by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Ajax for Example,” “The Range-Boomer,” etc.
It was the year of the big drouth in the valley of Moon River; a
season when every blade of grass was worth its weight in gold to the
cattlemen, who watched with jealous care over their unstaked
portions of the range and guarded closely their almost dry
water-holes.
Day after day through the long summer the merciless sun had baked
the grass-roots; browning the land; burning below the surface, until
a puff of wind would drift the soil, as a wind drifts dry snow. Even
the sage and greasewood turned from purple to brownish-gray.
Along the river, which wound its way through this crescent-shaped
valley, the leaves of willow and cottonwood hummed paper-dry in the
hot winds, while the river, itself, was shrunken to half its normal
Summer stage.
The range cattle were red-eyed, hollow of flank and dust-colored and
when they stopped to graze their panting nostrils would send up tiny
puffs of smoke-like dust. In all that valley of rolling hills, which
sloped upward on both sides to the hazy heights of the Shoshone
Mountains, there was no sign of green vegetation.
Riding down the slope of one of these hills, heading toward the
river, came a tall, thin cowboy, unshaven and unshorn. The
expression of his thin face was serious as he squinted into the hazy
distance and spoke softly to his rangy bay horse—
“Bronc, ’f this ain’t the best place I ever seen t’ commit murder
in, then my name ain’t ‘Skeeter Bill’ Sarg.”
The horse sniffed suspiciously at the dry grass, but did not crop at
it.
“Ain’t much juice left in that kinda feed,” declared Skeeter Bill,
removing his sombrero and wiping his brow with the sleeve of his
shirt. For a few minutes he surveyed the country before riding on.
Suddenly he drew rein and sniffed at the breeze. His rather long
nose quivered, and he shook his head. Beyond him a cloud of dust
floated over the skyline of a ridge, growing more dense. It was
impossible to see what was making the dust-cloud, but whatever it
was, it came over the ridge toward Skeeter Bill and dipped down into
the depression beyond.
“Sheep!” snorted Skeeter Bill with the true cowman’s disgust of such
animals. “We shore poked into one fine country t’ poke right out of
ag’in, bronc.”
Skeeter Bill turned and rode angling along the side of the hill,
going through a heavy thicket of greasewood. Suddenly his horse
jerked ahead and went to its knees, and Skeeter fell head first into
a thick clump of brush. As he fell he heard the whip-like snap of a
rifle, and he knew that some one had shot his horse from under him.
He backed out of the tangle and investigated. His bay had crashed
into some brush farther down the hill, and Skeeter could see that it
was dead. He swore softly and held his gun ready.
The bullet had torn through Skeeter’s chaps, along his thigh,
missing the flesh by a narrow margin, and had broken the back of the
tall bay horse. Skeeter had no idea why he had been shot at, nor how
many men might be ready to shoot at him again. It was a ticklish
situation, but Skeeter smiled grimly and waited.
Far away he could hear the soft bawling of sheep and the tiny tinkle
of a bell. A blue jay screeched harshly from down the cañon.
Suddenly the brush crashed as if some one had stumbled into it.
Skeeter glanced keenly in that direction, but did not move.
In a few moments the brush crashed again, and Skeeter grinned
widely. He knew that some one was tossing rocks into the dry brush
to try to get him to investigate. He snuggled a trifle lower and
peered low through the tangle of brush above him. Whoever it was,
they were moving very cautiously, for no sound of footsteps had come
to his ears.
Suddenly his eyes focused on something. It might be part of the
brush, and again it might be the legs of a man; a man whose body was
completely screened by the heavy foliage. Skeeter considered these
leg-like things very closely. Then came a dry cough—more like a
wheezing chuckle; as if the man had tried to choke it and merely
strangled. It came from above the legs.
“Pardner,” said Skeeter distinctly, “I’ve got yore legs in trouble.
’F yuh don’t toss yore gun over toward me, I’m shore goin’ t’
interest yuh in a pair of crutches.”
The legs remained motionless, but from their owner came another
wheezing cough. In fact, the man coughed for quite a while, and the
visible legs shook weakly at the finish.
“Now, throw over the gun,” ordered Skeeter, and a moment later a
Winchester rifle crashed into the brush and hung up in view of
Skeeter.
“C’m on out, pardner,” said Skeeter. “Walk right down past where the
rifle hangs, and I’ll kinda look yuh over.”
The man was coming down through the brush before Skeeter had
finished, and broke his way out into the open a moment later.
“Keep yore hands above yore waist,” ordered Skeeter meaningly,
“while I look yuh over.”
The man was possibly not more than thirty years of age, yet looked
much older. A stubbly beard covered the lower part of his face, and
a pair of weary-looking eyes seemed to consider Skeeter closely.
The man was not evil-looking, in spite of his unkempt appearance.
His torn shirt was clean, as were the worn overalls. He coughed
softly again, and a flush crept across his thin cheeks.
“Shucks!” muttered Skeeter softly. “Whatcha tryin’ t’ kill me for,
pardner?”
The man shook his head slowly, wearily.
“What’s the use of arguing about it? I’m willing to take what’s
coming to me. I got tired of being shot at, that’s all.”
“Well,” grinned Skeeter, “that’s a-plenty, ’f yuh stop t’ ask me.
C’m here and set down.”
The man obeyed wonderingly.
“Yuh got a bad cough,” observed Skeeter.
“Go ahead,” said the man bitterly. “It’s my cough—not yours.”
“Aw, ——!” grunted Skeeter. “I beg yore pardon. I’m always sayin’
the wrong thing.”
He studied the man for several moments, and then:
“Mind tellin’ me somethin’? Honest t’ goodness, I don’t know a
danged thing about this here country. I just rode in. When a feller
gets his bronc shot out from under him he kinda wants t’ know why.”
The man’s eyes expressed his unbelief. Skeeter laid his six-shooter
across his lap and rolled a cigaret while he waited for the man to
explain.
“Well,” began the man slowly, “you’ve got me dead to rights; so it
don’t make much difference now. If you’re one of the cattlemen I’ll
likely get lynched for killing the horse.”
“Likely,” nodded Skeeter dryly. “’F yuh don’t get lynched, you’ll
figger out that I’ve told yuh the truth.”
Skeeter leaned a little closer and tapped the man on the knee with
his finger.
“Pardner, ’f there’s anythin’ yuh don’t want t’ tell me the truth
about—don’t tell anythin’. _Sabe_ what I mean?”
“Afraid I’ll lie to you?”
“Tellin’ yuh not to. I don’t care who yuh are, nor what yuh are,
pardner. I reckon the killin’ of my bronc was a mistake, but that’s
all past. I don’t lie, and I won’t stand for no man lyin’ t’ me.”
The man looked curiously at him wondering if this lanky cowboy was
joking or not. No, he decided that Skeeter Bill was not joking. A
man who would not lie and would not stand for a liar was a novelty
in the range-land. The man decided against prevarication.
“My name is Kirk,” he stated; “Jim Kirk.”
“Mine’s Sarg,” grinned Skeeter. “Mostly always, folks calls me
Skeeter Bill.”
“I’m a sheepherder,” stated Kirk.
“I’m not!” snapped Skeeter. “I hate the —— things.”
Kirk nodded and dug into the hard soil with the heel of his boot.
“I don’t love ’em,” he admitted softly, shaking his head. “Nobody
does, I guess. Still—” Kirk lifted his head and gazed off across
the tangle of brush—“still, they have made it possible for me to
live out here.”
“Oh,” softly.
“If it wasn’t for the sheep I would probably have to live in a
city.”
Skeeter cleared his throat softly.
“Well, under them circumstances sheep ain’t so danged bad, I reckon.
Feller does feel better, livin’ out here in the old hills. Mebbe I’d
herd sheep, too.”
“Yes, you’d do anything to keep living.”
“I come danged near shufflin’ off a while ago,” reminded Skeeter
seriously. “That bronc was worth a lot t’ me.”
The cough came again and occupied Kirk’s attention for a period.
“I’m awful sorry about the horse,” he panted hoarsely. “I thought
you might be gunning for me, and I wanted to beat you to it.”
“You shore had the proper idea,” grinned Skeeter.
“The idea was all right,” admitted Kirk, “and, as I said before, I
got tired of being shot at.”
“Cows and sheep kinda warrin’ round?” queried Skeeter Bill.
Kirk nodded slowly.
“Yes. In a way I don’t blame the cowmen. This range has belonged to
them ever since the first cow came in over the hill. The sheep will
ruin it for anything but sheep, but the law says that sheep and cows
have equal rights.”
Skeeter Bill snorted. The law had never meant much to him.
“And so the cow-men takes things in their own hands, eh?”
“It seems that way,” smiled Kirk.
“You own the sheep?” queried Skeeter.
“Me?”
Kirk shook his head.
“Nope,” he denied. “I’m just a hired sheepherder.”
“Thasso?”
Skeeter considered Kirk’s humped figure for a space of time, and
then—
“You ain’t no hired killer, Kirk; so why take a chance on killin’ or
gittin’ killed?”
Kirk coughed softly and got to his feet. The sun was yet an hour
high, but the cañons were already blocky with purple shadows. From
farther down the hill came the bleating of sheep; the everlasting,
meaningless “_baa, baa, baa, baa_” from hundreds of throats.
Kirk turned and looked at Skeeter.
“No, I am not a killer. I never shot at a man before.”
He pointed down across the brush toward the sheep.
“Do you think I love those things? Sarg, I am not physically fit to
do a man’s work, and I can’t live inside a house. Out here in the
hills I have a fighting chance to live, and there is nothing I can
get to do, that I can do, except herd sheep.”
“Well,” drawled Skeeter, “I reckon we better give three cheers for
the sheep. But I’m still a li’l hazy as t’ why yuh tried t’ bump me
off, pardner.”
“Self-defense. I thought you was one of the gang that left the
warning at my camp yesterday. They ordered me to pack up and get
out—my wife and me.”
“Oh!” grunted Skeeter softly. “You’ve got a wife with yuh?”
Kirk nodded, and a deep crease appeared between his eyes as he
frowned over his own thoughts. Suddenly he shook his head and looked
down toward the sheep.
“It’s time to take them back, I guess,” he remarked. “You might come
down to camp with me and have something to eat.”
Skeeter nodded.
“I’ll take yuh up on that, pardner; but I’ll get m’ saddle first.”
It was only a few moments’ work to strip the saddle from the dead
horse and to remove the bridle. Skeeter made no more comments about
the dead horse. The tall bay had served him well; but Skeeter in his
time had ridden many horses, and this was not the first one to
perish under him.
* * * * *
Carrying the heavy saddle, he helped Kirk round up the herd of sheep
and head them in the direction of the bed-ground. Through a filmy
cloud of dust they followed the bleating herd along the side of the
cañon, until of their own accord the sheep headed down on to a flat,
where Skeeter could see an old tumbledown shack and part of an old
pole-corral.
Smoke was issuing from the crooked old chimney, and as they drew
nearer a woman came to the open doorway and looked at them. She was
dressed in faded calico and coarse shoes, but Skeeter thought he had
never seen a more beautiful face.
After a searching glance at him the woman darted from the doorway
and ran to Kirk, as if partly for protection and partly to find out
if he was all right. Kirk put an arm around her shoulders and turned
to Skeeter.
“Sarg, that is my wife.”
“Glad t’ meetcha,” muttered Skeeter as he placed the saddle on the
ground and held out his hand.
The woman glanced at Kirk before she shook hands with Skeeter Bill.
“I killed his horse,” said Kirk slowly. “I thought he was one of the
cowboys.”
“Tha’s all right,” grinned Skeeter. “Mistakes’ll happen in the best
of families. I’ve been mistaken f’r the same thing before.”
“Then you’re not a cowboy?” queried Mrs. Kirk.
“I dunno.” Skeeter Bill shook his head. “I’ve been a lot of things,
ma’am, and I dunno which one took the most. I’m just kinda
pesticatin’ around, yuh see. I poked into this here country, and
unless I’m misreadin’ the signs I’m goin’ t’ poke right out again.”
“You’ll have to get another horse,” reminded Kirk.
“Uh-huh. But that’s a cinch in a cow-country. I’ve got a rope left.”