Less than an hour later, Skeeter sat with Mrs. Edwards on the porch of
their little house, which was only an unpainted shack, discussing the
misfortunes of the Edwards family. Margie Edwards was still a pretty
woman, in spite of her hard work, trying to keep her family together.
The two children were in school.
“I hear from Hooty almost every week,” she told Skeeter. “He’s grown
bitter.”
“If Hooty pulled that job, why wouldn’t he be bitter?” asked Skeeter.
“He didn’t!” declared Margie flatly. “I don’t care what the law says.
Everybody was against him, because the breaking of the bank just about
broke everybody in the valley. They took the ranch and all the stock,
trying to get something out of it.”
“Did Hooty need money, Margie?”
The woman nodded. “He did, but only to expand. Hooty wanted to raise
better cattle, and breeding stock is expensive. The bank wouldn’t help
him. They said he had hare-brained ideas.”
Skeeter sighed and wiped his forehead with a sleeve.
“I can’t figure out why Hooty didn’t know what happened.”
“He couldn’t either, Skeeter. He says he only took three drinks in the
Seven-Up Saloon that night, but he barely remembers getting on his
horse. After that, it was a blank, he says.”
“At the trial,” said Skeeter, “did any testimony show that Hooty had
only three drinks?”
Mrs. Edwards nodded. “Yes, it did. Slim Lacey was tending bar at that
time, and he said Hooty didn’t drink enough to be drunk. He didn’t think
he had more than three drinks.”
“Slim Lacey must have done pretty darn well,” remarked Skeeter. “He was
broke when I left here.”
Mrs. Edwards nodded. “I guess he was. I never speak to him. One day he
got fresh with me, and Hooty knocked out his front teeth. If you look
close, he has a bridge for two front teeth.”
“I’d like to have seen that!” Skeeter Bill smiled.
Mrs. Edwards admitted that she wasn’t making much money and that Shorty
Hale wasn’t the best boss on earth.
She said, “He was all ready to explode over the broken dishes, when he
saw you, Skeeter. He’d have probably fired me on the spot.”
“Yeah, I reckon so.” Skeeter grinned. “Sometimes I believe I have a
calmin’ influence on folks, Margie.”
They sat there and talked, until the two children came home.
Nellie was nine, a slip of a girl, with big, blue eyes, looking very
much like her mother, but Bill was husky, redheaded, and had eyes like
his father. Nellie was shy of this tall stranger, but Bill let out a
whoop. He remembered Skeeter Bill, and shook hands with him.
“Gee!” he said, “It’s kind of like home, Mom. Where have you been, Mr.
Sarg?”
“Down in Texas, Bill, followin’ dogies. Yuh’re sure growin’ up fast. How
old are yuh, Bill?”
“I’ll be twelve next Saturday.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Twelve years old. Bill, I was the first outsider to
poke a finger at yuh, don’tcha know it?”
“Mom told me you was. We were talkin’ about you a while ago, kind of
wonderin’ where you were. And now you’re here.”
“Talkin’ about me?” marveled Skeeter Bill. “Well, I do know! Bill, what
would yuh like to have for yore birthday?”
Young Bill thought it over soberly.
Finally he said, “If I could have just what I want, I’d take--my dad.”
Skeeter looked at Bill’s mother, and there were tears in her eyes. No
one had any comments, until Skeeter said quietly:
“Yeah, I reckon we’d all like that, Bill. Well, I guess I’ll kind of
drift back and see who I can talk to. Yuh never know who is glad to
see yuh back. I’ll see yuh some more, folks.”
“You are welcome to stay here with us, Skeeter,” said Mrs. Edwards
quickly. “Our home is your home.”
“That’s shore sweet of yuh, Margie,” he said soberly. “No, I couldn’t do
that. But I’ll be around.”
Skeeter Bill picked up his big hat and went slowly up the dirt street.
Young Bill said, “Mom, he’s an awful lot like Dad.”
* * * * *
Margie nodded thoughtfully and went into the house.
Nellie said, “Gee, Bill, is that the man you was named after?”
“That’s right, Sis. I hope I grow up with long legs and big hands like
he’s got. They say he can take a mean steer and stand him right on his
head.”
“Why?” asked Nellie.
“Aw, you’re just a girl--you wouldn’t understand. Let’s go in and help
Mom get supper.”
Skeeter Bill wandered up to the Seven-Up Saloon. Few people were in the
place, and Slim Lacey was sitting at a card-table, reading a newspaper.
He nodded to Skeeter, who went over and sat down with Slim.
“How does the old place look to yuh?” asked Slim, folding the paper and
tossing it aside.
“Same as ever. Slim, I want to ask yuh a few questions. I heard about
Hooty Edwards in Temple Rock. On that night, how many drinks did Hooty
take in here?”
Slim smiled shortly. “Skeeter, I can’t swear to it but I think he took
about three. Mebbe it was four. But no more.”
“Whisky?”
“Yeah. I don’t believe he ever drank anythin’ else.”
“Any special kind of whisky, Slim?”
“No. Just bar-whisky, out of a barrel. What’s this all about?”
Skeeter looked thoughtfully at Slim for several moments.
“Slim,” he said confidentially, “I’m goin’ to prove that Hooty never
robbed that bank.”
“How?” asked Slim blankly.
“A lot of other folks would like to know, too, Slim. Keep this under
yore hat, will yuh? I don’t want to be interrupted in my job. You’ll
know later, but keep it dark, Slim. See yuh later.”
Skeeter went over to the general store, where he bought a package of
tobacco and cigarette papers. Then he sat down on the shaded porch to
enjoy a smoke and commune with his own soul.
“Bill Sarg,” he told himself, “yuh’re crazy, but it’s pleasant. If I
can make enough people believe that I know somethin’, I might find out
more’n I know now. Anyway, one more lie won’t hurt my immortal soul, I
reckon.”
He was sitting there when a lone rider came into town, started to draw
up at the Seven-Up Saloon, but swung around and came over to the hotel
hitchrack. Skeeter Bill grinned slowly. The rider was Fuzzy Davis, owner
of the Bar D spread, and one of the most explosive characters Skeeter
had ever known.
Fuzzy was only a few inches over five feet tall, and in wet weather he
might weigh a hundred pounds but that hundred pounds was all fighting
man. He wore a five, triple A boot, but his .45 was as big as anybody
carried on their hip.
He tied his horse, swore a little under his breath as he stepped up on
the sidewalk, and then he saw Skeeter Bill. He didn’t say anything at
once. He blinked, looked away, adjusted his neckerchief and cleared his
throat raspingly. Then he looked at Skeeter once more.
“Mebbe,” he remarked quietly, “it’s the heat, and ag’in mebbe it’s my
general run-down condition but doggone it--you look like somebody I’ve
known. Set my mind at rest, will yuh?”
“Hyah yuh, Fuzzy,” Skeeter Bill said with a grin.
“You ole _pelicano_!” snorted Fuzzy. “You darned ole-- How are yuh,
Skeet?”
“Finer’n the down on a gnat, Fuzzy. Set down, you little anteater.
How’ve yuh been, anyway?”
Fuzzy sat down and drew a deep breath. “I’m terrible,” he whispered.
“I’m mad, and when I’m mad, I’m terrible.”
“You look fine, Fuzzy.”
“That’s the whole trouble with me, Skeet. The finer I look, the worse I
am. I’ll betcha that when I’m dead, they’ll say, ‘Well, well, there’s
Fuzzy Adams, I never seen him look better.’”
“You ain’t sick, are yuh?” asked Skeeter Bill.
* * * * *
Frowning, the pint-sized rancher shook his head. “Shucks, no! I’m mad,
I tell yuh! Listen, will yuh? This mornin’ I went over to my big
water-hole at Hangin’ Rock. You know the place. It’s fenced, along with
about seven hundred acres. Water’s scarce around here, and there was
only enough for my few dogies. Well, sir, some sticky-rope son-of-a-gun
had tied off on about a quarter-mile of almost new barb-wire all over
creation. My spring was almost dry and around it was every blasted
Tomahawk, JML and Tumblin’ K cow in the valley.”
“That,” remarked Skeeter Bill, “don’t sound like a joke.”
“It wasn’t intended as no joke, Skeet. The ends was cut as slick as a
whistle. I dunno if I’ll ever git that water-hole cleaned out and built
up again. See why I’m mad? Yuh do? Well, yuh’re an observin’ sort of a
feller, Skeet. How come yore back here, and where yuh been?”
“Been down in Texas, Fuzzy. Yuh see, I--well, you knew that Hooty
Edwards named his boy after me, didn’t yuh?”
“Hooty,” replied Fuzzy, “was prone to do fool things. Go on with yore
alibi, son.”
“Well, I came back to help the kid celebrate his twelfth birthday,
Fuzzy. And look what I found out!”
“Yuh mean--about Hooty? Oh, yeah. Well, that was bad, Skeet. I’d have
sworn that Hooty was honest, even if he did name his kid after you.
Honest, but slightly ignorant, as yuh might say.”
“I appreciate yore sympathy for the boy,” said Skeeter soberly. “But
just what are yuh goin’ to do about that water-hole?”
“Me? What am I goin’ to do about it? Huh! I’m goin’ to get the
sheriff to swear out a warrant for Dan Houk. Me and him ain’t
friends, yuh understand. We ain’t been for years. It’s jist like the
big spit-in-the-crick to do a thing like that.”
“Any proof, Fuzzy?”
“There yuh go! Dad blame it, yuh’re as bad as Emmy! Proof? You’ll git
sued for false charges. Dad blast it, ain’t this a free country? You
stilt-legged gallinipper, comin’ up here from Texas, tellin’ me what
to do! It’s my water-hole, ain’t it? Well, don’t set there and grin
like a monkey with a stomach ache. Say somethin’.”
“How is Aunt Emmy, Fuzzy?”
“Well, that ain’t exactly changin’ the subject. She’s fine.”
“Still actin’ as yore guardian angel, eh?”
“She sniffs my breath, if that’s what yuh mean. Got the best nose for
alcohol in the world. Her ma was scared by a bloodhound. Emmy is all
right, except that she uses the Bible as a rule-book. She’s ag’in the
Devil, I know that. I ain’t never knowed anybody so set against a
entire stranger as she is ag’in the Devil. Pers’nally, I’d like to
meet him and ask him how he stands it.”
“Mebbe it’s the heat, Fuzzy. If yuh get hot enough yuh can stand
anythin’. How’s the Bar D goin’, except for the water-hole?”
“Well, pretty good, Skeet. Have yuh got a horse here? Yuh have? Go hang
the hull on him, and we’ll be goin’.”
“Yuh mean, yuh’re invitin’ me out to the ranch?” asked Skeeter.
“I am not--I’m orderin’ yuh. Emmy’d never forgive me if I told her you
was in town and didn’t come out with me. And you know what it means to
not have forgiveness for yore sins, Skeet.”
Skeeter Bill had known Aunt Emma Davis for years. Tall, rawboned,
severe-looking, her wispy, colorless hair drawn tightly to a
frizzly-looking knob at the back of her head, she stood on the porch
of the Bar D ranchhouse, shading her eyes against the sun as Skeeter
Bill and Fuzzy rode up to the porch.
“Emmy,” called Fuzzy, “I found me a prodigal son.”
Skeeter grinned, and Mrs. Davis leaned out further, clinging with one
hand to a porch-post.
“Skeeter Bill!” she half-screamed. “You--you git off that horse and come
here! Where on earth did you come from?”
“Aunt Emma, I’m fresh from Texas,” he grinned.
“You’re fresh from any place you come from, young man. Unpin yourself
from that saddle. My, my! You’re the last man I ever expected to see!
I had a hunch that you two was the sheriff and deputy, comin’ in to
tell me that Fuzzy was in jail or among the angels. Yuh see, he had a
awful mad expression when he left here. No, I ain’t goin’ to kiss you,
Skeeter. Fuzzy’s the only man I ever kissed, and don’t make any funny
remarks about it. I realize that I’ve missed a lot in life.”