WILL ARRIVE CRESCENT CITY TOMORROW TO TAKE CHARGE OF
INVESTIGATION. (Signed) Long.
* * * * *
Moran did not look up, as he slowly folded the telegram. Then he
half-lifted himself from his chair, as though to put the telegram in his
pocket. Skeeter was watching him closely, and Skeeter’s hand was
streaking for the butt of his holstered gun when the telegram fell from
Moran’s hand, which suddenly jerked back to his holster.
Moran was a gunman _par excellence_, and in spite of the fact that
Skeeter was anticipating Moran’s move, Moran’s gun was out of the
holster and coming to a level, when Skeeter fired.
It was all done so quickly that many of those in the little courtroom
did not see them draw their guns. Moran was knocked back in his chair,
his right hand helpless, the gun falling between his knees.
But he was game. As quick as a flash he grasped the gun in his left
hand, falling from the chair, as he tried to pull the trigger. But
Skeeter’s next bullet knocked all the fight out of him.
The room was in an uproar. Men were milling around, trying to get
outside. From near the door came the crashing report of Kaintuck’s gun,
a yell of pain. And above the other noises came Kaintuck’s yell.
“Stop Ertle! Don’t let him go to that winder!”
Kaintuck’s gun crashed again and his bullet smashed the window over
Ertle’s head, just as Ertle flung himself across the sill and dropped
outside. The crowd had unwittingly interfered with Kaintuck’s aim, and
as he tore his way through the crowd, a revolver shot sounded down in
the street.
Kaintuck ran to the window and leaned out. For a moment he stood there,
turned and came back, with several men crowding him, questioning,
sneezing from the powder smoke.
Skeeter was backed against the judge’s desk, a serious grin on his lips,
while those capable of speech demanded that he tell them what it was all
about.
Part of the crowd were at the door, but now they parted to let in Frisco
Larkin and old Calamity, who had Larkin by the arm and was forcing him
along at the point of a gun. They were both dusty and torn. Calamity was
grinning, but his teeth were shut tightly.
Calamity marched him straight down to Skeeter and sat him down in a
chair. The noise subsided, when Calamity began talking.
“I was in the office,” he told Skeeter. “Rugg smashed in the back
door—and I let him smash. He came in and started to bust in Frisco’s
cell door. Then I heard Frisco tell him, ‘My, I’m glad yuh came, Rugg!
They’ve got the goods on us, I tell yuh. Just before the sheriff and his
outfit pulled out of here a minute ago, I heard him tell ’em about
findin’ my boot-heel mark in that trail where we stole the silver.’
“Then Rugg says, ‘How much more do they know, Frisco?’
“And Frisco says, ‘That’s enough to cinch me. Let’s git out of here,
beat it to the Lazy H and grab up what money we can git. We’ve got time,
if yuh don’t stand there with yore mouth open.’
“Then Rugg smashed in Frisco’s cell door, and I stepped out. Rugg tried
to draw his gun—and he’s still there.
“Frisco and me had a race out through the back door. Mebbe I’d ’a’ had
to kill him, too, but he fell over the busted door and I pistol-whipped
him until he said he’d be good.”
Calamity stopped, panting from the exertion.
“And yuh got Ertle, too, didn’t yuh, Calamity?” asked Kaintuck.
Calamity nodded quickly.
“I per-sume I did. I seen him do his dive out of the winder, and I says
to myself, ‘Whenever a man leaves a courtroom by an upper winder, he
ain’t jist right morally,’ so I whopped one shot at him f’r luck—and it
tuck.”
Old Calamity panted wearily and wiped some blood from his lips. But he
braced his feet and grinned widely at everybody. Frisco slumped weakly
in the chair and tried to feel of his swollen head.
“—— old wild-cat!” he blubbered. “Keep him away from me, will yuh?
My ——, I know when I’ve got enough.”
“I’m through with yuh,” panted Calamity. “I know when I’ve hammered ’em
down to my size, y’betcha. Thought yuh could outrun the old man, eh?
Better be —— glad I didn’t have to catch yuh with a hot hunk of lead.”
Jim Searles shoved his way down to Skeeter.
“I don’t _sabe_ it, Sheriff. Was this Moran a Government detective?”
“Said he was, Jim. But I had a hunch he wasn’t. He was one of them slick
crooks who said ‘yes’ once too often.”
“Tell us about it. Ertle and Van Cleve and Frisco! What a —— of a mess!”
“I got Van Cleve,” said Kaintuck. “He came at me, clawin’ for his gun,
and I folded him up like a jack-knife. Skeeter told me to watch the two
of ’em—him and Ertle.”
A stranger had elbowed his way into the room, and was standing on his
toes, looking around. He was a big man, his gray hair showing beneath
the brim of his Stetson. Suddenly he caught sight of Skeeter.
“Hello, Sarg!” he called.
“Hello, Long!” yelled Skeeter. “C’mere and lemme shake yore hand. Give
him room, boys. That’s Mr. Long, the United States marshal. Greetings,
old timer.”
They shook hands violently.
“What in the world has been going on here?” demanded the officer. “It
seems that I ran into a shooting match.”
Skeeter pointed at Moran, who was lying on his back, his arms flung
wide. The officer stooped and studied his features closely for several
moments.
“Didja ever see him before, Long?” asked Skeeter.
“Yes, and I know who he is. His name is Moran, and he’s about the
slickest counterfeiter you ever heard about. What in the world has he
been doing up here in this country? Was he one of the—” Long hesitated.
He did not want to say too much.
“Yeah, he’s one of ’em,” said Skeeter. “In fact, he was the head of the
gang. This one prisoner is all we saved out of the set. Didn’t you have
a man workin’ on this case?”
“I still have.”
“No, you ain’t. This Moran killed him over a month ago.”
“Killed him? Why I’ve got wires—”
“From this feller. He impersonated yore man. Was yore man named Moran?”
“Yes, that’s the name he was using. I think the other man’s real name
was Moran, but he has had many aliases. My operative knew him, but I
doubt if he knew he was in this country.”
“Yore man probably told Ertle what his name was when he asked for a job
on the Lazy H,” said Skeeter. “It sure gave the other Moran a fine
chance to fill his shoes.”
“That must have been it,” nodded Long. “But how in the world did you
ever find all this out? What made you suspect a perfectly, or I might
say, apparently good detective?”
Skeeter smiled widely.
“Did anybody ever call you ‘Shorty’?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did you ever herd sheep down on Sundance Flats?”
“I never herded sheep in my life, Sarg.”
“There yuh are. I called yuh Shorty, and he called yuh Shorty. I asked
him if he ever heard yuh tell about the time yuh herded sheep in the
Sundance Flat country, and he said he hadn’t never heard you tell about
it, but that one of the men in yore office started to tell him about it
one day. That’s what I had to work on.
“So I knew he was a liar. It simmered down to this Moran. I knew that
some one at the Silver Bell had tipped ’em off about that shipment of
silver, and Rugg looked like he might be the one.
“I kinda figured out that Monk Clark was in on the gang, but when he got
killed I thought he had run into some of the gang who were moving their
stuff from the Box X. That left the Tin Cup out of it.
“I had to find the feller who wore that certain kind of a boot-heel, and
I accidentally found it when I knocked Frisco over a chair.” He turned
to Frisco, who was holding his head in his hands, watched closely by
Calamity.
“How about it, Frisco? You might as well talk.”
* * * * *
Frisco lifted his head wearily. “I dunno what in —— there is to talk
about. It kinda looks to me like you knew it all. Moran branded that
yearlin’. I found it out afterward. It was jist luck that Clark found
it. Moran wanted to git even with Curley for that wallop he got.”
“How long have you been with ’em?” asked Skeeter.
“I dunno. Moran was a friend of Rugg. He came here to steal
silver—high-grade. It was too slow. Moran knew how to make counterfeit.
Rugg knew Ertle pretty well; so they got together and framed up this
deal.
“There was five of us in on the proposition, but only four of us held up
the wagon and took the silver, ’cause Rugg had to stay at the mine. It
was me an’ Van and Ertle and Moran who stuck up that wagon and took the
silver. Rugg tipped us off. We had a —— of a time gettin’ the stuff out
to the Lazy H. Moran was the one who held the three men from the Silver
Bell while I drove the team away.
“Moran had a horse tied down the hill, and he got down to where we were
goin’ to unload before I did. Moran sure was a bad actor. He killed the
detective and he killed Monk Clark. He was beginnin’ to get scared of
you, and told Ertle he was goin’ to kill you the first break yuh made. I
reckon that’s all.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s all,” nodded Skeeter.
Gregory, Joy and Curley were grouped together listening to Frisco’s
story, and Skeeter turned to them with a smile.
“I reckon you folks can go home now.”
Gregory shook his head sadly.
“Have you forgotten about that other deal, Sheriff?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully and turned to the
Government officer.
“Long, can yuh tell me who was sheriff of Badger County ten years ago?”
Long smiled reminiscently.
“I should think I could, Sarg. Ten years ago I was wearing the star of
that county.”
“I kinda thought yuh was. Yuh served two terms, didn’t yuh?”
“Yes, I was elected twelve years ago last November.”
“Of Badger County?” Gregory stared at him blankly.
“Long, I want yuh to meet Mr. Gregory,” said Skeeter. “This lady is his
daughter.”
The three of them shook hands solemnly.
“Yuh see,” said Skeeter slowly, “Mr. Gregory is supposed to have killed
the sheriff of Badger about ten years ago. That was what Monk Clark told
him.”
“Is that so? Monk Clark? Why, I knew Monk Clark down in Badger County,
Sarg. That’s right, he did move up here.”
“He—he kept me in a cellar for almost two weeks,” faltered Gregory. “I
was with two horse-thieves. I didn’t know they were horse-thieves.
Your—the sheriff’s posse opened fire on us. I got away, and Monk Clark
kept me under cover. He said I—I had killed the sheriff.”
Long laughed softly and shook his head.
“I guess he exaggerated it, Gregory. I remember the incident. We got the
two men. They said you were innocent; so we didn’t bother about looking
for you.”
“For ——’s sake!” Gregory tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace.
“Didn’t I see one of your men fall?”
“None of them got hit,” said Long. “We got both—oh, yes, I do remember,
Gregory. Jimmy Lewis’ horse stepped in a badger hole and laid Jimmy up
with a busted rib,” Long laughed at the memory. “I don’t know why Clark
ever told you such a thing, unless he wanted something on you; so he
could use you later on. Clark was politically inclined, if I remember
rightly.”
The doctor was busy, and several men were assisting him in taking care
of the casualties; so the courtroom gradually cleared.
“We can’t thank you,” said Joy to Skeeter. “Sometimes there are things
we can’t even begin to say.”
“Tha’sall right,” smiled Skeeter. “You folks run along and don’t mind
about thankin’ anybody. If yuh want to thank anybody—thank Calamity—he
wasn’t bein’ paid to do the job.”
“No,” said Calamity quickly, “I don’t want no thanks. This has shore
been a holiday for me, but I’ll be —— if I’m goin’ to stand here all day
and poke a gun into Frisco Larkin’s ribs. If I knowed he was goin’ to
run, it’d be a different thing.”
“I ain’t goin’ to run,” Frisco shook his head sadly. “Next time I’ll buy
new boots.” He looked up at Skeeter. “It sure don’t pay to repair yore
own heels—nor think a sheriff is a —— fool, just because he never was
sheriff before.”
* * * * *
“That’s right,” said Calamity quickly. “He reminds me of a sheriff I
knowed in 1866—and in them days they shore had sheriffs that was
sheriffs.”
Which was probably the greatest compliment ever paid to any man in Moon
River Valley—and the only one ever voiced by Calamity. Then he led the
way back to the HG ranch, riding in the lead, his two guns hanging from
the saddle-horn; while Skeeter Bill, Kaintuck and Long rode toward the
Lazy H to confiscate the tools of a felonious trade.