Skeeter could hear horses running and the hoarse cry of a man, trying
to give an order. A running horse passed them and swung to the left
beyond the corral fence. Skeeter got to his feet. He was bruised and
wrenched and one sleeve of his shirt was missing. He shook the haze
from his brain and leaned against the fence.
Skeeter knew that Leeds would not give up trying to get the girl and
he laughed foolishly as he thought of Tug Leeds trying to kidnap his
own daughter. Then he thought of Judge Tareyton. Events had happened
so fast that he had forgotten his old partner.
He picked up the inert figure of the girl and stumbled around the
corral, tripping over loose poles in his haste. Shadowy outlines of
buildings gave him direction and he weaved toward his shack. He saw
the door open and a man went inside, leaving the door half-open. The
figure looked big and unreal, as it bulked into the doorway, blotting
out the candlelight.
Into the doorway stumbled Skeeter Bill with his burden and stopped,
letting the girl half-slide to the floor. Mary Leeds was conscious
again and grasped Skeeter for support. Skeeter stared around the
room. On the bed was the judge, his face as gray as his unkempt hair.
The gross appearance seemed to have left his features--bringing back
the old lines of character. The blanket had been pulled to his chin
and, except for his eyes, he was as motionless as though dead.
Skeeter’s eyes shifted to McClung, who was standing near the head of the
bed, his hands raised as high as his shoulders. Skeeter turned quickly.
Standing between him and the door was Tug Leeds, a pistol in each hand
and a sneering grin on his face. Mary Leeds shuddered as she clung to
Skeeter.
“You was so ---- strong for religion, Sarg; go ahead and pray.”
Tug Leeds’ voice was quivering with anger. He stepped slowly around, as
if afraid some one might come to the door behind him.
Skeeter Bill made no move. Tug had McClung’s gun, and Tug knew that
every one in the room was at his mercy. Skeeter Bill glanced back at
the judge, whose burning eyes were fastened on Tug Leeds.
“Where is the preacher?” asked Skeeter softly.
Tug Leeds laughed aloud and without turning his head, pointed toward the
corner, where Skeeter could see the crumpled figure of a man.
“Tried to tell me my business,” sneered Tug.
“Well, what do yuh aim to do?” asked Skeeter bluntly.
Tug laughed mockingly.
“You won’t care, Sarg. No, you won’t care, ’cause you won’t see it,
---- you; you’ve ruined me in Sunbeam, but it ain’t goin’ to be no
satisfaction to you, _sabe?_ I don’t mind tellin’ you that I’m goin’
to take that girl with me.
“I ain’t got a ---- bit of use for her, Sarg. I can get all the girls
I want--plenty of ’em. You’ve crossed me and I’m doin’ this to make
you pay, do yuh understand? When I get through with her she can blame
you for it all, and I want you to die knowin’ that I’m doin’ this--not
because I want the girl, but because I want to get even with you.”
Skeeter looked down at the terrified eyes of Mary Leeds and back at
Tug’s grinning face.
“You can’t take her, Tug.” Skeeter’s voice was cold as ice. “You can
kill me, but yuh can’t take her.”
“Can’t I?” laughed Tug. “Who will stop me?”
“You will,” said Skeeter wearily.
Tug leaned closer, his knuckles white around the butt of the heavy
caliber pistol.
“I will? Whatcha mean?” Tug’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Talk--can’tcha?”
Skeeter Bill looked at Mary Leeds.
“I’ve gotta do it, ma’am. I don’t want no hurt to come to yuh, but I
reckon the hurt is less this way.
He lifted his eyes and stared at Tug Leeds for a moment, and then:
“Tug, you ---- near made a big mistake. This girl----”
The shack seemed to shake with a muffled explosion. Skeeter whirled
toward the bed, where a cloud of smoke eddied from under the corner
of the blanket and a tiny spiral mounted from a torn, smudgy spot
just over where the judge’s hand would be.
Beyond a slight jerk, Tug Leeds did not move for a moment. His hand
unclasped from the butt of his pistol, which had covered Skeeter, and
it fell to the floor. The other pistol dropped from his left hand and
he looked foolishly around.
“Well,” he whispered, as if in agreement, “well--that--is--finished--”
and fell slowly, as a tree falls.
Skeeter swept the two guns from the floor, looked down at Tug Leeds and
then stepped quickly over to the bed, smothering out the fire from Judge
Tareyton’s pistol. He looked down at the judge, who was trying to speak.
“Skeeter Bill,” he whispered painfully, “I had to do it to save you
both. Keep smiling, son, and don’t forget that God put a spark in you--a
spark that will flare up and build a big flame for you--if you let it. I
never gave mine a chance, but----”
He tried to lift himself a trifle, but sank back.
“Skeeter Bill, the preacher was right, when he said it was a dim place.
Yes, by gad, it’s getting awful dim.”
He smiled up at Skeeter and his voice was barely audible.
“I--I--guess--the--old--lamp--needs--oil.”
Skeeter turned away, his eyes blurred. A man stumbled through the
door and stopped near the middle of the room. It was Sandy McClain,
hatless, almost shirtless, with a smear of blood across his face and
chest. His eyes stared vacantly around the room and came to rest on
the prone figure of Tug Leeds.
Mary Leeds stepped in close to Skeeter and grasped him by the arm.
“What--who is that man,” she asked, pointing to Tug. “What were you
going to tell him? Who is he?”
“Somebody beat me to it,” said McClain in a hollow voice, shaking his
head sadly. “I kinda wanted to kill Tug Leeds myself. I--I wanted
to--honestly.”
“Tug Leeds?” asked Mary foolishly, looking up at Skeeter. “Tug Leeds?”
Skeeter nodded.
“Yes, ma’am. I reckon you’ve got to know it sometime.”
“My father?”
Mary Leeds moved forward, staring down at the body of Tug Leeds. Sandy
McClain stared at her, open-mouthed, vacantly. He looked at Skeeter Bill
and back at her.
Mary turned to Skeeter.
“Why--why didn’t somebody tell me that he was my father?”
McClain stepped closer to her, peering at her face.
“What is your name?” he asked slowly. “Your name?”
“Mary Leeds.”
Sandy McClain stared at her--stared at her as if she was a ghost. A look
of wonderment flashed across his face and he glanced quickly around the
room. His lips twitched for a moment and he turned back to the girl.
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Jane.”
“Jane Holden.”
“Yes,” said Mary Leeds wonderingly. “My father’s name was James Leeds.”
“He was a thief,” said McClain slowly. “He was sent West to buy a lot
of cattle, but he--” McClain stopped and looked around. “That was years
ago and the West was a long ways from the East. He went back East and
lied to those men. He told them that he had been robbed--that a man had
impersonated him and cashed the checks. They sent him to prison.”
Mary Leeds looked down at Tug Leeds and shook her head, while the tears
ran down her cheeks. She threw out her arms in a gesture of weariness.
“That was not true,” she said brokenly. “I have been trying to find him
and tell him it isn’t true, but now----”
“What was that?” exclaimed McClain. “Wasn’t true?”
“No, it wasn’t true. One of the men--a man who knew he was going West
with that money, and who followed and helped rob him--died over a year
ago, but before he died he confessed enough to clear my father’s name.
But my father escaped from prison the night of that confession.”
Mary Leeds dropped on her knees beside Tug Leeds’ body and sobbed
brokenly. Sandy McClain, wounded outlaw, laughed hollowly, foolishly.
Skeeter Bill stepped in close to him, thinking that McClain had lost
his mind, but McClain shoved away from him and weaved over to Mary.
“Get up,” he croaked, and Mary looked appealingly up at him. “Get up!
My ----, don’t waste tears on that carrion. That man is the one who
impersonated your father. Don’t you hear me? He took the name of Leeds
and he’s never been able to change it.”
“This man is not my father?” Mary Leeds got to her feet and stared
around. “Not--my--father?”
McClain shook his head.
“No. I knowed your father, Miss. Me and him was in the same
penitentiary. That man--” he pointed at Tug Leeds’ body--“that man
wasn’t fit to oil his boots. He ruined your father and ended by
killing him.”
“What do yuh mean?” gasped Skeeter Bill.
McClain pointed to the bunk.
“Judge Tareyton was James Leeds. I knew his story. My time was up a few
days after he escaped.”
McClain finished his explanation and turned toward the door, where a
crowd of miners were coming in, headed by Jerry Byler and Dick Franklyn.
They stopped and stared at the body of Tug Leeds. The old minister had
got to his feet and was looking weakly around, a welter of blood on his
gray hair, where Tug had hit him with a gun.
“Boys,” said McClung, “I reckon there ain’t much use for a vigilance
committee now. Dick, your pardner was the head of the whole gang.”
“We kinda cleaned up up-town,” nodded Franklyn. “That feller Cullop
told us a few things before he cashed in and we rounded up all the
rest--cripples and all. Sunbeam is rid of outlaws, Mac--thanks to
Sarg.”
“Thanks to Sarg,” said Skeeter Bill slowly. “Boys, I’ve lost my
pardner--my old drunken lawyer pardner. I asks yuh to see that he gets
p-planted right--preacher and all. He wasn’t much to anybody--but me,
don’t yuh see--not while he was alive. I--I reckon I’ll say _adios_ to
yuh all, folks.”
Skeeter Bill turned and started for the door. The miners stepped aside
to let him pass out, but McClung stopped him at the threshold.
“Sarg, you ain’t goin’ to leave Sunbeam, are yuh?”
Skeeter smiled wistfully and nodded.
“Sunbeam has got to be clean, McClung--clean of outlaws. There’s two
left. McClain is entitled to your thanks for what he done tonight, and
I know danged well he’ll go straight if yuh give him a chance--and a
doctor.
“The other one--” he stopped and glanced back at the figure on the
bed--“the other one don’t want no thanks--not till he works that little
spark up to a decent-sized blaze. He’s goin’ now--thanks to Sarg.”
He stepped quickly outside and went around the corner toward his little
barn. The miners poured question after question at Mary and McClung, but
the girl shoved them away and ran to the door.
“Skeeter Bill!” she called. “Skeeter Bill!”
The crowd edged in behind her, wonderingly, silently listening for a
reply.
A few moments later it came--a _diminuendo_ of galloping hoofs. Skeeter
Bill Sarg was heading for the desert, following a star, which was, as
yet, only a tiny spark.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 30, 1922 issue of
Adventure magazine.]