“Who is it?”
Mrs. Kirk’s voice sounded very weak.
“Skeeter Bill Sarg, who went after groceries.”
The splintered door creaked, and a faint light came from the
interior.
“Why, I—I—” stammered Mrs. Kirk, astonished beyond measure to hear
his voice.
She stepped aside and stared white-faced at Skeeter and his burden
and at the others with him. Skeeter stared at Roper Bates, asprawl
in the chair, and at the form under the blankets on the bed.
He lowered Freel to the floor and propped Kales up between the table
and the wall. Mary Leeds and Mrs. Porter were staring at Mrs. Kirk
while Skeeter Bill chafed his benumbed arms and neck and haltingly
introduced them.
“What’s he doin’ here?” asked Skeeter, pointing at Roper Bates.
Haltingly Mrs. Kirk told of what had happened a short time before,
while Roper Bates roused up sufficiently to look around dazedly. He
looked from Mrs. Kirk to Skeeter Bill and nodded weakly.
“Pals,” he whispered. “Him—and—her.”
“Y’betcha, pardner,” nodded Skeeter, and walked over to the bunk,
where he looked down at Kirk.
Bill went back to Freel and examined him. The sheriff was still
alive, but unconscious. Kales was still mumbling incoherent things,
but was too weak to do more than hold up his head.
“Kirk’s better off here than anywhere else,” stated Skeeter Bill;
“but I’ve gotta git the rest of the cripples to a doctor pretty
danged quick. Yuh still got the old horse and the wagon, Mrs. Kirk?”
Mrs. Kirk nodded, and Skeeter turned to Mrs. Porter.
“You keep house here while I hitch up.”
“But you can’t go back to town,” declared Mrs. Porter. “They’ll——”
“I betcha they will,” smiled Skeeter; “but it’s a case of three t’
one. ’F I don’t hand these three men over to a doctor they’ll all
die.”
Skeeter patted Mrs. Porter on the shoulder as he started for the
door.
“Mebbe they’ll only send me to the penitentiary, yuh see.”
It was only a few minutes’ work for Skeeter to hitch up the old
horse and drive up to the door. He carried the three men out of the
house and placed them in the wagon-box on an old quilt.
“You and Mary stay here with Mrs. Kirk,” said Skeeter to Mrs.
Porter. “I’ll see that somebody comes after yuh in the mornin’.”
He turned to Mrs. Kirk and held out his hand.
“If I don’t see yuh ag’in—good luck to you and yore pal.”
“Well, we’ll sure see yuh, won’t we?” queried Mrs. Porter quickly.
“I shore hope so, but yuh can’t sometimes always tell. Mebbe I
better tell you folks good-by, too.”
“Aw, ——!” blurted Mrs. Porter inelegantly and turned back into the
shack, while Mary Leeds came slowly up to Skeeter and took hold of
his sleeve.
“Skeeter Bill, can’t I go with you?”
“I— Mebbe yuh better not,” softly. “She’s a rough old road, and yuh
can’t tell what might——”
“Does a pal mind rough old roads, Skeeter Bill?”
Mary was looking up into his face, a world of yearning in her eyes.
Skeeter’s hand came up and touched her drenched, wind-blown hair for
a moment, and he shook his head.
“There are no rough roads to a pal,” said Mary; and without a word
Skeeter Bill helped her on to the rickety seat.
* * * * *
Crescent City was greatly excited over the events of the evening.
The storm had taken a great toll in property, and the town was
filled with ranchers whose places had been flooded in the big
cloud-burst.
The train had backed into town, bringing two badly wounded men and a
tale of a narrow escape from going into the river and of a
mysterious hold-up, in which the sheriff and his prisoner had
perished in the river. And to cap it all, a wounded sheepherder had
ridden into town and told of a gang of raiders who had destroyed his
camp and herd.
Jimmy Longhair and Bennie Harper, the two men who had been shot by
the sheriff, were stretched out in the Moon River saloon and
gambling-house while a doctor worked over them. The place was filled
with hard-faced cattlemen who argued and declared pro and con.
Among those present were Bowen, Van Cleve and Orson. Swede Sorenson
was still in San Gregario Cañon, unable to cross the river back to
the Lazy H, and not knowing what had happened to their well-laid
plans.
None of the three had been hurt in the skirmish with the Tin Cup
gang, and had walked back to Crescent City. None of them had the
slightest idea where Kales was; but they were under the impression
that Kales had been shot. They did not know whether to stay in town
or to make a getaway while the going was good.
Judge Grayson, who had been summoned, was greatly affected over the
news of Freel’s death. He tried to get some kind of a statement from
Longhair or Harper, but both of them refused to talk. They were both
from the Tin Cup ranch, but they would say nothing to implicate any
more of their outfit.
The train crew were in the saloon, adding their voices to the
general hum of conversation. It had been a narrow escape for them,
and they were willing to admit that they were very fortunate to be
alive.
“I heard that torpedo,” stated the engineer, a grizzled old veteran,
“and I hossed over the old Johnson-bar. The wind usually blows away
the sand, but I guess the Lord was with us this time, ’cause it
stayed on the rail. We sure upset folks a-plenty, but stopped with
the pilot hangin’ out over the water. Wouldn’t have been a chance in
the world except for that torpedo.”
“Who placed the torpedo?” queried the judge. “And what do you mean
by a torpedo?”
“It’s a little metal case which is fastened to the rail,” explained
the engineer. “It’s flat on each end and high in the center, with
lead straps to clamp onto the rail. When the engine wheel hits it,
the thing pops loud. Two of ’em is a slow-signal, ordering you to go
cautious, but when only one pops, you better stop quick.”
“I understand,” nodded the judge. “But who placed that one on the
rail?”
No one seemed to know.
“I don’t know who put it there—” the engineer shook his head—“but
I do know that he saved a lot of us this night.”
“Amen to that,” agreed the judge.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the door, excited voices, the
scrape of footsteps; and in came Skeeter Bill, carrying the sheriff
in his arms. The crowd parted and let him through. He placed the
sheriff on the floor, turned and went back out of the door, while
men crowded around and looked down at Freel, who was still alive.
Before any one had time to call the doctor from his labors with the
other two men Skeeter came back in with Kales. He placed him with
Freel and went back without a word.
“My God!” exclaimed the judge piously. “What next?”
Back came Skeeter Bill again. This time he was carrying Roper Bates,
and following him was Mary Leeds. Skeeter placed Roper on the floor
and stood aside as the doctor came bustling through the crowd,
answering some one’s hail.
Men looked queerly at Skeeter, but no one made any move to interfere
with his freedom. Swiftly the doctor worked in his examination.
Bowen, Orson and Van Cleve moved close together and watched closely,
hoping against hope that Kales had not, and would not, tell what he
knew.
“Any chance for them, doctor?” asked the judge.
“Yes, I think so. Freel is badly hurt, but is suffering mostly from
loss of blood. This other man—” indicating Bates—“has been hit
twice, but I think he will recover. This third man has a nasty hole
in his shoulder, and he appears to have lost nearly all the fingers
on his right hand. Perhaps his pistol exploded. Who is he?”
“Name’s Kales,” said a bystander. “Hired gunman.”
Kales stirred and opened his eyes, looking curiously up at the
circle of faces.
“Did it stop?” he whispered weakly. “The train?”
“It stopped in time,” said the judge.
“Dropped—my—gun.”
Kales spaced his words widely, and frowned heavily as if in deep
thought.
“I knowed that it took one torpedo to stop the train.”
He stopped and took a deep breath.
“Women and children—men—the—bridge—gone. No—gun—so—I——”
Kales tried to smile but only succeeded in contorting his homely
face.
“The wind was too
strong—blew—the—cartridge—off—the—rail—so—I——”
He licked his lips and tried to lift his injured hand, but the
effort was too great. “I—I held it on the rail.”
“God!” cried the engineer wonderingly. “He lost his hand from
holding a cartridge on the track.”
“A hired gunman,” said Skeeter Bill softly. “A paid killer.”
“Where did Roper Bates come in on this?” demanded a bearded cow-man.
Roper Bates was trying to sit up, and one of the crowd assisted him
while another gave him a drink of liquor.
More men were coming into the door, clumping heavily in their wet
boots. They shoved to the front—the Tin Cup outfit, with Monk Clark
at their head. He looked at Skeeter Bill and blinked his eyes
rapidly. It was like looking at a ghost. His eyes switched to the
three men on the floor, and Roper Bates was looking up at him.
Clark’s men had halted behind him. One of them pointed at Skeeter
and said:
“There’s the —— murderin’ sheeperder, Monk! He didn’t drown.”
Mary Leeds moved in closer to Skeeter, and he put an arm around her.
“Murderin’ ——!” gasped Roper Bates. “He only killed a man, Monk.
You and your gang tried to kill a woman. If I hadn’t been there
you’d ’a’ done it, too.”
The man who had given Roper Bates the drink was forcing a drink
between Freel’s lips, and Freel choked over the fiery liquor. The
man lifted Freel’s head a little higher, and Freel’s eyes slowly
opened.
For a full minute he studied the crowd, and his eyes shifted to
Skeeter Bill.
“What—happened?” he muttered. “They—shot——”
“I jumped into the river with yuh,” smiled Skeeter, “and then I
packed yuh plumb over to the sheep-herder’s shack and then brought
yuh here.”
Freel digested this as he studied Skeeter closely.
“You unlocked the handcuffs—when?”
“After I got yuh out of the river.”
“And—you—stayed?”
Skeeter’s mind flashed back to the bank of the river, in the
drenching storm and darkness, when he started to toss the sheriff
back into the flood.
“Yeah,” said Skeeter slowly. “I stayed.”
“You—had—your—chance,” said Freel painfully.
“I know I did.”
Skeeter’s voice held no regrets.
“I could ’a’ got away, Freel.” he went on. “But you wasn’t to blame
for what was bein’ done t’ me. You was only doin’ your duty.”
Freel motioned for another drink, and the man gave him a generous
portion.
“Duty!”
Freel’s voice was so low that the crowd shifted in closer to hear
what he was saying.
“I was doin’ my duty, Sarg? No, I wasn’t. I was glad the judge gave
you life, instead of the rope. I’ll tell you why.”
Freel’s eyes shifted around the crowd, and he nodded.
“Remember the day Cleve Hart was killed? I got shot that day—just a
scratch. I was in that sheep-herder’s cabin when Cleve Hart came.
He—they told me he had said things about the woman who lived there.
“I picked up the shotgun and came out. Maybe he didn’t recognize me,
but he shot. I killed him and rode away.”
“You killed him!” exclaimed the judge. “You?”
“Me,” admitted the sheriff. “I—got—scared—afterwards.
I’m—a—coward, judge.”
Men looked at each other in amazement, and many of them looked at
Skeeter Bill, who had his arms around Mary Leeds and was staring
into space.
“Judge,” called Freel softly. “Listen to me, judge. Will you find
McClelland? I think he’s in Cinnibar now. Tell him I said to take
these —— sheep out of the valley of Moon River right away.”
“Why, how can you order them out?” asked the judge.
“They—belong—to—me, judge.
I—I—didn’t—know—they’d—start—so—much—trouble.”
Skeeter Bill moved slowly toward the door with his arm around Mary
Leeds, and the Tin Cup gang, yet to pay for their misdeeds, removed
their hats as the lanky cowpuncher and the girl went past, paying no
heed to any one.
Outside, they climbed on to the rickety seat, turned the old gray
horse around and started back toward the sheep-camp. The old wagon
creaked in every joint, protesting against such continuous service;
and the old gray horse shuffled along over the wet, misty road,
taking its own gait, while two figures sat very close together on
the lop-sided seat—two pals who found each other in the storm.