Cautiously, Skeeter lifted his head. The shots had come from the north,
and Skeeter caught sight of something moving. It was a man, or men, on
horseback. Skeeter’s view was only momentary but Skeeter Bill was not
being fooled by anybody. He stayed right there for at least fifteen
minutes. There was not a sound. Several cows drifted in from the south
and began drinking.
Skeeter Bill walked out and looked at his dummy. One bullet had hit the
hat, gone through the thin piece of fence post, mushroomed badly, and
blown a hole five inches across at the front of the old hat. Another
bullet had struck about a foot lower on the post, and had split it into
two pieces. The bullet-hole was a foot below the top of the collar. The
third bullet had missed.
“Mighty good shootin’ in that light,” said Skeeter Bill, his face grim.
“Either of those bullets would have blasted the life out of a man.”
Skeeter Bill took the coat, hat and overalls. He threw them on his
blankets before starting up the slope. He was careful, as he went up
through the brush. The killer might not be quite satisfied with his
own convictions, and come back to verify them. Bill worked his way
slowly, watching the ground. He had gone about a hundred yards when
he found where a boot-heel had cut into the dirt.
Then he found where a horse had been tied, and more boot-prints. It was
not difficult for Skeeter Bill to backtrack those high-heel tracks,
because the man had made no attempt to disguise his trail. Finally he
found the spot where the man had rested, waiting for daylight, and here
he discovered three empty brass hulls where the man’s rifle had flung
them. They were of thirty-thirty caliber and of a well-known brand.
Skeeter looked them over carefully and put them in his pocket.
Then he got down on his hands and knees, examining every inch of the
dirt around where the man had waited. He rolled and smoked a cigarette
before going back to his blankets, which he rolled up, with the
bullet-marked clothes, and went to his horse.
Breakfast was almost ready at the ranchhouse as Skeeter dismounted and
carried his bundle up to the house. Fuzzy greeted him at the door.
Skeeter Bill merely unrolled the bundle, handed the hat to Fuzzy for
examination, and held up the coat for him to look through. Fuzzy
squinted at Skeeter, his jaw sagging a little.
“I made up a dummy,” said Skeeter, “and that’s what they done to it.
Three shots--two of ’em dead-center.”
Aunt Emma and the two cowboys came in to look at the remains, and they
all stood around, solemn-faced.
Fuzzy said, “That kind of ruins my appetite for breakfast, Skeet.”
“Dead-center--twice!” breathed Len Riggs. “How far, Skeet?”
“At least a hundred yards--and in awful bad light, too.”
“Breakfast is ready,” said Aunt Emma soberly.
There was little conversation at breakfast. For once in her life, Aunt
Emma had no suggestions. This was a serious business. When they had
finished Skeeter and Fuzzy stood outside together.
Fuzzy said, “Skeet, you must have been lookin’ for somethin’ like this,
or yuh wouldn’t have made up that dummy.”
Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Just a hunch, Fuzzy--a hunch that worked
out.”
“I’m still fightin’ my hat,” said Fuzzy. “Yuh mean to say that they
want water so bad that they’re willin’ to murder to keep that spring
unfenced?”
Skeeter shook his head slowly. “I don’t, Fuzzy. This deal goes back
a couple years, I believe. Somebody don’t want Skeeter Bill Sarg in
circulation.”
“Hu-u-uh? You mean--they’re gunnin’ for you Skeet?”
“They knew I was watchin’ that water-hole, Fuzzy, and they believed I
was dumb enough to set on that post-pile. My hunch is that the water
ain’t got a thing to do with it.”
Fuzzy Davis’ eyes held a strained, nervous expression, as he tried to
get the situation straight in his own mind. It was difficult to puzzle
out anyone’s reasons for wanting to kill Skeeter Bill. Finally he said:
“I don’t sabe the deal, Skeet. You ain’t had no trouble with anybody
around here. Shucks, you jist got here.”
“Take a look at that old hat,” said Skeeter soberly, “and don’t forget
they thought my head was inside it.”
* * * * *
Skeeter Bill wanted to go to town, so Fuzzy went with him. They tied
their horses to the rail in front of the general store where Skeeter
wanted to buy more tobacco. Emory Van Ness, the old merchant, shook
hands warmly with Skeeter Bill, and sold him the tobacco.
“I heard you was in town, Skeeter,” he said. “Going to stay with us for
a while, I hope.”
“Yuh can’t never tell about me,” replied Skeeter Bill. “I’m a
tumble-weed, Emory.”
Skeeter’s eyes swept over the supply of rifle and revolver ammunition on
a shelf behind him, but did not see the brand of rifle cartridges he had
found at the water-hole.
“Do yuh need some shells?” asked Fuzzy.
“I’ve got plenty for my six-shooter,” replied Skeeter. “Have you got a
thirty-thirty, Fuzzy?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one, but the firin’-pin is busted. Been layin’-off to
get it fixed, but there ain’t no gunsmith around here.”
Skeeter mentioned the brand of the shells he had found at the
water-hole, but Van Ness shook his head slowly.
“We ain’t had none of them for a couple months. Got some ordered. Sam
Keenan bought the last box I had. Them others are the same thing. In
fact, I have more calls for them.”
They left the store, and Skeeter Bill drifted down to the New York
Chop House to say hello to Margie Edwards but she was not in evidence.
Another woman was waiting on the tables.
Shorty Hale, the owner, came out from the kitchen, his face just a bit
sheepish. Skeeter Bill asked about Margie.
Shorty said, “She quit the job last night.”
“Yea-a-ah? Did she get a better job, Shorty?”
“She--she didn’t say. Just left.”
Skeeter went down to the little house and found Mrs. Edwards laboring
over a wash-tub.
“Shorty told me you’d quit the restaurant, Margie,” Skeeter said.
“Shorty must be getting polite,” she said. “He fired me.”
Skeeter looked sharply at her. “What for, Margie?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t have any trouble. Everything was going along
all right but when my shift was finished, he told me that I didn’t need
to come back.” She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I don’t
know what I am going to do now.”
Skeeter Bill turned abruptly and left the house, his long legs taking
long strides, as he went back to the restaurant. Shorty came out to
the counter and found Skeeter Bill waiting for him. The expression on
Skeeter’s face was not pleasant, as he said quietly:
“Why did yuh lie to me, Shorty Hale? She didn’t quit.”
Shorty swallowed painfully, but tried to bluster.
“After all--well, she--”
“Go ahead, Shorty. What did she do--or say?”
“Nothin’,” admitted Shorty miserably. “Listen, Skeeter--this is between
me and you--I don’t own this place--I work here. The owner said to get
rid of her and I had to do it. Honest I did.”
“Who owns it, Shorty?”
Shorty Hale shook his head. “I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. If I did, I’d
lose my job. I’m supposed to own the place. Don’t tell anybody that I
don’t. I jist had to tell you.”
“Sam Keenan?” asked Skeeter quietly. Shorty blinked rapidly.
“I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. It’s my job.”
“Shorty, I want an honest answer; does Sam Keenan try to hang around
Margie Edwards?”
“I--I hear he does,” whispered Shorty. “I don’t reckon it’s any secret.
He kinda liked her--before Hooty got sent up. It ain’t none of my
business, but I heard that he asked her to get a divorce and marry him
only a week ago--and she refused. She’s kind of foolish. Sam could give
her everythin’ and take care of them two kids.”
“Much obliged, Shorty. I won’t mention it.”
“I--I hope yuh don’t. I need this job, Skeeter.”
Fuzzy Davis was waiting for Skeeter Bill in front of the general store.
Skeeter said, “Fuzzy, let’s ride out to the Tumblin’ K and see Sam
Keenan. We can cut across the hills from there.”
* * * * *
Grumpily, Fuzzy said it was all right with him, but wondered why
Skeeter wanted to go to the Tumbling K. In fact, he was trying hard
to understand this tall, long-legged cowpuncher, who had always been
more or less of an enigma. On the way out Skeeter said:
“Fuzzy, did you ever know that Sam Keenan was tryin’ to shine around
Margie Edwards?”
“Well--uh--oh, I’ve heard he was. Never paid no attention, myself. Why?”
“I just wondered,” replied Skeeter Bill.
Sam Keenan’s place was a regular bachelor ranchhouse, with very few
refining touches. There was a long, rickety porch. A man was sitting
on the steps, working over a gun. He was “Arizona” Ashley, who had
been Keenan’s cook for years, a thin, wiry old-timer. He shook hands
violently with Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy, and invited them to sit in
the shade.
Ashley said, “Sam went to Silver Springs yesterday afternoon and the
boys are all workin’. Sam’ll prob’ly be back late this afternoon. How
have yuh been, Skeeter?”
“Just fine, Arizona. Yuh’re lookin’ well.”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
“What are yuh doin’--gettin’ ready for a war?” asked Fuzzy.
Arizona grinned. “No, I hope I ain’t, Fuzzy. The boys are allus kickin’
about the way this gun shoots, so I thought I’d tinker it a little. Just
gettin’ ready to try it out. See that tin can on top of the mesquite out
there, Skeet? See if you can hit it.”
Skeeter took the rifle, cuddled the butt against his shoulder, and
carefully squeezed the trigger. The tin can jumped into the air and
disappeared. Skeeter Bill levered out the empty shell, and handed the
gun to Arizona, who said:
“See anythin’ wrong with that gun, Skeet?”
“It shoots where yuh hold it, Arizona.”
“That’s what I allus tell the boys--it ain’t the gun, it’s you.”
“Skeet always could shoot the eye out of a gnat,” said Fuzzy.
“And never lift its eyebrow,” added Arizona soberly. “It’s jist a gift,
that’s all. Some folks never can learn. Are yuh stayin’ at Fuzzy’s
place, Skeet?”
“Yeah, for a few days. I’m sort of a drifter, Arizona.”
“I know yuh are, and I’m sorry, Skeet. It don’t pay. I used to want to
keep movin’, but I finally got smart, and I says to me:
“‘Arizony, yuh’re gettin’ old. A rollin’ stone gathers no moss. You get
a good, steady job and stick with it.’ And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve
been here eighteen years, and look what I’ve got.”
“What have yuh got?” asked Skeeter Bill.
“A steady job and I only owe three dollars and six bits. Yuh never can
tell how I’d be fixed if I kept on driftin’.”
“Yuh’ve made a lot of sacrifices to git where yuh are, too,” remarked
Fuzzy. “I ’member when yuh didn’t have anythin’.”
“That’s before I got smart, Fuzzy.”
V
Declining to wait and eat supper at the Tumbling K, Skeeter Bill and
Fuzzy cut across the hills to the Bar D. Aunt Emma was a little worried.
She said, “After what happened this mornin’, I’d naturally worry.”
“Nobody wants to hurt Fuzzy,” said Skeeter Bill.
“They shot up a dummy, didn’t they?”
“I resent that, Emmy,” protested Fuzzy. “Mebbe the heat has affected
yore good manners. Set down and fan yourself.”
“I think I will,” she smiled. “I’ve got the mulligan simmering on the
stove, and the biscuits ready to shoot into the oven. That old stove is
hotter than what sinners have facing them. Any news in Yellow Butte?”
“We didn’t find any,” sighed Fuzzy, fanning himself with his hat.
“At least, I didn’t--I dunno about Skeet. I seen him come from the
New York Chop House, walkin’ like the devil was proddin’ him. He was
gone a few minutes, and came back faster’n that. Into the Chop House
he goes, stays a minute or two, and comes out.”
“Keepin’ cases on me, eh?” Skeeter Bill. “I’d like to ask yuh a
question, Fuzzy; did you ever hear that Sam Keenan owns the New York
Chop House?”
“Sam Keenan? No, I never did, Skeet. Where’d yuh get that idea?”
“Things kind of come to me,” replied Skeeter Bill.
“How is Margie Edwards?” asked Aunt Emma.
“She got fired,” replied Skeeter Bill. “Shorty told me she quit, and she
said she was fired. So I put it up to Shorty and he said that he didn’t
own the cafe but took orders from the owner, and that the owner had told
him to fire Margie.”
“Aw, I think he’s tryin’ to crawl out of it, Skeet.”
“If I thought he was, I’d drown him in his own soup.”
“By golly, that’s it!” exclaimed Fuzzy.
“What’s it?” asked Skeeter Bill quickly.
“A sensible use for Shorty Hale’s soup. At that, it might be too thin to
drown a man. You can breathe it without difficulty.”
“Fuzzy!” exclaimed Aunt Emma. “That is ridiculous. But, Skeeter, what on
earth gave you the idea that Sam Keenan might own that restaurant?”
“I dunno,” sighed Skeeter Bill, “I suppose I had a hunch.”
“You and yore hunches!” snorted Fuzzy.
“Go look at that old hat, Fuzzy, and the back of the coat.”
“Yea-a-ah, I reckon yuh do have flashes of intelligence. Sometimes I get
smart, too.”
“When?” asked Aunt Emma soberly.
Fuzzy turned to Skeeter. “Ain’t it like a woman--allus tryin’ to pin yuh
down to a exact date?”
“And never gettin’ an answer,” said Aunt Emma, heading back for the
kitchen.
Ollie Ashley and Len Riggs wanted to go to Yellow Butte, and Skeeter
Bill decided to go with them, against the protests of Fuzzy Davis, who
declared that Skeeter might run into trouble, especially in the dark.
“Trouble is my middle name, Fuzzy,” Skeeter Bill told him. “I’ll be all
right. Besides that, I’ve got two good men with me.”
“Them two?” scoffed Fuzzy. “Lot of help they’d be. I can snap my fingers
and make ’em both go for cover.”
“When, for instance?” asked Ollie soberly.
“Aw, yuh’re just like Emmy, allus askin’ for dates. Go ahead and get
killed. Might improve the country--I dunno.”
Ollie and Len tied their horses at the Seven-Up Saloon, but Skeeter rode
straight down to the Edwards house. He tied his horse to the rickety
fence and went up to the lighted house. Young Bill came to the door to
welcome Skeeter Bill. Margie and Nellie were reading a book. They were
delighted to see Skeeter.
Margie said, “You went out of here so fast yesterday that I had a
feeling you were mad at me.”
“Shucks, I never get mad at my friends,” said Skeeter with a smile. “I
just had somethin’ on my mind at that time.”
They sat and talked for an hour, before the two children went to bed.
After they were gone Skeeter Bill asked Margie if she knew who owned
the New York Chop House.
“Shorty Hale,” she replied.
“Shorty says he don’t, and that he had orders from the owner to fire
you.”
“That’s funny, Skeeter; everybody believes that Shorty owns it. And if
there were another owner, why would he want to fire me? I haven’t done
anything--not that I know about.”
* * * * *
Skeeter Bill shook his head, hunched forward in an old rocker. Then he
looked at her and said quietly:
“Margie, I don’t want to pry into yore private affairs, but I’d like to
know if Sam Keenan ever made love to you?”
Margie Edwards’ laugh sounded forced, but she said, “It wouldn’t be
anything new--if he did, Skeeter.”
“Wanted to marry yuh, eh?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t marry him, Skeeter. I told him I was waiting for
Hooty to come back, and he said--well, he said I’d have a mighty long
wait. I told him I’d get along all right.”
“Were Hooty and Sam Keenan good friends?”
“Well I don’t know if they were good friends, but they certainly weren’t
enemies, Skeeter. But what is all this about? You ask questions like a
lawyer.”
“I’m tryin’ to make two and two equal six, Margie. I kind of feel that
I’ve woke up some sleepin’ dogs in Road-Runner Valley, and they ain’t
happy about havin’ their sleep interrupted. I’ll be on my way to the
ranch, I reckon, but I’ll be seein’ yuh again, I hope.”
“Be careful,” she warned. “I don’t know what you are trying to do, but
it is probably something dangerous.”
“I like it,” he said, smiling at her. “Don’t worry, Margie; this is only
Tuesday.”
He closed the door behind him, leaving her wondering what he meant about
this only being Tuesday.
It was very dark out at the old fence, and Skeeter Bill almost had to
find his horse by feel rather than by sight. As he slid the reins over
the horse’s head, something told him that danger was near him. There
had not been a sound, but some sixth sense warned him.
Instantly he ducked low, intending to slide under the horse but a
hissing rope slashed across his face, jerking tight over the bridge of
his nose, and he was yanked backwards into the dirt. The horse whirled
in against the fence when Skeeter Bill went down, and a voice snapped
a curse.
Skeeter came down on one hip and elbow, and for a fraction of a second
the rope slacked. In that fraction, Skeeter Bill drew his gun and shot
blindly, trying to use that tightening rope as a guide. A man yelled
sharply, and the rope fell away.
Quickly Bill jerked the rope from his eyes, going flat, gun ready. A
shot blasted out, and the whirling horse went completely over Skeeter
Bill but did not strike him. He heard a man running away along the
fence as he got to his feet and caught his horse. Margie called from
the doorway:
“Skeeter Bill! Skeeter, are you hurt?”
“I’m all right, Margie,” he called. “Somebody was just foolin’. See yuh
later.”
The two kids crowded in behind their mother, questioning her about the
shooting but she was unable to tell them what happened, except that
Skeeter Bill said he was all right.
“I’ll betcha he’s a ring-tailed wolf in a fight,” declared young Bill
proudly. “Look at them shoulders! Man, I hope I grow up to be as good
a man as he is. Mom, I bet dad would like that.”
“Yes, I believe he would, Bill. Now go back to bed and forget it.
Skeeter Bill can take care of himself.”
Skeeter rode back to the Bar D. Fuzzy and his wife were still up. Ollie
and Len had already returned home and were in the bunkhouse. Skeeter’s
nose was skinned, and there was a rope-burn over his left eye. He told
them what happened.
Fuzzy said, “Skeet, things like that ain’t no joke.”
“I ain’t jokin’, Fuzzy. It’s got me puzzled tryin’ to figger why they
tried to rope me. What their idea was I don’t know, unless they figured
on draggin’ me around. Anyway, it turned out all right. I shot once,
but I don’t reckon I hit anybody. Come to think of it,” said Skeeter
thoughtfully, “I heard a man yelp.”
“Well, that’s the doggoneddest thing I ever heard!” exclaimed the little
cowman. “Skeet, can’t yuh tell us why they’re aimin’ to ease you off
this mortal coil?”
“Yore guess is almost as good as mine, Fuzzy.”
“Yeah, almost,” said Fuzzy dryly. “Emmy, why don’t you get into this
discussion? Ain’t you got no ideas?”
* * * * *
Aunt Emma shook her head, and almost lost her glasses.
“I reckon we might as well go to bed,” sighed Fuzzy, “unless yuh want
to stay up, Skeet, so as not to disappoint ’em if they come out here
to finish up on yuh.”
“No, I think they’re too disappointed to try again tonight.”
They were getting ready for bed, when they heard horses coming up to
the house. Fuzzy went over by the door, waiting for the visitors to
knock when a voice called:
“Fuzzy, this is Al Creedon!”
“The law is among us,” whispered Fuzzy, and opened the door.
It was the sheriff, with his deputy, Muddy Poole. Skeeter Bill was
standing in the doorway to the kitchen, and called a greeting to the
officers.
“Ridin’ late, ain’t yuh, Al?” asked Fuzzy.
“Kinda. Glad yuh’re home, Skeeter. We hoped you’d be.”
“What’s eatin’ yuh, Al?” asked Skeeter curiously.
“About what happened tonight--at Edwards’ house, Skeet. Several of us
heard the two shots fired, but we had a hard time findin’ where it
was. Mrs. Edwards told us that it happened in front of her place, and
that you said you was all right.”
“That’s right,” admitted Skeeter. “Somebody tried to rope me in the
dark.”
“He’s still got rope-burns on his eye and nose,” said Aunt Emma.
The sheriff nodded. “Skeeter,” he said, “did you know a feller named
Dutch Held?”
Skeeter Bill shook his head. “I don’t believe I ever did, Al.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Fuzzy. “They say he’s a bad boy.”
“Was,” said the sheriff. “Skeet, how many times did you shoot?”
“Once. Somebody shot at me, too. Just two shots fired. I’ve got a kind
of hunch that I hit somebody.”
“So have I,” said the sheriff quietly.
Skeeter Bill looked sharply at the sheriff.
“What do yuh mean, Al?” he asked curiously.
“Where was yore horse, when you started to climb on him?”
“Why--right in front of the gate.”
“Uh-huh. That makes the corner of the fence about twenty feet away.
Well, Skeeter, we found Dutch Held at the corner of the fence, dead
as a door-knob. He had one bullet through his right arm. In fact, it
busted his arm at the elbow. The other bullet was in the back of his
head. That one killed him instantly.”
Skeeter Bill stared thoughtfully at the floor. That other shot had not
been fired at him, but into the back of Dutch Held’s head.
Fuzzy said, “It don’t make sense, Al.”
“What do you think, Skeeter?” asked Muddy Poole.
“There’s only one thing to think, Muddy,” replied Skeeter Bill. “The man
who was with Dutch Held didn’t want to fool around with a crippled man,
so he blasted him down.”
“That would be a terrible thing to do!” exclaimed Aunt Emma.
“Would yuh mind doin’ a little talkin’, Skeet?” asked the sheriff.
Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Go ahead,” he said, “I ain’t got no
favorite subjects, so select yore poison, Al.”
“One of the boys from this spread intimated that somebody tried to
murder you this mornin’, Skeeter. They tried it again tonight. It just
happens that I’m the sheriff of this county and things like that are my
business. What’s yore opinion?”
“I agree with yuh, Sheriff. Go right ahead and find out who is tryin’ to
kill me. It’s all right with me.”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Sheriff,” replied Skeeter Bill seriously, “if I knew--sure--yuh don’t
think I’d be waitin’ for them to try it again, do yuh?”
“Like I told yuh on the way out here, Al, we’re wastin’ our time,” said
Muddy Poole. The sheriff sighed and got to his feet.
“I reckon yuh’re right, Muddy. I hope I see you again, Skeeter.”
“That’s a cinch,” said Skeeter soberly. “You go ahead and hope that I
can see you.”
After the two officers had gone, Skeeter Bill said:
“Fuzzy, what do yuh know about this Dutch Held?”
“Well, he was a bad boy, Skeet. Suspected of rustlin’, horse-stealin’,
smugglin’--finally, murder. Shot a feller in a holdup in Yuma. Dutch
used to be around here once in a while, when he worked for the Double
Circle Seven, north of Silver Springs. I hadn’t heard anythin’ about
him lately.”
“Much obliged, Fuzzy. Well, folks I reckon we can go to bed and get a
good sleep. I think that somebody is awful disappointed over tonight’s
work--and it ain’t me. Goodnight, folks.”
“You better say your prayers,” advised Aunt Emma.
Skeeter grinned at her and said, “Aunt Emma, how about you doin’ it for
me? My prayers never seemed to go high enough to do any good.”
“I’d like that,” said Fuzzy seriously. “It’ll give her less time to
implore the Lord to make me a better man. I dunno who she’s holdin’
up as an example.”