SARG, sheriff of Moon River.
Skeeter walked out of the office and stood on the edge of the sidewalk,
debating just what to do. He had always followed what gamblers called a
hunch, and just now he had a big hunch.
The yellow lights from the windows and open door of the Half-Moon saloon
flooded half of the street, and from within the place came the dull hum
of conversation. The glow illuminated a part of the hitch-rack,
high-lighting the string of saddle horses.
A wagon came creaking up the street and drew up in front of a store,
where the driver dismounted from the wagon and was greeted by several
men who had been sitting on the edge of the board sidewalk. Somewhere a
guitar novice essayed the “Spanish Fandango,” but without success.
Skeeter leaned against a porch-post, his mind far away from the sights
and sounds of Crescent City. He was seeing a pale-faced girl, with
frightened eyes, who clung to the arm of a man, whose face was twisted
with apprehension. And on the ground was the body of Monk Clark, staring
up at the sky.
Skeeter tried to segregate the facts as he had seen them. Some one had
been in that house when Monk Clark approached, and Clark had known that
this man was there. That much, Skeeter Bill felt must be true. Else why
would Clark tie his horse far from the house and approach it on foot?
“What was he lookin’ for?” muttered Skeeter to himself. “Was he sneakin’
up on Curley Adams? Did Curley kill him, try to dispose of the body, and
get frightened at the approach of Hank Gregory?”
It looked reasonable. Skeeter shook his head, as his mind flashed back
to the skeleton hanging in the tree; the fleshless skull which grinned
blankly at the hills.
Where was the connection, he wondered? But try as he might, he could not
connect Curley Adams with the killing. For some unknown reason it was
impossible—as impossible as to think that Curley Adams, a normal
thinking person, would deliberately vent the Lazy H brand, knowing that
the Lazy H was the only outfit to brand that particular spot, and run on
his own iron.
“I’ve got to find the answer for myself,” he decided. “I may not be a
good detective, but I’ve got the nerve to play out the only hand they’ll
deal me.”
* * * * *
He shoved away from the post and walked slowly to the depot, two blocks
away. The agent greeted him pleasantly, as Skeeter produced the telegram
he had written. The agent scanned it quickly and looked up at Skeeter.
“United States Marshal, eh? Say, I’ve got a telegram for Moran from
Long. Just came in. Maybe this will cover your wire.”