Part 3

“‘Arizony, yuh’re gettin’ old. A rollin’ stone gathers no moss. You get a good, steady job and stick with it.’ And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve been here eighteen years, and look what I’ve got.”

“What have yuh got?” asked Skeeter Bill.

“A steady job and I only owe three dollars and six bits. Yuh never can tell how I’d be fixed if I kept on driftin’.”

“Yuh’ve made a lot of sacrifices to git where yuh are, too,” remarked Fuzzy. “I ’member when yuh didn’t have anythin’.”

“That’s before I got smart, Fuzzy.”

V

Declining to wait and eat supper at the Tumbling K, Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy cut across the hills to the Bar D. Aunt Emma was a little worried.

She said, “After what happened this mornin’, I’d naturally worry.”

“Nobody wants to hurt Fuzzy,” said Skeeter Bill.

“They shot up a dummy, didn’t they?”

“I resent that, Emmy,” protested Fuzzy. “Mebbe the heat has affected yore good manners. Set down and fan yourself.”

“I think I will,” she smiled. “I’ve got the mulligan simmering on the stove, and the biscuits ready to shoot into the oven. That old stove is hotter than what sinners have facing them. Any news in Yellow Butte?”

“We didn’t find any,” sighed Fuzzy, fanning himself with his hat. “At least, I didn’t--I dunno about Skeet. I seen him come from the New York Chop House, walkin’ like the devil was proddin’ him. He was gone a few minutes, and came back faster’n that. Into the Chop House he goes, stays a minute or two, and comes out.”

“Keepin’ cases on me, eh?” Skeeter Bill. “I’d like to ask yuh a question, Fuzzy; did you ever hear that Sam Keenan owns the New York Chop House?”

“Sam Keenan? No, I never did, Skeet. Where’d yuh get that idea?”

“Things kind of come to me,” replied Skeeter Bill.

“How is Margie Edwards?” asked Aunt Emma.

“She got fired,” replied Skeeter Bill. “Shorty told me she quit, and she said she was fired. So I put it up to Shorty and he said that he didn’t own the cafe but took orders from the owner, and that the owner had told him to fire Margie.”

“Aw, I think he’s tryin’ to crawl out of it, Skeet.”

“If I thought he was, I’d drown him in his own soup.”

“By golly, that’s it!” exclaimed Fuzzy.

“What’s it?” asked Skeeter Bill quickly.

“A sensible use for Shorty Hale’s soup. At that, it might be too thin to drown a man. You can breathe it without difficulty.”

“Fuzzy!” exclaimed Aunt Emma. “That is ridiculous. But, Skeeter, what on earth gave you the idea that Sam Keenan might own that restaurant?”

“I dunno,” sighed Skeeter Bill, “I suppose I had a hunch.”

“You and yore hunches!” snorted Fuzzy.

“Go look at that old hat, Fuzzy, and the back of the coat.”

“Yea-a-ah, I reckon yuh do have flashes of intelligence. Sometimes I get smart, too.”

“When?” asked Aunt Emma soberly.

Fuzzy turned to Skeeter. “Ain’t it like a woman--allus tryin’ to pin yuh down to a exact date?”

“And never gettin’ an answer,” said Aunt Emma, heading back for the kitchen.

Ollie Ashley and Len Riggs wanted to go to Yellow Butte, and Skeeter Bill decided to go with them, against the protests of Fuzzy Davis, who declared that Skeeter might run into trouble, especially in the dark.

“Trouble is my middle name, Fuzzy,” Skeeter Bill told him. “I’ll be all right. Besides that, I’ve got two good men with me.”

“Them two?” scoffed Fuzzy. “Lot of help they’d be. I can snap my fingers and make ’em both go for cover.”

“When, for instance?” asked Ollie soberly.

“Aw, yuh’re just like Emmy, allus askin’ for dates. Go ahead and get killed. Might improve the country--I dunno.”

Ollie and Len tied their horses at the Seven-Up Saloon, but Skeeter rode straight down to the Edwards house. He tied his horse to the rickety fence and went up to the lighted house. Young Bill came to the door to welcome Skeeter Bill. Margie and Nellie were reading a book. They were delighted to see Skeeter.

Margie said, “You went out of here so fast yesterday that I had a feeling you were mad at me.”

“Shucks, I never get mad at my friends,” said Skeeter with a smile. “I just had somethin’ on my mind at that time.”

They sat and talked for an hour, before the two children went to bed. After they were gone Skeeter Bill asked Margie if she knew who owned the New York Chop House.

“Shorty Hale,” she replied.

“Shorty says he don’t, and that he had orders from the owner to fire you.”

“That’s funny, Skeeter; everybody believes that Shorty owns it. And if there were another owner, why would he want to fire me? I haven’t done anything--not that I know about.”

* * * * *

Skeeter Bill shook his head, hunched forward in an old rocker. Then he looked at her and said quietly:

“Margie, I don’t want to pry into yore private affairs, but I’d like to know if Sam Keenan ever made love to you?”

Margie Edwards’ laugh sounded forced, but she said, “It wouldn’t be anything new--if he did, Skeeter.”

“Wanted to marry yuh, eh?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t marry him, Skeeter. I told him I was waiting for Hooty to come back, and he said--well, he said I’d have a mighty long wait. I told him I’d get along all right.”

“Were Hooty and Sam Keenan good friends?”

“Well I don’t know if they were good friends, but they certainly weren’t enemies, Skeeter. But what is all this about? You ask questions like a lawyer.”

“I’m tryin’ to make two and two equal six, Margie. I kind of feel that I’ve woke up some sleepin’ dogs in Road-Runner Valley, and they ain’t happy about havin’ their sleep interrupted. I’ll be on my way to the ranch, I reckon, but I’ll be seein’ yuh again, I hope.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “I don’t know what you are trying to do, but it is probably something dangerous.”

“I like it,” he said, smiling at her. “Don’t worry, Margie; this is only Tuesday.”

He closed the door behind him, leaving her wondering what he meant about this only being Tuesday.

It was very dark out at the old fence, and Skeeter Bill almost had to find his horse by feel rather than by sight. As he slid the reins over the horse’s head, something told him that danger was near him. There had not been a sound, but some sixth sense warned him.

Instantly he ducked low, intending to slide under the horse but a hissing rope slashed across his face, jerking tight over the bridge of his nose, and he was yanked backwards into the dirt. The horse whirled in against the fence when Skeeter Bill went down, and a voice snapped a curse.

Skeeter came down on one hip and elbow, and for a fraction of a second the rope slacked. In that fraction, Skeeter Bill drew his gun and shot blindly, trying to use that tightening rope as a guide. A man yelled sharply, and the rope fell away.

Quickly Bill jerked the rope from his eyes, going flat, gun ready. A shot blasted out, and the whirling horse went completely over Skeeter Bill but did not strike him. He heard a man running away along the fence as he got to his feet and caught his horse. Margie called from the doorway:

“Skeeter Bill! Skeeter, are you hurt?”

“I’m all right, Margie,” he called. “Somebody was just foolin’. See yuh later.”

The two kids crowded in behind their mother, questioning her about the shooting but she was unable to tell them what happened, except that Skeeter Bill said he was all right.

“I’ll betcha he’s a ring-tailed wolf in a fight,” declared young Bill proudly. “Look at them shoulders! Man, I hope I grow up to be as good a man as he is. Mom, I bet dad would like that.”

“Yes, I believe he would, Bill. Now go back to bed and forget it. Skeeter Bill can take care of himself.”

Skeeter rode back to the Bar D. Fuzzy and his wife were still up. Ollie and Len had already returned home and were in the bunkhouse. Skeeter’s nose was skinned, and there was a rope-burn over his left eye. He told them what happened.

Fuzzy said, “Skeet, things like that ain’t no joke.”

“I ain’t jokin’, Fuzzy. It’s got me puzzled tryin’ to figger why they tried to rope me. What their idea was I don’t know, unless they figured on draggin’ me around. Anyway, it turned out all right. I shot once, but I don’t reckon I hit anybody. Come to think of it,” said Skeeter thoughtfully, “I heard a man yelp.”

“Well, that’s the doggoneddest thing I ever heard!” exclaimed the little cowman. “Skeet, can’t yuh tell us why they’re aimin’ to ease you off this mortal coil?”

“Yore guess is almost as good as mine, Fuzzy.”

“Yeah, almost,” said Fuzzy dryly. “Emmy, why don’t you get into this discussion? Ain’t you got no ideas?”

* * * * *

Aunt Emma shook her head, and almost lost her glasses.

“I reckon we might as well go to bed,” sighed Fuzzy, “unless yuh want to stay up, Skeet, so as not to disappoint ’em if they come out here to finish up on yuh.”

“No, I think they’re too disappointed to try again tonight.”

They were getting ready for bed, when they heard horses coming up to the house. Fuzzy went over by the door, waiting for the visitors to knock when a voice called:

“Fuzzy, this is Al Creedon!”

“The law is among us,” whispered Fuzzy, and opened the door.

It was the sheriff, with his deputy, Muddy Poole. Skeeter Bill was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, and called a greeting to the officers.

“Ridin’ late, ain’t yuh, Al?” asked Fuzzy.

“Kinda. Glad yuh’re home, Skeeter. We hoped you’d be.”

“What’s eatin’ yuh, Al?” asked Skeeter curiously.

“About what happened tonight--at Edwards’ house, Skeet. Several of us heard the two shots fired, but we had a hard time findin’ where it was. Mrs. Edwards told us that it happened in front of her place, and that you said you was all right.”

“That’s right,” admitted Skeeter. “Somebody tried to rope me in the dark.”

“He’s still got rope-burns on his eye and nose,” said Aunt Emma.

The sheriff nodded. “Skeeter,” he said, “did you know a feller named Dutch Held?”

Skeeter Bill shook his head. “I don’t believe I ever did, Al.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Fuzzy. “They say he’s a bad boy.”

“Was,” said the sheriff. “Skeet, how many times did you shoot?”

“Once. Somebody shot at me, too. Just two shots fired. I’ve got a kind of hunch that I hit somebody.”

“So have I,” said the sheriff quietly.

Skeeter Bill looked sharply at the sheriff.

“What do yuh mean, Al?” he asked curiously.

“Where was yore horse, when you started to climb on him?”

“Why--right in front of the gate.”

“Uh-huh. That makes the corner of the fence about twenty feet away. Well, Skeeter, we found Dutch Held at the corner of the fence, dead as a door-knob. He had one bullet through his right arm. In fact, it busted his arm at the elbow. The other bullet was in the back of his head. That one killed him instantly.”

Skeeter Bill stared thoughtfully at the floor. That other shot had not been fired at him, but into the back of Dutch Held’s head.

Fuzzy said, “It don’t make sense, Al.”

“What do you think, Skeeter?” asked Muddy Poole.

“There’s only one thing to think, Muddy,” replied Skeeter Bill. “The man who was with Dutch Held didn’t want to fool around with a crippled man, so he blasted him down.”

“That would be a terrible thing to do!” exclaimed Aunt Emma.

“Would yuh mind doin’ a little talkin’, Skeet?” asked the sheriff.

Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Go ahead,” he said, “I ain’t got no favorite subjects, so select yore poison, Al.”

“One of the boys from this spread intimated that somebody tried to murder you this mornin’, Skeeter. They tried it again tonight. It just happens that I’m the sheriff of this county and things like that are my business. What’s yore opinion?”

“I agree with yuh, Sheriff. Go right ahead and find out who is tryin’ to kill me. It’s all right with me.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Sheriff,” replied Skeeter Bill seriously, “if I knew--sure--yuh don’t think I’d be waitin’ for them to try it again, do yuh?”

“Like I told yuh on the way out here, Al, we’re wastin’ our time,” said Muddy Poole. The sheriff sighed and got to his feet.

“I reckon yuh’re right, Muddy. I hope I see you again, Skeeter.”

“That’s a cinch,” said Skeeter soberly. “You go ahead and hope that I can see you.”

After the two officers had gone, Skeeter Bill said:

“Fuzzy, what do yuh know about this Dutch Held?”

“Well, he was a bad boy, Skeet. Suspected of rustlin’, horse-stealin’, smugglin’--finally, murder. Shot a feller in a holdup in Yuma. Dutch used to be around here once in a while, when he worked for the Double Circle Seven, north of Silver Springs. I hadn’t heard anythin’ about him lately.”

“Much obliged, Fuzzy. Well, folks I reckon we can go to bed and get a good sleep. I think that somebody is awful disappointed over tonight’s work--and it ain’t me. Goodnight, folks.”

“You better say your prayers,” advised Aunt Emma.

Skeeter grinned at her and said, “Aunt Emma, how about you doin’ it for me? My prayers never seemed to go high enough to do any good.”

“I’d like that,” said Fuzzy seriously. “It’ll give her less time to implore the Lord to make me a better man. I dunno who she’s holdin’ up as an example.”

VI

Although Fuzzy went to Yellow Butte with Skeeter Bill next day, he was not enthused over it at all. They talked with the sheriff, who told them that the inquest would be held Saturday forenoon, delayed because Doctor Boardman had to go to Crescent City on business. Skeeter Bill lost no time in going down to see the doctor, who was ready to drive away.

“I wanted to ask yuh a question, Doc,” said Skeeter Bill. “On the day or two after Hooty Edwards was shot, was you called on to treat any sort of a gunshot wound?”

The gray-haired doctor shook his head. “No, I’m sure I wasn’t, Sarg. I would have remembered it, I’m sure.”

Skeeter Bill thanked him and went back to the main street, where he found Fuzzy Davis and told him he was going to Silver Springs.

“I’ll be back for that inquest,” he told Fuzzy. “Don’t worry--I’ll be here.”

“Who’s worryin’?” demanded the little cowman. “You must think yuh’re awful important. Go ahead and get yourself shot. Silver Springs is a awful nice place to die. I’ll tell Emmy to pray for yuh.”

“Every little helps.” Skeeter flashed a smile. “Much obliged, Fuzzy.”

It was late Friday night when Skeeter Bill came back to the Bar D ranch. Aunt Emma fixed supper for him, and Fuzzy did a lot of hinting, but Skeeter did not mention why he went to Silver Springs.

Aunt Emma said, “Fuzzy and I have to be at the inquest tomorrow and they said you’ve got to be there, too. I saw Margie Edwards and they’ve told her to be present and bring the two kids.”

Skeeter Bill smiled over his coffee. “We’ll have a regular old-timers’ reunion,” he said. “Anythin’ new, Fuzzy?”

“Nothin’ unusual. I went out to Hangin’ Rock water-hole but the fence is all right yet. Nobody shot at yuh in Silver Springs?”

“No, they treated me all right. Nice place over there.”

“You can have it,” replied Fuzzy. “Yuh’re goin’ to the inquest, ain’t yuh?”

“If I live--yeah.”

“My goodness!” exclaimed Aunt Emma. “You ain’t figurin’ on gettin’ killed between now and then, are yuh, Skeet?”

“Livin’ in a benighted land like this, Aunt Emma, it don’t do for anybody to plan too far ahead.”

Saturday was always a big day in Yellow Butte. It was the shopping day for almost everybody in Road-Runner Valley and they not only brought their kids, but their dogs, as well. By ten o’clock all the available hitchrack space was taken. Fuzzy and Aunt Emma tied their horses behind the sheriff’s office, along with Skeeter’s horse.

They held the inquest in the courtroom at the courthouse, with Doctor Boardman, the coroner, officiating. The room was filled, long before the inquest was called to order. Mrs. Edwards and her two children, Fuzzy and Aunt Emma and Skeeter Bill, all being witnesses, were accorded a special number of seats at the front.

From his position Skeeter Bill could look over most of the crowd. Many of them he had known for a long time. In the front row of seats he could see Slim Lacey and Sam Keenan. Behind Lacey was Johnny Greer, Keenan’s foreman, and some of his men. In the selection of a jury, Sam Keenan was chosen, along with five other men of Yellow Butte.

Sheriff Al Creedon and his deputy, Muddy Poole, had seats near the coroner, basking in the gaze of the proletariat.

Doctor Boardman opened the proceedings, outlining the circumstances of the finding of Dutch Held’s body, and giving the cause of his death.

“In my opinion,” stated the doctor, “someone held a forty-five almost against the back of Dutch Held’s head and fired the fatal shot, the gun held so closely that it burned his hair.”

He waited for that fact to soak into the crowd and then said:

“We will now call Skeeter Bill Sarg to the stand.”

The coroner clumsily administered the oath for Skeeter Bill to tell the truth, and Skeeter swore that he would.

* * * * *

Skeeter took the chair, stretching his long legs. He shoved his holstered gun to a handy position.

The coroner said, “It is hardly proper to wear a gun on the witness stand.”

“Who is liable to have more need of one, Doc?” asked Skeeter, and the crowd laughed. The doctor nodded, and said:

“Go ahead and tell the jury what happened in front of Mrs. Edwards’ home.”

Skeeter told them in detail of the attack on him, how he got out of it, and said that he didn’t know anyone had been killed.

“I thought that shot was fired at me,” he confessed, “until the sheriff came out to the Bar D and told me what happened.”

“I understand that you do not know--did not know--Dutch Held, and that you do not know why the attack was made on you,” said the doctor.

“I never met Dutch Held, but I deny the last statement, Doc.”

The doctor stared at Skeeter for several moments, and asked quietly, “Do you mean to say you know why you were attacked?”

“I do,” replied Skeeter Bill coldly. “They tried it before, Doc, but they shot a dummy, instead of me. It was good shootin’, too, but yuh can’t kill a fencepost, even if it is wearin’ a hat. Yuh see,” he continued, after a pause, “the dry-gulcher made a mistake. He never picked up the empty shells from his rifle. Almost every rifle leaves its own mark on a shell. Mebbe it’s the way the firin’-pin hits the primer, a scratch on the shell, always in the same place. Doc, I found those shells and I shot a gun, just to get the empty shell--and they match.

“But wait a minute! This deal is older’n just a few days. It goes back to the conviction of Hooty Edwards. Yuh see, gents, a bartender put dope into Hooty’s whisky that night, and that’s why Hooty didn’t know what happened. It’s a cinch that no doped man could have robbed that bank. That man had to be cold sober.

“The sheriff swapped shots with the bank-robber that mornin’ and the sheriff was sure he hit the man. Gentlemen, he did, but it wasn’t Hooty Edwards. The man he hit went to a doctor for treatment of a gunshot wound next day, but not to Doc Boardman. He was scared to do that.”

There was a long silence in that big room. Every eye was on Skeeter Bill, waiting for him to continue. He moved his long legs, pulling his feet in close to his chair. Then he said in a brittle voice:

“Slim Lacey, keep yore hands in sight.”

Suddenly Skeeter Bill flung himself sideways, landing on his knees, six feet away from the witness chair just as a bullet smashed into the back of the chair. Johnny Greer, hunched behind Slim Lacey, had drawn a gun, unnoticed by anybody, except Skeeter Bill, who had seen his shoulder action.

Skeeter Bill’s gun flamed from his kneeling position, the bullet slashing across Lacey’s shoulder, but centering Greer. The room was instantly in an uproar. Keenan, in the jury box, flung a man away from in front of him, giving him room to shoot. He fairly screamed:

“You dirty bloodhound, I’ll--”

Skeeter’s gun flamed again, and Keenan went to his knees over empty chairs, flinging his gun ahead of him. Men were clawing at each other, crashing over chairs, trying to get away from the line of fire. Someone yelled:

“Slim Lacey is gettin’ away! Stop him!”

There was no chance to get through that milling crowd. Skeeter Bill whirled to the front windows. They were not built to be opened, but Skeeter hurled a chair through one of them, and went out onto the sidewalk as Slim Lacey ran from the entrance. The gambler saw Skeeter Bill, whirled, gun in hand, but caught his heel and went flat on his back, firing one shot straight into the air, before Skeeter’s toe caught the gun and kicked it halfway across the street.

Men were piling out of the courthouse. Skeeter yanked the gambler to his feet. Al Creedon and Muddy Poole had fought their way loose from the crowd, and came running. One of the men was the gray-haired prosecutor, who had sent Hooty Edwards to the penitentiary, and his face was just a little white.

“I’ll talk!” panted the frightened Lacey, cringing at the expression of the faces around him. “I--I didn’t kill anybody. I gave Hooty the dope in his drink, but Keenan paid me to do it. I put it in his last drink, when he said he was going home.”

“Keep goin’,” said Skeeter Bill tensely.

* * * * *

The gambler blurted out his confession hastily, in a high-pitched voice. “Sam Keenan was broke, and he robbed the bank, and put the deadwood on Hooty Edwards. He--he wanted Edwards’ wife. Then Keenan bought the Seven-Up and the New York Chop House. I didn’t own the saloon, but everybody thought I did.”

“Why did they try to kill me?” asked Skeeter Bill.

“Because they thought you knew too much. They wanted to make Fuzzy Davis sell the Bar D. That’s why Keenan hired Greer, and Greer was an old bunkie of Dutch Held. Greer was the best shot in the state. He says he shot Dutch accidentally, when Dutch ducked in front of him. He was tryin’ to kill you, Skeeter. That’s all I know. But I didn’t murder anybody--honest, I didn’t!”

Muddy Poole snapped handcuffs on Slim Lacey and headed for the jail with him. Keenan wasn’t dead, but badly hurt. They carried him outside; he was conscious. He said to Al Creedon and the prosecutor:

“Mrs. Edwards can have the Tumblin’ K--it’s hers. Where’s Skeeter Bill?”