Part 2

“Aunt Emma, I’m fresh from Texas,” he grinned.

“You’re fresh from any place you come from, young man. Unpin yourself from that saddle. My, my! You’re the last man I ever expected to see! I had a hunch that you two was the sheriff and deputy, comin’ in to tell me that Fuzzy was in jail or among the angels. Yuh see, he had a awful mad expression when he left here. No, I ain’t goin’ to kiss you, Skeeter. Fuzzy’s the only man I ever kissed, and don’t make any funny remarks about it. I realize that I’ve missed a lot in life.”

III

Fuzzy took the two horses down to the stable, while Skeeter Bill sat down on the shaded porch with Mrs. Davis. She didn’t ask questions but waited for Skeeter Bill to tell what he wanted to tell.

“Yuh’re lookin’ fine, Aunt Emma,” remarked Skeeter.

“I look just like I’ve looked for twenty years and it ain’t fine. Time don’t improve me, Skeeter. You ain’t changed.”

“I’m so good-lookin’,” said Skeeter soberly, “that any change would have to be for the worse. I feel good, too. Yuh remember that Hooty and Margie named their boy after me, don’t yuh?”

Aunt Emma nodded. “A terrible thing to wish upon a helpless young one, Skeeter, but go ahead.”

“He’s twelve next Saturday. I asked him what he wanted for his birthday and he said he wanted his dad.”

Mrs. Davis looked sharply at Skeeter Bill. “You wasn’t here, when Hooty Edwards--got in trouble, Skeeter. You don’t know what it meant to the folks of Road-Runner Valley. It busted the bank, and busted all of us. Most of us ain’t got back on our feet since--I know we ain’t. I feel awful sorry for Margie and her two kids, but I can’t feel sorry for Hooty.”

“You feel sure that he done it, Aunt Emma?”

She nodded quickly. “It’s a cinch, Skeeter. It didn’t take the jury five minutes all to agree that he was guilty. Even his own lawyer said they didn’t have a leg to stand on. It made it awful hard for Margie. Lots of folks act like she was guilty, too, but she didn’t have no hand in it. The two kids had a hard time in school, too. Most of their parents went busted in the deal, and it ain’t nice for kids, havin’ fingers pointed at ’em.”

“Hooty was my friend, Aunt Emma,” said Skeeter slowly.

“I know he was. You two was thicker than seven fingers on one hand but hard facts are hard facts, Skeeter.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. What became of the banker and his wife?”

“Oh, they moved away. Henry Weldon ran the bank for Phoenix men, and they closed it. Never opened since. The loot was close to a hundred thousand dollars, they said, but nobody ever found where Hooty cached it. He swore he didn’t know what he done.”

Fuzzy came up from the stable and sat down, mopping his brow.

“How’d yuh like to ride out to Hangin’ Rock Spring?” he asked. “I’ve got my two cow-pokes out there, tryin’ to bring order out of chaos, as Emmy says.”

“I’d like to,” said Skeeter, rising.

“Don’t be too late,” said Mrs. Davis. “I’ll have supper ready at six o’clock.”

“I ain’t never been late to a meal out here, Aunt Emma,” Skeeter said with a grin, and added, “and, as a matter of fact, I ain’t had a good meal since.”

On the way out there Fuzzy explained about water troubles in Road-Runner Valley.

“I had to fence Hangin’ Rock,” he explained. “The other spreads have got more water than I have and they wanted to keep me from havin’ any. It was my property and not open range. The court decided that for me. But--well, you can see what happened.”

“You and Dan Houk ain’t friends, eh?”

“Never have been, Skeet. He’d like to run me out.”

“They tell me that the bank took over Hooty’s place and sold it to Sam Keenan.”

“Yeah, that’s right. The bank sold the stock, but sold the ranch to Sam. He got it dirt-cheap, too.”

They found Len Riggs and Ollie Ashley, Fuzzy’s two cowpunchers, at the spring, working with shovels, trying to repair the damage that the cattle had made. Both of them remembered Skeeter Bill.

Skeeter rode over and looked at the tangled wires, where they had been left. This was a real menace to range stock, no matter what the brand. He rode down along the fence-line, looking it over. Some of the posts had been set so loosely the wire had pulled them out.

* * * * *

Skeeter was sitting on his horse, studying the situation, when his gaze fell upon an object beside some trampled brush. He swung down, without dismounting, and picked it up. It was a rawhide honda with about a foot of hard-twist lariat rope still attached. Evidently a rope had snapped from the wires or a post and the honda had been flung aside where the rider had not been able to find it.

Skeeter looked it over carefully, took off the piece of rope and put the honda in his pocket before riding back to the spring, where Fuzzy was working with the two cowboys.

They had the spring pretty well cleaned out, but it would do little good without a fence. They tied their lariat ropes to the tangled wires, and managed to straighten them out. It was quite a job, getting the fence back where it would obstruct cattle from the spring and putting the wire back where it would not tangle cattle.

“Who’s ridin’ for Dan Houk now?” asked Skeeter, as they rode back to the ranchhouse.

“Ab Steele, Jim Grush and Andy Case,” replied Fuzzy.

“Does Sam Keenan still ramrod his own outfit?”

“No, he’s got a feller named Johnny Greer. He’s a good man, too.”

“Looks to me like a turkey-necked gun-slinger from Texas,” declared Len Riggs. “Chaws his tobacco and his right hand is always crooked, ready to fit a gun-butt.”

“Len is a natural-born fault-finder,” Fuzzy explained. “Why, he can’t even see any good in me.”

“That,” said Skeeter, smiling, “is an intelligent state of bein’.”

Len whooped and slapped his leg with a quirt. “That’s a good one!” he declared. “I still don’t like Johnny Greer.”

“If he wasn’t all right, Sam Keenan wouldn’t have him, yuh can bet on that,” declared Fuzzy. “Sam’s particular.”

Mrs. Davis had a big supper ready for them and they all did justice to it. Skeeter declared it was the first real meal he had eaten since he left Road-Runner Valley. He wanted to go back to town that evening but the Davises vetoed that at once.

Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy went to Yellow Butte next day. Fuzzy wanted to talk with the sheriff about the vandalism, as he called it. Al Creedon, the sheriff, listened attentively, and said he’d see what could be done about it. While they were talking, Sam Keenan and his foreman, Johnny Greer, walked in. Keenan introduced Greer to Skeeter Bill, and Fuzzy told them what happened at Hanging Rock.

“Well, did yuh get yore fence fixed again?” asked Keenan.

“Yeah, after a fashion, Sam.”

“Well, if yuh need more men, I’ll send some over, Fuzzy.”

“No, we got it fixed pretty good. It’ll need a little more wire, but I’ve got that at the ranch.”

“The only thing is,” remarked the sheriff, “will it be torn down again by the same persons? If they done it once--yuh know.”

“Might be interestin’.” Skeeter Bill was grinning. “If they come back again, they might be surprised, ’cause I’m watchin’ that particular part of these United States.”

“What do yuh mean, Skeet?” asked the sheriff curiously.

“Just what I said, Sheriff. They hadn’t better come back and start grabbin’ wire again.”

“That watchin’,” said the sheriff. “It might be a long job.”

“Yeah, it might. But who has more time than I have? They don’t need to hurry. I like to loaf in the shade.”

Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy left the office and went up the street. The little cattleman was grimly serious.

He said, “What’d yuh tell ’em that for, Skeet?”

“Well, it’s true, Fuzzy.”

“True, shucks! You ain’t goin’ to watch that water-hole.”

Skeeter stopped short and looked down at Fuzzy.

“Who’s goin’ to stop me--you?” he asked.

Fuzzy shoved his hands deep in his pockets and glared up at Skeeter Bill.

“You ain’t tryin’ to antagonize me, are yuh?” he asked.

“I’m tellin’ yuh to stay down on yore own level. Don’t contradict a grown man, Fuzzy. I’m goin’ to watch that water-hole.”

* * * * *

Fuzzy cuffed his old sombrero over one eye and spat into the dusty street.

“Well, if yuh are,” he said complainingly, “why tell everybody what yuh’re goin’ to do. That ain’t usin’ good sense.”

“I don’t care who knows it, Fuzzy. That way, I won’t have to shoot some innocent friend of mine. I’d hate that.”

“Yore logic,” declared Fuzzy, “is as uneven as a corduroy bridge over a rock-pile. If they know yo’re watchin’ ’em, they won’t come out there.”

“And the fence don’t get torn down again,” added Skeeter.

“Yuh’ve got me beat,” sighed Fuzzy. “When yuh left for Texas yuh was at least half-witted--but yuh deteriorated--badly.”

Skeeter Bill’s eyes twinkled. “I like bein’ crazy,” he said. “It makes thinkin’ so easy on the head. And another thing, Fuzzy--when yuh’re crazy, nobody can figure out why yuh do crazy things.”

“Mebbe it’s the heat,” sighed Fuzzy, “I dunno, I reckon we better go back to the ranch, where mebbe Emmy can talk some sense into yore empty head, Skeet.”

They went back to the ranch and Fuzzy told his wife what Skeeter Bill insisted on doing. To his surprise, she said:

“Well, I think that is just lovely of him!”

“You--u-u-uh--why, shore it is,” agreed Fuzzy. “You ain’t ailin’ nowhere, are yuh, Emmy?”

“Why?”

“Well, I dunno--I jist thought--oh, well, let it lay. He wants a couple blankets, a pair of overalls, a shirt and a old hat.”

“What’s he going to do--impersonate an Injun?”

“I dunno, Emmy. If yuh want my opinion, I’d say--”

“I don’t, Fuzzy,” interrupted Aunt Emma sharply. “If Skeeter wants something, get it for him.”

“Yes’m, shore. Bein’ as you both act crazy, maybe I’m the one that’s plumb loco. I dunno.”

It was after dark when Skeeter Bill rode away from the Bar D ranchhouse, blankets and clothes tied behind his saddle. He also carried some doughnuts, a tin cup and a canteen of cold water. He refused to say what he intended doing out there, just grinned.

He did not ride up to the spring but tied his horse in a mesquite thicket and walked the last two hundred yards in the brush. The brush crowded in fairly close to the spring but to the north was a spread of open country, covered only with knee-high growth. Near the spring was a pile of old posts, left over from the fencing.

Skeeter scouted the country fairly well, but it was too dark for him to see any considerable distance. He cut some brush and sat down behind the pile of posts, working in the dark. Skeeter was not an artist, and his creation wouldn’t even have fooled a wary crowd, but from a distance it might be mistaken for a man.

The neck and head was a broken piece of fencepost, to which he tied a stick, over which he fitted the old coat. After due deliberation he fastened it into the post-pile, with only the head and shoulders showing above the pile. Then he draped the overalls over the posts, giving the right effect for anyone viewing the spring from the south side. Skeeter did not have light enough to look it over critically. Then he took his blankets back in the mesquite, found an opening, and stretched out for the night, looking up at the stars.

“This is Tuesday night,” he said half-aloud, “and Bill’s birthday is Saturday. Maybe I’m seven kinds of a darned fool but I ain’t quittin’ on Bill’s druthers--until I have to quit.”

Skeeter Bill’s range training had taught him to awaken at any unusual sound, but he slept right through until the light of a false-dawn painted the hills for a few minutes. It was cold up there in the brush.

He watched the real dawn spread slowly across the divide, sending streamers of color onto the high points around the valley. He sat up in his blankets, buckled on his gun-belt and drew in deep breaths of the morning air.

Suddenly he jerked to his knees, flinging the blankets aside. From somewhere, fairly close, came the whip-like crack of a rifle. Twice more it blasted, the echoes clattering back from the hills. Skeeter Bill was on his feet, gun in hand, hunched low. Then he went swiftly out along the brush to where he could see the spring and the pile of posts. His dummy was piled up at the foot of the post-pile, the hat six feet away!

IV

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: