of the wagon came closer and closer. They could
hear some one talking, the jingle of harness. Then the horses swung
almost into them, shied toward the outer edge, and were jerked to a
stop.
Skeeter and Kaintuck stepped out, covering the three men on the seat. It
was Belden, Stanfield and the driver. Their six arms went upward in
unison. “For ——’s sake!” snorted Belden. “Again?”
Skeeter went closer, looking them over carefully.
“Yuh might talk a little,” said Skeeter.
“We might talk a whole lot,” said the driver.
“If we get tired of listenin’ we’ll tell yuh when to stop,” said
Skeeter. “It might interest yuh to know that one of yore shots killed my
deputy’s horse.”
“One of our shots?” gasped Belden.
“The shots we heard,” said Stanfield. “I’ll bet—”
“We’re not gamblin’,” said Skeeter. “Do some talkin’.”
Stanfield had been leaning forward, squinting at the insignia of the
sheriff’s office on Skeeter’s shirt.
“Are you the sheriff?” he asked.
“Yeah. And I’ve got a gun in my hand and a finger on the trigger, and I
hadn’t ought to miss yuh at this distance.”
“These are the two men who asked us about the Silver Bell stage,” said
Kaintuck.
“I know it,” nodded Skeeter.
“My name is Stanfield, and my companion’s name is Belden. We own the
Silver Bell mine. This other man does freighting for the mine.”
“Tha’sall right with me,” said Skeeter. “But that ain’t no reason for
yuh to shoot at us.”
“We never did!” blurted the driver. “We ain’t even got a gun.”
“Let me tell him about it,” said Belden. “Several miles up the grades,
we were held up by two masked men who took our team and wagon. One man
held us there until the other had driven away.
“There was nothing for us to do except to start walking down into the
valley. That was quite a while ago. We must have walked five miles, at
least. We heard the echo of some shots, and wondered what it meant.
“Just back there a little ways we found our team and wagon in the middle
of the road. There wasn’t a soul around; so we climbed in and came on.
That’s our story.”
“Sounds pretty good,” nodded Skeeter. “The holdup part sounds kinda
funny though. What did they take, except the team and wagon?”
“A thousand pounds of silver bullion.”
“A—a—take down yore hands, gents.”
The three pairs of hands came down and three men sighed with relief.
“Half-a-ton of silver!” blurted Kaintuck. “Gee-e-e mighty!”
“And they unloaded it over there,” said Skeeter. “No wonder they didn’t
want us to come along. Of all the danged nerve in the world!”
He squinted off across the hills and rubbed his nose with the back of
his hand.
“You can stop them, can’t you?” asked Belden nervously. “They haven’t
had time to get far away.”
“And I’d get stopped,” said Skeeter seriously. “There’s four men in the
gang—four that we seen. It means that they had some pack horses ready
for the stuff. One or two men will act as a rear guard for that stuff,
and—” Skeeter shook his head slowly. “Nope, it would be suicide.”
“But you are the sheriff,” said Belden. “It is your duty—”
“Tha’sso? There ain’t nothin’ in my oath of office that says I’m
supposed to get killed. Yuh might read about a sheriff that shoved his
beak into danger on purpose, but when yuh do yuh can just bet it ain’t
old man Sarg’s high-pocket kid.”
Skeeter turned to Kaintuck, who was grinning softly.
“Kaintuck, I reckon yo’re elected to rest a while. Set down in the brush
and practice rollin’ ’em one-handed, while I go back to Crescent City,
get yuh a live horse and a couple of rifles. Be back as quick as I can.”
He walked to his horse, mounted almost on the run and was out of sight
so fast that no one had a chance to offer any suggestions.
“That’s jist like him,” grinned Kaintuck.
“But—but the thieves will be miles away before he can return,” protested
Belden. “Is he afraid to—”
“Yuh can take that out and burn it,” interrupted Kaintuck. “Skeeter Bill
ain’t afraid, but he’s no —— fool. My horse is dead, and them jiggers
have rifles. We’ve got to have an even break, pardner.”
There was no argument left, as far as Kaintuck was concerned; so the
driver kicked the brake loose and the equipage proceeded on down the
grade, while Kaintuck limped to his dead horse and removed saddle and
bridle.
Then he sat down in the shade and wasted much tobacco and cigaret
papers. His strained leg gave him a little trouble, but Kaintuck was an
optimist, as far as injuries were concerned. He knew it was about eight
miles to Crescent City, and that Skeeter Bill would be back as soon as
possible; so he made himself comfortable.
Skeeter Bill did not make his return to town at all conspicuous. He rode
in at the rear of his office, walked to the livery-stable, where he
secured a horse, and came back to his office. It did not take him long
to procure two rifles, two belts of ammunition and some extra shells for
their six-shooters.
Leaving at the rear of his office he rode quietly out of town, swung
back to the road and headed for the grades at top speed. He met the
three men with the wagon, but did not stop to talk.
Kaintuck was still wasting tobacco when Skeeter rode up, but pocketed
the rest of the sack and proceeded to saddle the horse.
“Anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“I find out that some cigaret papers are tougher than others. Yuh shore
made good time, Skeeter. Meet the wagon?”
“Uh-huh.”
Kaintuck belted on his rifle cartridges, stuffed the loading-gate full
of 30-30’s, levered one into the chamber, and announced himself ready.
* * * * *
They rode back to the spot where the wagon had been unloaded, dismounted
and led their horses off the edge of the grade. There was plenty of
evidence that the unloading had been done at that spot. The brush had
been trampled down and there was an abundance of horse tracks a little
further down the hill, where a heavy growth of jack-pines had masked
them from the road.
“All unshod horses,” said Skeeter, after examining the spot where the
packing had been done.
They picked up several empty cartridge shells from the grade, and found
them all to be 30-30 caliber.
“We’ll just have to follow ’em down the hill,” said Skeeter. “They’ll
all stick together and mebbe we can trail ’em.”
There was an old game trail leading toward the bottom of the cañon,
starting almost from the spot where the packing had been done, but there
were no horse-tracks on it. In fact, it showed no tracks of any kind.
“They’ve got to get out of this cañon,” declared Skeeter. “We’ll take
the old trail and take a chance on cuttin’ their tracks further down.”
“Mebbe,” nodded Kaintuck. “They prob’ly had reasons for not takin’ the
trail.”
Skeeter started down the trail, leading his horse, but had only gone a
few feet when he stopped. In the middle of the trail was the imprint of
a man’s boot sole, clearly etched in a film of dust.
It was the print of a right boot. Skeeter squatted down and studied it,
while Kaintuck moved in close and looked it over.
“That feller sure left his imprint,” said Skeeter. “He runs his heels
over on the outer edge, Kaintuck.”
“How do yuh know, Skeeter?”
“’Cause it shows that he does. Prob’ly run ’em over bad. See that line
through the heel mark? He didn’t want to take ’em to a shoemaker and
have a new heel put on; so he squared up that heel on the outer edge,
fitted in a piece of sole-leather and filled her plumb full of nails.
And to make it last a while, he took a big nail, cut it short and nailed
it close to the edge. Yuh can see the head of the nail.”
“Yeah, that shore is it,” agreed Kaintuck. “But how can yuh tell it
wasn’t done by a shoemaker?”
“’Cause it’s a bad fittin’ patch. And a shoemaker would ’a’ put on one
of them iron jiggers, shaped like a half-moon instead of a ten-penny
nail.”
Skeeter grinned widely at his own acumen and led the way down the trail.
There were no more tracks in the trail. They reached the bottom of the
cañon and began their search for horse-tracks.
The game-trail passed through an open swale at the bottom of the cañon,
but as far as they could discover no horses had passed through the
swale.
“Well, they couldn’t cross below nor above here,” complained Kaintuck.
“The brush is so danged thick yuh can’t even see through it.”
Skeeter climbed up on the side of the cañon, searching for another
opening where the pack train might have crossed, but as far as he could
see there was no place. He mounted his horse and rode back over the
game-trail to the grade, where he dismounted and searched for the spot
where the horses had gone down the hill.
The ground was fairly hard, but the prints were plain enough where the
loading had been done. For several minutes Skeeter puzzled over the
problem. The game-trail was the one way down, and it did not seem
reasonable that the thieves would slow their getaway by traveling over
down-timber and brush. The old trail had been packed so hard that
Skeeter’s shod horse only showed the calk marks, except at the upper end
of the trail where a miniature slide had left a dirt patch large enough
to show the imprint of the patched-heel boot.
Anyway, he could find no tracks away from where the horses had milled
around during the packing up of the silver.
“Must ’a’ had wings,” he told himself.
An idea suddenly came to him, and he went back to the trail, where he
examined it closely. A grin flashed across his lips and he mounted
hurriedly, riding as swiftly as possible back to Kaintuck, who was still
searching near the open swale.
“Git yore horse,” called Skeeter. “These jiggers muffled their horses’
hoofs. No wonder there ain’t a mark of any kind.”
Kaintuck mounted and they spurred down the narrow trail. Not a hundred
yards further along the trail they found where a horse had slipped a
chunk off the trail, leaving the fresh dirt exposed.
“I thought of that, while you was up the hill,” said Kaintuck wisely.
“That’s why yuh spent all yore time lookin’ somewhere else, I suppose,”
laughed Skeeter.
“Well, anyway, we’ll be in a —— of a fix as soon as we run out of
trail,” said Kaintuck. “They won’t foller this old deer-trail forever.”
“I thought of that quite a while ago,” said Skeeter.
They followed the old trail to a point where it disappeared, and there
they lost all chance of picking up the horse-tracks. The ground was
hard, and the muffled hoofs made no marks. There was nothing for them to
do, except to follow the slope down into the valley, trusting to luck to
pick up the tracks again.
But luck was not with them. After hours of hard riding, circling back
and forth across the hills, they reached the banks of Moon River, which
they followed back to Crescent City. It was after dark when they stabled
their horses and went out to eat.
* * * * *
They found Frank Moran in the restaurant, and after they finished their
meal Moran went to the office with them and Skeeter told him the story
of the silver robbery.
“I heard it talked about,” said Moran. “These two men who own the mine
told all about it when they got back. I guess every one around here has
heard about it.”
Skeeter stretched his legs and puffed on his cigaret.
“It kinda looks to me like the counterfeiters had picked enough stuff to
keep ’em moldin’ dollars for a long time,” he observed. “It ain’t
nothin’ that I’d hang a man for, but dang ’em, they killed Kaintuck’s
horse and darned near got Kaintuck. I can’t forgive ’em for doin’ that.”
“It shows that they’re desperate men,” said Moran.
“Yeah, I s’pose they are. Slick, too. They muffled their pack-animals’
hoofs.”
“Is that so?” Moran grew interested. “Couldn’t you find a track?”
“Not a horse-track, except where they packed up. They shoot 30-30
rifles, and they shoot straight.”
“Yo’re danged right they do,” agreed Kaintuck, flexing his sore leg.
“I’m goin’ to declare open season on counterfeiters right now.”
“You heard anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.
Moran shook his head.
“Got any more letters from Shorty Long?”
“No. Kinda expected to hear from him today, but no mail came. I’m danged
if I can find out anythin’.”
“It looks to me,” said Skeeter slowly, “as though somebody at the mine
is workin’ with ’em—somebody who put ’em wise to the shipment of this
silver. Do you know the superintendent, Sam Rugg?”
“I’ve seen him,” said Moran. “He’s a big, hard-faced sort of a jigger,
with a black mustache.”
“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted at his boots for several moments. Then—
“Moran, have you accomplished anythin’ since you’ve been workin’ on this
case?”
“Just what do yuh mean, Sheriff?”
“What I said. You’ve been punchin’ cows and workin’ at the different
ranches; but have yuh done anythin’? Have yuh even got a suspicion of
where this money is bein’ made?”
Moran was inclined to get a trifle peevish at Skeeter’s tone, but
thought better of it and was forced to admit that he had accomplished
nothing.
“It isn’t a thing yuh can come right out and show your flag,” said
Moran. “You know how long I’d last if it was known that I was a
detective.”
Skeeter nodded thoughtfully.
“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“You can see how hard it is to get a clue,” said Moran.
“Well, I dunno. I’ve got several, Moran.”
“You have?” This was interesting.
Skeeter nodded and began manufacturing a cigaret.
“Mind tellin’ me what they are?” queried Moran.
“I’m goin’ to tell you the same thing I told Kaintuck; to go out and get
some for yourself.”
Skeeter grinned widely at Moran, who was at a loss just what to say.
“And I ain’t got me none yet,” complained Kaintuck. “It kinda looks like
when they parceled out the brains I was out fishin’. Skeeter is real
smart.”
Moran laughed shortly.
“That ain’t hardly fair, Sheriff. This case is mine, and I don’t like
the idea of a sheriff getting a clue and keepin’ it from me.”
“Tha’sso?” Skeeter grinned at the ceiling. “Yo’re like that picture of
the kid in a bathtub, reachin’ for a slippery bar of soap. Won’t be
happy till he gits it. Well, I’ve got my bar of soap, Moran.
“I dunno much about the manufacture of bad money, but I do _sabe_ holdup
stuff. These jiggers are awful smart. At first I had an idea they was
smarter than me, but they ain’t. Nawsir, I’m jist as smart as they are.”
“Well, that’s good—” thus Moran, just a little peevish—“I wish you’d
tell me what you’ve stumbled on to, but if you won’t, you won’t. I’m
willin’ to put my cards on the table, face up.”
“You ain’t got any cards,” grinned Skeeter. “If I didn’t hold more cards
in this game than you do, I’d call for a new deck. Aw, yuh don’t need to
get sore, Moran. I’m no detective, but I’ve got somethin’ to work on—and
that’s more than you’ve got.”
“Anythin’ is more than I’ve got,” Moran grinned and got to his feet. “If
it gets to be more than you can handle, let me in on it. Uncle Sam is
dependin’ on me to clear up this case, and I hate to fall down
completely, yuh know.”
“All right,” promised Skeeter. “Mebbe a little later I’ll tell yuh what
I know. But I want to be sure first.”
They shook hands and Moran went away. Kaintuck squinted at Skeeter and
shook his head.
“You shore bragged about yourself a lot, cowboy. I dunno what got into
yuh.”
Skeeter laughed at Kaintuck.
“Mebbe I threw a scare into him, Kaintuck. He’d hate like —— for a
ordinary sheriff to clear up a case that he couldn’t handle.”
“You kinda usin’ a spur on him, eh?”
“Yuh might say I am. I was scared you might mention that boot-track in
the trail, Kaintuck. Let him find his own clues. He’d prob’ly go around
the country, killin’ folks jist for a chance to look at the bottom of
their heels.”
“Aw, ——, he wouldn’t do a thing like that, Skeeter.”
“Yuh never can tell what a detective like him might do.”
* * * * *
It was the following day that Monk Clark came back to the Gregory ranch;
but this time he did not wear his Sunday garments, nor did he go to the
ranch-house. Hank Gregory was at the stable when Clark rode up, and
Calamity was helping Joy plant some roses in the front yard—much to
Calamity’s disgust.
“What do you know about roses?” asked Joy, straightening up from a bush
and pushing her hair back from her eyes.
Her hand was dirty and it left a streak on her nose.
“What do I know,” grinned Calamity, “about roses? Lemme tell yuh about
some roses I set out in—”
“1866,” finished Joy quizzically.
“A tub,” corrected Calamity. “It was in the summer of 1866, if I
remember. Say, Joy, here comes Monk Clark. If yuh act like yo’re
workin’, he mebbe won’t come up here. That is, unless yuh want to see
him.”
“I don’t,” declared Joy.
“He’s got a lot of money.”
“I suppose he has,” Joy picked up the shovel and began digging around
the bush.
“And he ain’t so bad lookin’,” added Calamity thoughtfully.
Joy dropped the shovel and looked closely at Calamity.
“Are you pleading Monk Clark’s cause?” she asked.
“My ——, I should say not! I was just kinda feelin’ sorry for him,
tha’sall. Geemi-nee-e-e, he sure must love yuh! Any man that’ll wear
what he wore over here—”
“Quit it, Calamity! He’s going down to the stable where dad is. I hope
he stays there until he gets ready to go home.”
Calamity squinted toward Clark, who was riding up to Hank Gregory, and
turned back to his job of criticizing Joy’s botanical efforts.
“I came past the Box X,” offered Clark, after the customary greetings
had been exchanged.
“Yeah? Understand Curley is fixin’ things up over there.”
“He’s got a lot of fixin’ to do, Hank.”
Gregory laughed shortly and squinted toward the front of the house,
where Joy and Calamity were arguing over the placing of a certain bush.
Clark scowled toward them, but turned away.
“I don’t know how yuh stand for that —— old fool around here,” said
Clark. “He’s no good.”
“Calamity? Oh, he’s all right. Did yuh see Curley as yuh came past,
Monk?”
“Yeah. I didn’t stop. He’ll starve to death on that ranch—if nothin’
worse happens to him.”
Gregory squinted at Clark closely.
“Meanin’ what, Monk?”
“Well, yuh never can tell what might happen to him.”
“Uh-huh.” There was a note of suspicion in Gregory’s voice. “I hope
nothin’ happens to him, Monk. Him and Joy are goin’ to get married as
soon as he gets the old place fixed up.”
“Tha’sso?” Clark spat viciously. “Mebbe they will.”
For several moments, the two men looked closely at each other. Gregory
looked toward the house, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Then—
“I dunno what yuh mean by that, Monk. I told Curley that it would be all
right with me. If Joy wants him, she sure can have him.”
“I didn’t say anythin’,” replied Clark. “It’s a free country. And
another thing, Hank—you better not get too short with me. I play square
with my friends, as long as they remain friends. I know too much about
you, _sabe_?”
Gregory’s lips shut tightly for several moments and he looked toward the
house, while Clark grinned softly.
“I _sabe_ all that,” said Gregory softly.
“Might not listen well to some folks,” suggested Clark.
Gregory shook his head.
“No, I reckon not. I’ve often wondered about it, Monk. I dunno whether I
killed that sheriff or not.”
“That part don’t matter, Hank. There were three of yuh. Two of yore
outfit died in their saddles. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been
hanged. Just stop and remember that I kept yuh under cover until the
chase had died down enough for you to make a getaway. They’re probably
still lookin’ for the man who killed the sheriff—and you was the only
survivor.”
Gregory nodded slowly.
“That’s true, Monk. But I wasn’t guilty of doin’ anythin’ wrong. I
didn’t know them two fellers had stolen horses until it was all over.
When a man begins to shoot at me, I shoot at him.”
Clark smiled wisely.
“That’s all very fine, but you’d have a fine time explainin’ that to a
jury in Badger County.”
“Prob’ly—” slowly. Gregory’s eyes were steady as he looked straight at
Clark and said:
“Monk, why bring this up now? You ain’t aimin’ to hold a club over me,
are yuh?”
“I just wanted yuh to know how I stand.”
“That happened almost ten years ago, Monk.”
“I know it. Almost long enough for us to forget, eh? But not quite,
Hank.”
“Uh-huh,” Gregory laughed bitterly. “Almost like somethin’ yuh read
about, Monk. You know enough about me to send me to the penitentiary,
and yo’re willin’ to use that knowledge to make me do what yuh want me
to do, eh?”
“I don’t think yo’re a —— fool, Hank,” coldly.
“No? Well, I am —— in some things, Monk.”
Gregory shoved himself away from the stable wall and came closer to
Clark.