WILL ARRIVE CRESCENT CITY TOMORROW TO TAKE CHARGE OF
INVESTIGATION. (Signed) Long.
“That’s fine,” nodded Skeeter. “Cancel my wire. I’ll give this to Moran,
if yuh want me to.”
“Is he in town?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, it will save me the trouble. Thanks.”
Skeeter pocketed the telegram and walked outside. Far down the tracks
sounded the eerie whistle of a locomotive, as a freight train rumbled
its way toward Crescent City. Skeeter paused. The rails were humming now
and the beams from the locomotive headlight illuminated the rails down
the tracks.
But Skeeter Bill was not seeing this. A sudden inspiration seemed to
strike him, and he made a queer little noise with his lips, a sucking
whistle. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the door of the
depot, meeting the agent, who was coming out, carrying a lantern.
“What time is the passenger due through here?” he asked.
“Eleven o’clock.”
“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Is it always on time?”
The agent laughed and shifted his lantern.
“Not always, Sheriff. In fact, it is seldom on time, but not very late.”
“Thanks.”
The freight roared in, as Skeeter walked from the platform and headed
back toward the office, deep in thought.
“If it works I’m a dinger—if it don’t I’m a sucker,” he decided.
He looked up as he neared the office door. Joy, Curley and Hank Gregory
were standing there, waiting for him. He came up, opened the door
silently and let them in, after which he locked the door and smiled at
Curley.
“Well,” said Curley, “what’s the verdict, Sheriff?”
Skeeter grinned softly and shook his head. “I dunno, pardner. The jury
is over in the Half-Moon, and Kaintuck is feelin’ their pulse right now.
Set down, folks.”
He placed some chairs for them and sat down on his desk.
“I haven’t any alibi,” said Curley. “While this was goin’ on I was over
at San Gregario cañon tryin’ to buy lumber.”
“Tha’sso? Didja buy any?”
“Wasn’t anybody there to buy it from.”
Skeeter hugged one knee and squinted at the floor, while Joy watched him
anxiously.
“How did the town take the news?” Thus Gregory nervously.
“The sober ones—calmly; drunken ones—as usual. Whisky sure puts a rope
in a man’s hand. The Tin Cup outfit don’t know it yet, except Frank
Moran.”
“I suppose he’d like to hang me,” smiled Curley. “Yuh remember I hit him
a short time ago.”
Skeeter nodded quickly. “Yeah, I remember. Still, I hope he wouldn’t
want to hang yuh for that.”
“They’ll probably say that I killed Monk Clark over that brandin’ deal,”
said Curley. “But the fact of the matter is, I never knew a darned thing
about it until the folks told me about it a while ago.
“I haven’t been to town for a couple of days, and no one has been at the
ranch to tell me how close I came to being sent up for rustlin’.”
“I know,” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Me and Kaintuck was goin’ over to have
a talk with yuh, when we ran into this deal.”
“But who balled up the deal for Monk Clark?” wondered Curley. “Somebody
sure saved my bacon, and I don’t know who would do a thing like that for
me.”
“A feller never knows who his friends are,” said Skeeter. “Me and
Kaintuck showed up at the corral just after Ertle had pulled out, and we
sure had some fun with Clark.”
Joy got to her feet and went close to Skeeter.
She stepped in front of him, looking at him intently, but he shifted his
eyes, deliberately avoiding her. Curley looked at her, wondering what
she was trying to do. Skeeter shifted around to Curley, but she stepped
between them, facing Skeeter.
“Aw-w-w gosh!” grunted Skeeter uncomfortably.
“Look me in the eyes,” she dared him.
Skeeter tried to do it, but one eye shut tightly and he grinned
foolishly.
“Wasn’t that a queer thing for a sheriff to do?” Softly.
“What?” asked Skeeter. “Look at a girl with one eye?”
“No—to ruin evidence.”
“Well,” Skeeter avoided her eyes, “yuh see, the county only allows us
thirty-five cents a day to feed prisoners, and we just can’t do it on
that money.”
Skeeter did not look up at her. He finished his statement, reached in
his pocket for his tobacco and papers and began rolling a cigaret. Joy
turned her head and looked at Curley, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Don’t you understand, Curley,” she whispered. “He was the one who—”
“Joy, do you mean that the sheriff vented those brands?” Curley got out
of his chair and came to Skeeter, but before he could speak again, the
door opened and Kaintuck came in. He was breathing heavily, and did not
seem surprized to see Curley and the Gregory family.
“The Tin Cup and the Lazy H outfits are both here now,” he said. “I got
all the dope I could before I left. They’re goin’ to the Box X first,
and if Curley ain’t there they’ll go to the HG. Them —— fools won’t even
wait for a trial.”
“They’ll see that black horse of mine at the hitch-rack!” exclaimed
Curley. “Everybody knows that black horse.”
“A black, roan and a gray?” asked Kaintuck.
“Yes. Joy rode the roan and—”
“That’s what I thought,” grinned Kaintuck. “I’ve got all three of ’em
tied behind the office, where nobody will see ’em.”
“Oh, that is wonderful!” Joy almost hugged Kaintuck, much to his
embarrassment.
“But it don’t end yet,” said Skeeter. “We’ll put Adams’ horse in our
stable, and Gregory and Miss Joy better fog for home. Be there when the
posse of lynchers show up. They won’t hurt any of you folks. You don’t
know where Curley is, and the last place they’d ever look is right
here.”
“But you’re not going to put him in jail, are you?” Thus Joy fearfully.
“He’ll have to sleep in a cell,” grinned Skeeter. “The doggoned cots are
fastened to the wall. But I’ll promise to not lock the door.”
“We’ll be traveling, Joy,” urged her father. “As soon as the men ride
toward the Box X, we’ll go home. Good-by, Curley.”
Skeeter urged Kaintuck and Gregory toward the rear door, while Joy told
Curley good-by, and in a moment she joined them. They mounted their
horses, circled the town and rode back toward home. There was no moon as
yet; so there was little danger of them being seen by the men who were
heading for the Box X.
The three men went back in the office. Skeeter was careful to lock the
doors and pull down the blinds. Crescent City might prove a dangerous
place for Curley Adams, and Skeeter knew that the jail was none too
capable of withstanding an assault.
“It kinda looks as though I was up against it,” observed Curley. “I’d
hate to be hung for somethin’ I didn’t do—but I can’t prove I didn’t.
Everybody probably knows that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ belongin’ to
the Lazy H, with my brand on its shoulder; and they’d accept that as a
reason for me to kill him.”
“Reasons don’t make much difference to a mob,” said Skeeter. “I want you
to answer a few questions, Adams. It’s yore own business, and yuh don’t
have to answer, yuh know.”
“I’ll answer ’em if I can, Sheriff. I’m not forgettin’ that you saved me
from a rustlin’ charge.”
“Well, you ain’t obligated to answer these questions. What kind of a
six-gun do you use?”
* * * * *
Curley drew out his gun and handed it to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41,
single-action. Skeeter glanced at it and handed it back. “Didja ever
reload any shells, Adams?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a reloadin’ set out at the ranch. It costs a lot to buy
shells, and I like to experiment.”
“Uh-huh. What didja find out with yore experiments?”
Curley smiled softly.
“I found out that my loads were not as good as the factory-loaded
article.”
“Yeah? Adams, did you ever mold a silver bullet and load it in a shell?”
“I did,” Curley answered quickly, making no effort to evade the
question. “I was moldin’ some bullets one night and wondered how silver
would shoot; so I melted a dollar and made me one.”
“How did it shoot?”
“I don’t know. It sure made a pretty bullet. I loaded it in my gun, but
never got a chance to shoot it. The next day I was taken sick. Yuh see,
I was in bed for a week or so, and when I got back on my feet I plumb
forgot that bullet. Later on I missed it, and I thought that some of the
boys had swiped it.”
“Thought some of the boys had swiped it, eh?”
Curley squinted at the floor, pondering the question. He was a good,
clean-looking sort of a fellow; not at all the sort of a person who
would shoot from ambush. Skeeter eyed him closely. Finally Curley lifted
his head.
“What I don’t understand is how you found out about that bullet,
Sheriff. I made it quite a while ago, and I’d forgotten about it. What’s
this all about—what are you trying to find out about that silver bullet
for?”
“Who knew you had molded it?”
Curley scratched his head thoughtfully.
“I dunno. Mebbe I never did tell anybody about it. Come to think of it,
I didn’t tell any of the boys. That’s kinda funny, too. I remember of
puttin’ it in one chamber of my gun, but I don’t remember of takin’ it
out.”
“Where was yore gun when you were sick?”
“Hangin’ up in the bunk-house. Say, how did you know about that silver
bullet?”
“I’m a mind reader,” grinned Skeeter. “How long ago was it that you was
sick?”
“About a month ago.”
“Did Gregory tell yuh about what we found in yore ranch-house today?”
“He told me about the fireplace bein’ dug up, and that yuh found where
somebody had tried to make a dollar.”
“What do yuh think of it?”
“No idea. It sure wasn’t that way when I left home.”
“I reckon the questions are ended,” smiled Skeeter.
“Did I answer ’em to yore satisfaction, Sheriff?”
Skeeter nodded.
“Yeah, I reckon so. Don’t mention that bullet to anybody.”
“Do you know what became of it?”
Skeeter took the bullet from his pocket and handed it to Curley, who
looked it over carefully.
“It’s been shot,” he said wonderingly. “Was—was that one of the bullets
in Monk Clark?”
“Nope.”
“Where did you find it, Sheriff?”
“I’ll let yuh know some day.” Skeeter took the bullet and dropped it in
his pocket. “Me and Kaintuck are goin’ over to the Half-Moon to listen
to things, Adams. You lock the door and keep out of sight.”
“Anythin’ you say, Sheriff. Yo’re sure treatin’ me white.”
“Well, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong, have yuh? C’mon, Kaintuck.”
Curley locked the door behind them and they crossed to the Half-Moon.
The killing of Monk Clark had made good business in the Half-Moon, and
whisky-feeling ran high. Men who had no use for Monk Clark when he was
alive clamored for a chance to pull a rope on the man who killed him.
They were all waiting anxiously for the return of the six men who had
ridden to the Box X, Jim Searles, Clark’s foreman, Charley Ames and Sol
Asher, of the Tin Cup, Sam Ertle, Frisco Larkin and Van Cleve, of the
Lazy H.
There had evidently been plenty of criticism against the sheriff’s
office, as the conversation lulled at the entrance of Skeeter and
Kaintuck. Moran was at the bar, drinking with several men, and Skeeter
noticed that Belden and Stanfield, the owners of the Silver Bell mine,
were also there.
Several roughly-dressed men were at the bar or playing the games, and
Skeeter decided that they were men from the mines. Moran joined Skeeter
a little later and told him that the Silver Bell had closed down.
“That’s Rugg, the superintendent, over there playin’ poker,” said Moran,
pointing at a big man, slouched in a chair. Rugg was not a pleasant
looking person. His heavy cheeks were covered with a week’s growth of
stiff, black whiskers, and a heavy mustache partly covered his thick
lips.
“I’ll bet that jigger never drank milk when he was a baby,” said
Kaintuck. “If a rattlesnake ever bit him the snake would get py-o-ree.”
Moran laughed and turned the subject to Monk Clark.
* * * * *
“You knew that some of the boys have gone out to find Curley Adams,
didn’t yuh?” asked Moran.
“Nobody told me.” Skeeter shook his head. “What do yuh reckon they aim
to do with him?”
It was such a foolish question that Moran wondered if the sheriff could
be joking.
“They think Curley killed Clark,” said Moran.
“Tha’sso? Don’t any of ’em _know_ he did, do they?”
“I don’t suppose they do. But—”
“There yuh are. Nothin’ to prove he did it. Don’tcha think they’re a
little previous?”
Moran laughed shortly. He could not understand Skeeter Bill. It was
rather unusual for a sheriff to remain inactive, while a posse of men
were going out with deliberate intent to hang a man.
“Bein’ previous won’t help Adams, if they find him,” said Moran
meaningly.
“Prob’ly not.” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Who’s leadin’ the bunch?”
“Jim Searles.”
“Good man, I reckon. I don’t know him very well, but he looks like a man
who would have a little judgment.”
“Charley Ames and Sol Asher went along,” offered Moran. “Ertle, Frisco
Larkin and Van Cleve made up the rest of the party. Only six of ’em all
together.”
“Ought to be enough,” smiled Skeeter. “Three from the Tin Cup and three
from the Lazy H.”
“You don’t seem much interested, Sheriff.”
“It’s none of my business, if six —— fools want to run their own horses
ragged in the dark, is it?”
“Oh, I see—” Moran nodded understandingly.
It had suddenly occurred to him that Skeeter was indifferent because he
knew that these men would not find Curley Adams.
Moran drifted over to a roulette game, and Skeeter met Belden at the
bar.
“I just heard that the Silver Bell mine had closed down,” said Skeeter,
by way of starting conversation. Belden nodded quickly and invited
Skeeter to partake of his hospitality.
“Yes, we decided to close down, at least temporarily. Silver is pretty
low just now, and so we will cease production for a while. You see, we
have been hit pretty hard lately.”
“Yuh sure have,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “We never got much of a
chance to trail that cargo of silver. They muffled their pack-horses’
hoofs, follered that old game-trail to where it spread out, and then we
didn’t have a ghost of a chance to trail ’em.”
“I was afraid of it, Sheriff. Of course it will be impossible for them
to move any great quantity of silver from this valley. Every exit is
being watched, of course, but they may lie low and tire us out.”
Skeeter made no comment. He felt that the men who had taken the silver
would never attempt to move it, except as silver coin. While Skeeter and
Belden discussed the stolen silver, Doctor Skeen, the coroner, came in.
Skeen was a small, gray-haired, spectacled man, retiring and
soft-spoken. He excused himself to Belden and drew Skeeter aside to give
him two badly-battered bullets. “These were from Monk Clark’s body,” he
explained. “I had an idea that you might care to look them over.”
They were unmistakably of .45 caliber. Skeeter examined them closely,
but they told him nothing.
“I put a pair of calipers on the butt of that least battered one, and it
seems to measure the same as a .45,” stated the doctor. “I can weigh
them, if you wish.”
“No need of it, Doc. They’re forty-fives. How about holdin’ the inquest
tomorrow?”
“I was going to suggest it, Sheriff. Will you get in touch with Gregory
and his daughter? We will need their testimony.”
“I’ll get ’em.”
Doctor Skeen thanked him and went away. Skeeter showed Kaintuck the
bullets.
“It sure is a good thing for Curley that these ain’t .41’s,” said
Kaintuck. “But it makes things tough for us. Most everybody shoots
a .45, except Curley and Frisco Larkin—and I’ve still got Frisco’s gun.”
The presence of Skeeter and Kaintuck had served to still the
conversation regarding Monk Clark’s death, and every one seemed to be
anxiously awaiting the return of the six riders.
* * * * *
It was almost midnight when they came back. Ertle and Jim Searles strode
into the Half-Moon and went straight to the bar, where Kaintuck and
Skeeter were trying to out-guess a nickel-in-the-slot machine.
Jim Searles, foreman of the Tin Cup, was ordinarily a big, good-natured
cowboy, with a ready smile, but just now the smiling good-nature was
missing. He strode up to the bar, his spurs rasping harshly, while
behind him came Ertle, his thin face set in a thoughtful frown.
Skeeter turned and spoke to the two men.
“Did yuh find yore man?” asked one of the players at the faro layout
anxiously, looking from Ertle to the sheriff.
“We got a man all right,” growled Ertle, and then to Skeeter, “We’ve got
Hank Gregory out there, Sheriff.”
“Hank Gregory? What have yuh got him for?” asked Skeeter.
“Tha’sall right,” growled Searles. “Lot of things you don’t know.”
Skeeter was trying to puzzle out why they should bring Hank Gregory back
with them, when Doctor Skeen came in again. He had an envelope in his
hand, but hesitated, realizing that he had interrupted a debate.
“Pardon me,” he said quickly. “In Monk Clark’s pocket I found this
letter, which he had evidently intended to post. It is addressed to
Henry Gregory.”
“To Gregory?” blurted Searles. “Lemme see it.”
“It’s sealed,” said Skeeter, making a guess that such was the case. “You
open that letter—”
But Searles had already taken it from the doctor and ripped off the
envelope, while Ertle and Van Cleve stepped in front of Skeeter,
blocking him from interference.
Searles laughed harshly as he scanned the letter, and turned to the
crowd.
“Listen to this, boys,” he lowered the letter for a moment.
“I’ve worked for Monk Clark a long time, and the other day he said
somethin’ about bein’ afraid of Hank Gregory. It seemed funny for Monk
to be afraid of anybody; so I asked him about it. He didn’t want to tell
me much about it, but he did say that he had the goods on Gregory for a
killin’ ten years ago.
“Gregory knew that Clark had this deadwood on him, and Clark was afraid
that Gregory might—well, you know how it would feel to have somethin’
like that hangin’ over yuh. So, when this death came up, I remembered
what Monk said, and tonight we decided that Gregory knew more about this
deal than he was willin’ to tell.
“Now here’s what this letter says:
“Dear Hank:
“Just to let you know that I had nothing to do with the misbranding
of that Lazy H heifer. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t care
a ——. I want you to understand that I won’t stoop to petty larceny
to make you see things the way I want you to see them, even if I
could send you up for killing the Badger County sheriff ten years
ago. I am writing this to explain things, because I refuse to make
a fool of myself by coming to your ranch again.
“Respectfully,
“(Signed) Monk Clark.”
Searles finished reading and scanned the crowd, which were already
buzzing with amazement. Skeeter was shocked. Perhaps Gregory was the one
who killed Clark, he thought. Gregory was the one who had discovered the
body.
If he had met Clark at the Box X and killed him, the first thing he
would do would be to hide the body. And he admitted that he started out
to kill Clark. Skeeter squinted at Searles and Ertle, but made no
comment.
“I reckon the sheriff can see why we brought him in now,” smiled
Searles. “This letter cinches a reason for the killin’.”
Skeeter nodded quickly.
“Looks thataway, boys. I’ll lock him up.”
One of the cowboys laughed softly. “Lock him up, eh? That’s real kind of
yuh.”
Skeeter did not turn his head, but spoke directly to Searles.
“You didn’t have any idea, except to lock him up, did yuh?”
Searles hesitated. He was known among the cowboys as a square-shooter,
sober and industrious; not one whose judgment might be easily warped.
Then he shook his head.
“You can have him, Sheriff. If he killed Monk Clark, he will get a
square trial. This evidence looks pretty strong to us, but the law might
tear —— out of it in a courtroom. We all liked Monk, I reckon. He had
his faults, just like we all have. If he was murdered I want to see the
murderer punished—but I don’t want to see an innocent man hanged.”
It was rather a long speech for Searles to make, but it was spoken so
sincerely that it silenced those who were for immediate action. Skeeter
walked outside, where he found the rest of the crowd with Gregory.
“Let the sheriff have him,” ordered Searles. “We’ll see that Gregory has
a fair trial.”
“What was it about that letter?” asked Van Cleve.
Searles told him what Monk Clark had written.
“And you turn him over to the law, after that?” fleered Van Cleve.
“Yo’re sure gettin’ easy, Jim.”
“That’ll be about all from you,” said Searles coldly.
Skeeter touched Gregory on the arm and they walked to the office
together. Gregory had nothing to say. It seemed as if the ghost of Monk
Clark had risen from the grave to point an accusing finger at him and
tell the world of that mistake of ten years ago.
Curley unlocked the door for them and listened with amazement while
Skeeter told him what had happened.
“But where is Joy?” asked Curley anxiously.
“Home,” said Gregory wearily. “She doesn’t even know about it. She had
gone to bed when they came. I heard a noise in the yard, and when I went
out they stuck a gun in my face and made me come with them. Calamity
doesn’t know it, either.”
“Well, this sure is a mess,” declared Curley. “You didn’t kill him.”
“No, I didn’t, Curley.”
“How much truth was in that letter, Gregory?” asked Skeeter.
“It was all true, Sheriff,” said Gregory, and told Skeeter all about the
incident.
“And Monk Clark held this over yuh, eh?”
“Not until a short time ago. He wanted Joy. Up to that time he never
mentioned the killin’. Maybe he thought he could force me to stop the
marriage between Joy and Curley. I told him enough for him to know that
I wouldn’t be blackmailed.
“And when I found out about that misbranded yearlin’, I was sure that it
was Clark’s first move to get rid of Curley, and I wanted a showdown
with him. Yeah, I was goin’ to kill him, and I won’t deny it.”
“But Joy is of age,” said Curley. “You couldn’t do anythin’.”
“I told him that, Curley.”
“Well, I dunno just what to do,” said Skeeter. “I’ve got to put yuh in a
cell, I reckon. I don’t want to do it, but I told ’em I’d take charge of
yuh. Mebbe you’d be safer there than runnin’ loose. And then I better
send Kaintuck out to tell Joy and Calamity, ’cause they might worry.”
“Why not let me go?” asked Curley. “I can make a sneak out of here and
come back without any one knowing it.”
“Well, all right,” said Skeeter. “You’ll sure have to be careful. The
town is full of folks, lookin’ for excitement.”
Curley lost no time in making his sneak. He went carefully out to the
stable, mounted his horse and rode away. Skeeter kept a close watch
until Curley was well on his way. He could hear the noise from the
Half-Moon, and knew that the crowd would stay in anticipation of the
inquest. It was not often that Crescent City furnished as interesting a
subject as it now had.
Skeeter went back in the office and barred the rear door. The jail was
part of the office, and Skeeter wondered how long it would take a mob to
tear it all apart. Moon River sheriffs had always depended more upon
Winchester rifles and sawed-off shotguns for defense than thickness of
wall.
“Did he get away all right?” asked Gregory, looking out between the bars
of his cell door.
“Started all right,” replied Skeeter.
“That’s good. Sheriff, I’m sure up against a bad deal. Even if I could
prove that I didn’t kill Monk Clark, there’s that Badger County deal to
look forward to.”
“Yeah, that’s true, Gregory. But yuh might be able to prove yore story
on that. I believe yuh, and when I believe anythin’ it must sound like
the truth. Just set easy, pardner, and stick to yore story. Mebbe
somethin’ will bust pretty soon.”
Skeeter walked to the front of the office and was greeted with a sharp
rap on the door. There was nothing for him to conceal now, so he opened
the door to see Ertle, Frisco, Sol Asher and Charley Ames.
Frisco and Ames were in front, both of them covering Skeeter with their
six-shooters.
Skeeter did not put up his hands, nor did they ask him to do so. Frisco
Larkin leered at Skeeter, and Skeeter had a sudden great desire to hit
him square in the front teeth, which bulged out badly, causing Frisco to
appear continually trying to close his lips.
Ertle was grinning with his mouth, but his keen eyes were watching every
movement of the sheriff, and it seemed to Skeeter that Ertle would like
to have him try to draw his gun. Skeeter did not pay any attention to
Sol Asher and Charley Ames, who seemed nervous.
“We’re comin’ in,” stated Ames.
They had all been drinking and were odorous with liquor.
“Come in,” invited Skeeter, stepping aside. Ames kept him covered, while
the others searched the place.
“You had Curley Adams here,” stated Ertle disgustedly.
“Did I?” Skeeter smiled. “That’s sure remarkable, Ertle. Yuh can see for
yourself, can’tcha?”
“He ain’t here now,” declared Asher angrily.
“Yore eyesight is plumb remarkable,” said Skeeter admiringly.
“What I don’t _sabe_ is this: You’ve got Gregory behind the bars for
killin’ Clark, and now yuh want Curley. How many men does it take to
kill one?”
“Difference of opinion is what makes horse races,” replied Ertle. “Some
of us don’t think Gregory done the job, and we don’t want to make any
mistakes.”
“Why don’tcha arrest everybody in the county? You whip-poor-wills make
me tired. If yo’re through searchin’ my place, yuh might move out.”
Ames had holstered his gun, as had the others. It was evident that they
had been misinformed.
“You might apologize for this intrusion,” said Skeeter. “A sheriff don’t
appreciate havin’ a gun stuck in his face, while a bunch of drunks
search his office and jail.”
“Well, for ——’s sake!” sneered Frisco. “When I apologize to you, they’ll
be skatin’ in ——!”
Ertle was between Skeeter and Frisco, but before he could shift his
position Skeeter had back-heeled him, sending him reeling toward the
door. Frisco reached for his gun, leaving Skeeter a wide-open chance to
drive his left fist straight into Frisco’s jaw.
It was what was known in ring parlance as a “haymaker.” Skeeter’s fist
started from behind his hip, described part of an arc and met its object
just as Frisco’s hand lifted the gun from its holster.
It was all done quickly. Ertle was still clawing for balance when Frisco
was falling backwards across a chair, where he went to sleep with his
boots in the air.
Skeeter whirled with his back to the wall, his six-shooter jammed
against his hip, as he waited for the next move. Ertle had fallen to his
knees, but now he got up and swore softly.
“Vamoose,” said Skeeter softly. “And next time yuh feel like gettin’
tough with me—hop to it.”
But none of them accepted the challenge. Ertle rubbed his knees and
swore bitterly, his eyes fixed on Skeeter’s gun. But Asher and Ames were
only too glad to call it quits and get out of there. Asher slowly slid
his gun back in its holster, cleared his throat softly.
“Well, I—I reckon that’s all,” he said foolishly. “Curley sure ain’t
nowhere around here, gents.”
The three men filed silently out, leaving Frisco still in slumberland,
with his boot-heels pointing toward the ceiling. Skeeter grinned and
considered Frisco. It was an interesting sight.
Gregory was questioning Skeeter, trying to find out what had happened.
The bars of his cell door were facing another cell, and he could only
hear what was going on.
“Nothin’ much,” laughed Skeeter. “I tripped Ertle and hit Frisco
Larkin.”
Frisco was showing signs of returning consciousness; so Skeeter took his
gun, dragged him into a cell and locked the door.
“I’ll keep him for disturbin’ the peace,” grinned Skeeter. “There is a
law of that kind, Gregory, but it ain’t never been used in this
country.”
* * * * *
Kaintuck came in, all out of breath. The three men had gone to the
Half-Moon and told their experience.
“Gosh dang it!” wailed Kaintuck. “I missed all the fun. Where is
Frisco?”
“In a cell.”
“Gosh! What for?”
“Disturbin’ my peace. I’m goin’ to keep him a while, too.”
“Can yuh do that, Skeeter?”
“I reckon I can. You go back and keep yore ears open. Curley has gone
out to the Gregory ranch to tell Joy and Calamity what has happened.”
Kaintuck hurried out, and Skeeter locked the door. He was glad that
Curley had gone to the ranch, because it was hard to tell what might
have happened if he had been there when the four men came in.
Skeeter sat down at his desk and rolled a smoke, a half grin on his
lips. Things were working out for him—giving him an advantage he had not
expected. If he could keep Curley safe until the big play was made, that
would be the rub. There was grave danger if the whisky-drinking element
caught Curley.
He could hear them over in the Half-Moon—laughter, talking, bursts of
raucous song. Kaintuck was over there, keeping his finger on the pulse
of the situation. Skeeter knew that Joy and Calamity would come back
with Curley, and he wondered how Joy would take the bad news.
“That poor kid sure is gettin’ a lot of jolts,” he decided. “The crowd
ain’t decided yet which one is guilty—Curley or Hank—and they’d be
willin’ to hang ’em both so as to be sure.”
He got to his feet and walked the length of the office. He wanted
action. There were certain things to be tried out, and he did not want
to wait. His lips twisted in an anxious smile, as he stopped near the
door, his eyes half-closed, speculating. Then he laughed softly and
shook his head.
“Hang on to yoreself,” he muttered. “The pot is on the table and you’ve
got ’em beat in sight. Bluff, you son-of-a-gun! Get out on a limb. If
they don’t saw it off between you and the tree, yo’re settin’ easy.”
Frisco was swearing in his cell and demanding that he be released.
Skeeter went to the door and looked in at him.
“What in —— am I in here for?” asked Frisco.
“For disturbin’ the peace.”
“Aw-w-w, ——!”
“Well, we’ll keep yuh in there anyway. Now what do yuh think of that,
Frisco?”
“I think you’ll be —— sorry when I get out.”
“And I think you’ll be —— glad,” said Skeeter, walking away.
“Hey! Whatcha mean by that?” demanded Frisco.
But Skeeter did not say. He had flung himself down on a cot and was
building himself a cigaret, a grin on his lips.
* * * * *
It was a hectic night in Crescent City. Several fights were started in
the Half-Moon and whisky flowed freely. But the cold gray dawn, which
was not cold at all, but very hot, came creeping along to find a lot of
tired, sleepy-eyed folks, whose stomachs were totally unfit for food,
voices hoarse and heads heavy.
The majority of them did not care a whoop who got hanged for murder. In
fact several of them had forgotten everything about it. They growled at
each other, spat disgustedly and had more drinks. Sam Rugg went about
like a soreheaded grizzly, looking for trouble.
And he found it in the person of old Calamity, who was also looking for
trouble. Joy and Calamity had ridden back to town with Curley, just
ahead of daybreak. Joy had stayed at the sheriff’s office with her
father and Curley, but old Calamity wanted action.
He had listened to Gregory’s confession to Joy, the story of which had
already been told by Curley, and swore that Hank Gregory was a —— liar.
Old Calamity was on the war-path. He wore two guns and a new pair of
boots. The boots hurt his feet.
Skeeter advised Calamity to stay with them, and his advice was echoed by
Gregory and Joy, but Calamity swore under his breath and said he was of
age and would do as he pleased.
So he went out on the street, limping slightly, and looked for what he
might devour. Several of the cowboys looked old Calamity over and
decided that they did not want any of his medicine.
Not so Sam Rugg. He was still strangling over a drink of raw liquor, as
he lurched out of the Half-Moon and almost fell over Calamity. Liquor
had ruined Rugg’s perspective. He looked upon the old man as legitimate
prey.
“C’mere!” he snorted as he grasped old Calamity by the arm and whirled
him around, pinning him against the saloon wall.
“Unpaw me!” snapped Calamity. “Who do yuh think yo’re tryin’ to maul,
yuh big polecat?”
Rugg slapped a big hand over Calamity’s mouth, rubbing heavily on
Calamity’s nose. That was the last straw. One of the new boots snapped
up in a short kick and connected with Rugg’s knee-cap.
Rugg immediately forgot everything, except the sharp pain in his knee.
He dropped both hands to the injured spot, bumping against Calamity, who
whipped out a gun, swung it sidewise and rapped Rugg sharply on the
head.
Rugg forgot about his knee and went down in a limp heap. Calamity
stepped over him, felt tenderly of his sore nose, and looked around for
more worlds to conquer. Several men had crowded out of the saloon door,
goggling at Calamity.
“Pistol-whipped him,” said Calamity. “Yeah, and I’ll pistol-whip some
more of yuh if yuh monkey with me. I ain’t no dad-durned bluffer. I was
killin’ men when you fellers was wearin’ didies—and I ain’t forgot how.”
“Nobody goin’ to bother yuh, Calamity,” assured Asher.
“That’s what I ’lowed when I driv up. I ain’t safe. In my state of mind
I’m liable to be plumb ignorant of humanity. I crave to meet the men who
came out and took Hank Gregory. I ain’t very big and I’m gettin’ old,
but by the mighty, muddy Missouri, I can whip any one, or all six, of
the men who came out there last night.”
“Tha’sall right, old-timer,” said another half-drunk cowboy. “You jist
go ahead and have a good time. Nobody is goin’ to choose you. But I’d
advise yuh to look out for Sam Rugg.”
“This half-witted bug-hunter?” Calamity pointed at Rugg, who was resting
on one elbow, rubbing his head. “Huh!” Calamity snorted his disdain. “If
he monkeys with me I’ll squirsh him.”
No one seemed to disagree with Calamity; so he crossed the street, while
some of the men assisted Rugg to his feet and took him back in the
saloon, where they explained what had happened.
Rugg drank several more glasses of liquor to try and deaden the pain in
his knee and head. It was humiliating, to say the least.
“Better leave him alone,” advised Moran, who had drunk but little during
the night.
“The —— I had!” Rugg shook his head angrily.
“All right,” Moran shrugged his shoulders. “Calamity will shoot next
time.”
“I’ll get me a gun.”
“You better get yuh an army. That old jigger has forgotten more about
gun fighting than you’ll ever learn—and he hasn’t forgotten the part
that beats the other feller to the first shot.”
Ertle joined in the argument, trying to convince Rugg that his best
course was to forget old Calamity. Then Ertle drew Moran aside.
“Say, do you know that Frisco is still in jail?”
“I wondered where he was,” laughed Moran.
“What’s so funny about it? That —— sheriff knocked Frisco out and drove
us all outside. I’ve been tryin’ to find out why he locked Frisco up.”
“Didja ask the sheriff?”
“No. I thought mebbe some of you fellers had heard.”
“It’s the first time I heard about it, Ertle. Mebbe he had an idea that
Frisco needed soberin’ up.”
“Aw, he wasn’t that drunk. I’m goin’ to look into this, I’ll tell yuh
that. He ain’t got no right to lock a man in jail for bein’ drunk.”
“Not unless he gets too bad,” amended Moran. “He’ll probably let him
loose pretty soon. I’d sure like to know what became of Curley Adams.”
“Well, he wasn’t in the jail last night, that’s a cinch.”
Ertle left Moran and came down to the jail. Skeeter stepped outside the
office to talk with Ertle, not wishing to have him come inside, but
Ertle caught a glimpse of the interior and of Curley Adams.
“I wanted to ask yuh about Frisco,” said Ertle.
“Well, he’s doin’ as well as can be expected,” said Skeeter seriously.
“Of course he’s still runnin’ off at the vocal cords a little.”
“He is, eh?” Ertle spat angrily. “Just what in —— are you keepin’ him in
jail for?”
“’Cause he’s a bad boy, Ertle. If he was loose I’d have to kill him
sooner or later.”
“The —— yuh would! Just because he talked back to yuh, eh?”
“Mebbe.”
“Then yuh won’t turn him loose, eh?”
“Nope.”
“Yo’re takin’ a lot on yourself, Sheriff. I’ll see that yuh do turn him
loose. By ——, I’ll go to Judge Grayson and see if you’ve got any right
to keep one of my men in jail, when he ain’t done anythin’.”
“Tell the judge hello for me, will yuh, Ertle?”
“You go to ——!”
Ertle whirled on his heel and went up the street, carrying his hat in
his hand. He was thoroughly mad. But he did not go to see Judge Grayson.
Instead he went to the Half-Moon and announced that Curley Adams was at
the sheriff’s office.
But his announcement did not cause much excitement.
“That’s all right,” assured Searles. “We can be sure of him bein’ at the
inquest.”
“That part is all right,” complained Ertle. “But Adams ain’t in no cell.
They’re sayin’ he killed Clark. Frisco Larkin never done anythin’, and
he’s in a cell. What do yuh think of that?”
“I reckon we’ll leave that to the sheriff,” said Searles.
* * * * *
As Ertle turned away from the bar Skeeter Bill came in. Searles spoke to
him, but Ertle did not. Skeeter leaned across the bar and spoke to the
bartender.
“I want yuh to think real hard,” said Skeeter. “A little over a month
ago a man came in here. He was a strange cowpuncher.”
The bartender squinted thoughtfully at the ceiling.
Skeeter had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and he looked past
the bartender into the back-bar mirror, wherein he could see many of
those behind him. Moran, who was near a poker table, looked up quickly.
Ertle had stepped away from the bar as Skeeter spoke, but now he stopped
and slowly turned his head, looking intently at Skeeter who was missing
none of this. Ertle’s eyes blinked and he turned away, shooting a quick
glance around the room.
“A little over a month ago? Lemme see. No-o-o, I can’t just remember it,
Sheriff. What did he want?”
“I think he wanted to know which road to take to get to the Tin Cup
ranch.”
“O-o-o-oh, yea-a-ah. Say, I remember him now. I’m darned if I can
remember what he looked like, but—lemme see. It was about noon, and I
was washin’ the back-bar mirror. He came in and asked me how to get to
the Tin Cup. I told him to go north and take the right-hand road.
Afterwards I wondered if he kept on the right-hand road and went to the
old Box X.”
“Much obliged,” said Skeeter.
He turned and invited Searles to have a drink. Moran was standing near a
poker table, but did not look up, and Ertle had drifted toward the rear
of the room.
“Who was the feller?” asked the bartender, accepting of Skeeter’s
hospitality and pouring himself a drink.
“I dunno.”
“Yuh don’t? Then how do yuh know he asked me that question?”
“Guessed it,” grinned Skeeter. “I knew that a stranger was headin’ for
that part of the range. If he was a stranger, he wouldn’t know the way,
and the bartender is the first person a strange puncher would question.”
“That’s guessin’,” laughed Searles. “I haven’t seen a stranger at the
Tin Cup for longer than that, sheriff.”
“I reckon that’s right, Searles.”
Skeeter turned to the door and Searles walked outside with him. They
stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and Searles moved in close to
Skeeter, speaking softly—
“He didn’t find the Tin Cup, eh?”
“Nope. And he never will. Well, I’ve got to go back to the office. We’re
goin’ to hold the inquest at ten-thirty at the courtroom, and I’ve got
quite a lot of folks to take care of.”
“Curley Adams showed up, eh?” Searles went on.
“Sure. He was here when you fellers went huntin’ him last night.”
“The —— he was!” Searles smiled sourly. “Well, I’m glad. Ertle is awful
sore about you keepin’ Frisco in jail.”
“He’ll just have to keep on bein’ sore.”
Skeeter went back to the office, where he found Curley and Kaintuck
playing seven-up, and Joy talking with her father. His story had been a
shock to her, but she knew he was innocent of an intentional killing.
“What became of Calamity?” asked Gregory.
Skeeter did not know. It was nearing time for the inquest. He sat down
beside Curley, motioning for Kaintuck to put away the cards.
“Curley, was there any stranger—a strange cowpuncher—came out to the Tin
Cup ranch in the last month or two?”
“I never seen any, Sheriff. Frank Moran was the only one to hire out, or
come out there after I went to work.”
“Uh-huh. Was you there when Moran came the first time?”
“The first time? Yeah, I was sick in bed when he came to work.”
“Are yuh sure of that, Curley?”
“Dead sure. There was a lot of work to do at that time, and the Tin Cup
was short-handed, through me bein’ sick. I know that Monk Clark inquired
around, lookin’ for an extra man.
“Moran came out there in the forenoon. Monk was gone, if I remember
rightly. Moran came down to the bunk-house. I was pretty darned sick,
but I remember hearin’ him tell Asher who he was, and Asher said that
Monk Clark was away.
“Asher had been stayin’ pretty close with me, I reckon, and he asked
Moran to stay with me for a few minutes. I heard him say he’d do it, and
I think he was there for half an hour. Then he pulled out. It was the
next day that he got a job with the Tin Cup, and he’s been there since.”
“You didn’t talk with him, did yuh, Curley?”
“No. I was pretty sick and I didn’t want to talk to anybody. But I
remembered the voice, and he told me afterwards that he had stayed with
me while Asher went out.”
“Curley, did you know that Frank Moran was a Government detective?”
“Gosh, no! Is he?”
“Yeah. Monk Clark knew it.”
“Is that so? No, I didn’t know it.”
“He worked for Ertle a while. Ertle knows it.”
“Well, I’ll be darned! And what is he detectin’, sheriff?”
“If you mean—what has he detected—not much.”
“And I punched him in the jaw,” said Curley seriously.
“That didn’t mean much to a detective like him,” grinned Skeeter. “I
reckon we better get ready for the inquest, folks.”
* * * * *
Calamity got a few drinks under his belt and threatened to become a
menace to society. Instead of the liquor acting as an uplift agent, it
acted the opposite. Calamity became morose, vengeful. He wanted to kill
somebody.
Fortunately he did not want to kill just anybody. His objective was to
make sorry the six men who had stolen Hank Gregory away from his home.
He was perfectly willing to include Rugg, the mine superintendent. Rugg
had rubbed his nose.
Rugg had also purchased a six-shooter. Calamity knew this, and chuckled
with unholy glee. Sol Asher, Van Cleve and Charley Ames had heard
Calamity’s declaration of war, and wanted none of him.
There would be no satisfaction, no glory, in killing an old man. And
what was more to the point, they knew that Calamity was an old gunman,
as dangerous as a rattler.
“I’ve got the Injun sign on ’em,” declared Calamity, his back against
the Half-Moon bar, his hat pulled rakishly over one ear. “I can whip any
one of ’em on a sheep-skin.”
“Don’t cover too much territory,” advised Ertle disgustedly.
“Oh, my!” Calamity eyed Ertle speculatively.
It had suddenly occurred to Calamity that Ertle was one of the six men
he was gunning for. He shifted his feet just a trifle and rubbed the
palm of his right hand against the top of his cartridge-belt.
Ertle tried to appear indifferent and move toward the door.
“Too much territory, eh?” Calamity’s nose twitched. “How’d you like to
choose me, feller? Tell me what you’d rather fight with, and that’s my
fav’rite weapon. I’d fight you with anythin’ from a darnin’-needle to a
double-bitted ax. Ertle, I’ll let you—”
But Ertle had reached the doorway, making a swift, if undignified exit,
and Calamity started after him. But Calamity slipped, struck his
shoulder against the doorway and rebounded along the wall.
No one in the Half-Moon laughed. Calamity straightened his hat, adjusted
his belt, and came slowly back to the bar.
“Too much territory, ——!” he snorted. “They don’t breed ’em tough enough
for me in this day and age. Back in 1866 they made ’em whale-bone warp
and bull-hide fillin’. And when yuh found a heel mark in the sand, it
was made by a _man_.”
No one disputed Calamity. A cowboy came in and announced that some of
the folks were already going to the courtroom, and this information
caused the several gambling games to cease operations. Calamity listened
scornfully to the opinions of several men, and swaggered out of the
place.
“They better keep him out of the courtroom,” said Moran.
No one disputed him.
“I’d like to know what the sheriff has under his hat,” said the
bartender.
“Prob’ly an empty head,” laughed a gambler.
“Maybe. Don’t anybody play him for a sucker though.”
The crowd began to dribble out of the saloon, heading across the street
to a room over the general merchandise store, where Moon River County
held its court sessions.
Skeeter met Moran near the stairway, which led to the courtroom.
Moran had been drinking, but was not drunk by any means. He removed his
sombrero and ran his fingers through his matted black hair, his brown
eyes coldly calculating, as he looked at Skeeter.
“What do yuh know?” he asked bruskly.
His voice was not at all pleasant now. Skeeter looked at his flat nose,
the deep-set eyes and prominent cheek-bones, wondering if Moran did not
have a goodly percentage of Indian blood in his veins. Skeeter hesitated
so long that Moran said—
“What about the inquest?”
“We’ll prob’ly have to put you on the stand, Moran,” said Skeeter. “It
kinda looks like you won’t be able to keep yore identity a secret any
longer, ’cause it’ll come out about that fireplace and the pieces of
silver.”
“I’m sorry about that,” said Moran seriously.
“Can’t be helped, I guess. This killin’ is of more interest to Moon
River County than counterfeitin’.”
“I suppose. Say, you better take charge of old Calamity. He thinks he
can run everybody.”
“Oh, he won’t hurt anybody.”
“Won’t he? All right. You’ll have another killin’ on yore hands the
first thing yuh know.”
“I expect to have several before I run out of ice.”
“Yuh do, eh?”
This sounded interesting to Moran. But Skeeter did not stop to explain.
Moran scowled at the back of Skeeter, who was heading back toward the
office.
Ertle and Van Cleve came out of the store and looked cautiously around.
They were taking no chances on old Calamity. Moran grinned, and it
angered Ertle.
“Where is that —— old fool?” asked Ertle.
Moran shook his head.
“Probably up in the courtroom.”
“Is, eh? Well, I’m through foolin’ with him. If he makes one more break
at me, I’m goin’ to shoot him.”
“Sam Rugg got him a gun,” offered Van Cleve.
“I spoke to the sheriff about Calamity,” said Moran. “He don’t think
Calamity is dangerous.”
“The —— he don’t!”
“And I’m goin’ to be called as a witness.”
“Tha’sso?” Ertle frowned heavily. “You didn’t see it.”
“No, I didn’t. But the sheriff is tryin’ to hook this killin’ up with
the bad money idea.”
“Yeah?” Ertle stared at Moran. “What’s he got to work on?”
“Nothin’. He’s just a smart sort of a jigger and wants to make a
showin’, tha’sall.”
“Uh-huh,” Ertle scowled down the street.
Skeeter, Kaintuck, Gregory, Joy and Curley were coming from the
sheriff’s office.
Ertle, Van Cleve and Moran moved back to the entrance of the store,
while Skeeter and his crowd went into the doorway and climbed the
stairs.
* * * * *
“It wouldn’t take much for me to smash in that jail and turn Frisco
loose,” said Ertle. “I’d like to know why he’s keepin’ Frisco in jail.”
“Could we smash in and git him?” asked Van Cleve.
Sam Rugg was crossing the street from the Half-Moon, walking unsteadily,
but with caution. He grinned at the three men, as he joined them.
But Sam Rugg’s smile was not one of gladness nor mirth; it was a
grimace. He slouched up to them, his hands in his pockets, rather
unsteady in his gait. He looked gross—grimy, with his crop of greasy
black whiskers, his face flushed with liquor, and the red welt still
showed on his head, where Calamity’s revolver barrel had struck.
“Where is that old terrier?” he asked, meaning Calamity.
“Probably got drunk and fell down—” thus Moran.
“They’ve gone upstairs to start that inquest,” said Ertle, speaking to
Rugg. “If we don’t show up they’ll think something is wrong; _sabe_?
They’ve got Frisco still in jail, Rugg. If you had a pick, I think yuh
can bust in and let him out.”
“Bust in the jail?” The idea seemed rather novel to Rugg.
“Sure,” nodded Ertle. “Knock the lock off the back door; go in and pry
off the cell door. That old jail is about as strong as a bird-cage.”
“And then,” said Moran, “the sheriff will probably kill somebody.”
“Let him try it. I want Frisco out of the jail. He ain’t got any too
much brains, and he might think I’ve turned him down.”
“I’ll bust in the jail, if you say so.” Rugg was willing to please.
“Go ahead,” said Ertle. “We’ll go up and listen to the inquest. Take
yore time, Rugg. Tell Frisco to high-tail it out of town.”
Moran, Ertle and Van Cleve climbed the stairs, leading to the courtroom,
which already buzzed with conversation.
It was not a big room, and many of the spectators were obliged to stand
along the walls. Old Judge Grayson, who acted as a justice of the peace,
presided. Gregory, Joy and Curley sat at a table in front of the judge’s
desk.
A jury of six men had been drawn, and they all looked ill at ease. The
doctor had managed to draw a jury of men who were in no way connected
with either the Tin Cup or the Lazy H.
Skeeter signaled to Moran, offering him a seat near the front, which was
accepted. A number of the audience were still under the influence of
liquor, and it was only with difficulty that the judge was able to quiet
the room.
Kaintuck Kennedy stood near the door, and his position was the topic of
a whispered conversation in several parts of the room.
Kaintuck was too short to see over the heads of the crowd; so he
hammered on the wall with his fist and signaled frantically for several
cowboys to sit down. His mustache bobbed convulsively, and he swore loud
enough for those close to him to hear. He stood on his toes against the
wall and tried to be satisfied. A cowboy offered to hold him on his lap,
but the invitation was not accepted.
* * * * *
Then the judge began speaking. “We are not here to determine the guilt
or innocence of any one, but to try and determine just how Monk Clark
came to his death, why he was killed, and who is most likely to have
killed him. The jury will abide by such evidence as may be brought out
at this inquest. I will call Doctor Skeen, the coroner, to the stand.”
Doctor Skeen’s testimony was only relative to the fact that Monk Clark
had been killed by a bullet wound. He described the course of both
bullets, but was unable to state whether the shots had been fired at
close or long range.
Skeeter Bill was next called upon to relate what he knew about the
killing, and he told exactly how he and Kaintuck had found things at the
Box X ranch. The torn-up fireplace and the finding of the attempt at
making a dollar caused the audience to sit up and show interest.
Skeeter did not seek to defend Gregory when the judge asked him if, in
his opinion, Gregory could have fired the shots which killed Monk Clark.
“Did you look at Gregory’s gun?” asked one of the jury.
“I didn’t,” said Skeeter.
“Then you don’t know whether he had fired his gun recently or not?”
Skeeter was forced to admit that he had neglected to inspect Gregory’s
gun. Several of the audience laughed derisively, and the judge rapped
for order.
“Put Gregory on the stand,” said Ertle. “Let’s get some action.”
“You better keep quiet in this court, or you’ll get action.” Thus
Kaintuck, loud enough for every one to hear. Ertle subsided.
The crowd laughed. Even the judge smothered a smile. Kaintuck blushed
and his mustache jiggled nervously, as he craned his neck to give Ertle
a menacing glance. Skeeter nodded approvingly at Kaintuck, who
interpreted the nod correctly. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
“You danged right,” he said. “I’m the greatest little shutter-up yuh
ever seen.”
Ertle growled something, but Kaintuck could not hear it.
“That’s all, Sheriff,” said the judge. “Henry Gregory, take the stand.”
Gregory walked slowly to the witness chair and looked out at the crowd.
There was no question that they were hostile to him. Speaking carefully
he told of his suspicions that Monk Clark had tried to incriminate
Curley Adams, and that he had, on the spur of the moment, started out
with the intentions of killing Monk Clark.
He did not try to evade any phase of the incident.
“I could have killed him,” he said slowly. “I reckon I had time to do
it. I dunno how long it was before Joy came. It was a jolt to find him
dead. She thought I had killed him.
“Then the sheriff and his deputy came along. I dunno what they thought.
We looked through the house, like he has told yuh—and that’s all.”
“Ask him about that letter yuh found on Monk Clark,” suggested Sol
Asher. “That shows why he might kill Monk.”
Doctor Skeen produced the letter, but the judge waved it aside.
“That case has nothing to do with the one at hand. Gregory admits that
he had reasons for going out to kill Clark. It seems to me that the
other crime, if it was a crime, was committed ten years ago.”
The judge looked down at Gregory. They had been friends for several
years, and the old judge was very human. He smiled at Joy and looked at
the audience.
“You must remember,” he said softly, “that we are not examining into any
motive actuated by a crime supposed to have been committed ten years
ago. We do not actually know that any crime had been committed by Henry
Gregory at that time. As far as that letter is concerned, it has no
place at this hearing, as long as Henry Gregory admits that he had what
he considered good and sufficient reasons for wanting to kill Monk
Clark.”
“Clark was afraid of Gregory,” said Jim Searles.
“Where was Curley Adams when this was goin’ on?” asked Ertle. “It seems
to me—”
“If you want to be examined as a witness, c’mon up and set in this
chair,” said Skeeter quickly.
“I only want to get at the bottom of this, Sheriff.”
“You will.”
“Do any of the jury wish to question the witness?” asked the doctor.
“How long was you at the Box X ranch before yore daughter showed up?”
asked old Mike Gower, who was one of the jurors.
“Long enough to have killed Monk Clark,” replied Gregory.
“By golly, that’s an honest answer,” said old Mike.
“You shoot a .45?”—thus another juror.
“I do.”
“So do I.” Old Mike delivered this information and sank back in his
seat. A ripple of laughter followed.
Gregory was dismissed and Joy was called to the stand. Skeeter assisted
her to the chair and stood beside her while she told her story. She did
not conceal the fact that she had ridden from home, hoping to overtake
her father and to try and prevent him from attempting to kill Monk
Clark.
“And when you found him, did you think he had killed him?” asked the
judge.
Joy nodded slowly.
“Until I talked with him. Then I knew he was innocent.”
“Did Monk Clark ever make love to you?” asked the doctor.
Joy shook her head quickly.
“He did not. Such a question is ridiculous.”
The judge asked the jury if they desired to ask any questions, but none
of them did; so Joy was dismissed and Curley was asked to take the
stand. The crowd sat up straight when the Box X cowboy lifted his hand
and was sworn.
“Where were you when Monk Clark was found dead in the yard of the Box X
ranch?” asked the judge.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you were?”
“No, sir.”
The crowd sat forward. This was more promising.
“Have you and Monk Clark ever had trouble?”
“No, sir.”
“You have heard that Monk Clark was blamed for misbranding a Lazy H
yearling and running on your brand.”
“I have heard it—yes.”
“Did you meet Monk Clark after you had heard this?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember. What kind of a revolver do you use?”
* * * * *
Curley still wore his gun. He drew it out and placed it on the judge’s
desk. Skeeter and the doctor leaned forward to examine it.
“A .45 Colt,” said the judge.
“Mike, you better go home and get yours,” whispered one of the jurors
loudly. “Kinda make it unanimous.”
Skeeter knew that this was not Curley’s gun. It was an old one which
Curley had substituted for his forty-one, and Skeeter recognized it as
being a gun he had inherited with his office. It was evident to him that
Curley believed Gregory guilty, and Curley was trying to throw the
evidence against himself.
“Since when did you start usin’ a forty-five?” asked Gregory.
Curley did not reply.
“Take a look at the shells in his belt,” suggested Ames.
Curley was stumped. Skeeter slipped a cartridge from one of Curley’s
belt loops and placed it on the judge’s desk. It was a forty-one.
The judge squinted severely at Curley.
“Have you any story to tell, Adams?”
“None at all.” Curley shook his head.
The judge nodded and Curley went back to the table. Gregory looked
keenly at him, but Curley did not look in his direction.
“It seems that this is our last witness,” observed the judge. “The jury
will retire and try to arrive at a——”
“Just a moment, judge,” said Skeeter. “I don’t reckon the evidence is
all in yet.”
Skeeter glanced at his watch, smiled softly, and looked back at the
judge.
“I am goin’ to ask Frank Moran to take the stand.”
“I don’t know what good this will do,” protested Moran. “As far as I’m
concerned, it doesn’t matter, but it looks as though it will merely take
up valuable time.”
“In just what way is Mr. Moran concerned?” asked the judge.
“Not in any way,” said Moran. He wiped some perspiration from his chin
and tried to appear indifferent. “I don’t see why valuable time should
be wasted in examining me. I did not see any of this, your honor.”
The judge turned and looked at Skeeter, wondering why the sheriff should
insist on examining a man who knew nothing to testify.
“If Mr. Moran will take the stand—please.” Skeeter smiled exasperatingly
at Moran, who grunted half-angrily, but took the witness chair.
“Why don’tcha call Calamity?” laughed a cowboy.
“Calamity is busy, watchin’ the jail,” grinned Skeeter.
Ertle started to get up, but sat down quickly. If Calamity was watching
the jail—and Rugg was down there—Ertle swallowed thickly and kicked Van
Cleve on the ankle.
“Mr. Moran,” said Skeeter slowly, “is a Government detective. Am I
right, Mr. Moran?”
“Go ahead.” Moran tried to grin, when the crowd shifted and buzzed with
whispers.
This was something interesting to them—but not to Moran. He shifted
uneasily and looked at Ertle, whose face was drawn in a scowl of
apprehension. He wanted to know what was going on down at the jail. If
Calamity was watching the jail, things might not be so good for Sam
Rugg.
And Moran was just as anxious as Ertle. Van Cleve’s mouth sagged half
open as he clasped and unclasped his fingers, realizing that any old
place would suit him better than that courtroom. Ertle shot a glance
toward the doorway, as though estimating his chances to get out, but he
caught a glimpse of Kaintuck Kennedy, and decided to stick it out.
Skeeter turned to the jury.
“Mr. Moran was sent here by the Government to investigate
counterfeitin’. Maybe some of yuh don’t know it, but you’ve been
spendin’ a lot of bad money lately. Moran came here to stop it.”
Skeeter paused to let this information sink in thoroughly before he
continued.
“Mr. Moran has had quite a hard time around here. Monk Clark and Sam
Ertle knew who he was. He had to let ’em know who he was. Then he came
to get me to help him. That silver robbery was done by the
counterfeiters, I think.
“Somewhere between one and two months ago, a strange cowpuncher came to
this town. I’m not sure, but I think he went to the Lazy H, lookin’ for
a job. He didn’t get one. Then he came here and asked the Half-Moon
bartender which way to the Tin Cup.
“The bartender told him. This stranger rode away.” Skeeter looked around
the room. “I wonder if any of yuh remember seein’ him.”
“What did he look like?” asked Mike Gower.
“I dunno. When I seen him he didn’t have no meat on his bones. Between
here and the Box X he’s hangin’ in a tree, grinnin’ wide. I wonder what
he sees that’s so funny.”
The crowd was so silent that a single fly, buzzing on a window-pane,
sounded painfully loud.
Moran shifted uneasily, a scowl drew his brows down until his eyes were
concealed, and his elbows lifted to rest on the arms of the chair.
Skeeter turned his head and looked at Ertle, but the thin-faced
cattleman refused to look at him. Some one cleared his throat raspingly,
and Moran tensed noticeably.
“I hung him up there,” said Skeeter sadly. “The coyotes and magpies had
their feed. He’s got a wonderful grin. He’s laughin’ at somebody—who
ain’t laughin’ back at him.”
* * * * *
Only the uneasy scraping of feet followed this statement.
“What bearing does this have on this inquest?” asked the judge softly,
leaning forward in his chair.
“Somethin’, Judge. This man was murdered—shot dead. And the queer part
of it is—he was killed with a silver bullet.”
“Silver bullet!” It was repeated twenty times, as the crowd leaned
forward, questioning, until the judge rapped for order.
“Why was he shot with a silver bullet?” asked the judge.
Skeeter smiled softly and shook his head.
“Judge, it was fate, I think. The man who fired that shot did not know
he was shootin’ silver.”
No one questioned Skeeter now. He took plenty of time as he scanned the
crowd. The jurymen were sitting on the edge of their seats now, leaning
across the rail in front of them.
Skeeter smiled down at Curley, who was staring blankly at him. For the
first time, he knew what had become of his silver bullet. Joy reached
over and put her hand on Curley’s sleeve, as she smiled up at Skeeter.
Gregory looked dumbly at Skeeter, hardly understanding just what was
being said.
But the crowd knew that something was coming off soon. They did not know
just what it was going to be. The jury looked at each other and back at
Skeeter, whose thin face was set in a determined cast. He knew that they
were waiting—waiting for him to make his next play.
But Skeeter was too clever a gambler to work fast now. He had made them
listen to him—made them want more.
“It was a forty-one bullet, made of silver,” said Skeeter, taking it
from his pocket and holding it up. “It was made from a silver dollar. I
know the man who made it. He shoots a forty-one six-gun.”
Skeeter toyed with the bullet, while the crowd shifted anxiously. But
Skeeter was in no hurry. He put the bullet in his pocket and glanced at
his watch.
“This counterfeitin’ is queer stuff,” he said. “The Silver Bell mine was
a handy place for them to get material. They had to have a certain
amount of silver, yuh know.”
Skeeter hesitated and appeared thoughtful. Jim Searles leaned forward.
“Keep talkin’,” he said. “Dog-gone it, tell us about it.”
“All right, Jim. This stranger wasn’t wanted here, it seems. It looks to
me as though somebody at the Lazy H saw this man. They recognized him,
yuh understand. He went huntin’ for the Tin Cup, and this feller who
recognized him, follered him. The stranger got on the Box X road by
mistake.
“The man who follered him from the Lazy H went to the Tin Cup and found
that the stranger hadn’t got there yet; so he stole a sick man’s gun,
went out and met the stranger—and shot him with that stolen gun.
“The stolen gun held a ca’tridge, loaded with a silver bullet. The man
who killed him thought that the coyotes and magpies would soon destroy
that body—and they did—but there was the bones, the skull that’s still
grinnin’—and the silver bullet.”
“Who molded that bullet?” asked the judge.
Skeeter smiled and pointed at Curley Adams.
“He admits it, judge.”
Curley nodded quickly. “I did.”
“Who fired the shot?” demanded Jim Searles.
Skeeter turned slowly and motioned to Kaintuck, who came up to him.
Skeeter’s whisper was so soft that none heard what he said. Kaintuck’s
lips shut tightly and he moved aside, his eyes on the crowd, which
shifted uneasily.
This was something they did not understand. They watched Kaintuck moving
back toward the door, and they noticed that Kaintuck’s right hand was
swinging near the butt of his gun, his lips shut tight, eyes flashing
from one part of the crowd to another.
Moran started to get to his feet, but sat back again, when Skeeter
looked around at him. Except for the creaking of Kaintuck’s boots, the
room was quiet. Skeeter drew out his watch and glanced at it. From force
of habit the judge took out his watch and noted the time. There was an
old clock on the wall, long since stopped from neglect, and several men
squinted at it. A spur jingled, as its wearer shifted his feet. They
were all waiting anxiously—for what?
Somewhere down the street a revolver shot brought them all to attention.
Two more followed in quick succession. Several of the men sprang to
their feet, among them were Ertle and Searles.
“What’s goin’ on down there?” demanded Ertle.
Skeeter’s lips shut tightly and he threw up one hand.
“Set down, boys! One thing at a time. I think it’s Calamity.”
“But what in —— is he doin’?” demanded Ertle.
Skeeter ignored the question.
“The man who killed the stranger was the same man who misbranded that
Lazy H yearlin’; the same man who went to the Box X, tryin’ to get the
tools that he and his outfit had left under the fireplace where they had
made bad money before Curley Adams bought the Box X.
“Monk Clark follered him, wonderin’ what he was doin’. Yuh see, Monk had
a hunch that this was the man who had branded that yearlin’, and he was
curious to see what he was tryin’ to do. Monk was there at the porch
when this man came out with his stuff. Monk Clark had the deadwood on
him; so he killed Monk.”
Skeeter stopped suddenly, lifting his head to listen. From half a mile
away came the long-drawn wail of a locomotive whistle. The passenger
train was coming in on time.
“But who was the man who killed Monk Clark?” demanded the judge.
He was nervous and his voice struck a falsetto note. Out in the audience
a man laughed hoarsely.
Skeeter did not reply just then. He had lifted his head and was
listening closely. They could hear the dull roar of the train as it
ground to a stop at the station.
“Who killed Monk Clark?” repeated the judge.
“The man who had to kill him to save his own hide,” said Skeeter. He
laughed softly, joyfully. “I’ve got him, Judge!”
Skeeter turned quickly to Frank Moran, while his hand dug deeply in his
pocket. He drew out a yellow slip of paper, which he handed to Moran.
“It came yesterday,” said Skeeter, as Moran took the telegram. “I plumb
forgot it.”