Judge Tareyton awoke from his debauch. To him there was no “morning
after” because of the fact that his drunks corresponded to the average
man’s daily doings. The jug was empty, which also corresponded to the
empty cupboard to the average man. The judge did not hunger, but he
thirsted a-plenty.
As he placed the jug back on the chair, some one rapped loudly on the
door. To have said, “Come in” would have been a very great effort for
the judge’s dry throat; so he got shakily out of bed and answered the
knock in person. It was a miner, bearded to the eyes and with the
muck of the creek upon him. The judge shoved his frowsy face through
the door and waited for the other to speak.
“Feller named Sarg live here?”
The judge took this under advisement, but finally admitted it with a
curt nod.
“Here now?” asked the miner.
The judge considered this question, but gave a negative shake of his
head. The man turned as if to leave, when the judge decided to take a
chance on his vocal cords.
“What did you require of him?”
The man stopped and looked at the judge, as though undecided whether to
disclose his mission or not. He stepped in closer and in a confidential
tone inquired:
“Do yuh know if he heard about the vigilance committee or not?”
Judge Tareyton’s face twitched, but he cleared his aching throat and
shook his head.
“We’re goin’ to make these thieves around here danged hard to catch.”
The judge swallowed with great difficulty, and watched the man walk
away. He shut the door, stumbled back to his bunk and sank down.
“Vigilance committee!” he gasped aloud, and then added, “Lookin’ for
Skeeter Bill.”
He picked up the empty jug, hoping against hope that it contained
something beside an odor, but cast it aside, after holding it unsteadily
over a tin cup. He looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Where was
Skeeter Bill? Maybe the vigilantes had already found him. The judge
groaned aloud at his inability to do anything, when prompt action was
needed.
He lifted his wadded pillow and disclosed two big Colt pistols. At least
he could help a little, he thought. His hand trembled with the weight of
one of them, the barrel describing irregular circles. He laid the gun on
the bed and shook his head.
“I’m a menace to myself,” he said aloud. “Not even able to hold a gun.
As God is my judge, if I ever get over this--I’ll very likely do it all
over again. I’ll----”
He stopped talking aloud to himself and stared at the floor. Again he
looked at his watch.
“Five hours!” he grunted hoarsely. “Five hours they gave us to get out.
Where is Skeeter Bill? Have they killed him?”
The judge almost squeaked that last question, but the bare walls of the
shack did not even echo a reply. He got to his feet, found the remains
of an old derby hat, an old Prince Albert coat, faded and torn. Fully
attired he looked at himself in a broken mirror. For a moment he stared
at the reflection, and with a sweep of his hand sent the glass crashing
to the floor. His hand went to his eyes and he stumbled toward the door,
where he stopped and looked back.
“Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursel’s as ithers see
us,” he quoted bitterly. “Seven years of bad luck for breaking a
mirror. Judge Tareyton, you’re a disreputable old reprobate! By gad,
sir, you are not fit to wear a steel bill and pick food in a barnyard
with the chickens. I repeat, sir; you disgrace me. I wish----”
Came the sound of footsteps on the hard ground outside. For a moment
the judge hesitated. There was not the slightest doubt but what this
was either the vigilantes or some of Leeds’ men, he thought. He settled
his battered derby at a more secure angle, squared his stubbled jaw and
opened the door. There stood Skeeter Bill, a girl and an old man.
* * * * *
Judge Tareyton rubbed a hand across his eyes and stared at them. The
girl was smiling at him, and the judge wondered if it was for him or
at him. Skeeter turned to the minister and the girl.
“Folks, I wants to make yuh used to Judge Tareyton.” Then he turned to
the judge. “This here is a preacher named Weston, and the lady is his
daughter.”
The judge removed his battered hat and bowed low. It was an almost
disastrous bow, for the judge was not at all steady in the knees, and
his recovery was just a bit wabbly.
“Sir and ma’am, I am honored. Welcome to our humble village. There is
not much for a visitor to see, that is true, but you must remember that
the place is still in its swaddling clothes. Did I understand that you
are a minister of the gospel?”
“Correctly,” nodded the minister. “I am here to bring a message to the
dim places. Perhaps it is just a trifle strange for a man of my age to
take up missionary work, but I felt called to do this and--I am here.”
“No doubt of that,” nodded the judge absently. “Not a scintilla of
doubt.”
The judge shifted his bleared eyes and swept the visible part of the
town.
“Sir, I have often groped for a word which would describe Sunbeam, but
until now it has evaded me. Dim. Yes, that is the word. By gad, sir,
this most surely is one of the dim places, and I hope your light never
flickers.”
“God willing, it never will, sir.”
“I’m backin’ his play, judge,” stated Skeeter Bill.
Judge Tareyton stared at Skeeter, as if not believing his own ears. He
stared at Skeeter until Skeeter shifted uneasily under that steady gaze.
“Perhaps we had better go to the hotel,” said Mary Leeds.
“There ain’t none,” replied Skeeter slowly. “I just been thinkin’ that
mebbe Mrs. Porter would take yuh both in. Don’t yuh reckon that’s the
best idea, judge?”
The judge nodded slowly and cleared his throat.
“A very, very good idea, Skeeter Bill. I have no doubt but what the good
soul would welcome them.”
Skeeter Bill turned as if to go on, but the judge stopped him.
“Skeeter Bill, have you four-bits? The oil has all burned out of the old
lamp.”
Skeeter grinned and handed him a silver dollar.
“Come on, folks, we’ll visit Mrs. Porter. _Adios_, judge.”
The judge nearly fell trying to execute his bow and move swiftly toward
the street at the same time. His whole being shrieked for liquor and he
forgot Leeds’ warning or the danger of a vigilance committee. His right
hand gripped that silver dollar until it fairly cut into the palm of his
hand.
“Dim places,” he muttered as he stumbled into the street. “By gad, the
old lamp is badly in need of oil.”
Blindly he entered the Panhandle and leaned on the bar. The dollar
clattered on the painted wood, the clink of bottle-neck on thin
glass--the old lamp flickered up again.
Mrs. Porter had been made a widow by virtue of a stick of dynamite,
which did not live up to its scientific principles of only exploding
when detonated. She had found herself alone in Sunbeam, in dire
necessity of making a living; so she turned to the business of
laundress.
History of the old West does not record that outlaws ever stooped to
dealing with such plebeian things as a bundle of laundry, but it is a
fact that many of them had human desires for clean clothes. Skeeter Bill
and the judge had little knowledge of laundry--hence the acquaintance of
Mrs. Porter and her flat-irons.
Mrs. Porter was busily engaged in her chosen profession when Skeeter
Bill arrived with his charges.
“Would you believe it?” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, after the introductions.
“A preacher and his girl! Well, now ain’t it too bad you didn’t show up
a month ago? Jim Porter didn’t have no preacher to speak over him. Jim
was pretty good--good as husbands go--and it was hard to plant him
without any respectable prayers.”
“Can yuh put ’em up for a while, ma’am?” asked Skeeter Bill.
“I can, Mr. Sarg. I have a cot for the lady; and the preacher--” Mrs.
Porter sized up the old minister, much to his embarrassment-- “I think
he ain’t too long for the lounge. Jim hung over at both ends, when he
layed down on it, but you’re kinda runty. Sure, I can put you up. When
do you start preachin’?”
“Is there a church?”
“A church?” Mrs. Porter wiped a soapy hand on her apron and looked
appealingly at Skeeter. “Church in Sunbeam? Now would you listen to
the innocent man, Mr. Sarg?”
“I reckon they don’t understand Sunbeam, ma’am,” said Skeeter, and
added, “But I reckon they’ll learn.”
“I dunno.” Mrs. Porter shook her head sadly. “I dunno. Jim Porter
’lowed he knowed dynamite from A to Izzard. ’Course, nobody knows what
Jim done, but it’s almost a cinch he got flip with a stick of it. Say,
Jeff Billings had some laundry here, which is a total loss to me, as
you might say.”
Skeeter Bill rubbed his chin for a moment, but reached in his pocket and
took out some money.
“Dollar cover it, ma’am?”
“Plenty,” nodded Mrs. Porter, accepting the silver. “Might as well take
the stuff and wear it.”
Skeeter opened his mouth several times, as if unable to frame a reply,
but finally shook his head violently. Skeeter Bill was hard-boiled, but
he could hardly think of wearing the clothes of the man he had killed.
“Go right in the house,” urged Mrs. Porter, and Mary Leeds and the
minister started in.
“Ain’t you comin’ in, Mr. Sarg?” asked Mrs. Porter.
“Nope,” Skeeter shook his head. “I--I’ve gotta job to do. See yuh later,
folks.”
“Thank you so much,” said Mary Leeds, holding out her hand.
Skeeter reached for the hand, but missed and grasped her elbow, much to
his confusion, but he shook her arm solemnly and hurried away without
looking back.
“Gee cripes!” he muttered to himself. “Clumsy danged hippy-pot-a-must!
Can’t even shake hands. That drunken old pardner of mine makes me
ashamed that I never learned how to bow. Now, I reckon I’ve got to turn
reg’lar killer to make good with the sky-pilot.”
He swung into the street and headed for the Panhandle.