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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78893 ***
+
+
+                               SILVER .41
+
+                    A Complete Novel by W. C. Tuttle
+           Author of “Hidden Blood,” “The Lovable Liar,” etc.
+
+
+“Skeeter Bill” Sarg, newly elected sheriff of Moon River County, sat
+awkwardly at his desk, squinting closely at a strange cowboy who was
+perched on a chair opposite the sheriff.
+
+This cowboy was not a stranger to Crescent City, but he was to Skeeter
+Bill, who knew only a few of the riders in that part of the county. This
+cowboy was of medium height, with black, curly hair cut rather short,
+high cheek-bones, a slightly flattened nose and deep-set brown eyes. His
+mouth was narrow, with rather prominent lips, his chin square, with
+scarcely any depression between his lower lip and chin.
+
+Sitting on his boot-heels, humped back against the office wall was
+“Kaintuck” Kennedy, Skeeter Bill’s deputy, trying to roll a cigaret with
+one hand. A pile of torn cigaret papers and spilled tobacco attested to
+the fact that Kaintuck was not at all proficient.
+
+Skeeter Bill picked up a silver dollar from his desk and looked at it
+closely. To him it was a perfectly good dollar, a trifle new, but good,
+honest coin of the realm. He looked back at the stranger.
+
+“How can yuh tell?” he asked.
+
+The strange cowboy smiled knowingly.
+
+“Easy enough. I’ve tested a good many of ’em, Sheriff. That is only one
+of many.”
+
+“Uh-huh.”
+
+Skeeter took several silver dollars from his pocket and handed them
+across the table. Unhesitatingly the cowboy selected two of the dollars.
+
+“Yuh mean to say that they’re bad?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Bad. Yuh might say, they’re both bad and good. In fact, they are almost
+too good, Sheriff. Combination of lead, silver and glass. Oh sure, they
+sound good. It would take an expert to detect them—but nevertheless they
+are counterfeit.”
+
+“Uh-huh. Where do yuh reckon they’re made?”
+
+“Somewhere in Moon River Valley.” The man lowered his voice. “It has
+taken the Government over a year to trace it to this valley. My work has
+been confined to range cases, because I can qualify as a cowpuncher.
+
+“I came here with the intention of working alone. It is not our policy
+to take the local officers into our confidence until the actual arrests
+are ready to be made. I have been working at the Tin Cup ranch for a
+month, and before that I was at the Lazy H.
+
+“But I seem to be up against a stone wall, Sheriff. That money comes out
+of Moon River Valley, just as sure as eggs are eggs; but I am free to
+admit that there isn’t a clue of any kind to work on.”
+
+“Yuh said yore name was Frank Moran, didn’t yuh?”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+“Pleased t’meetcha, Moran. That’s Kaintuck Kennedy over by the wall,
+Moran. He’s my deputy.”
+
+Kaintuck looked up and grinned—
+
+“Howdy. Didja ever learn to roll ’em with one hand?”
+
+“Never tried it,” smiled Moran. “Looks easy.”
+
+“Yeah, it does,” admitted Kaintuck. “Like catchin’ counterfeiters.”
+
+“That’s right,” laughed Moran. “Mebbe you’ve got an idea how to catch
+’em, Kennedy.”
+
+“Uh-huh. Use the same scheme that ‘Frenchy’ Le Blanc used. He was
+runnin’ a sort of a store up in the Bitter Roots, and he does a credit
+business. Frenchy don’t know one figure from another; so he figures out
+a lot of funny marks that mean so-and-so owes him a certain amount.
+
+“He writes all these funny marks on a board, and when he collects all
+his debts, he planes the board off and starts in all over again. One day
+he sells somebody a case of aigs, and forgets who it is.
+
+“So at the end of the month he charges up one case of aigs to everybody
+that deals with him. He had three fights before he hit the right party,
+but he got paid for his aigs—four times. Now, my idea would be to arrest
+everybody in Moon River Valley that had one of them bad dollars in their
+pocket.”
+
+“You’d probably get into a lot of trouble,” laughed Moran.
+
+“Yeah—” dryly. “And you’d probably get a —— of a lot of criminals, too.”
+
+“Kaintuck is a pessimist,” grinned Skeeter. “He never sees any good in
+anythin’.”
+
+“Only when I look in the mirror, Skeeter. Say, Moran, is all them
+dollars the same date?”
+
+“No. They’ve made several molds. Most of ’em are from 1899 to 1906. I’m
+expectin’ you boys to keep all this under your hats, of course.”
+
+“Sure thing,” nodded Skeeter. “It’s somethin’ I don’t know a danged
+thing about. I dunno how they’d go ahead to make the money; but I’m
+takin’ yore word for it, Moran. Quite likely they’ll object to bein’
+caught, eh?”
+
+“Uncle Sam does not deal lightly with counterfeiters.”
+
+“You’ve been takin’ a big chance—workin’ alone.”
+
+“We have to take a chance.” Moran got to his feet. “If it was known who
+I am, I wouldn’t last a week. I am lettin’ you in on this, Sheriff,
+because I need help, and because of another reason. Here.”
+
+He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Skeeter Bill. It read—
+
+Frank Moran: Would advise taking up matter with new sheriff. Know him to
+be capable man. Must get action soon or relinquish the case, because it
+is taking too long to suit the Department. My regards to the sheriff.
+(Signed) Long.
+
+“‘Shorty’ Long, U. S. marshal, eh?” smiled Skeeter Bill, handing back
+the letter. “Yeah, I sure know him.”
+
+“Good old Shorty,” nodded Moran. “He’s sure a white man.”
+
+“Yeah,” nodded Skeeter thoughtfully. “Shorty sure is. Yuh never happened
+to hear him tell about the time he herded sheep down in Sundance Flats,
+did yuh?” Skeeter laughed softly.
+
+“No, he never told me about it,” grinned Moran. “But one of his deputies
+started to tell me the story one day, and somethin’ interrupted him; so
+I never heard it.”
+
+“Well, you git him to tell yuh,” laughed Skeeter. “I’d only spoil it.”
+
+“I sure will,” grinned Moran. “Well, I’ll mosey along. Probably drop in
+here in a few days and see what you’ve found out. In case yuh write to
+Long, tell him I’m doin’ the best I can. Yuh might explain what I’m up
+against, Sheriff. I’ve tried to show ’em, but they probably don’t
+understand.
+
+“In another letter he suggests sendin’ in another man to help me, but
+that would only complicate matters, don’tcha see. These counterfeiters
+are always lookin’ for Government men, and they’d be suspicious of a
+stranger.”
+
+“That’s a cinch,” nodded Skeeter. “I’ll see what I can find out and let
+yuh know. If it was rustlers or bank robbers, I’d stand a show; but bad
+money is sure a new proposition to me.” He shook hands with Moran, who
+went back up the street. Skeeter sat down and squinted at Kaintuck, who
+was still tearing cigaret papers and spilling tobacco.
+
+“How long do yuh reckon it’ll take yuh to learn to roll one cigaret
+one-handed, Kaintuck?” he asked curiously.
+
+“How long?” Kaintuck grinned lazily. “Well, I dunno, Skeeter. Prob’ly as
+long as it’ll take you to catch a counterfeiter.”
+
+“I’m scared yo’re goin’ to waste a lot of tobacco, cowboy.”
+
+“And yo’re goin’ to waste a lot of time, Skeeter.”
+
+“Time don’t mean nothin’ on this job,” laughed Skeeter. “I’m goin’ to be
+here for two years.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was Skeeter’s first month as sheriff of Moon River County, and the
+job was still a mystery to him. He knew nothing of clerical work.
+Kaintuck Kennedy knew even less than Skeeter Bill.
+
+Even the election was a surprize to Skeeter. He had not expected to be
+elected. In fact he had won by eleven votes, which was a substantial
+majority in Moon River.
+
+Skeeter was tall, thin, and with a serious expression. But he was not
+always serious. Back of those level gray eyes and inquisitive eyebrows
+was an over-developed sense of humor, and he had the faculty of wearing
+the same expression under all conditions.
+
+As one of his staunch supporters had said—
+
+“Skeeter Bill shore is fitted to this new job. Havin’ been a real good
+horse-thief, he’s able to think like one; and that helps a lot, when
+yo’re huntin’ one.”
+
+All of which shows that Skeeter Bill’s past did not interfere with his
+present and future. Until his election he had been working for the KG7
+outfit, twenty miles south of Crescent City, the county seat. He and
+Kaintuck had bunked together, and it was entirely fitting that he make
+Kaintuck his deputy.
+
+Kaintuck was the opposite physically to Skeeter Bill. He was not over
+five feet seven inches in height, rather stout and bow-legged. He tried
+hard to wear a mustache, but it was rather a dismal failure; being wispy
+and yellow, one end insisting on twisting toward his chin, while the
+other pointed indifferently toward his eye.
+
+“Looks like somebody had pasted a danged S on yore lip,” was Skeeter’s
+opinion. “Yuh ought to get a crutch for one end, or hang a weight on the
+other.”
+
+Crescent City was a nondescript cattle town. A branch line of the N. W.
+railroad swung in out of the desert, wound its way through a pass, and
+into the valley; only to leave by another heavily graded pass.
+
+The main street of the town was crooked, as though one end of the place
+did not care to have the other end know what it was doing. Being the
+county seat, it naturally became the center of industry. Twenty miles to
+the north was a fairly new mining district, which outfitted at Crescent
+City, although the Silver Bell mine was the only one to employ any great
+number of men.
+
+A two-horse stage made tri-weekly trips to the Silver Bell district,
+carrying the mail and express. It was a bad road, built with an idea of
+economy, and naturally followed the lines of least resistance. An empty
+buggy was a good load for two horses, but the turns were so short and
+the road so narrow that four horses would have been just two too many.
+
+There were a number of cattle outfits in the valley, but the Tin Cup and
+the Lazy H were the largest. The Tin Cup brand was owned by “Monk”
+Clark, who raised both horses and cattle, while the Lazy H, Sam Ertle’s
+brand, raised only such horses as were needed in handling their cattle.
+
+Both Clark and Ertle had worked against Skeeter in the campaign. Clark
+had thought himself sort of a political boss in Moon River County, and a
+defeat did not please him in the least.
+
+Monk Clark was a big, burly man, middle-aged, and with a hair-trigger
+disposition. Sam Ertle was small, wiry, soft-spoken, and a very capable
+cattleman. He had only operated the Lazy H for about fifteen months,
+having bought it in at a sale, after Cleve Hart, the original owner, had
+been killed.
+
+Skeeter Bill had never had any serious trouble with either of them, and
+their opposition to his election was merely because of political
+differences.
+
+For several minutes after Moran left the office Skeeter silently
+contemplated his two counterfeit dollars. Kaintuck continued to tear
+papers and spill tobacco.
+
+“You got any silver dollars?” asked Skeeter. Kaintuck looked up at him.
+
+“Have I got any silver dollars?” Kaintuck rubbed his chin and squinted
+at Skeeter. “Cowboy, I reckon I know what yo’re thinkin’ about, and all
+I can do is shake my head and hope you’ll believe me. I know how yuh
+feel about them two dollars that just spoiled on yuh. Yo’re melancholy,
+that’s all—and misery likes company.”
+
+“But it ain’t ethical for yuh to spend bad money.”
+
+“I ain’t spendin’ it, am I?”
+
+“That’s true. If I was a detective I’d know what to do. Dang that
+feller, anyway! I’m supposed to investigate on the quiet. Investigate
+what?”
+
+“Counterfeitin’,” grinned Kaintuck. “Kinda make a house-to-house
+canvass, and ask everybody if they’ve seen anybody makin’ bad money. Yuh
+might start out by—”
+
+“Gettin’ killed,” finished Skeeter. “When it comes to detectin’, me and
+you run a dead-heat.”
+
+“Prob’ly. Still there’s one satisfaction, Skeeter; yuh don’t have to
+catch ’em. There ain’t nothin’ in yore oath of office that says you’ve
+got to catch counterfeiters.”
+
+“No, that’s right, too, Kaintuck. I wish somebody would rob a bank or
+steal a horse to take this off my mind.”
+
+“Mine too,” said Kaintuck seriously. “I ain’t took a shot at anybody
+since I’ve been a deputy. ——! If I thought that all sheriffs and
+deputies was as incompetent as we are, I’d resign right now and take up
+horse stealin’. I shore would, Skeeter.”
+
+Kaintuck walked to the office door and slouched against the side.
+
+“Train’s in,” he announced.
+
+A few moments later he looked back at Skeeter and said—
+
+“Looks like a couple of drummers had come in, Skeeter.”
+
+“Tell ’em we ain’t buyin’ nothin’ today.”
+
+“One of ’em has got on a hard hat. I’ll betcha they’re comin’ to see us,
+Skeeter.”
+
+Skeeter got to his feet and walked to the doorway, where he watched the
+two middle-aged, well-dressed men approach the office door. He nodded to
+them and they stopped.
+
+“Howdy, folks,” said Skeeter pleasantly.
+
+“How do you do?” said one of them, looking at the sign over the door.
+“Thought perhaps you would be able to furnish us with some information.
+We are on our way to the Silver Bell mine, and it seemed impossible for
+us to get reliable information as to when the stage trips are made.”
+
+“You just about hit it,” said Skeeter, squinting up the street. “The
+stage is about due to travel, I think. Stay on this side of the street
+and yuh can’t miss it.”
+
+They thanked him and went on.
+
+“Them ain’t drummers,” declared Kaintuck.
+
+“No-o-o? Jist how do yuh read their sign?”
+
+“Don’t have to read, Skeeter. What in —— would a drummer do at the
+Silver Bell—sell ’em some silver?”
+
+Skeeter grinned slowly.
+
+“You’ve got all the instincts of a successful detective, Kaintuck
+Kennedy. Let’s me and you go and find somethin’ to eat. We ought to be
+detectives enough to find food.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They closed the office, crossed the street and walked past the big
+Half-Moon Saloon and gambling house to a little Chinese restaurant.
+Several cowboys were eating their noonday meal, and one of them waved a
+fork at them as they sat down.
+
+“That’s ‘Curley’ Adams,” said Kaintuck. “He worked for the KG7 before
+yuh came, Skeeter. He’s with the Tin Cup now.”
+
+Adams was a young man, with a pleasant, devil-may-care sort of face, and
+a winning smile. In a few minutes he came over and shook hands with
+Kaintuck, who introduced him to Skeeter.
+
+“Yo’re with the Tin Cup, ain’t yuh, Curley?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+“Yeah. I’ve been out there almost a year now, Kaintuck. How do yuh like
+bein’ a deputy sheriff?”
+
+“Got a good bed,” grinned Kaintuck. “Been settin’ on a chair for so long
+that my legs prob’ly won’t bend sideways enough to let me set in a
+saddle. Yo’re stickin’ to the job kinda steady, ain’t yuh, Curley?”
+
+“Yeah,” Curley flushed slightly. “Savin’ my money these days. Yuh see,
+I’ve kinda got an idea I’d like to have somethin’ for myself, Kaintuck.”
+
+“Yea-a-a-a-ah? My ——!” Kaintuck opened his eyes wide and stared at
+Skeeter. “I’ll betcha the boy’s in love!”
+
+Curley’s ears grew red and he tried to smile.
+
+“Don’t try to fool yore Uncle Dudley,” warned Kaintuck. “I _sabe_ all
+about it. Now, you take my advice and—”
+
+“Don’t do it, Adams,” advised Skeeter. “I mean—don’t take his advice.
+He’s never been married, and I don’t reckon he’s ever been in love; so
+tighten yore own cinch.”
+
+“Ain’t never been in love!” Kaintuck snorted loudly. “Say, I’m the
+jigger that showed Romeo what to say.”
+
+“You’d run if a woman tried to speak to yuh.”
+
+“Shore I would. ’F you had as much experience as I have, you’d run, too.
+I could write books about my love experiences.”
+
+Curley Adams laughed and walked out with the other cowboys from the Tin
+Cup ranch. Kennedy squinted after them, a grin on his lips.
+
+“I wonder who the girl is, Skeeter?” he said. “Curley shore is a real
+nice boy. He ain’t as wild as the rest of that gang, and he’s got brains
+enough to start out for himself.”
+
+“Other folks’ matrimonial affairs don’t interest me none,” said Skeeter
+thoughtfully. “I can’t think of nothin’ but bad dollars these days.
+Tomorrow me and you start detectin’.”
+
+“Sounds good,” grinned Kaintuck. “I’ve read detective stories and they
+shore listened real good. But yuh got to find yuh a clue, Skeeter. Yuh
+never get nowhere without a clue.”
+
+“I’ve got me one.”
+
+“Yuh have? Gee, that’s fine! Lemme hear it.”
+
+“I will not. Go get yore own clue, Kaintuck.”
+
+“Shucks! Ain’t it big enough for two of us?”
+
+“Well,” explained Skeeter softly, “it ain’t big enough yet. Mebbe it’ll
+grow, and if it gets big enough, and you ain’t got one by that time,
+mebbe I’ll let yuh gnaw on a corner of mine.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+A buckboard, drawn by a pair of tired-looking bronchos, bumped along
+over the dusty road, heading away from Crescent City and going toward
+the HG ranch, which was located about five miles east of the town.
+
+Hank Gregory, the owner of the ranch, humped over in his seat, the reins
+held loosely in his big hands, while beside him sat his twenty-year-old
+daughter, Joy. The rear of the buckboard held a trunk and numerous
+hand-baggage.
+
+There had been no rain for months in the Moon River Valley, and the
+yellow dust of the road was fetlock deep to the horses. It rolled up on
+the wheels, drifting away in clouds to turn more gray the immediate
+landscape.
+
+It was a fairly steady climb from town to the HG ranch, the road winding
+through brushy coulées, twisting to higher ground, where patches of
+alkali, like spilled mortar, made huge gaps in the purple and gray of
+the sage.
+
+To the eastward towered the blue line of the main divide, as if a
+painter had swept a full brush of blue to break the line between the
+gray of the hills and the pale blue of the sky. Grasshoppers buzzed and
+crackled away from the plodding team, and from along the slope came the
+piping bark of a prairie-dog, as though protesting against any one
+stirring up so much dust.
+
+Gregory was a big, slow-moving sort of person, with iron-gray hair and a
+deeply lined face. Joy did not resemble her paternal ancestor in any
+way. She was not beautiful, but by no means unbeautiful. Joy Gregory was
+just an average girl; possibly a trifle more capable than the average,
+due to living where capability rates higher than feminine
+attractiveness.
+
+She studied the serious profile of her father’s face for several
+moments, as they rode along through the filmy dust.
+
+“Dad, you don’t seem glad to have me back,” she said.
+
+He glanced sideways at her, spat over the wheel and cleared his throat.
+
+“No, you don’t need to fix up any excuse,” she said quickly. “You can’t
+blame me, Dad. Aunt Emma died so suddenly that I hardly knew what to do;
+and you couldn’t expect me to stay down there in Cheyenne alone. I know
+what you want to say. You contend that a cattle ranch is no place for a
+young lady. Well, what’s to be done about it? I’m here.”
+
+“Yeah, yo’re here,” nodded Gregory grimly.
+
+“And I’ve been away a year,” said Joy slowly, “and my own father never
+said he was glad to see me.”
+
+“Joy, don’t say that. I’m glad to see yuh. But I’ve always said—”
+
+“That a cattle ranch wasn’t any place for your daughter. My mother was
+the daughter of a rancher.”
+
+“Yeah, that’s true.”
+
+“And I’m as good at punching cows as any man, Dad.”
+
+Gregory snorted and helped himself to another huge chew of tobacco. He
+had his own ideas of how his daughter should be raised.
+
+“And besides,” Joy smiled softly, “I might marry a cowboy.”
+
+“That’s what I reckoned—” dryly. “Curley Adams, eh?”
+
+Joy laughed.
+
+“_Quien sabe_, Dad? I haven’t seen Curley for over a year. But he writes
+wonderful letters. Curley is educated. He has been saving his money all
+that year, and—who knows?”
+
+“Yeah! He must ’a’ saved as much as four hundred dollars in a year. That
+won’t give him much of a start.”
+
+“You started on nothing, Dad.”
+
+Gregory winced slightly, but did not reply.
+
+“And he’s honest,” continued Joy. “That is something that you can’t say
+about a majority of the cowpunchers in the Moon River hills.”
+
+“Well, we won’t argue that point, Joy. There’s a lot of honest men in
+the poorhouse.”
+
+“But not many in the penitentiary.”
+
+Gregory laughed shortly.
+
+“I’ve had the last word on the HG ranch for over a year, but I’m runnin’
+second now. Well, there’s the old starve-to-death layout, Joy. It ain’t
+changed much in a year, has it?”
+
+They had driven around the point of a hill, where they might look down
+at the sprawling buildings of the little ranch. It was located on a
+little flat, at the mouth of a cañon; a huddle of one-story buildings,
+sheds and corrals. None of the buildings had ever felt the caress of a
+paint-brush.
+
+Two huge oaks shaded the rambling old ranch-house, giving a note of
+color to the otherwise drab exterior. Several horses drowsed inside the
+pole-corrals, a tall, red steer poked around the fence, picking up an
+occasional straw, while a flock of mongrel chickens chased grasshoppers
+in the front yard of the ranch-house.
+
+“No-o-o-o, it hasn’t changed much,” agreed Joy. “I don’t believe that
+the red steer was there the last time I saw it; so there is some change,
+Dad. I don’t suppose the house has been cleaned since I left.”
+
+“Yes it has. When I got yore letter, I had old ‘Calamity’ give it a
+cleanin’.”
+
+“I’ll bet it was good,” laughed Joy. “How is old Calamity?”
+
+“Well, I dunno. The —— old mossback is prob’ly a little worse than he
+was a year ago.”
+
+They drove up to the front of the ranch-house and Calamity came out to
+greet them. No one had ever known—that is, no one in Moon River Valley
+had ever known—what his right name was.
+
+He was just Calamity; a thin-faced, hawk-nosed, little old man;
+philosopher, liar, who loved his friends, but cursed them as thoroughly
+as he did his enemies. Calamity lived almost entirely in the past, when
+he was a gunman, and when, as he expressed it—
+
+“There wasn’t a —— stran’ of bob-wire as long as yore finger from Laredo
+to the No’th Pole.”
+
+“Hello, Calamity!” called Joy.
+
+The old man came slowly out to the buckboard, squinting at her, as if
+trying to remember her, although he knew she was coming.
+
+“Well, ’f it ain’t little Joy!” he exploded. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! Growed up
+so I didn’t know yuh. Took one look at yuh, and I says to myself,
+‘Darned if Hank ain’t brought a strange woman home with him.’ I did so.
+
+“Brought yore trunk, too. Look at the valises! Whooee! Say, I knowed a
+woman that traveled plumb from the Gulf of Mexico to Astoria, Oregon,
+and didn’t even have a pocket-book.”
+
+Joy laughed, as she dismounted—
+
+“That woman must have had a tough time, Calamity.”
+
+“She died before she started the trip,” laughed Calamity. “They took her
+no’th in a casket. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Well, I s’pose I’ve got to unload
+that trunk. Oh, I ain’t foolin’ myself. I know what a woman’s trunk
+usually weighs.”
+
+Joy laughed and ran up the front steps into the house, while Gregory
+helped Calamity remove the trunk. Joy looked around the living-room, a
+frown between her eyes. Everywhere was dirt. She kicked aside a Navajo
+rug, disclosing a great accumulation. Calamity had made the cleaning as
+easy as possible for himself.
+
+Her father and Calamity came in with the trunk and found her inspecting
+Calamity’s trash-heap.
+
+“That’s a woman for yuh,” wailed Calamity. “They’ve got to uncover all
+the scandal they can find. Them dirt-heaps has been as safe as a church
+all this time.” Calamity shook his head sadly. “I suppose you’ll be
+washin’ winders next.”
+
+“They need it,” said Joy. “Why, you can’t see through any of them.”
+
+“Well, why should yuh? There ain’t nothin’ to look at out there, Joy.
+And nobody can shoot yuh through a winder they can’t see through. Ha,
+ha, ha, ha!”
+
+“Well, I’d rather be shot than to live like a pig,” retorted Joy. “Put a
+kettle of water on the stove.”
+
+“Yes’m.” Calamity became very meek and hastened to comply with her
+orders.
+
+He knew that his usual equivocations would have little effect on Joy.
+
+He put a big kettle of water on the stove, filled up the firebox and
+went outside, where he joined Gregory, who was unhitching the team.
+
+“Joy goin’ to stay here?” asked Calamity.
+
+“Yeah. Where in —— else can she stay?”
+
+“Yuh don’t need to git mad at me about it, Hank. I jist asked, tha’sall.
+A year has shore made a lot of difference with that girl, Hank. She’s a
+woman.”
+
+“Uh-huh.”
+
+Gregory stripped the harness off a horse and let the animal loose. He
+hung up the harness and leaned against a corner of the shed, watching
+two riders who were coming in from the west.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was Monk Clark and Frank Moran, the government detective, who had
+talked with Skeeter Bill. They rode up to Gregory and Calamity. Clark
+had seen Joy through the open door, as he rode past the house.
+
+“Howdy, gents,” he greeted them.
+
+They returned the greeting in kind. Clark jerked a gloved thumb toward
+the house, as though in interrogation.
+
+“Joy came this mornin’,” said Gregory. “I got a letter from her last
+night, and had to drive in this mornin’. Her aunt died in Cheyenne, and
+she had to come home.”
+
+“Huh!”
+
+Clark turned his head and squinted toward the house, where Joy was
+hanging some Navajo rugs over the railing of the porch.
+
+“Young lady, eh?” smiled Moran.
+
+“Woman,” corrected Calamity.
+
+Monk Clark smiled. He was a big, rawboned individual, possibly forty
+years of age. His face was heavily lined, rather sullen in repose, his
+eyes scarcely ever more than half-open. His mouth was wide, thin-lipped,
+and decorated with a black, brushlike mustache.
+
+Clark wanted to boss Moon River Valley politically, and had succeeded
+fairly well until the recent election. His candidates for prosecuting
+attorney and sheriff had both been defeated, and those were the two
+offices that Clark particularly wanted to dominate.
+
+“Yeah, she’s a woman now,” nodded Clark.
+
+“And a pretty one,” added Moran. “I’d like to meet her, Gregory.”
+
+Hank Gregory squinted at Moran.
+
+“Yeah? Well, I reckon yuh can. C’mon.”
+
+The four men walked to the porch, and Joy shook hands with Monk Clark
+before she was introduced to Frank Moran. After the introduction Joy
+excused herself and went back to her work.
+
+“Hm-m-m-m,” mused Clark aloud. “And she’s only been away a little over a
+year, eh? Big change, Hank. Goin’ to keep her here at the ranch?”
+
+“Until she mates up with some cowpuncher, I s’pose.”
+
+“And that won’t be long,” laughed Moran. “I haven’t seen many like her
+in Moon River Valley.”
+
+“Don’t let yore rope drag too much,” advised Clark coldly.
+
+Moran laughed softly.
+
+“My rope ain’t draggin’, Boss. But I’ve got a good pair of eyes.”
+
+A few minutes later Clark and Moran left the ranch and rode toward
+Crescent City. Clark seemed very thoughtful, and his demeanor drew a
+smile from Moran.
+
+“That HG ranch ain’t such a nice place for a young lady,” offered Moran.
+
+“No,” said Clark shortly. “Joy is a nice girl.”
+
+“Looks nice.”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They rode into Crescent City and tied their horses at the Half-Moon
+hitch-rack. It was in the middle of the week, and there was little
+activity in Crescent City, except on Saturday and Sunday.
+
+Curley Adams was coming up the street, and met them at the door of the
+Half-Moon.
+
+“How soon can yuh give me my time, Monk?” asked Curley.
+
+“Eh? You quittin’ the Tin Cup, Curley?”
+
+“Yeah. I just bought out the old Box X brand.”
+
+Clark shoved the sombrero back on his head and squinted at Curley.
+
+“You bought the old Box X ranch?”
+
+“Well, there wasn’t much to buy,” admitted Curley. “The old buildings
+are pretty badly shot to pieces, and there ain’t nothin’ much left,
+except the brand—but it’s a start.”
+
+“Yea-a-ah, I suppose it is,” Monk Clark grinned slowly. “All yuh need is
+some cattle and horses, Curley.”
+
+“Well, they’ll come, Monk.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Monk scratched his chin reflectively and smiled at Curley.
+“One thing yuh got to remember, young man—there’s a maverick law in this
+country now. All mavericks belong to the Cattlemen’s Association. It
+ain’t what it used to be.”
+
+“When you started, eh?”
+
+Moran laughed, when Monk’s ears turned red. It was well known that Monk
+Clark had been a great gatherer of mavericks—unbranded calves, which had
+been weaned, and on which any man might put his own brand.
+
+It had been a legitimate procedure, until the practice became such a
+source of profit that some men did not wait for the calf to desert its
+mother. They forced the issue and got rich on the results. It was a
+common occurrence for one man’s cows to bring in twin calves, while the
+cows of his neighbor brought in nothing but a sad expression.
+
+“Well, yuh might say that things have changed,” admitted Monk Clark
+coldly.
+
+He did not relish having any one laugh at him.
+
+“You’ve got about thirty-five dollars comin’, ain’t yuh, Curley? I’ll
+buy a drink. C’mon.”
+
+They entered the saloon, ordered their drinks, and Clark counted out the
+money to Adams.
+
+“So yo’re goin’ to be a cattleman, eh?” queried Monk. “It’s a long, hard
+pull, Curley. Better stick to a salary.”
+
+Curley shook his head.
+
+“Not for mine, Monk. I’ve got to get somethin’ for myself, and I don’t
+know anythin’ but cows.”
+
+“You own a horse and a rope, don’t yuh?” asked Moran.
+
+Curley turned his head and looked at Moran.
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+“Well, what more could yuh want? Many a puncher has got rich—if he
+didn’t get hung in his own loop.”
+
+“Thank yuh,” coldly.
+
+“Oh, yuh don’t need to get frosty, Adams. I don’t know how yuh ever
+expect to make a livin’ off that old Box X—and keep honest.”
+
+“Maybe I won’t make a livin’, Moran.”
+
+Moran laughed sneeringly.
+
+“Oh, I guess you’ve got it figured out all right.”
+
+_Splat!_ Curley’s fist landed just beneath Moran’s left cheek-bone,
+knocking him the full length of the bar, where he went flat on his back.
+A little lower and Moran would have been completely knocked out, but as
+it was he was so badly dazed that he goggled foolishly, while his left
+eye puffed rapidly, assuming a deep mauve tint.
+
+“I’d swear to gosh, that was some punch,” observed the bartender
+blandly.
+
+He was used to scenes of violence. Curley started toward the prostrate
+Moran, but Monk Clark stopped him.
+
+“That’s a-plenty,” said Clark. “Let him get up now.”
+
+Moran got slowly to his feet, and Clark stepped aside, as though to give
+Moran a chance to retaliate; but the fight had all been taken out of
+Moran. He leaned against the bar and felt tenderly of his eye, which was
+completely shut now.
+
+“Next time,” said Curley softly, “yuh might do a little thinkin’ before
+yuh speak, Moran.”
+
+“I might,” nodded Moran. “Mebbe I will, and mebbe I won’t.”
+
+He picked up his hat, yanked it viciously down on his head and strode
+toward the door.
+
+Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck were coming in, and Moran halted to let them
+in before he went out. Kaintuck squinted at the swollen eye and whistled
+softly.
+
+“Stick flew up and hit yuh, eh?” he questioned.
+
+Moran snarled an unintelligible answer and brushed past them into the
+street.
+
+“Must ’a’ been at least a cord of wood,” declared Kaintuck, as they
+turned toward the bar. Curley was caressing his sore knuckles, but
+grinned at them.
+
+“What happened?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+Monk Clark moved away from the bar, but did not speak to either Skeeter
+Bill or Kaintuck.
+
+“Moran spoke before he thought,” said the bartender.
+
+“Didn’t amount to anythin’,” said Curley easily. “Merely a difference of
+opinion.”
+
+“Must ’a’ been quite a difference,” grinned Kaintuck. “I heard that yuh
+bought the old Box X, Curley.”
+
+“Uh-huh—today, Kaintuck.”
+
+“By golly, that’s fine. And the next thing will be the weddin’ bells, I
+suppose. Whooee! Won’t we have some shivaree!”
+
+“I’m afraid that’s a long time off,” said Curley.
+
+“Picked the girl, ain’tcha?”
+
+“Yeah, but—”
+
+“Say! Yo’re half married right now. Will she have yuh?”
+
+“Wait a minute,” cautioned Skeeter Bill. “This ain’t no place to discuss
+such things, Kaintuck. Let’s have a drink.” Skeeter turned and motioned
+to Monk Clark.
+
+“Have a drink?”
+
+“No, thank yuh.” Clark shook his head and walked out of the saloon.
+
+Moran was not in sight. Clark crossed the street and walked to the
+little post-office, where he secured the ranch mail. Old Abe Neeley, who
+wore his glasses on the end of his nose and chewed tobacco so violently
+that the glasses seemed to oscillate continually, was the postmaster.
+
+“How’s everythin’ at the Tin Cup, Monk?” he asked.
+
+“All right, Abe. What’s new around here?”
+
+“New, ——! Nothin’ ever happens around here. Didja know that Hank
+Gregory’s daughter came home t’day? Changed a lot in a year. Stopped
+here for the mail, and I didn’t hardly know her. Thought Joy Gregory was
+goin’ t’ be one of them runty kind of females; but she sure talled up
+considerable.
+
+“Shouldn’t be surprized ’f we had a weddin’ around here after while,
+unless I’ve read the signs all wrong.”
+
+“Weddin’? Who’s goin’ to get married?” asked Monk.
+
+Old Abe chawed reflectively for several moments.
+
+“Well, as I done said, the signs look right. For the past year I’ve been
+gettin’ letters for Curley Adams, sent from Cheyenne; and every few days
+he posts one to Miss Joy Gregory, Cheyenne. Big, fat letters too, Monk.
+A feller don’t waste two-cent stamps and good paper, ’less he means
+somethin’.”
+
+Monk nodded thoughtfully. So that was who Kaintuck Kennedy had meant, he
+mused. Curley Adams had bought out the Box X, and was going to marry Joy
+Gregory.
+
+“Of course, I may be wrong,” admitted old Abe.
+
+“Yuh may be,” nodded Monk. “If I was you I wouldn’t tell any more people
+about it. Yuh might get yore foot in it, Abe.”
+
+“Well, yeah, I s’pose that’s right, too.”
+
+Clark left the post-office and met Moran at the hitch-rack, where they
+mounted their horses and started toward the Tin Cup ranch.
+
+“Does yore eye hurt yuh much?” asked Clark.
+
+“Not much,” sullenly.
+
+“Get a piece of fresh beef from the cook and bind it on. It’ll take the
+swellin’ out.”
+
+“Yeah. I suppose that —— fool thinks he can do things like that and get
+away with it.”
+
+Monk Clark turned in his saddle and looked at the disgruntled Moran.
+
+“You shot off yore face too much, Moran, and got what was comin’ to yuh.
+Let it drop now. Curley is touchy about his honesty. He’s on the square;
+so let him alone, _sabe_?”
+
+“All right. Just the same—”
+
+“We won’t argue about it, Frank. He knocked yuh loose from yore boots
+and made yuh goggle like an owl. If it had been guns instead of fists,
+you’d be gettin’ a measure for a pine overcoat. Curley Adams is just
+too —— smart with a gun for you.”
+
+“You talk like he was yore best friend, Monk.”
+
+“Well, he’s not,” denied Clark. “But I like to give the devil his due.
+I’m just tellin’ yuh this, Frank; it might save yuh a lot of skin to
+know that Curley Adams can whip yuh at any mark in the road, and if yuh
+intend to swap lead with him—don’t let him know it ahead of time,
+tha’sall.”
+
+“Much obliged, Monk.”
+
+“Oh, ——, yo’re welcome.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Kaintuck hungered for action. Neither he nor Skeeter Bill had seen
+anything of Frank Moran since Curley Adams had hit him, which was
+several days ago. Kaintuck complained audibly because Skeeter Bill would
+not share his clue with him. Then he grew skeptical, pessimistic.
+
+“You ain’t got no clue, Skeeter,” he declared.
+
+“I’ve got one,” grinned Skeeter, “but I dunno how good it is. Let’s me
+and you ride out and see what Curley Adams is doin’ to the poor old Box
+X.”
+
+“That’s a good idea, Skeeter. I’m shore tired of the fish-pots of
+civilization, and I crave a ride on a horse.”
+
+“Yuh mean flesh-pots, don’tcha, Kaintuck?”
+
+“I stand corrected, but not convinced. A man’s a sucker to stick around
+a town—and if a sucker ain’t fish, I’m a camel.”
+
+They saddled their horses and rode out of town. The Box X was located
+northeast of Crescent City and about midway between the Tin Cup and the
+HG. It was a tumbledown sort of a place, the oldest brand in the valley,
+and in recent years it had gone from bad to worse.
+
+Ownership had finally descended to Mike Gower, proprietor of a general
+merchandise store, who had probably taken it for a debt. There were
+several good water-holes, a running stream and a well-known brand.
+
+Perhaps Curley Adams had visions of building it up again and making it a
+producing outfit. It would take several hundred dollars to repair the
+buildings—and it takes money to start a herd—but Curley was young and
+optimistic.
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck rode north out of town, left the main highway and
+went into the hills. There was no hurry; so they poked along lazily. The
+average cowpuncher is not a fast rider, except in an emergency.
+
+They rode up a long slope through greasewood and sage, following one of
+the ages-old trails, which led out over a pinnacle, giving them a fine
+view of the Moon River Valley, although slightly hazy in the heat.
+
+To the west, far down the valley they could see the green line of
+foliage which marked the course of Moon River. It swung in to the south
+of Crescent City, fading to a thin line where it entered San Gregario
+cañon.
+
+Northward they could follow the course of the road, which led to the
+higher hills at the Silver Bell mine, where the deep cañons already
+showed purple in the haze. To the east stretched the broken hills of the
+Tin Cup and Box X ranches.
+
+A bunch of range horses filed slowly out of the cañon to the north,
+stopped against the skyline and considered the two riders on the
+pinnacle. Evidently not caring for closer associations, they wheeled and
+disappeared over the ridge.
+
+Skeeter Bill puffed slowly on his cigaret, his eyes half closed against
+the strong light.
+
+“Must ’a’ been quite a lot of noise around here when this country was in
+the makin’, Kaintuck. Some of it got blowed up and some got blowed
+down.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” said Kaintuck meditatively. “I’ve often wondered if this
+country was made on purpose.”
+
+“I reckon there was a reason, Kaintuck. But me and you ain’t goin’ to
+argue about it jist now. Let’s move on.”
+
+They were within about a mile of the Box X, riding around the head of a
+brushy coulée, when Skeeter reined in his horse and squinted down across
+the hills.
+
+“Whatcha see?” asked Kaintuck, reining in his horse.
+
+“Couple of coyotes,” said Skeeter.
+
+He looped one leg around the horn of his saddle and began rolling a
+cigaret.
+
+“Couple of coyotes?” queried Kaintuck. “My gosh, this sure is awful! Yuh
+don’t reckon they’ll bite us, do yuh, mister?”
+
+“Yuh never can tell about a coyote,” said Skeeter seriously, as he
+scratched a match on his chaps and lighted his cigaret.
+
+“Do yuh reckon we better turn back?” grinned Kaintuck.
+
+“No, we’ll turn down. C’mon.”
+
+Skeeter rode straight down the side of the coulée, fairly sliding his
+horse through the thick brush. Kaintuck swore at Skeeter for being a
+fool, but followed him down.
+
+About a hundred yards from where they had entered the coulée, Skeeter
+pulled up his horse and they dismounted.
+
+“Them coyotes came out of the coulée just about here,” said Skeeter.
+“Smell it, Kaintuck?”
+
+“Somethin’ has been dead,” nodded Kaintuck, wrinkling his nose.
+
+Skeeter circled back through the brush, while Kaintuck held the two
+horses. In a few minutes he heard Skeeter calling him.
+
+“Tie them horses and come over here,” called Skeeter.
+
+Kaintuck had little trouble locating Skeeter, and he could see that
+Skeeter was deadly serious.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Kaintuck shoved his way through the brush and stood beside Skeeter, who
+was looking down at the skeleton of a man. The coyotes had torn the
+bones apart, and there were only shreds of cloth to show that the body
+had once been clothed.
+
+“That’s what my hunch done for me,” said Skeeter softly. “When I seen
+them two coyotes, I got a hunch to see what they had been feedin’ on.”
+
+Kaintuck squatted on his heels and looked at the bones. It was the first
+time he had ever seen the skeleton of a man, and there was something
+fascinating about the grisly, grinning skull, which had once been the
+head of a man.
+
+“Ain’t a darned thing left to show who he was,” stated Skeeter
+mournfully. “Mebbe some old prospector that died a natural death.”
+
+“Might be,” said Kaintuck sadly. “He ain’t been dead so awful long.”
+
+They rolled smokes and considered their find. A couple of magpies
+swooped up the swale, cackling angrily when they discovered that some
+human beings were interfering with their prospective meal.
+
+“No, I don’t reckon he’s been dead so awful long,” said Skeeter. “The
+coyotes and magpies would pick him pretty clean in a week. I dunno what
+we’re goin’ to do with him, Kaintuck. It’s a cinch we can’t carry him
+back on our horses, and we ain’t got no right to bury him.
+
+“Suppose we hang the bones up in a tree and come back later for ’em. The
+magpies will prob’ly get at ’em, but they can’t hurt ’em much now.”
+
+“Wish I had gloves,” complained Kaintuck, as Skeeter drew a pair from
+under his cartridge-belt.
+
+“I’ll hang ’em,” smiled Skeeter.
+
+He assembled the bones and was about to pick them up, when something
+attracted his eye. It had been lodged in the vertebrae, and rolled loose
+when Skeeter moved the upper part of the skeleton.
+
+Skeeter picked it up, looking it over closely.
+
+“This feller didn’t die of his own accord, Kaintuck. Here’s the bullet
+that done the job, I reckon.”
+
+Together they examined the bit of metal, which was as perfect in shape
+as the day it came from the bullet mold, except for the markings of the
+lands, which had shaped its course through the revolver barrel.
+
+“Looks like a .41,” observed Skeeter. “Didja ever see a more perfect
+bullet, Kaintuck?”
+
+“Never did. Probably didn’t hit a bone, ’cause the nose of it ain’t even
+dented. Must ’a’ kinda got lodged in the spine and stayed there until
+now. But that don’t mean nothin’, Skeeter.”
+
+“Well, not much,” admitted Skeeter. “Who shoots a .41?”
+
+“I used to,” said Kaintuck thoughtfully. “Never liked it. That was down
+in Texas. I dunno who uses one around here.”
+
+Skeeter put the bullet in his vest pocket and proceeded to place the
+bones in a stunted cottonwood. They searched the ground thoroughly, but
+were unable to find anything more.
+
+“It’s kinda funny where his clothes went to,” said Skeeter, as they
+mounted their horses.
+
+“Mebbe he didn’t have any on,” suggested Kaintuck.
+
+“Yeah, that might be true. By golly, you’ve got all the instincts of a
+detective.”
+
+They rode along for quite a while, both of them wondering who the
+unfortunate had been. As far as they knew there had not been any one
+reported missing.
+
+“It’s kinda hard luck,” said Kaintuck slowly. “Nobody will ever know who
+he is—none of his friends, if he had any.”
+
+“That’s right. Let’s keep it dark for a while, Kaintuck. It can’t hurt
+him none to hang there in a tree for a while. If somebody killed him,
+they’ll shut up like a steel trap if his skeleton is found. They’re as
+safe as a church—now.”
+
+“All right,” grudgingly.
+
+Kaintuck liked to talk, and he had visions of much telling about their
+discovery.
+
+They did not find Curley at the Box X, although there were evidences
+that he had been there recently. An old shed had been torn down to
+furnish boards for some repairs on the ranch-house; a stove had been
+installed in the kitchen, and a small stock of groceries adorned the
+shelves.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The old Box X ranch-house faced the north, a weathered old wreck of a
+place, with little of its former beauty left as far as paint was
+concerned. The roof sagged in the middle, the shingles stood up in
+ungallant array, and the chimney looked like the top of the badly
+decayed tooth of some prehistoric creature.
+
+The stable was almost roofless, its door swinging from one hinge. To the
+west of the house was a flat piece of ground, extending out about a
+hundred feet to the edge of a creek bank. Brush grew almost to the front
+porch on the north, and to the northeast was a deep washout filled with
+greasewood and wild rose bushes.
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck walked around, looking the place over, wondering
+how long it would take Curley Adams to make the old place habitable.
+
+“Got a lot of work ahead of him,” grinned Kaintuck. “But I’m bettin’
+that Curley will get a lot of fun out of it.”
+
+“He’s got the right idea, anyway,” said Skeeter. “Let’s go over to the
+Gregory ranch. I’d kinda like to get a look at that girl.”
+
+“She’s prob’ly engaged,” warned Kaintuck seriously.
+
+“’Sall right with me,” laughed Skeeter. “I’m a detective—not a Romeo.
+And, anyway, a sheriff ought to get acquainted with the folks.”
+
+“I thought yuh was goin’ to say ‘friend’,” said Kaintuck. “I’ve heard
+that Gregory trailed along with Monk Clark, tryin’ to beat yuh for
+office.”
+
+“Tha’sall right, Kaintuck. I prob’ly wouldn’t ’a’ voted for Gregory if
+he’d been runnin’ for sheriff. But that’s no reason why I should keep
+away from him.”
+
+“I s’pose that’s a pious way of lookin’ at it, Skeeter. Forgive yore
+enemies, but don’t forget ’em. An old preacher down in Texas explained
+all that to me—about forgivin’ my enemies. I told him that his argument
+was one-sided, ’cause the enemies might not know it.
+
+“He told me all about turnin’ the other cheek, when somebody slapped
+yuh, and I asked him how many times he’d been slapped. It jist don’t
+work out, Skeeter Bill.”
+
+“Lotsa things don’t, Kaintuck. The idea is fine. If yuh happen to hate
+somebody, it ain’t so hard to kinda forgive ’em. Yuh can do it. Life is
+too short to go around with yore heart full of hate agin’ anybody.”
+
+“Shore,” nodded Kaintuck. “Yeah, that’s fine. But suppose somebody hates
+you? That makes ’em an enemy, don’t it? And all the forgivin’ yuh can
+boil up in yore system ain’t goin’ to stop ’em from bustin’ yuh one, if
+they get a good chance.”
+
+Skeeter grinned at the bobbing ears of his horse and shook his head
+slowly.
+
+“I can’t argue agin’ that, Kaintuck. Mebbe a preacher could show yuh how
+it works out—I can’t.”
+
+“Yeah! Jist like a jigger down in Texas. He showed me a non-refillable
+whisky bottle. It shore looked great. He was goin’ to make a million
+dollars on it. I never did see a feller as happy as he was—until I asked
+him how in —— he was goin’ to get the whisky into it in the first place.
+
+“When it comes to religion, I ain’t got a leg to stand on in an
+argument—not a leg. But when it comes to whisky bottles, I shore am
+conversant with the subject, from the distillery to the delirium
+tremens.”
+
+They rode to the Gregory ranch, but found only Calamity at home. He
+masticated violently, squinted at Skeeter’s badge, and wiped the back of
+his hand across his mouth.
+
+“Yo’re the new sheriff, eh? Name’s Sarg, ain’t it? I’m Calamity. Rode
+the range before yuh could even find barb-wire in a dictionary. Yessir,
+I can remember when Sittin’ Bull was a calf. They had reg’lar sheriffs
+in them days, by ginger!”
+
+“I’ve heard that you was an old-timer,” smiled Skeeter.
+
+“Old-timer! My ——, I sh’d say so.”
+
+“Where’s Gregory?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Gregory? Oh, yeah. Ex-cuse me. Yuh see, everybody calls him Hank, and
+yuh kinda had me confused f’r a minute. Gregory—yeah. Well, I dunno
+where he is. Said he was goin’ to town.”
+
+“Prob’ly that’s where he went,” said Kaintuck dryly.
+
+“His daughter came back a few days ago, didn’t she?”—thus Skeeter,
+trying to act indifferently.
+
+Calamity opened his mouth widely, closed it slowly and spat audibly.
+
+“Oh, that’s the Gregory yuh wanted to see, eh? Huh! Well,” Calamity
+turned his head and looked toward the hills. “She piled on to a
+jug-headed roan a while ago and said she was goin’ to find out if they’d
+moved any of the hills since she went away. —— only knows where she is
+now.”
+
+They did not stay long at the HG ranch. Calamity wanted them to listen
+to him tell about how the early day sheriffs handled bad men, but
+neither of them cared to hear it.
+
+Back in Crescent City, they stabled their horses and sat down in their
+office. Skeeter took the bullet from his pocket and looked it over.
+Outside of the scorings on it, there was nothing to show that it had
+ever been fired. The rim of the blunt point was as clear cut as it could
+be made.
+
+“I wish that darn thing could talk,” said Kaintuck.
+
+He had opened his tobacco and book of papers, preparatory to making
+another attempt at one-handed rolling.
+
+Skeeter had taken out his knife and was testing the quality of the
+bullet. It did not cut like lead.
+
+“Kaintuck,” he said softly, “this bullet is _silver_!”
+
+“No!” Kaintuck swept his papers aside and leaned across the table. “How
+do yuh know, Skeeter?”
+
+“Look at it. Try to cut the edge of it. You never seen any lead as hard
+as that. If it ain’t silver—what is it?”
+
+Kaintuck examined it closely, tested it. He took a dollar from his
+pocket and whittled at the milled edge.
+
+“They cut about the same, Skeeter. But why in —— would any one mold a
+silver bullet to shoot a man with?”
+
+Skeeter shook his head and took the bullet.
+
+“I dunno. I can _sabe_ why a man would counterfeit a dollar, but I’ll be
+darned if I know why he’d counterfeit a bullet—in silver.”
+
+“Find the man who shoots silver bullets,” grinned Kaintuck.
+
+“Yeah—find him. But for gosh sake, don’t mention this to a single soul,
+Kaintuck.”
+
+“Why not?” blankly.
+
+“My gosh, if yuh do we’ll never find out. Listen, Kaintuck; if the man
+who fired that shot knew we was lookin’ for the man who shot a silver
+bullet, wouldn’t he cover his tracks so danged deep that we’d never find
+out?”
+
+“I s’pose,” dubiously. “But how in —— are yuh goin’ to find out anythin’
+if yuh don’t ask questions? We’ve got a skeleton in a tree and a silver
+bullet in yore pocket, but we don’t dare to mention it. This is a —— of
+a job!”
+
+“It sure is a fine job,” grinned Skeeter.
+
+“You’ll tell Moran, won’t yuh, Skeeter?”
+
+“Tell nobody. These are our clues, Kaintuck. Let Moran find some for
+himself—if he can. Where would a man get silver to mold into bullets?”
+
+“Silver Bell mine, or they might melt a dollar.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Skeeter grew thoughtful. “And the Silver Bell ain’t in the
+habit of givin’ away silver, I don’t suppose.”
+
+“A feller could buy some, couldn’t he?”
+
+“Yeah, I suppose he could. Anyway, in the mornin’ me and you are goin’
+to the Silver Bell mine, Kaintuck.”
+
+“All right. We’ve had so much in our mind today that we’ve plumb forgot
+to eat. I could fold m’self plumb around some ham and aigs and feel like
+a medder-lark.”
+
+Skeeter shoved the mysterious bullet deep down in his pocket and they
+headed for a restaurant.
+
+“I think we’re gettin’ along good,” said Skeeter. “For once in our lives
+we’re usin’ our brains.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was shortly after Skeeter and Kaintuck had left the Gregory ranch
+that Monk Clark rode up to the ranch-house and dismounted.
+
+Calamity had watched him from a front window, a quizzical expression on
+his seamed face, as he noted that Clark was “all dressed up.” It was
+seldom that Clark dressed up; so seldom that Calamity could not remember
+the time.
+
+Calamity went out on the porch and squinted at Clark, who was
+self-conscious of his appearance. A spotless, white bosom, which bulged
+badly, a high collar, red four-in-hand tie, and an old cutaway coat
+covered the upper half of his body. From his waist downward, he remained
+as usual.
+
+“Did somebody die?” queried Calamity in awe-struck tones.
+
+“What do yuh mean?” growled Clark.
+
+“All duded up thataway. Yuh ought to use glue on that shirt. It kinda
+gaps open and shows yore red undershirt, Monk. And jist one more thing;
+yuh better git a lower collar or move yore ears up another notch or two,
+’cause yo’re sure sawin’ ’em off close to yore head.”
+
+“My looks are none of yore —— business!” snapped Monk.
+
+“I s’pose not. I remember a dude, back in 1866. He—”
+
+“I don’t care a —— what you remember! Where’s Gregory?”
+
+“I dunno. Said he was goin’ to town.”
+
+Monk moved past Calamity and peered into the living-room.
+
+“No, she ain’t here either,” said Calamity. “I shore appreciate havin’
+yuh dress up thataway to come over to see me, but it don’t impress me
+a —— of a lot. Back in 1866—”
+
+“Aw-w-w-w, stop it!” exploded Monk. “Calamity, I wonder how you ever
+lived as long as you have.”
+
+“I ain’t never met my match,” said Calamity seriously.
+
+“Mm-m-m-yah! I suppose that’s true,” Monk sat down in a rocking-chair
+and his bosom immediately bulged beyond his chin.
+
+Calamity chuckled hoarsely and went into the house. He knew that Monk’s
+patience was stretched to the breaking point. While many of the others
+felt that Clark was a man who must be treated with great respect,
+Calamity did not.
+
+In fact, he hated Monk Clark. Not such a strange thing, at that, because
+Calamity hated nearly everybody. And he was not afraid of anybody. It
+was not often that Calamity was amused sufficiently to chuckle, but he
+was now. To think of Monk Clark coming to see Joy Gregory almost made
+Calamity laugh.
+
+But it was no laughing matter with Monk Clark. He planted his feet
+against the railing and swore to himself. At times Calamity peered out
+to see if Monk was still there—and he was. At least Monk was no quitter.
+
+It was late in the afternoon when Hank Gregory came home and found Monk
+on the porch. Calamity came out, after Monk and Hank had exchanged
+greetings. Hank noticed Monk’s attire, but said nothing.
+
+“Where’s Joy?” asked Gregory.
+
+“I dunno,” said Calamity. “She rode away jist a short time after you
+left, Hank.”
+
+“Rode away? Where was she goin’?”
+
+“I never asked her.”
+
+“Huh! No, I don’t suppose yuh did. Go alone?”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“Didn’t, eh? Who was she with?”
+
+“Cowpuncher.”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Curley Adams.”
+
+Monk glared at Calamity. He had been sitting on that porch for hours
+waiting for her to come home. Calamity actually chuckled and went back
+in the house. The chuckle grated on the soul of Monk Clark.
+
+“—— curly-headed cowpuncher!” he muttered.
+
+“Who—Calamity?”
+
+“Calamity, ——!”
+
+For several minutes there was only silence. Then Monk Clark cleared his
+throat harshly and leaned closer to Gregory.
+
+“Hank, are you goin’ to let yore daughter marry Adams?”
+
+“Am I goin’ to let her?” Gregory laughed shortly. “Joy is of age, Monk.”
+
+“Of age, eh?”
+
+“Yeah—couple of years past.”
+
+“Means that you ain’t got nothin’ to say about who she marries, eh?”
+
+“Just about that, Monk. Curley is all right, I guess. Just bought the
+old Box X ranch, I heard.”
+
+Monk snorted with disgust.
+
+“Old Box X! What in —— does that amount to?”
+
+“I dunno, Monk. Anyway, it’s their business. Say, what interest have you
+got in this matter?”
+
+“Well,” slowly, “I’m free, white and twenty-one.”
+
+“You—uh—say, Monk, you—” Gregory checked a laugh. “Monk, you wasn’t
+figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, was yuh?”
+
+“What in —— is so funny about that?”
+
+“Oh, I see.”
+
+“I could give her more than a forty-a-month puncher could.”
+
+“I suppose yuh could—mebbe.”
+
+“Why the ‘mebbe’?”
+
+“I reckon she loves Adams, Monk.”
+
+“And yuh think she’ll marry him?”
+
+“I kinda look for it.”
+
+“And starve to death with him on the Box X.”
+
+“No-o-o-o, I wouldn’t say that, Monk. Yuh see, there ain’t nobody ever
+starved to death in Moon River Valley.”
+
+“All right,” Monk got to his feet and hitched up his belt. “I reckon
+I’ll be goin’.”
+
+He went down to his horse just as Curley and Joy rode in through the
+gate.
+
+They continued on up to the porch and dismounted. Curley suppressed a
+grin with difficulty. It was the first time he had ever seen Monk Clark
+dressed like that.
+
+“How do you do, Mr. Clark?” said Joy pleasantly.
+
+“Howdy,” grunted Clark. “Well, I’ll be goin’.”
+
+Calamity had appeared on the porch again.
+
+“Don’t hurry away,” said Joy. “Won’t you sit down a while?”
+
+Calamity chuckled again, and Clark swung into his saddle.
+
+“Thank yuh,” he said ungraciously. “I’ve set long enough.”
+
+“Back in 1866, I knowed about a hen that set for two months on a basket
+of Chiny aigs—” began Calamity seriously.
+
+Clark swung his horse around and galloped toward the gate. Down in his
+heart was a desire to kill Calamity. Joy’s burst of laughter floated to
+his ears, and he felt that she knew he had made a fool of himself.
+
+“Go ahead and laugh,” he muttered. “I sure made a —— fool of myself.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Back in the hills, he stopped long enough to divest himself of the white
+shirt, collar and tie, which he threw away. Then he knotted a black
+muffler around his neck and rode on.
+
+At first Clark was in a rage against Calamity. If Calamity had told him
+that Joy was riding with Curley Adams, it would have been all right, but
+to keep him sitting out on that porch for hours, dressed up—that was the
+rub.
+
+And he knew that Joy had laughed at him. A laugh hurt Monk Clark more
+than a blow—a laugh from a girl. He wondered bitterly if they were all
+laughing at him now. It was the first time he had ever dressed up to
+visit a girl—and the last.
+
+He rode past the Box X, but drew rein long enough to look at the place.
+The setting sun threw long shadows from the old buildings. There was
+such an air of utter desolation about the place, like the ruins of some
+ancient dwelling, that Monk Clark shook his big head as he remembered
+that Curley Adams intended to marry Joy Gregory and bring her there to
+live.
+
+He rode on, reaching the Tin Cup ranch just at dark. The well-lighted
+ranch-house, nestled in a group of huge sycamores and cottonwoods, the
+wide veranda, the huge red stable looming up against the hills, the
+well-kept fences, all spoke of prosperity, good management—a fit home
+for any daughter of the ranges. Yet she chose the Box X.
+
+He stabled his horse and walked to the house. The boys were eating
+supper in the long dining-room, and he halted near the door long enough
+to hear his name mentioned.
+
+“I tell yuh he went courtin’,” insisted one of the boys. “I seen him. He
+had on a boiled shirt and a red tie. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Had on his funeral
+coat, too. I’ll make yuh a little bet that he went to see Joy Gregory.”
+
+He did not wait to hear more, but went to his room, where he changed
+shirts, took a stiff drink of liquor and sat down to think it over; to
+think what a fool he had been.
+
+Some of the boys found his horse in the stable and notified Wong, the
+cook, who hurried up to Clark’s room, and timidly knocked on the door.
+
+“Come in!” snapped Clark.
+
+Wong opened the door and bobbed his head.
+
+“Yo’ like some sluppah, Misser Clark?”
+
+“No!” roared Clark. “Get to —— out of here!”
+
+Wong shut the door softly and padded back to the kitchen, shaking his
+head slowly.
+
+“Too much love one time—no good,” he decided.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was the following day that a heavy wagon came creaking down over the
+grades from the Silver Bell mine. The rear wheels were locked, the team
+was holding back as much as possible, but even at that there were times
+when the wagon threatened to run over the team.
+
+On the one seat sat the driver, a stolid-faced, round-headed sort of
+person, who regularly hauled supplies from Crescent City to the Silver
+Bell mine, and with him sat the two well-dressed men who had inquired of
+Skeeter Bill about the stage to the mines.
+
+There was little chance for conversation among the three, as it required
+all their efforts to cling to the jerking, bouncing seat. While the
+driver braced heavily against the brake with his foot and held tightly
+to the lines, he was able to maintain an equilibrium of sorts, but the
+two passengers had nothing except the wagon-box and the seat to keep
+them from being flung off the equipage.
+
+Lurching and jerking, the rear wheels almost skidding off the narrow
+grade, they swung around a sharp curve on to a piece of comparatively
+level road.
+
+The two passengers relaxed slightly, with sighs of relief, but jerked
+back to attention when two masked men dropped off the upper side of the
+road and leveled rifles at them.
+
+“Whoa!” The driver threw his weight on the brake so suddenly that his
+passengers almost left the seat.
+
+The two masked men came forward, still covering the driver and
+passengers.
+
+“Git down,” ordered one of the masked men.
+
+The passengers were so cramped from their ride and frightened that they
+were hardly able to climb down over the wheel. One of them slipped and
+almost fell off the grade, and a masked man chuckled with amusement.
+
+“Go back past the wagon, all three of yuh,” ordered the spokesman.
+
+Wonderingly they filed to the rear, herded by one of the holdup men,
+while the other climbed to the driver’s seat, kicked the brake loose and
+drove away.
+
+They could hear the wagon rattling along the rocky grades, the sound
+growing more faint until it died away in the distance. For possibly ten
+minutes more the masked man kept them covered. Then he motioned down the
+road.
+
+“I reckon I can git along without you fellers,” he said.
+
+“We can go now?” asked the driver wonderingly.
+
+“I don’t care a —— what yuh do now.” The masked man backed around the
+curve and disappeared.
+
+For a space of time the three men grouped together on the grade, hardly
+knowing just what to do.
+
+“That was a crazy thing to do,” declared the driver. “Who in —— ever
+heard of anybody holdin’ up a tote-wagon?”
+
+The two passengers looked at each other helplessly.
+
+“And stealin’ a few hundred pounds of lead,” continued the driver.
+
+“A few hundred pounds of lead,” echoed one of the men. “You fool, that
+wasn’t lead—it was silver!”
+
+“The —— it was! Why Sam Rugg said—”
+
+“No matter what Sam Rugg said!” snapped the other. “There was
+approximately a thousand pounds of silver bullion in that wagon.”
+
+“Geeminy gosh! Why did he ever send it—”
+
+The driver took off his hat and mopped his brow. He had wondered why Sam
+Rugg, superintendent of the Silver Bell, had loaded his wagon with lead
+bars.
+
+Some one had told him that these two strangers were Belden and
+Stanfield, owners of the Silver Bell, and he had heard hints that they
+had come to see why the silver production had fallen so heavily in a
+year.
+
+There had also been rumors of high-grading—ore stealing—at the Silver
+Bell, although none of the workmen seemed to know whether there was any
+truth in the matter or not. But this matter of a thousand pounds of
+silver was almost beyond the imagination of the driver.
+
+“And it was our own suggestion,” said Frank Belden disconsolately. “It
+seemed the safe thing to do. There has been a leak somewhere, Ed.”
+
+“And rather a heavy leak, it seems,” nodded Stanfield. “No doubt the
+high-graders have accomplices at the mine.” He shrugged his heavy
+shoulders. “I suppose we may as well start walking.”
+
+“Might as well,” agreed the driver. “It’s a —— of a long walk to
+Crescent City, but it’s mostly all downhill.”
+
+They started down the grades without further comment. Far below them
+stretched the Moon River Valley, hazy in the morning sun.
+
+“That’s a pretty big steal of silver,” said Stanfield. “I don’t see how
+they can ever use it, Frank. A thousand pounds of silver won’t be an
+easy thing to dispose of—especially with some one watching for it.”
+
+“I’ve been wondering about that part of it,” replied Belden. “They’ll
+have to carry it in the wagon, and it might not be hard to trace that
+outfit.”
+
+“Might as well save your breath,” advised the driver. “It’s a long walk
+to town, and that sun is sure goin’ to be hot.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+And while the three men drifted along the grades, Skeeter Bill Sarg and
+Kaintuck Kennedy were coming up the lower grades out of the valley,
+heading for the Silver Bell.
+
+Because of the steep road they traveled slowly, stopping at times to
+give their horses a chance to rest, while they scanned the country.
+Neither of them had ever been at the Silver Bell mine.
+
+“I never could see why they don’t discover mines close to town,”
+complained Kaintuck. “They’d save a lot on the haulin’.”
+
+“Yuh ought to take it up with ’em,” grinned Skeeter. “Mebbe they never
+thought of it.”
+
+“I s’pose not. Any danged fool that’ll dig for a livin’ ain’t got much
+sense. I might git a patent on it, Skeeter.”
+
+They laughed and rode on up the grades. About a mile farther on they
+stopped again. Just beyond them, the road circled the head of a deep
+cañon, swinging back along the cañon rim opposite them. It was about two
+hundred yards on an air-line across the cañon to the opposite grade, at
+a point where the road disappeared around another right-hand curve.
+
+And just at this curve stood a team and wagon, where two or three men
+were working frantically to unload something.
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck watched them for several moments.
+
+“Whatcha s’pose they’re tryin’ to do, Skeeter?” queried Kaintuck.
+
+“I dunno. Mebbe they broke down and have to unload.”
+
+It was too far for Skeeter and Kaintuck to recognize any of the men. The
+heavy growth of jack-pines and underbrush grew up against the lower side
+of the grade, and it seemed as if these men were unloading into this
+brush.
+
+One of the men sprang from the rear of the wagon into the brush, while
+another climbed down over the right front wheel, leaving one man in the
+wagon. These two seemed to be arguing over something.
+
+Another man clambered from the brush at the lower side of the grade and
+joined the one at the front wheel.
+
+“Four men,” muttered Skeeter.
+
+As if in answer to his statement, one of the men looked across the cañon
+and saw them.
+
+His discovery seemed to electrify the other three. They ran around the
+rear of the wagon, while the fourth man climbed over the opposite side
+of the wagon-box.
+
+“What in —— do you reckon that means?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+“Trouble!” snapped Skeeter.
+
+He had seen a man appear over the top of the wagon, holding a rifle.
+
+They whirled their horses around and spurred them into a run down the
+grade, heading for a protecting curve, while the rocks beside them
+splattered lead. The curve was within twenty feet of the two riders,
+when Kaintuck’s horse lurched sideways, went down on one shoulder,
+flinging Kaintuck over the edge of the grade and turning a complete
+somersault.
+
+Skeeter’s horse barely made the turn, its hind feet throwing rocks off
+the grade, as Skeeter whirled it back against the upper side and fell
+out of the saddle.
+
+Drawing his gun, he ran back to the curve, calling Kennedy’s name. The
+horse was dead, its body half off the grade, blocked against a pine
+snag. But Kaintuck did not answer. Skeeter slid along the bank, trying
+to get another view of the men at the wagon.
+
+A bullet smashed against the rocks near his head, apprising him of the
+fact that the men were still anxious to kill him. Skeeter squinted
+ruefully at his six-shooter. It was about three hundred yards from there
+to the wagon.
+
+“I’ve gotta lot of chance against rifles,” he grunted, shoving the gun
+back in his holster.
+
+Another bullet struck the ground near the dead horse, and showered him
+with gravel. He withdrew around the curve, while two more bullets whined
+past him.
+
+“Them fellers are sure enterprising,” he announced to himself.
+“Kaintuck! Hey! Kaintuck!”
+
+But Kaintuck did not answer.
+
+“Went and got himself killed,” mourned Skeeter. “Well, I’ve got to find
+him, I reckon. I wish I knowed why they’re shootin’ at me, and what
+they’re doin’ with that wagon.”
+
+Keeping the point of rock at the curve between himself and the wagon, he
+slipped off the grade and began working back toward the spot where
+Kaintuck had gone over.
+
+He could not see the team now, and had no idea what the four men were
+doing. In fact, they were of less interest to him than Kaintuck was just
+now. He slipped and slid along the side of the hill around the curve,
+clinging to the jack-pines.
+
+Then he heard a welcome sound—Kaintuck swearing. At least, thought
+Skeeter, he is not dead yet.
+
+“Where are yuh, Kaintuck?” asked Skeeter cautiously.
+
+“Gee-o-graphically speakin’, I dunno where in —— I am,” replied Kaintuck
+disgustedly. “Part of me is on the ground and part of me is in
+a —— tree.”
+
+“Which end is in the tree?”
+
+“South. —— it, I’ve got my ankle hung up in the crotch of a snag, and I
+can’t hump high enough to get loose.”
+
+“Why don’tcha slip yore foot out of the boot?”
+
+“Think yo’re smart, don’tcha? C’mon down and show me how yuh think I
+ought to do it.”
+
+Skeeter slid down to him and managed to extricate the boot. Kaintuck
+slumped down on the ground and grinned painfully. His face was
+scratched, his shirt badly torn, and one leg of his overalls had been
+ripped open from thigh to knee.
+
+“Yuh didn’t get hurt none, didja?” asked Skeeter anxiously.
+
+“Didn’t I? Huh! Horse dead?”
+
+“Yeah. Turned over once and quit cold. My gosh, you sure turned a
+hooligan, Kaintuck.”
+
+“Didn’t I?” Kaintuck laughed convulsively and squinted back toward the
+grade. “I jist sailed down here, all spraddled out like a flyin’
+squirrel, hooked one foot in the top of that snag and went ’round and
+’round, like a—say, what became of them jiggers that was shootin’ at
+us?”
+
+“Still there, I reckon—” dryly. “I went back to take a look, and they
+shot at me some more. If yuh feel like goin’ back to the road, we’ll
+take another look at ’em.”
+
+Kaintuck shook his head, rubbing his knee with both hands.
+
+“Nawsir. Them danged fools ain’t got no better sense than to shoot right
+at yuh, and they’ve got rifles. Say, I shore put a lot of strain on this
+one leg. I’ll betcha she’s a foot longer than the other one.”
+
+“Can yuh walk on it, Kaintuck?”
+
+Kaintuck got to his feet, grimacing with pain.
+
+“Don’t think I can make it, Skeeter. Mebbe it’ll ease up a little if I
+set down a while. First time I ever played _pop-the-whip_ with my leg,
+and I sure took all the kinks out. F’r instance, I used to have a bulge,
+which was knowed as a knee, but I yanked it all out.”
+
+“Prob’ly be a cripple for life,” nodded Skeeter. “Let a thing like that
+rest too long and yuh never can get it unhooked. Yuh never can tell
+about it, Kaintuck. Yore knee might bend the other way, like a stork’s
+does.”
+
+“Git me a bill and spear frogs,” nodded Kaintuck, flexing his knee.
+“That doohickey that keeps it from bendin’ the wrong way is all right;
+so I reckon I’m all right. Let’s try and git back to the road.”
+
+With much swearing, Kaintuck managed to pull himself up the hill,
+favoring his left leg as much as possible. They worked around the point
+and reached the road near Skeeter’s horse.
+
+As they stood on the road, debating their next move, they heard the
+rattle of a wagon coming down the hill.
+
+They exchanged a swift glance and moved in against the rocky bank,
+drawing their guns.
+
+“Got a lot of nerve,” gritted Skeeter. “Good luck, Kaintuck.”
+
+“Same to you,” said Kaintuck evenly, his six-shooter balanced in his
+right hand. “They’ll pay for that horse.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The rattle and crunch of the wagon came closer and closer. They could
+hear some one talking, the jingle of harness. Then the horses swung
+almost into them, shied toward the outer edge, and were jerked to a
+stop.
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck stepped out, covering the three men on the seat. It
+was Belden, Stanfield and the driver. Their six arms went upward in
+unison. “For ——’s sake!” snorted Belden. “Again?”
+
+Skeeter went closer, looking them over carefully.
+
+“Yuh might talk a little,” said Skeeter.
+
+“We might talk a whole lot,” said the driver.
+
+“If we get tired of listenin’ we’ll tell yuh when to stop,” said
+Skeeter. “It might interest yuh to know that one of yore shots killed my
+deputy’s horse.”
+
+“One of our shots?” gasped Belden.
+
+“The shots we heard,” said Stanfield. “I’ll bet—”
+
+“We’re not gamblin’,” said Skeeter. “Do some talkin’.”
+
+Stanfield had been leaning forward, squinting at the insignia of the
+sheriff’s office on Skeeter’s shirt.
+
+“Are you the sheriff?” he asked.
+
+“Yeah. And I’ve got a gun in my hand and a finger on the trigger, and I
+hadn’t ought to miss yuh at this distance.”
+
+“These are the two men who asked us about the Silver Bell stage,” said
+Kaintuck.
+
+“I know it,” nodded Skeeter.
+
+“My name is Stanfield, and my companion’s name is Belden. We own the
+Silver Bell mine. This other man does freighting for the mine.”
+
+“Tha’sall right with me,” said Skeeter. “But that ain’t no reason for
+yuh to shoot at us.”
+
+“We never did!” blurted the driver. “We ain’t even got a gun.”
+
+“Let me tell him about it,” said Belden. “Several miles up the grades,
+we were held up by two masked men who took our team and wagon. One man
+held us there until the other had driven away.
+
+“There was nothing for us to do except to start walking down into the
+valley. That was quite a while ago. We must have walked five miles, at
+least. We heard the echo of some shots, and wondered what it meant.
+
+“Just back there a little ways we found our team and wagon in the middle
+of the road. There wasn’t a soul around; so we climbed in and came on.
+That’s our story.”
+
+“Sounds pretty good,” nodded Skeeter. “The holdup part sounds kinda
+funny though. What did they take, except the team and wagon?”
+
+“A thousand pounds of silver bullion.”
+
+“A—a—take down yore hands, gents.”
+
+The three pairs of hands came down and three men sighed with relief.
+
+“Half-a-ton of silver!” blurted Kaintuck. “Gee-e-e mighty!”
+
+“And they unloaded it over there,” said Skeeter. “No wonder they didn’t
+want us to come along. Of all the danged nerve in the world!”
+
+He squinted off across the hills and rubbed his nose with the back of
+his hand.
+
+“You can stop them, can’t you?” asked Belden nervously. “They haven’t
+had time to get far away.”
+
+“And I’d get stopped,” said Skeeter seriously. “There’s four men in the
+gang—four that we seen. It means that they had some pack horses ready
+for the stuff. One or two men will act as a rear guard for that stuff,
+and—” Skeeter shook his head slowly. “Nope, it would be suicide.”
+
+“But you are the sheriff,” said Belden. “It is your duty—”
+
+“Tha’sso? There ain’t nothin’ in my oath of office that says I’m
+supposed to get killed. Yuh might read about a sheriff that shoved his
+beak into danger on purpose, but when yuh do yuh can just bet it ain’t
+old man Sarg’s high-pocket kid.”
+
+Skeeter turned to Kaintuck, who was grinning softly.
+
+“Kaintuck, I reckon yo’re elected to rest a while. Set down in the brush
+and practice rollin’ ’em one-handed, while I go back to Crescent City,
+get yuh a live horse and a couple of rifles. Be back as quick as I can.”
+
+He walked to his horse, mounted almost on the run and was out of sight
+so fast that no one had a chance to offer any suggestions.
+
+“That’s jist like him,” grinned Kaintuck.
+
+“But—but the thieves will be miles away before he can return,” protested
+Belden. “Is he afraid to—”
+
+“Yuh can take that out and burn it,” interrupted Kaintuck. “Skeeter Bill
+ain’t afraid, but he’s no —— fool. My horse is dead, and them jiggers
+have rifles. We’ve got to have an even break, pardner.”
+
+There was no argument left, as far as Kaintuck was concerned; so the
+driver kicked the brake loose and the equipage proceeded on down the
+grade, while Kaintuck limped to his dead horse and removed saddle and
+bridle.
+
+Then he sat down in the shade and wasted much tobacco and cigaret
+papers. His strained leg gave him a little trouble, but Kaintuck was an
+optimist, as far as injuries were concerned. He knew it was about eight
+miles to Crescent City, and that Skeeter Bill would be back as soon as
+possible; so he made himself comfortable.
+
+Skeeter Bill did not make his return to town at all conspicuous. He rode
+in at the rear of his office, walked to the livery-stable, where he
+secured a horse, and came back to his office. It did not take him long
+to procure two rifles, two belts of ammunition and some extra shells for
+their six-shooters.
+
+Leaving at the rear of his office he rode quietly out of town, swung
+back to the road and headed for the grades at top speed. He met the
+three men with the wagon, but did not stop to talk.
+
+Kaintuck was still wasting tobacco when Skeeter rode up, but pocketed
+the rest of the sack and proceeded to saddle the horse.
+
+“Anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“I find out that some cigaret papers are tougher than others. Yuh shore
+made good time, Skeeter. Meet the wagon?”
+
+“Uh-huh.”
+
+Kaintuck belted on his rifle cartridges, stuffed the loading-gate full
+of 30-30’s, levered one into the chamber, and announced himself ready.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They rode back to the spot where the wagon had been unloaded, dismounted
+and led their horses off the edge of the grade. There was plenty of
+evidence that the unloading had been done at that spot. The brush had
+been trampled down and there was an abundance of horse tracks a little
+further down the hill, where a heavy growth of jack-pines had masked
+them from the road.
+
+“All unshod horses,” said Skeeter, after examining the spot where the
+packing had been done.
+
+They picked up several empty cartridge shells from the grade, and found
+them all to be 30-30 caliber.
+
+“We’ll just have to follow ’em down the hill,” said Skeeter. “They’ll
+all stick together and mebbe we can trail ’em.”
+
+There was an old game trail leading toward the bottom of the cañon,
+starting almost from the spot where the packing had been done, but there
+were no horse-tracks on it. In fact, it showed no tracks of any kind.
+
+“They’ve got to get out of this cañon,” declared Skeeter. “We’ll take
+the old trail and take a chance on cuttin’ their tracks further down.”
+
+“Mebbe,” nodded Kaintuck. “They prob’ly had reasons for not takin’ the
+trail.”
+
+Skeeter started down the trail, leading his horse, but had only gone a
+few feet when he stopped. In the middle of the trail was the imprint of
+a man’s boot sole, clearly etched in a film of dust.
+
+It was the print of a right boot. Skeeter squatted down and studied it,
+while Kaintuck moved in close and looked it over.
+
+“That feller sure left his imprint,” said Skeeter. “He runs his heels
+over on the outer edge, Kaintuck.”
+
+“How do yuh know, Skeeter?”
+
+“’Cause it shows that he does. Prob’ly run ’em over bad. See that line
+through the heel mark? He didn’t want to take ’em to a shoemaker and
+have a new heel put on; so he squared up that heel on the outer edge,
+fitted in a piece of sole-leather and filled her plumb full of nails.
+And to make it last a while, he took a big nail, cut it short and nailed
+it close to the edge. Yuh can see the head of the nail.”
+
+“Yeah, that shore is it,” agreed Kaintuck. “But how can yuh tell it
+wasn’t done by a shoemaker?”
+
+“’Cause it’s a bad fittin’ patch. And a shoemaker would ’a’ put on one
+of them iron jiggers, shaped like a half-moon instead of a ten-penny
+nail.”
+
+Skeeter grinned widely at his own acumen and led the way down the trail.
+There were no more tracks in the trail. They reached the bottom of the
+cañon and began their search for horse-tracks.
+
+The game-trail passed through an open swale at the bottom of the cañon,
+but as far as they could discover no horses had passed through the
+swale.
+
+“Well, they couldn’t cross below nor above here,” complained Kaintuck.
+“The brush is so danged thick yuh can’t even see through it.”
+
+Skeeter climbed up on the side of the cañon, searching for another
+opening where the pack train might have crossed, but as far as he could
+see there was no place. He mounted his horse and rode back over the
+game-trail to the grade, where he dismounted and searched for the spot
+where the horses had gone down the hill.
+
+The ground was fairly hard, but the prints were plain enough where the
+loading had been done. For several minutes Skeeter puzzled over the
+problem. The game-trail was the one way down, and it did not seem
+reasonable that the thieves would slow their getaway by traveling over
+down-timber and brush. The old trail had been packed so hard that
+Skeeter’s shod horse only showed the calk marks, except at the upper end
+of the trail where a miniature slide had left a dirt patch large enough
+to show the imprint of the patched-heel boot.
+
+Anyway, he could find no tracks away from where the horses had milled
+around during the packing up of the silver.
+
+“Must ’a’ had wings,” he told himself.
+
+An idea suddenly came to him, and he went back to the trail, where he
+examined it closely. A grin flashed across his lips and he mounted
+hurriedly, riding as swiftly as possible back to Kaintuck, who was still
+searching near the open swale.
+
+“Git yore horse,” called Skeeter. “These jiggers muffled their horses’
+hoofs. No wonder there ain’t a mark of any kind.”
+
+Kaintuck mounted and they spurred down the narrow trail. Not a hundred
+yards further along the trail they found where a horse had slipped a
+chunk off the trail, leaving the fresh dirt exposed.
+
+“I thought of that, while you was up the hill,” said Kaintuck wisely.
+
+“That’s why yuh spent all yore time lookin’ somewhere else, I suppose,”
+laughed Skeeter.
+
+“Well, anyway, we’ll be in a —— of a fix as soon as we run out of
+trail,” said Kaintuck. “They won’t foller this old deer-trail forever.”
+
+“I thought of that quite a while ago,” said Skeeter.
+
+They followed the old trail to a point where it disappeared, and there
+they lost all chance of picking up the horse-tracks. The ground was
+hard, and the muffled hoofs made no marks. There was nothing for them to
+do, except to follow the slope down into the valley, trusting to luck to
+pick up the tracks again.
+
+But luck was not with them. After hours of hard riding, circling back
+and forth across the hills, they reached the banks of Moon River, which
+they followed back to Crescent City. It was after dark when they stabled
+their horses and went out to eat.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They found Frank Moran in the restaurant, and after they finished their
+meal Moran went to the office with them and Skeeter told him the story
+of the silver robbery.
+
+“I heard it talked about,” said Moran. “These two men who own the mine
+told all about it when they got back. I guess every one around here has
+heard about it.”
+
+Skeeter stretched his legs and puffed on his cigaret.
+
+“It kinda looks to me like the counterfeiters had picked enough stuff to
+keep ’em moldin’ dollars for a long time,” he observed. “It ain’t
+nothin’ that I’d hang a man for, but dang ’em, they killed Kaintuck’s
+horse and darned near got Kaintuck. I can’t forgive ’em for doin’ that.”
+
+“It shows that they’re desperate men,” said Moran.
+
+“Yeah, I s’pose they are. Slick, too. They muffled their pack-animals’
+hoofs.”
+
+“Is that so?” Moran grew interested. “Couldn’t you find a track?”
+
+“Not a horse-track, except where they packed up. They shoot 30-30
+rifles, and they shoot straight.”
+
+“Yo’re danged right they do,” agreed Kaintuck, flexing his sore leg.
+“I’m goin’ to declare open season on counterfeiters right now.”
+
+“You heard anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.
+
+Moran shook his head.
+
+“Got any more letters from Shorty Long?”
+
+“No. Kinda expected to hear from him today, but no mail came. I’m danged
+if I can find out anythin’.”
+
+“It looks to me,” said Skeeter slowly, “as though somebody at the mine
+is workin’ with ’em—somebody who put ’em wise to the shipment of this
+silver. Do you know the superintendent, Sam Rugg?”
+
+“I’ve seen him,” said Moran. “He’s a big, hard-faced sort of a jigger,
+with a black mustache.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted at his boots for several moments. Then—
+
+“Moran, have you accomplished anythin’ since you’ve been workin’ on this
+case?”
+
+“Just what do yuh mean, Sheriff?”
+
+“What I said. You’ve been punchin’ cows and workin’ at the different
+ranches; but have yuh done anythin’? Have yuh even got a suspicion of
+where this money is bein’ made?”
+
+Moran was inclined to get a trifle peevish at Skeeter’s tone, but
+thought better of it and was forced to admit that he had accomplished
+nothing.
+
+“It isn’t a thing yuh can come right out and show your flag,” said
+Moran. “You know how long I’d last if it was known that I was a
+detective.”
+
+Skeeter nodded thoughtfully.
+
+“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
+
+“You can see how hard it is to get a clue,” said Moran.
+
+“Well, I dunno. I’ve got several, Moran.”
+
+“You have?” This was interesting.
+
+Skeeter nodded and began manufacturing a cigaret.
+
+“Mind tellin’ me what they are?” queried Moran.
+
+“I’m goin’ to tell you the same thing I told Kaintuck; to go out and get
+some for yourself.”
+
+Skeeter grinned widely at Moran, who was at a loss just what to say.
+
+“And I ain’t got me none yet,” complained Kaintuck. “It kinda looks like
+when they parceled out the brains I was out fishin’. Skeeter is real
+smart.”
+
+Moran laughed shortly.
+
+“That ain’t hardly fair, Sheriff. This case is mine, and I don’t like
+the idea of a sheriff getting a clue and keepin’ it from me.”
+
+“Tha’sso?” Skeeter grinned at the ceiling. “Yo’re like that picture of
+the kid in a bathtub, reachin’ for a slippery bar of soap. Won’t be
+happy till he gits it. Well, I’ve got my bar of soap, Moran.
+
+“I dunno much about the manufacture of bad money, but I do _sabe_ holdup
+stuff. These jiggers are awful smart. At first I had an idea they was
+smarter than me, but they ain’t. Nawsir, I’m jist as smart as they are.”
+
+“Well, that’s good—” thus Moran, just a little peevish—“I wish you’d
+tell me what you’ve stumbled on to, but if you won’t, you won’t. I’m
+willin’ to put my cards on the table, face up.”
+
+“You ain’t got any cards,” grinned Skeeter. “If I didn’t hold more cards
+in this game than you do, I’d call for a new deck. Aw, yuh don’t need to
+get sore, Moran. I’m no detective, but I’ve got somethin’ to work on—and
+that’s more than you’ve got.”
+
+“Anythin’ is more than I’ve got,” Moran grinned and got to his feet. “If
+it gets to be more than you can handle, let me in on it. Uncle Sam is
+dependin’ on me to clear up this case, and I hate to fall down
+completely, yuh know.”
+
+“All right,” promised Skeeter. “Mebbe a little later I’ll tell yuh what
+I know. But I want to be sure first.”
+
+They shook hands and Moran went away. Kaintuck squinted at Skeeter and
+shook his head.
+
+“You shore bragged about yourself a lot, cowboy. I dunno what got into
+yuh.”
+
+Skeeter laughed at Kaintuck.
+
+“Mebbe I threw a scare into him, Kaintuck. He’d hate like —— for a
+ordinary sheriff to clear up a case that he couldn’t handle.”
+
+“You kinda usin’ a spur on him, eh?”
+
+“Yuh might say I am. I was scared you might mention that boot-track in
+the trail, Kaintuck. Let him find his own clues. He’d prob’ly go around
+the country, killin’ folks jist for a chance to look at the bottom of
+their heels.”
+
+“Aw, ——, he wouldn’t do a thing like that, Skeeter.”
+
+“Yuh never can tell what a detective like him might do.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was the following day that Monk Clark came back to the Gregory ranch;
+but this time he did not wear his Sunday garments, nor did he go to the
+ranch-house. Hank Gregory was at the stable when Clark rode up, and
+Calamity was helping Joy plant some roses in the front yard—much to
+Calamity’s disgust.
+
+“What do you know about roses?” asked Joy, straightening up from a bush
+and pushing her hair back from her eyes.
+
+Her hand was dirty and it left a streak on her nose.
+
+“What do I know,” grinned Calamity, “about roses? Lemme tell yuh about
+some roses I set out in—”
+
+“1866,” finished Joy quizzically.
+
+“A tub,” corrected Calamity. “It was in the summer of 1866, if I
+remember. Say, Joy, here comes Monk Clark. If yuh act like yo’re
+workin’, he mebbe won’t come up here. That is, unless yuh want to see
+him.”
+
+“I don’t,” declared Joy.
+
+“He’s got a lot of money.”
+
+“I suppose he has,” Joy picked up the shovel and began digging around
+the bush.
+
+“And he ain’t so bad lookin’,” added Calamity thoughtfully.
+
+Joy dropped the shovel and looked closely at Calamity.
+
+“Are you pleading Monk Clark’s cause?” she asked.
+
+“My ——, I should say not! I was just kinda feelin’ sorry for him,
+tha’sall. Geemi-nee-e-e, he sure must love yuh! Any man that’ll wear
+what he wore over here—”
+
+“Quit it, Calamity! He’s going down to the stable where dad is. I hope
+he stays there until he gets ready to go home.”
+
+Calamity squinted toward Clark, who was riding up to Hank Gregory, and
+turned back to his job of criticizing Joy’s botanical efforts.
+
+“I came past the Box X,” offered Clark, after the customary greetings
+had been exchanged.
+
+“Yeah? Understand Curley is fixin’ things up over there.”
+
+“He’s got a lot of fixin’ to do, Hank.”
+
+Gregory laughed shortly and squinted toward the front of the house,
+where Joy and Calamity were arguing over the placing of a certain bush.
+Clark scowled toward them, but turned away.
+
+“I don’t know how yuh stand for that —— old fool around here,” said
+Clark. “He’s no good.”
+
+“Calamity? Oh, he’s all right. Did yuh see Curley as yuh came past,
+Monk?”
+
+“Yeah. I didn’t stop. He’ll starve to death on that ranch—if nothin’
+worse happens to him.”
+
+Gregory squinted at Clark closely.
+
+“Meanin’ what, Monk?”
+
+“Well, yuh never can tell what might happen to him.”
+
+“Uh-huh.” There was a note of suspicion in Gregory’s voice. “I hope
+nothin’ happens to him, Monk. Him and Joy are goin’ to get married as
+soon as he gets the old place fixed up.”
+
+“Tha’sso?” Clark spat viciously. “Mebbe they will.”
+
+For several moments, the two men looked closely at each other. Gregory
+looked toward the house, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Then—
+
+“I dunno what yuh mean by that, Monk. I told Curley that it would be all
+right with me. If Joy wants him, she sure can have him.”
+
+“I didn’t say anythin’,” replied Clark. “It’s a free country. And
+another thing, Hank—you better not get too short with me. I play square
+with my friends, as long as they remain friends. I know too much about
+you, _sabe_?”
+
+Gregory’s lips shut tightly for several moments and he looked toward the
+house, while Clark grinned softly.
+
+“I _sabe_ all that,” said Gregory softly.
+
+“Might not listen well to some folks,” suggested Clark.
+
+Gregory shook his head.
+
+“No, I reckon not. I’ve often wondered about it, Monk. I dunno whether I
+killed that sheriff or not.”
+
+“That part don’t matter, Hank. There were three of yuh. Two of yore
+outfit died in their saddles. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been
+hanged. Just stop and remember that I kept yuh under cover until the
+chase had died down enough for you to make a getaway. They’re probably
+still lookin’ for the man who killed the sheriff—and you was the only
+survivor.”
+
+Gregory nodded slowly.
+
+“That’s true, Monk. But I wasn’t guilty of doin’ anythin’ wrong. I
+didn’t know them two fellers had stolen horses until it was all over.
+When a man begins to shoot at me, I shoot at him.”
+
+Clark smiled wisely.
+
+“That’s all very fine, but you’d have a fine time explainin’ that to a
+jury in Badger County.”
+
+“Prob’ly—” slowly. Gregory’s eyes were steady as he looked straight at
+Clark and said:
+
+“Monk, why bring this up now? You ain’t aimin’ to hold a club over me,
+are yuh?”
+
+“I just wanted yuh to know how I stand.”
+
+“That happened almost ten years ago, Monk.”
+
+“I know it. Almost long enough for us to forget, eh? But not quite,
+Hank.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Gregory laughed bitterly. “Almost like somethin’ yuh read
+about, Monk. You know enough about me to send me to the penitentiary,
+and yo’re willin’ to use that knowledge to make me do what yuh want me
+to do, eh?”
+
+“I don’t think yo’re a —— fool, Hank,” coldly.
+
+“No? Well, I am —— in some things, Monk.”
+
+Gregory shoved himself away from the stable wall and came closer to
+Clark.
+
+“There are some things in which I don’t show a lick of sense. When yo’re
+playin’ yore cards, Monk—remember this.”
+
+Clark scowled heavily. He had not counted on this.
+
+“Just what things do yuh mean, Hank?” he asked.
+
+“Anythin’ affectin’ Joy and Curley.”
+
+“Oh. Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, Hank. If you want that girl to
+starve to death with a rattle-headed cowpuncher, it’s yore business, I
+reckon.”
+
+Monk Clark picked up his reins and climbed into his saddle.
+
+“Yuh can tell the sheriff that I’m here when he wants me,” said Gregory.
+
+Clark laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Don’t be a fool. I’ve been yore friend a long time, Hank. I didn’t
+think you’d turn me down. But if I happen to feel like it, I’ll tell the
+sheriff.”
+
+He turned his horse and rode away. Joy and Calamity stopped their labors
+long enough to watch him ride down the road. They were laughing as they
+resumed their planting. Gregory leaned against the stable wall, his mind
+going back to a day, almost ten years before.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It happened in a little county in a far corner of the State. Gregory was
+riding through, and joined with two congenial fellows, who were well
+mounted. Almost without warning they were fired upon by several mounted
+men.
+
+Without any inkling that he was with two horse-thieves, Gregory returned
+their fire. The battle did not last long. Both of the thieves were shot
+from their saddles. Gregory saw one of the posse fall.
+
+It was only through the speed of his horse that Gregory had been able to
+escape the posse. Monk Clark, who had been one of the posse, recognized
+Gregory’s horse when Gregory came to his ranch that night.
+
+Believing that honesty was the best policy, Gregory told his story to
+Clark, who seemed to accept Gregory’s explanation. It was then that
+Clark told him that the sheriff had been killed and that his story would
+not save him if the authorities knew where he was.
+
+The two horse-thieves were dead; so their testimony would not be
+available. Clark explained that the sheriff was well liked in that
+country; so well liked, in fact, that he—Gregory—would probably not be
+accorded a fair trial.
+
+For over a week, he remained in hiding, until the excitement had died
+down, before leaving the ranch. Clark had kept him posted, and Gregory
+knew that they were looking for him for the killing of the sheriff.
+
+Gregory had made his way back to the Moon River country, and later Monk
+Clark had acquired the Tin Cup outfit. But in all this time, Clark had
+never—until today—mentioned the incident.
+
+It had been the natural thing for Gregory to assist Clark in any way
+possible, and Gregory had thought that Clark believed his story at the
+time of his escape. But guilty or innocent, Gregory knew that he could
+never prove it to a jury.
+
+He wondered if Clark would use his knowledge. Gregory had never told it
+to any one else. Joy’s mother had died before this happened, and Joy was
+living with her mother’s sister in another State.
+
+Gregory knew now that Monk Clark wanted Joy, and that he would do
+everything possible to prevent Joy from marrying Curley Adams. Gregory
+knew that Joy disliked Monk Clark and would be greatly amused at even a
+hint of her marrying him.
+
+But Gregory was not worried about Monk doing anything to Joy. What he
+could and might do to Curley was a different matter. He knew Monk Clark
+for a determined man, and it seemed that Monk’s conscience was fairly
+flexible.
+
+He wanted to tell Curley to be on his guard, but it would be a difficult
+thing to explain without telling more than he cared to tell. It was
+nearly supper time when Curley rode in and announced that he was tired
+of his own cooking.
+
+He exhibited some bruised fingernails as evidence that he had been
+working.
+
+“Sawed my knee-cap three times today,” he declared. “I’ve heard of
+architects puttin’ their souls into their work; but I’m puttin’ my flesh
+and blood in mine. Every darned nail I’ve got is hinged in the middle.
+What I need is a wide-faced hammer and some tacks.”
+
+“Joy cooked some apple pie,” announced Calamity. “When we git through
+with the crusts I’m goin’ to sew ’em together and make a cover for my
+old saddle. Rawhide! Whooee! I knowed a cook back in 1866 that made a
+pie and—”
+
+“You was in the penitentiary in 1866,” retorted Joy.
+
+“Shore I was. This feller was the penitentiary cook, Joy. This cook says
+to me, ‘Calamity, I’m——’”
+
+“The penitentiary cooks don’t speak to common prisoners.”
+
+“Is that so? Huh! He wasn’t any better than I was. We was both in for
+the same crime—killin’ a man.”
+
+“The same man?” grinned Curley.
+
+“Yessir. By golly, it shore was a queer deal. Happened in a saloon. Me
+and this here cook are facin’ the bar, when a jigger walks in on the
+other side of me. Him and this cook has had trouble, and the cook is
+layin’ for him.
+
+“I seen this cook pull his gun, and the other feller backs away from the
+bar. Well, sir, I steps in between ’em and tries to block the cook from
+shootin’, but it wasn’t no use. This danged cook shot me through the arm
+and the bullet killed this jigger as dead as a petrified fish. We both
+got sent to the penitentiary for it.”
+
+“Calamity, yo’re an awful liar,” said Curley. “Why should they send you
+to the penitentiary for what the cook did?”
+
+“Well, sir,” grinned Calamity, “the jury said that it was through me
+that this feller got killed, so I—ha, ha, ha, ha!”
+
+Calamity did a jig-step into the kitchen, slapping himself on the leg.
+
+“That is like most of Calamity’s stories of 1866,” laughed Joy. “He will
+chuckle over it to himself for a week.”
+
+“And swear at everything and everybody the rest of the time,” grinned
+Curley.
+
+“That’s true, Curley. But Calamity is awful human. Get him alone and
+he’s different. He doesn’t really hate any one.”
+
+Gregory came in and shook hands with Curley. Joy went to the kitchen to
+help Calamity with the supper, and Gregory took Curley out on the front
+porch.
+
+“Curley, I want to warn yuh to look out,” said Gregory.
+
+He had spoken so abruptly that Curley looked at him in amazement.
+
+“What about, Gregory?”
+
+“I can’t tell yuh any more, Curley. Mebbe I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree—
+mebbe not. But you know how easy it is to frame a crime on to a man.
+Keep yore eyes peeled, son.”
+
+“This ain’t another 1866 joke is it?” asked Curley.
+
+“I wish it was a joke.”
+
+Curley scratched his nose and looked thoughtfully at the man who was
+soon to become his father-in-law. Gregory was not joking, Curley knew.
+He glanced back toward the door.
+
+“Nothin’ concernin’ Joy, is it?”
+
+“If anythin’ happened to you, it would affect her, don’t yuh think?”
+
+“Well—yes. Can’t yuh give me any more information?”
+
+“No. It may only be a suspicion, son. I hope it is. But I had to tell
+yuh.”
+
+“But why would any one want to frame a crime on me?”
+
+“Yo’re figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, ain’t yuh?”
+
+“You bet!”
+
+“Uh-huh. Never stopped to think that there might be other men who would
+like to do the same thing, have yuh?”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+Curley’s eyes widened momentarily and he started to say a name, but shut
+his lips tightly. He knew what Gregory meant, now. And Gregory knew that
+there was no need to mention any names.
+
+“I’m much obliged,” said Curley slowly. “I’ll kinda keep my eye
+peeled—thank yuh.”
+
+Calamity was yelling for them to “come and get it!” so they changed the
+conversation and went to the dining-room.
+
+“I heard that yuh busted a feller in the jaw the other day, Curley,”
+said Calamity. “That new feller on the Tin Cup.”
+
+“Moran,” said Gregory.
+
+“It wasn’t anythin’,” smiled Curley. “He got fresh.”
+
+“Yeah, I heard he did. Worked for the Lazy H a while. I seen him ridin’
+with Sam Ertle. Know anythin’ about him?”
+
+“Not much, Calamity. He was with the Tin Cup while I was there, but we
+didn’t have much to do with each other. He came to work while I was sick
+in bed.”
+
+“You had quite a time, didn’t yuh?” observed Gregory. “Monk Clark
+thought yuh was goin’ to have pneumonia.”
+
+“I guess I did almost have it. They kept me in bed for over a week.”
+
+“And I came very near coming home,” said Joy. “I didn’t get a letter
+from you for over two weeks.”
+
+“Well, I couldn’t help it, Joy. By golly, I sure was helpless. That
+Crescent City doctor didn’t know what to do. The boys took turns settin’
+up with me. It was mighty fine of ’em.”
+
+“How’s the ranch comin’?” asked Calamity.
+
+“Kinda slow. Gee, I never knew there was as many things to be repaired.
+It’s worse than building a new place. But I’ve got one room rain-tight,
+I think. It’s fun though.”
+
+“That’s what love does to yuh,” said Calamity. “I remember a feller that
+fell in love back in 1866—”
+
+But that was as far as he got, because Curley reached for the
+coffee-pot, and Calamity subsided with a chuckle.
+
+Curley did not tell Joy what her father had told him. He knew that
+Gregory had meant Monk Clark, and he wondered just what Monk would be
+able to do. They had always been friendly enough—as friendly as Monk
+usually was with any of his cowboys.
+
+Curley had urged Joy to marry him at once, but she told him to wait
+until he had fixed up the old ranch. Calamity nearly floored them all by
+offering to come down and help Curley with his carpenter work.
+
+“Well, that’s sure fine,” said Curley. “But do you know anything about
+carpentering, Calamity?”
+
+“Do I? Huh! Say, I knowed a carpenter in 1866—”
+
+All of which was sufficient proof that Calamity knew all about the
+building trade.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+That same afternoon Skeeter Bill sat on a counter in Mike Gower’s store,
+playing with a three-legged gray cat whose name was Shy. Old Mike
+lounged on the counter and puffed at his old pipe, which sizzled like a
+frying egg.
+
+“Curley Adams might make a go of the old ranch,” said Mike thoughtfully.
+“He’s a good sort of a kid, yuh know. The old place ain’t worth much,
+and it didn’t cost him much.”
+
+“Looks kinda tumble-down,” nodded Skeeter. “Still, I like to see a young
+feller try to make a start. Yuh might hand me down a box of forty-fives,
+Gower.”
+
+The old storekeeper lifted a box of cartridges off a shelf and slid them
+over to Skeeter, who examined the label of the box.
+
+“You carry quite a stock of cartridges, don’t yuh?” observed Skeeter.
+
+“I have to. Of course, there’s certain sizes that I never have any call
+for. Nobody shoots anythin’ smaller than a .38. Mostly .44’s and .45’s.”
+
+“Ever have any calls for .41’s?”
+
+“Not very much. Curley Adams has a .41. He’s one of them fellers that
+likes to experiment; so he has me buy a reloadin’ set for him. He tries
+different kinds of powder and all that. I dunno what he finally decides
+to do. One of the boys at the Tin Cup said that Curley had ruined every
+tin-can on the ranch.”
+
+“Loadin’ his own shells, eh?”
+
+“I s’pose so. Anyway, he ain’t asked me to stock any .41’s since I got
+him that outfit.”
+
+Skeeter opened his box and filled the loops in his belt. The fact that
+Curley Adams owned a reloading set for a .41 revolver, and used a .41,
+made it interesting knowledge.
+
+“Don’t any one else use a .41 around here?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Not that I know of. Mostly everybody buys their shells from me. I can
+get yuh some if yuh—”
+
+“No, I didn’t want any. I never used one.”
+
+He patted the gray cat, adjusted his belt and walked back to the office,
+where he found Kaintuck playing solitaire.
+
+“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+“I found out that Curley Adams owns a .41, and also owns a reloading
+outfit.”
+
+Kaintuck whistled softly, as he gathered up his cards.
+
+“Anybody else around here own a .41, Skeeter?”
+
+“I reckon not.”
+
+“It means that we’ll have to investigate Mr. Adams, eh?”
+
+“I dunno, Kaintuck. Mebbe somebody else owns a .41. We’ll keep this
+under our hats and see what else we can find out.”
+
+A little later they went to the Half-Moon Saloon, where they met Sam
+Ertle, owner of the Lazy H, and “Frisco” Larkin, one of Ertle’s
+cowpunchers. Frisco was a tall, saturnine sort of person, with
+buck-teeth and a bald head.
+
+Ertle was not a congenial sort of cowman. He was not inclined to
+conversation and seemed to mind his own business fairly well. Some one
+had told him about the silver robbery, and it was the topic of
+conversation when Skeeter and Kaintuck came in.
+
+“Jist how in —— could yuh steal a thousand pounds of silver?” Frisco
+wanted to know, but no one seemed able to enlighten him.
+
+“And if yuh got it, what would yuh do with it?” asked Frisco.
+
+“You might ask the sheriff,” smiled the bartender.
+
+Frisco squinted at Skeeter Bill closely. He had imbibed a few drinks and
+desired an argument.
+
+“All right; I ask him,” said Frisco. “From what I’ve heard about him, he
+don’t know a —— of a lot; so I don’t expect him to answer my question.”
+
+“Then I’m not goin’ to disappoint yuh,” smiled Skeeter.
+
+Frisco laughed and pounded on the bar. “Name yore weapons, gents. I’ve
+found a sheriff that ain’t afraid to admit he’s ignorant. Ha, ha, ha,
+ha, ha! Ain’t goin’ to disappoint me, eh?”
+
+Frisco fairly leered at Skeeter, who kept his temper admirably, much to
+the disgust of Kaintuck.
+
+“I never like to disappoint anybody,” said Skeeter evenly.
+
+“Sure yuh don’t,” fleered Frisco. “Everybody says that about yuh. They
+don’t expect anythin’ from yuh—and they don’t get anythin’. Yuh sure are
+some sheriff, I’d tell a man.”
+
+“Yeah, I’m good,” admitted Skeeter slowly.
+
+“Well, for ——’s sake!” exploded Kaintuck disgustedly.
+
+Frisco squinted at Kaintuck closely, blinking his eyes as though the
+deputy was of some strange species. He ignored Skeeter now,
+concentrating entirely on Kaintuck.
+
+“Now, whatcha s’pose this is?” he queried.
+
+Kaintuck’s left hand went slowly up to the brim of his wide sombrero,
+crumpled the edge of it slightly, as though about to wipe off his brow
+with the back of his hand.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Then, as quick as a flash, he whipped the hat off his head and slashed
+Frisco across the face with it. It was done so quickly and took Frisco
+so utterly by surprize that he staggered back against the bar, throwing
+both hands up to his eyes.
+
+As Kaintuck’s left hand swept aside and as Frisco’s hands went up to
+protect his eyes, Kaintuck took a half step forward and drove his right
+fist into Frisco’s anatomy, just below the arch of his breast-bone.
+
+It was a terrific punch. Frisco’s hands dropped limply, his eyes rolled,
+and he slumped down between the rail and the bar, knocked completely
+out. Kaintuck stepped back, put on his hat and leaned one elbow against
+the bar, looking down curiously at Frisco, who had not moved again.
+
+“Nobody but a —— fool ever starts trouble and ain’t set to meet it,”
+said Kaintuck dryly.
+
+“There’s a lot of truth in that,” said the bartender.
+
+Ertle did not say a word, but managed to drag Frisco away from the bar
+and stretch him out in the middle of the room.
+
+“You sure sung him to sleep,” stated the bartender, as he walked around
+the bar, carrying a glass of water, which he threw in Frisco’s face.
+
+The shock of the cold water partly revived Frisco, who was able to sit
+up and groan hollowly and clutch at his stomach.
+
+“He won’t give a —— what the cook puts on the table tonight,” said
+Kaintuck.
+
+Ertle gave Kaintuck a side glance, but kept his lips shut.
+
+After another minute Frisco was able to get to his feet and slump back
+into a chair. He was still a mighty sick man.
+
+“How’r yuh comin’, Frisco?” asked Ertle.
+
+Frisco shook his head, his lips compressed painfully. Then he got to his
+feet and went outside with Ertle, where he leaned on the hitch-rack
+until his breathing apparatus began to function normally again.
+
+“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t hit him, Skeeter,” complained
+Kaintuck. “Are you gettin’ meek, cowboy?”
+
+“I’m the sheriff,” grinned Skeeter. “I ain’t got no right to fight
+everybody that disagrees with me.”
+
+“Uh-huh? Say, that don’t affect me, does it?”
+
+“It didn’t seem to. But yuh don’t need to feel contrite over it. That
+pelican was cravin’ trouble.”
+
+“He was.” The bartender was emphatic.
+
+“Well, his cravin’ ought to be satisfied,” grinned Kaintuck. “Unless the
+man is a reg’lar hog for punishment, he ought to be plumb pleased over
+his success.”
+
+“He didn’t show good sense”—thus the bartender, polishing the top of the
+bar industriously—“wanted trouble and didn’t look for it. He’s mostly
+always like that when he’s drinkin’.”
+
+Kaintuck walked to the door and looked toward the hitch-rack, where
+Ertle and Frisco were having a heated argument. Ertle had hold of
+Frisco’s arm and was trying to dissuade him from doing something.
+
+“Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, then!” snorted Ertle.
+
+Frisco yanked away from him and started back toward the saloon door. It
+was evident to Kaintuck that Frisco was coming back to wipe out the
+disgrace.
+
+He stepped aside, flattened himself against the wall, and the maddened
+Frisco walked past him, squinting at the bar, where Skeeter and the
+bartender were standing, wondering what it was all about. Kaintuck saw
+that Frisco had drawn his gun and was carrying it behind him.
+
+For a moment Frisco stared at the two men, and in that moment Kaintuck’s
+revolver barrel rapped him sharply across the knuckles of his right
+hand, causing him to drop the gun. He whirled quickly and found himself
+looking into the muzzle of Kaintuck’s .45.
+
+Kaintuck kicked Frisco’s gun aside and motioned for Frisco to get out of
+the saloon.
+
+“You must be one of them fellers who never know when they’re whipped,
+ain’t yuh?” queried Kaintuck. “I ought to pistol-whip yuh right here and
+give the doctor somethin’ to sew up, you bat-eared ant-eater. Git on
+yore bronc and go home.”
+
+Kaintuck followed Frisco to the hitch-rack. Ertle had come back to the
+saloon door, but preceded Frisco and Kaintuck to the rack. They mounted
+their horses and rode out of town, with never a backward glance, while
+Skeeter and the bartender stood in the doorway and grinned at each
+other.
+
+“You’ve got a real capable deputy,” observed the bartender.
+
+“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Skeeter. “Don’t let him hear it. The first thing
+he knows he’ll be thinkin’ he is somebody.”
+
+Kaintuck swaggered back to the saloon and picked up Frisco’s gun.
+
+“Give it to the bartender,” said Skeeter. “He can give it to Frisco the
+first time he shows up.”
+
+Kaintuck was examining the gun intently, but did not give it to the
+bartender. Moran and Monk Clark came in. They nodded to Skeeter and
+Kaintuck, who took advantage of their coming to leave the saloon.
+
+Back in their office Kaintuck took the gun from his pocket and handed it
+to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41.
+
+“That’s why I didn’t give it to the bartender,” said Kaintuck. “And I
+don’t want yuh to forget that that is my clue.”
+
+“It sure is,” grinned Skeeter. “And you earned it, cowboy. That makes
+two .41’s in evidence. If we get any more, we’re up against it. You
+better look out for Frisco. He came back there to kill yuh, that’s a
+cinch.”
+
+“He sure did. I’d like to know why he tried to pick trouble with you,
+Skeeter. We’ve never done anythin’ to him.”
+
+“Mebbe he ain’t killed no sheriff yet,” grinned Skeeter. “He strikes me
+as bein’ one of them fellers that won’t be satisfied until they’ve
+killed a sheriff. He’s a bad boy.”
+
+“He ain’t so bad as he used to was,” grinned Kaintuck. “If he wants his
+gun back he’s got to say ‘please, Mister Kennedy’—which he won’t do; so
+I’ll keep the gun.”
+
+It was about fifteen minutes later that Clark and Moran rode past the
+office, going south. Moran gave them a friendly wave, but Clark did not
+turn his head. They had disappeared when Kaintuck saw the bartender
+standing in the door of the Half-Moon, waving at him.
+
+Curiosity impelled them both to go back to the saloon.
+
+“Clark didn’t stop at your place, eh?” said the dispenser of drinks.
+
+“Why should he?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Well, from what they said I thought sure he would. They’re on the way
+to the Lazy H to see Sam Ertle. It seems that Monk Clark found a
+yearlin’ heifer today, which had a vented brand on its right hip, and a
+fresh Box X on its left shoulder.”
+
+“Yeah?” Skeeter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Uh-huh. Meanin’ that—” He
+hesitated for a moment. “On the right hip, eh? Who brands on the right
+hip?”
+
+“The Lazy H.”
+
+“Anybody else around here?”
+
+“No. The Tin Cup brand on the right shoulder, HG on the left hip—and the
+Box X on the left shoulder.”
+
+“Then they must ’a’ vented a Lazy H, eh?”
+
+“Looks like it. I heard Monk and Moran talkin’ about it. It seems that
+Monk had started for the Gregory ranch, but run into this heifer. He
+said the new brand made him suspicious; so he roped the animal and put
+it in an old corral on Deer Creek, between here and the Box X. He cut
+back to the road and run into Moran who was comin’ to town.”
+
+“It’s kinda funny he didn’t come to me,” mused Skeeter. “Bein’ the
+sheriff, I’m interested in cattle stealin’.”
+
+“Yuh ought to be,” smiled the bartender.
+
+Skeeter paid for a round of drinks and led the way back to the office,
+going straight through the place and out to the little stable at the
+rear. Kaintuck looked at him curiously, but saddled his horse without
+comment.
+
+Frisco Larkin was in a vile frame of mind when he got back to the Lazy H
+ranch. It was the first time he had ever been completely knocked out—the
+first time he had ever lost his six-shooter. To a man like him nothing
+could have been more humiliating.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Frisco was not endowed with an overabundance of imagination, but he had
+a certain amount of pride, and it galled him deeply to think that he had
+been whipped. As he rode along through the dust he removed his hat and
+wiped his bald head with a flirting motion of his hand.
+
+His stomach was still fluttering, and there was a great vacancy beneath
+his breast-bone. He shifted painfully in his saddle, spat between his
+front teeth and spurred his horse savagely. He wanted revenge on
+something. Then he yanked cruelly on the reins, almost throwing his
+horse off the road.
+
+He roweled the animal savagely and raced it all the way to the Tin Cup
+ranch, where he dismounted and sat down in the shade of the stable,
+trying to ease his cramping insides.
+
+Van Cleve, Ertle’s other cowboy, a stolid-faced person, with scraggly,
+yellow mustaches and a crooked mouth came down from the ranch-house,
+wondering what was the matter with Frisco. His teeth were like aged
+tombstones in a badly-kept cemetery—sadly out of line.
+
+“You got a stummick-ache?” he asked.
+
+“Uh-huh.”
+
+“Et somethin’ yuh hadn’t ort to, eh?”
+
+“Na-a-aw! Deputy sheriff hit me in the belly.”
+
+Van Cleve filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and sat down with Frisco,
+who told his story in meager detail.
+
+“I’m prob’ly goin’ to kill him for that,” declared Frisco, after his
+story was finished.
+
+Van Cleve had little to say. He gave Frisco another gun and a box of
+cartridges, closing the incident, as far as he was concerned. But it was
+not closed as far as Frisco was concerned.
+
+“And when yuh went back to kill him, he took yore gun?” asked Van Cleve.
+
+It seemed marvelous to Van Cleve; so marvelous that he picked his teeth
+thoughtfully with the blade of his pocket-knife.
+
+“Bad hombre,” he said, after careful consideration.
+
+“Hit me when I wasn’t lookin’,” said Frisco.
+
+“What was yuh lookin’ at?”
+
+“Oh, ——!” Frisco felt too badly to explain. “Did yuh ever get hit real
+hard right here?” He indicated his solar plexus.
+
+Van Cleve shook his head.
+
+“Never got hit anywhere, except in the back.”
+
+“Somebody sneak up on yuh, Van?”
+
+“Na-a-a-aw, ——! They outrun me.”
+
+“You think this is funny, don’tcha?”—indignantly.
+
+“’F I do, it’s because I can’t help m’self, Frisco. You poked yore beak
+into the molasses and got it stuck, tha’sall.”
+
+“Yeah, and I’ll poke it some more, if I want to.”
+
+“Tha’sso? Frisco, you’ve got intestinal trouble, ain’tcha?”
+
+“What do yuh mean?”
+
+“Yo’re overbalanced.”
+
+“Meanin’ what?”
+
+“Too much guts and too few brains. I dunno how in —— he ever knocked yuh
+down.”
+
+“That will be about all,” said Ertle warningly. “There’s been enough
+fighting.”
+
+As Ertle turned toward the house, Monk Clark and Frank Moran came in
+sight. Ertle stopped and waited for them to ride up. Clark and Ertle
+exchanged nods of greeting, and Clark came right to the point.
+
+“I’ve got a heifer in the old corral on Deer Creek, waitin’ for you to
+look it over, Sam. There’s a fresh brand vent on the right hip, and a
+new Box X on the left shoulder. Kinda thought yuh might be interested.”
+
+Ertle scowled heavily.
+
+“Tha’sso?” He turned to Frisco and Van Cleve. “Saddle up the horses.”
+
+Ertle walked to the house and came back carrying a rifle in a scabbard,
+which he fastened to his saddle, when Frisco came with the horse.
+
+“Old Deer Creek corral, eh?” he asked Monk Clark.
+
+“Yeah. We’ll ride over with yuh, Sam.”
+
+“The more the merrier. Did yuh tell the sheriff?”
+
+“I did not.”
+
+“Suits me. Let’s go.”
+
+The five men rode away from the Lazy H, heading straight for the bridge
+across Moon River, after which they swung to the northeast, passing
+between Crescent City and the Gregory ranch.
+
+It was only about eight miles, but they were unable to make much speed
+across the hills. There was little conversation. They struck Deer Creek
+about a quarter of a mile below the old corral, but rode along the
+ridges to a point above the small flat where the old corral was located.
+
+Even at a distance they could see the spotted yearling, moving about the
+dusty old enclosure. They went down the hill, crossed the little creek
+and drew up at the corral fence. Clark and Ertle dismounted and climbed
+over the fence, while the yearling circled wildly. The process of
+branding an animal does not serve to make it gentle in any way.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The two men stopped near the center of the corral. Ertle was carrying a
+coiled lariat, which he shook out and roped the animal on the first
+throw. It bawled and protested, but he drew it up to an old
+snubbing-post in the center of the corral, while they looked it over.
+
+Ertle walked around it, his eyes half closed, and came back to Monk
+Clark whose face registered extreme wonder.
+
+But Clark did not speak. He looked at Ertle, as though wondering what
+thoughts might lie behind the keen eyes of the wiry little cattleman.
+And Clark knew he was treading on thin ice.
+
+Ertle stepped away from him, circled the animal and came back to face
+Clark. He pointed at the yearling.
+
+“Does this happen to be the one yuh mentioned, Clark?” Ertle’s voice was
+pitched low.
+
+“Well, by ——, it looks like it! But—”
+
+The other cowboys had climbed the fence and were gazing at the animal.
+On its two hips were burned splotches, where brands had been eliminated,
+as also was a burned area on its left shoulder. But on the right
+shoulder, clumsily drawn but unmistakable, was the outline of the Tin
+Cup brand.
+
+“I don’t understand—” began Clark, his face black with wrath. He choked
+raspingly. “When I left here that yearlin’—”
+
+Ertle’s sarcastic laugh interrupted him.
+
+“Somebody was just as smart as you was, Monk. It looks like the deadwood
+was on the Tin Cup, and not on the Box X.”
+
+“You don’t think I’d slap my brand on a Lazy H, and then call yore
+attention to it, do yuh?” demanded Monk belligerently.
+
+“Nobody has proved it to be a Lazy H. With three vented brands on it,
+yuh can call it what yuh like. It looks to me as though it was a Tin Cup
+right now. If I was in yore place, I’d herd that —— critter home and
+make veal out of it before anybody else finds out what you’ve done.”
+
+Ertle turned on his heel, climbed the fence and went back to his horse,
+followed by Frisco and Van Cleve. They mounted and rode away, while
+Clark leaned against the snubbing-post and swore roundly, much to the
+amusement of Frank Moran, who perched on the top pole of the corral and
+smoked a cigaret.
+
+Monk Clark walked over to the corral fence and watched Ertle and his two
+men ride away. He looked back at the calf and swore witheringly. He knew
+positively that some one had found this calf and had branded it again,
+wiping out all trace of the brand which would incriminate Curley Adams.
+
+Clark walked back and examined the brands closely, while the calf bawled
+some more and kicked up dust. Satisfied that there was no trace left of
+any original brand, Clark turned to Moran.
+
+“That —— pup of an Adams saw me corral that heifer,” complained Clark.
+“He sneaked in and balled up everythin’.”
+
+“What would yuh expect him to do?” grinned Moran. “If I was in yore
+place, I’d drop the whole thing, Clark. You haven’t any proof that
+Curley Adams did the job, and if Adams hears about it you might get in
+trouble.”
+
+Clark cursed witheringly, as he took Ertle’s rope off the animal, threw
+the rope aside and let down the bars.
+
+“Goin’ to take Ertle’s advice?” asked Moran, as they mounted their
+horses.
+
+“What in —— else can I do? Be a —— of a fine thing for somebody to find
+a heifer with three vented brands on it—and my brand put on with a
+runnin’-iron.”
+
+Monk Clark rode into the corral to chase the yearling out, when Moran
+whistled warningly. Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck had ridden out of the
+brush just above the corral, and were coming toward them.
+
+Monk Clark spat out a curse against all sheriffs and other meddling
+fools, and tried to make the yearling break for freedom. But with the
+perversity of its species, the yearling ignored the opening and ran
+around behind Clark.
+
+Clark stopped, shifted his gun and wiped the perspiration from his face,
+while the calf came close to him, nosing out toward the man who would
+have given many dollars to have been miles away at this time. Clark
+looked appealingly at Moran, but that worthy was watching the officers
+approach, a half grin on his thin lips.
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck rode up to the corral opening, nodding pleasantly
+to both men. Clark glowered heavily, but Moran wore an amused smile. It
+was nothing to him.
+
+“You prob’ly didn’t know we were in town when yuh went out to the Lazy
+H,” said Skeeter slowly, eyeing the heifer. “We heard that somethin’ was
+wrong out here; so we came out.”
+
+“Oh, the —— you did!” snorted Clark.
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck were looking closely at the vented brands, and now
+they looked at each other.
+
+“That darned bartender never got it right,” observed Kaintuck. “He said
+that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. Shucks, there’s been
+three brands vented and the Tin Cup run on.”
+
+Skeeter dismounted and came inside the corral. Clark eyed him narrowly,
+wondering just what this lean-faced, inquisitive-looking sheriff might
+do in a case of this kind. He watched anxiously as Skeeter circled the
+animal, looking closely at the burned spots.
+
+Skeeter seemed seriously amused, as he straightened up, hitched up his
+belt and looked knowingly at Kaintuck, who had ridden his horse up close
+to the fence and was rolling a cigaret. Clark coughed slightly,
+apologetically.
+
+Skeeter looked at Monk Clark curiously.
+
+“We had a hard time findin’ this old corral, Clark.”
+
+“Yuh did, eh?”
+
+“Yeah. I sure wish you’d tell us about them vented brands.”
+
+Clark shut his lips tightly and there was a strained expression around
+his eyes. He realized that he was in bad. Skeeter turned to Moran.
+
+“What do you know about it, Moran?”
+
+“Not a thing, Sheriff. He told me that a Lazy H had been vented and a
+Box X run on. We got Sam Ertle to come over—and this is what we found.”
+
+“By ——, I’d like to know who done it!” exploded Clark.
+
+“Uh-huh,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “I dunno who would steal cattle
+for you, Clark—do you?”
+
+Clark bristled angrily.
+
+“Look here, Sheriff! Don’t you—”
+
+“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” protested Skeeter angrily. “It looks to me as
+though the heifer belongs to you.”
+
+“It does not!”
+
+“All right. I’ll take it back to town with me.”
+
+“Back to town? What in —— do yuh want to take it to town for?”
+
+“See if I can find out who owns the darned thing.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Clark swallowed heavily and scowled at the offending animal. It put him
+in a ridiculous position, and he realized that every one in the Moon
+River country would hear about it.
+
+It looked as if he had made a clumsy attempt to steal a heifer. Of
+course it would be impossible to tell who had been the original owner,
+but that would not lessen the fact that the animal did not belong to
+him. He squinted at the right shoulder of the animal, a painful scowl on
+his face. The outline of a tin cup was too plainly drawn for any one to
+mistake it.
+
+“Well,” he said slowly, “can’t we arrange this, Sheriff? You can see
+where it puts me.”
+
+“Yeah, I can see that,” smiled Skeeter. “If I was doin’ my duty I’d
+arrest you, Clark. If I was you, I’d herd that heifer home, make meat of
+it and burn the hide.”
+
+“Is that all right with you?”
+
+“I’ll make it all right, I reckon.” Skeeter turned his horse and
+motioned to Kaintuck, who followed him. Skeeter looked back at Clark and
+said:
+
+“It’s all right this time, Clark; but I don’t want to see any more
+vented brands around this country. You caught me when I was feelin’
+awful good-natured.”
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck crossed the creek and rode over the ridge, where
+they looked back to see Clark and Moran going in the opposite direction,
+herding a frightened heifer. Kaintuck looked at Skeeter and they both
+doubled over their saddle-horns, choking with unholy mirth.
+
+“Mamma, pin a rose on me!” howled Kaintuck. “Caught yuh when yuh was
+feelin’ awful good-natured! Haw, haw, haw, haw!”
+
+Kaintuck grew incoherent at sight of the tears running down Skeeter’s
+face. The tall cowboy was unable to talk.
+
+“We had him foul,” choked Kaintuck. “My ——, it’s too bad we wasn’t there
+when Sam Ertle seen the critter.”
+
+Skeeter managed to clear his throat.
+
+“I like t’ died all the time, Kaintuck. The expression on Clark’s face
+was the funniest thing I ever seen.”
+
+“And we didn’t finish any too danged quick either,” said Kaintuck. “I
+never drawed a picture of a tin cup with a hot cinch-ring before in my
+life. Haw, haw, haw, haw! It sure was a shame to burn places where there
+wasn’t any brand.”
+
+“We had to make it a puzzle,” said Skeeter laughing. “I’m not sure that
+Monk Clark tried to hang a crime on to Curley Adams, but somebody did.
+That kid is too smart to do a thing like that.
+
+“Curley hit Moran that night, and that would make Moran hate Curley.
+Mebbe Moran did the job to put Curley in bad, and Monk Clark happened to
+find the animal.”
+
+“That would be a —— of a thing for a Government detective to do,
+wouldn’t it, Skeeter?”
+
+“Sure it would. But yuh never can tell anythin’ about a detective,
+because they’re just human bein’s, Kaintuck.”
+
+“That’s right, I s’pose. And I’ve an idea that Monk Clark ain’t goin’ to
+like us so awful well after this.”
+
+“Tha’sall right. We’re goin’ to be disliked a lot before this deal is
+all finished. Shake up that goat yo’re ridin’, or we’ll be late for
+supper.”
+
+But there was little mirth in the heart of Monk Clark as he herded the
+misbranded heifer toward the Tin Cup ranch, assisted by Moran, who had
+offered no sympathy nor advice.
+
+“That sheriff is all right,” offered Moran.
+
+Clark spurred around the animal, cutting it off from going down the side
+of a coulée, and rode back beside Moran.
+
+“Yuh think he’s all right, do yuh?”
+
+“He let you off easy.”
+
+Clark shut his jaws savagely, but was forced to admit that Moran was
+right.
+
+“Yuh just played in hard luck, Clark. Adams saw yuh corral the critter,
+came over and saw what yuh had done, and proceeded to ruin things.”
+
+“If I thought—if I knew that for a fact, I’d kill that —— puncher,” said
+Clark evenly. “But I don’t know. Mebbe it was Gregory or Calamity.
+Either one of ’em would do it for Curley.”
+
+“I suppose,” nodded Moran.
+
+They drove the heifer down through a brushy swale, and Clark spurred in
+close to it, forcing it against a barrier of greasewood, where it tried
+to turn back past him. Shooting from his hip he dropped the animal the
+first shot. His horse swerved aside, whirling completely around, but he
+curbed it and dismounted.
+
+With a few flicks of his knife he stripped the Tin Cup brand from its
+shoulder and flung it far off across the brush, where it hung, dangling
+from a limb for a moment and dropped into a thick bush.
+
+“Give the coyotes a feed,” he said as he mounted, and they rode on
+toward the Tin Cup in silence.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hank Gregory had been doing a lot of thinking about his conversation
+with Monk Clark. He wondered if it might not be a good thing to explain
+everything to Curley. He felt that Curley would keep the secret. Still,
+he did not want to share it with any one.
+
+Old Calamity had ridden to Crescent City to get the mail and a few
+groceries, and Joy was still cleaning house. Calamity was glad to get
+away from the ranch, where Joy had drafted him into the army of
+cleanliness.
+
+Hank Gregory sat humped in a rocking-chair on the shady porch and chewed
+on the stem of his pipe, his soul troubled greatly. He had resolved to
+kill Monk Clark if Clark tried to interfere with the wedding. That much
+was settled in his mind.
+
+Calamity came back and stabled his horse. Gregory could see that
+Calamity carried news by the way he hurried up from the stable. He
+tossed a mail-order catalogue on the porch, handed Gregory a newspaper
+and squinted through the front door.
+
+He thought he heard Joy working in the kitchen, but she was on her knees
+behind a living-room chair, fixing the carpet. He stepped back to
+Gregory.
+
+“Hank, there’s a funny deal been pulled off,” he said.
+
+Joy straightened up and came closer to the doorway, as Calamity
+continued—
+
+“Frisco Larkin was in town this mornin’. Got drunk and told everybody in
+sight that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ with the Lazy H vented and the
+Box X run on.”
+
+Gregory stared at Calamity, his mind working fast.
+
+“Monk and this Moran person went to get Ertle to look at the heifer,
+which was in the old Deer Creek corral, and when they got there somebody
+had vented the Box X and put on the Tin Cup. Ertle got mad and went
+home.”
+
+“Frisco told this?” wondered Gregory. “Meanin’ that Curley Adams tried
+to steal a Lazy H yearlin’, Calamity?”
+
+“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hank. But somebody ruined it, don’t yuh see.
+The laugh was on Monk Clark.”
+
+“The laugh, eh?” Gregory surged out of his chair. “Curley never done
+that, Calamity.”
+
+“He’d be an awful fool to do it,” amended Calamity. “The Lazy H is the
+only one to brand on the right hip. A vented brand on the right hip
+means that it was a Lazy H.”
+
+“Monk Clark did it,” said Gregory slowly. “—— him! He wants to marry
+Joy, and he did this to jail Curley Adams.”
+
+“How do yuh know?” blurted Calamity.
+
+“Never mind how I know.” Gregory walked down the steps and went toward
+the stable.
+
+Calamity sat down in the rocking-chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
+Joy had heard all of it.
+
+It seemed ridiculous to think that Monk Clark wanted to marry her badly
+enough to try to fasten a crime to Curley. She shook her head
+wonderingly. Why, she had not spoken a dozen words to Monk Clark since
+she had come home. It must be that her father was wrong, she thought.
+
+She peeked out at Calamity, who was still deep in thought, and walked to
+the window. Her father was saddling a horse at the corral, and she
+wondered whether he was going to town. He mounted and rode away through
+the big gate, but did not go toward town. He was going toward the Box X.
+
+She walked back to the doorway. Calamity looked at her and scratched his
+chin thoughtfully.
+
+“Wasn’t much mail, Joy,” he said. “How’s the cleanin’?”
+
+“I heard what you told Dad,” she said.
+
+“Yeah? Well,” Calamity simulated a yawn, and rubbed his stubbly cheek,
+“I don’t reckon it was any secret.”
+
+“Where has Dad gone, Calamity?”
+
+“He didn’t say, Joy.”
+
+“Haven’t you any idea?”
+
+“Well, yuh can’t hardly call it an idea, Joy. He had a rifle under his
+knee, and I kinda think he went to kill Monk Clark.”
+
+Calamity spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though a killing was nothing
+to speak about.
+
+“You’re joking, Calamity.”
+
+“I hope so, Joy. I’ve knowed yore father a long time, and I can kinda
+read him. Mebbe I’m wrong. If Monk Clark misbranded a critter to send
+Curley to the penitentiary, he shore needs killin’.”
+
+“But, Calamity, don’t you realize what it would mean? They would hang
+him for murder. Oh, why didn’t you stop him—make him listen to reason?”
+
+“I dunno. It’s a free country, Joy—and I don’t like Monk Clark.”
+
+“But it is such a foolish idea, Calamity! Monk Clark doesn’t want to
+marry me.”
+
+“Don’t he?”
+
+“Certainly not!”
+
+“Shows —— bad taste then.”
+
+Joy knew that she could get no satisfaction out of talking with
+Calamity; so she resolved to do the only thing possible to avert a
+tragedy.
+
+She ran through the kitchen and down to the stable, where she saddled
+her own horse, a hammer-headed roan that had little brains but plenty of
+speed. Calamity stood at a corner of the porch and watched her ride
+after her father.
+
+He did not offer to assist nor interfere. Calamity was absolutely
+neutral. Nobody could ever accuse him of stopping a fight, and if one
+man wanted to kill another, it was no affair of Calamity’s.
+
+The hammer-headed roan was not the best riding horse in the country, and
+Joy was having difficulty in convincing it that she was its master. A
+liberal application of the quirt showed the roan that its ways were not
+liked, and after that it decided to do better.
+
+She knew that her father would waste no time, but there was a
+possibility that he might stop at the Box X; so she swung further down
+the slopes, where it was possible to make better time.
+
+Joy was a good rider—a good hill rider, which is some different than
+riding on the flat. She knew all the tricks of helping a horse over
+tough going, and as a result she was able to make time where an
+inexperienced rider would have hunted for an easier way around.
+
+And never before did she have such an incentive for speed. She felt sure
+that she could convince her father of the folly of his intentions. Even
+if Monk Clark was guilty of an attempt to send Curley to the
+penitentiary, he had failed, she reasoned.
+
+And it was Curley’s battle, not her father’s. She could not understand
+her father’s sudden animosity toward Monk Clark, because they had always
+been friendly, as far as she knew. And while she commended her father’s
+attitude in defense of the man she was to marry, she did not agree that
+he should commit murder for something which had not injured Curley.
+
+She sent the roan scrambling over a ridge and galloped him straight down
+the brushy hill, where a slip might send horse and rider pin-wheeling to
+the rocky bottom. They hit the bottom in a cloud of dust and a shower of
+stones, but the roan gamely kept its feet and lurched into a gallop down
+the slope to Deer Creek.
+
+She crossed Deer Creek near the old corral and continued straight north,
+intending to strike the Tin Cup road about two miles from the ranch, but
+when she reached the old road, which led east to the Box X, she
+hesitated. Something seemed to tell her to take this road.
+
+“He might have stopped at the old ranch,” she told herself, and turned
+in that direction. There was plenty of run left in the roan and it did
+not take her long to cover the mile to the Box X.
+
+She could see a man near the ranch-house and a saddled horse stood
+between the house and the old stable. A closer inspection convinced her
+that the horse was the one her father had ridden from home.
+
+She rode up beside the house and dismounted. Her father was standing
+just in front of the house, looking at something on the ground. He had
+seen her coming, but did not look up as she walked up to him.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Lying in front of him, half-hidden in the rank growth of foxtail grass,
+was Monk Clark, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. His right elbow
+was bent, and in his right hand was a cocked six-shooter. He had drawn
+the gun, cocked it, but died before he could pull the trigger.
+
+Joy’s face blanched at sight of him and she drew back, staring at her
+father.
+
+She knew now that she had come too late. He had ridden faster than she
+had anticipated, and had met Monk Clark at the Box X. She looked down at
+him, a big hunk of lifeless clay, his jaw sagging. It seemed as though
+he might be yelling a battle cry, his gun lifted for a shot. She could
+not realize that Clark was dead.
+
+She looked at her father, hardly able to tear her eyes away from the
+face of the dead man, and found him staring into space. His shoulders
+were bowed, as though bearing a great weight, and he seemed to have aged
+years in an hour.
+
+A wild canary swung from a stunted bush near them and began singing. Joy
+turned and looked at the little yellow bird, wondering that anything
+could be happy now. She looked at Monk Clark and shuddered sickeningly.
+Her father spoke—
+
+“How did yuh happen to follow me?” he asked softly.
+
+“To try and stop you, Dad,” she said hoarsely. “I heard what Calamity
+told you, and I—I knew why you came.”
+
+“I heard shots,” he said wearily. “They sounded like they were fired
+over here. But I didn’t see anybody. You can see him from the front
+porch.”
+
+“Didn’t you kill him, Dad?”
+
+Gregory shook his head.
+
+“I didn’t have a chance, Joy. Somebody beat me to it.”
+
+Somebody beat him to it? wondered Joy. Somebody? Who was the somebody
+who would shoot Monk Clark? She looked at her father and found him
+looking at her, his eyes filled with sorrow. They were thinking the same
+thing, and both knew it. Gregory compressed his lips, turned his head
+and looked at Monk Clark.
+
+Joy’s lips felt like leather when she tried to moisten them with a dry
+tongue, and there was a tightness about her throat, an aching tightness
+that hurt her to breathe. Her voice sounded far away, thin, vibrant, as
+she said—
+
+“Who? Oh, Dad, you don’t suppose Curley—”
+
+“Hush! We don’t know.”
+
+“Well, he can’t hear me. There is only us, Dad. You don’t suppose—oh,
+here comes somebody!”
+
+Joy grasped her father’s arm and pointed at the two riders who were
+coming toward the ranch.
+
+“We can’t prove anything, don’t you see?” she panted. “Oh, what will we
+do?”
+
+“Keep yore nerve,” he cautioned her, as the riders drew closer. “I
+didn’t kill him, and we don’t know who did.”
+
+It was Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck. Both of them had met Gregory, but not
+Joy. They dismounted and came across the yard.
+
+“Howdy,” greeted Skeeter. “Nice day, folks.”
+
+Gregory nodded, but his answer to the greeting was to indicate the body
+of Monk Clark. Skeeter moved in closer, flanked by Kaintuck, who
+whistled softly through his teeth. Skeeter dropped on his knees and
+examined the body closely.
+
+Skeeter did not hurry. He slowly unbuttoned Clark’s shirt and examined
+the bullet holes. He sat back on his heels, looking the body over, and
+his eyes roamed back to the house, as though estimating where the person
+had been who fired the shot. He took hold of the gun in Clark’s hand,
+and found it clutched in a death grip.
+
+Kaintuck leaned down, still whistling through his teeth, and looked at
+the bared chest of the dead man. Joy had taken her father by the arm,
+her eyes squinted with pain, thinking what it was going to mean for all
+of them. Skeeter turned to them.
+
+“Shot twice,” he said. “Second one must ’a’ cut him off quick. First one
+went through his left shoulder.”
+
+Skeeter got to his feet and brushed the dust off his knees, as he looked
+questioningly at Gregory.
+
+“I don’t know who killed him,” said Gregory. “I stopped here to see
+Curley Adams, and from the porch I could see the body lying out here.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully. “Didja hear any shots?”
+
+“Yeah, I did. That’s why I came.”
+
+Skeeter turned and looked at Joy.
+
+“It kinda seems as though nobody is goin’ to introduce us, ma’am. I know
+yo’re Miss Gregory. I’m Sarg, the sheriff. I want yuh to meet Kennedy,
+my deputy.”
+
+Joy’s hand trembled as she shook hands with the two officers, but their
+grins were reassuring.
+
+“You came in kind of a hurry, didn’t yuh?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Why, I—I—what makes you think I did?” stammered Joy.
+
+“Well, for one thing, yuh forgot to put a saddle-blanket on yore horse,
+and yo’re still wearin’ an apron.”
+
+For the first time Joy realized that she was wearing her old cleaning
+apron, no hat, and an old pair of shoes. And she remembered that she had
+forgotten to put a saddle-blanket on her horse.
+
+“She came after me,” said Gregory. “She had an idea I was goin’ to the
+Tin Cup ranch to kill Monk Clark. She had just got here when you showed
+up.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” nodded Skeeter. He knew that Gregory was telling the truth.
+“She thought you was goin’ to the Tin Cup to kill Monk Clark, eh?”
+
+Gregory nodded.
+
+“And that’s where I was goin’, Sheriff.”
+
+The admission was a decided shock to Joy, but did not seem of any great
+moment to Skeeter Bill.
+
+“Mind tellin’ us why yuh wanted to kill Clark, Gregory?”
+
+“Not at all. Clark wanted to marry my daughter, who is goin’ to marry
+Curley Adams. I heard that Clark found a yearlin’, on which the _Lazy H_
+had been vented and the _Box X_ run on. So I knew that Monk Clark had
+tried to send Curley to the penitentiary.”
+
+Skeeter and Kaintuck exchanged quick glances. They knew all about that
+part of it.
+
+Skeeter nodded and walked back to the porch, where he looked back toward
+them. He could see the body plainly from there. He sat down on the steps
+and they came up to him.
+
+“What do yuh make of it?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+“I dunno. There’s one thing sure—Monk Clark is dead. And the worst of it
+is, he was killed here. Dang it, I’m sorry!”
+
+“Will it incriminate Curley?” asked Joy quickly.
+
+“Unless he can prove where he was at the time.”
+
+“Oh, I know he didn’t do it,” said Joy tearfully.
+
+“I sure hope yo’re right,” Skeeter got up and moved over to a lower
+corner of the steps, where he examined the ground.
+
+“Kinda funny,” he muttered, squinting back toward the body.
+
+After another examination of the ground he walked back and squatted
+beside the body again, while the three people on the porch watched and
+wondered what he had discovered.
+
+Kaintuck stepped down and looked at the ground, which had seemed of
+interest to Skeeter. On the sandy soil was a dark colored spot, still
+damp, covering a space about a foot square.
+
+Skeeter got to his feet and walked back to the porch.
+
+“It kinda looks to me like Monk Clark was shot right here beside the
+porch,” he stated. “There’s a big spot of blood at the corner of the
+porch, and hardly any out at the body. His gun is gripped awful tight in
+his hand, which might happen when a man is killed so quickly, and I find
+where his heels scraped along the ground, as he was carried out there.”
+
+“But what does that signify?” asked Joy.
+
+“I dunno, ma’am. It kinda looks as though he came up to the porch and
+got killed. Mebbe the man who killed him wanted to get rid of the body
+and started out to hide it, but seen yore dad coming and made his
+getaway.”
+
+“That sounds reasonable,” nodded Gregory. “It wasn’t so long after the
+shots were fired that I came. Possibly ten minutes.”
+
+“Have you been in the house?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“No. I came on the porch and called Curley’s name. There was no answer,
+and when I looked around I saw the body. I was out there lookin’ at it
+when Joy rode up. You came a few minutes later.”
+
+“Might be worth while to look around a little,” suggested Skeeter.
+
+The front door was partly open; so they went in. The living-room of the
+old ranch-house was about sixteen by twenty-four feet in size, with a
+large stone fireplace in the front, right-hand corner.
+
+There were no furnishings, and the wall-paper, discolored by age, was
+nearly all peeled from the rough board walls. The boards of the floor
+were broken and warped, and the windows had been patched with cardboard,
+newspapers and other opaque materials, until little light filtered in.
+
+Skeeter walked directly to the fireplace, where a number of scattered,
+fire-blackened bricks were lying, and found that the bottom of the
+fireplace had been recently torn out, disclosing a cavity about three
+feet long, two feet wide and two feet deep.
+
+“Looks like Curley had been rebuildin’ his fireplace,” observed
+Kaintuck.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Skeeter made no comment. He had picked up a piece of metal, which
+greatly resembled silver; a splattery-looking piece, which looked as
+though it had been spilled while melted. Down in the cavity he found
+another piece, which appeared to be a silver dollar on one side, but a
+blank on the other. The imprint of the coin was not well done.
+
+“What in the world is that?” asked Joy.
+
+Skeeter handed her the piece of metal and continued his search, but
+there was nothing more to be found, except a fragment of white
+substance, which might have been plaster-of-paris.
+
+“It looks as though somebody had tried to make a dollar,” said Gregory.
+
+“Yeah, it does,” agreed Skeeter thoughtfully. “We better look around a
+little more.”
+
+At the rear of the living-room were two doors, one of which opened to a
+bedroom, the room which Curley had been repairing, and the other to the
+kitchen and dining-room, which were still in need of repairs.
+
+The bedroom contained Curley’s personal effects, and on a shelf Skeeter
+discovered the reloading outfit, a small can of powder and a bullet
+mold. But there was nothing to indicate tragedy.
+
+Further search disclosed the fact that Curley’s horse and saddle were
+not at the stable. While Kaintuck, Joy and Gregory argued over what
+might have happened, Skeeter mounted his horse and rode back over the
+route taken by Gregory on his way to the ranch.
+
+He came back in a few minutes and went to the west side of the house,
+searching the ground closely.
+
+“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+“Not very much,” said Skeeter. “A man had his horse here on this side of
+the house. He was in the house when Clark came up to the steps, and he
+shot Clark.
+
+“He wanted to hide the body, I reckon, but he saw Gregory on the skyline
+of that hill back there; so he dropped the body, ran back to his horse
+and rode south-west. The house would mask him from Gregory until he was
+able to cut down through the brush and into that gully. Clark’s horse is
+down in the brush, tied to an old snag. He probably sneaked up here on
+foot.”
+
+“Well, I’d say yuh found out quite a lot,” said Kaintuck.
+
+“But why would Monk Clark sneak up here?” asked Joy.
+
+Skeeter squinted at Clark’s body.
+
+“Didn’t you say that Clark tried to put Curley Adams in bad because he
+wanted to marry this young lady?”
+
+“He did,” Gregory was very positive.
+
+“Uh-huh. Do yuh reckon Clark would go so far as to try and shoot
+Curley?”
+
+“Meanin’ that Clark sneaked up here to shoot Curley, and got beat at his
+game?”
+
+“Not meanin’—just wonderin’, Gregory.”
+
+“I don’t know what Clark would do, Sheriff. But I don’t think that
+Curley would kill him and run. He ain’t that kind.”
+
+Skeeter rolled a cigaret, shaping it carefully. It gave him a chance to
+do a little silent wondering for himself.
+
+“I don’t understand about that imprint of a dollar,” said Gregory.
+
+“Experimentin’, I reckon,” said Skeeter. “I wish Curley would show up.”
+
+“You don’t think he did it, do you?” asked Joy hopefully.
+
+Skeeter smiled softly.
+
+“I hope he didn’t, Miss Joy. Yuh see, I’m doin’ my darndest to think of
+somebody else that did do it. Whoever killed Monk Clark was here at the
+house, I think.
+
+“Everythin’ points to the fact that Monk Clark sneaked up here and
+somebody shot him through the shoulder. Monk draws his six-shooter,
+pulled back the hammer— and got a bullet right through his heart. I
+dunno what Monk Clark was doin’ here. His horse is down there in the
+brush, two hundred yards away, which makes it look like Monk sneaked up
+here, lookin’ for trouble.”
+
+“And he got it!” said Kaintuck emphatically.
+
+“Yeah, he did. You go down and get Clark’s horse, Kaintuck. We’ve got to
+pack the body to town.”
+
+“Want us to go with yuh?” asked Gregory.
+
+“No-o-o-o, I don’t think so. You folks ain’t goin’ to run away.”
+
+Kaintuck brought the horse, and the three men draped the body of Monk
+Clark across his own saddle, roping it securely.
+
+“If you see Curley before I do, tell him to come down to see me right
+away,” said Skeeter. “And don’t talk to anybody about this. It sure
+looks awful bad right now, but there ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks.”
+
+The two officers shook hands with Joy and Gregory.
+
+“I’m awful glad you look at it in the right way,” said Joy. “I certainly
+went weak all over when I saw you coming.”
+
+“I’ll bet yuh did. You knew yore father was goin’ out to kill Monk
+Clark; so yuh went out to stop him, eh? I don’t blame yuh for feelin’
+weak in the knees. Well, be good.”
+
+They rode away, leading the loaded horse, while Joy and her father
+mounted and headed for home.
+
+“This shore is a funny deal,” declared Kaintuck. “What’s yore theory,
+Skeeter?”
+
+“I’d hate to say. Here’s how it looks. The Box X ranch-house has been
+used by them counterfeiters. They melted their stuff in the fireplace,
+and kept their tools under the bricks, in the hole.
+
+“For some reason Monk Clark made a sneak over here and caught this
+feller removin’ some of the stuff, or the tools. It looks as though this
+feller, knowin’ that he’s caught with the goods, starts shootin’. That’s
+how it looks to me.”
+
+“But who was the feller?”
+
+“My ——, you don’t want to know much, do you?” exploded Skeeter.
+
+“If it wasn’t Curley Adams, what was Monk after him for?”
+
+“How do I know?”
+
+“You think that the counterfeiters had been usin’ the old ranch-house as
+a place to make their bad money, and they wanted to get their stuff out
+before Curley discovered it?”
+
+“That wouldn’t be very hard to think, would it?”
+
+“Nope. I’ll bet this killin’ will sure cause a lot of talk, Skeeter.
+Why, Monk Clark was our most prominent citizen.”
+
+“’S a funny old world, Kaintuck. Almost any jury would hang Hank Gregory
+for this. He started out to kill Monk Clark, yuh know. Admits it.
+Prob’ly sorry he didn’t get a chance. If Curley killed him, I don’t
+blame Curley.”
+
+“But yuh don’t think he did, Skeeter?”
+
+“I’m tryin’ not to, yuh know. I sure hope Curley has been where folks
+can prove he wasn’t at home at the time of the killin’.”
+
+“And if he can’t?”
+
+“Then I’m scared we’ll have to put Curley in jail.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Gregory and Joy were worried over the same thing as they rode back home.
+Neither of them believed that Curley had killed Clark; but could he
+prove it, they wondered?
+
+Calamity met them at the stable, interested to know what had happened.
+Joy left her horse for Calamity to unsaddle and went to the house.
+
+“Didja find Monk Clark, Hank?” queried Calamity.
+
+Gregory hung up his saddle and turned to Calamity.
+
+“Monk Clark is dead,” he said shortly.
+
+Calamity’s mouth opened widely, but he did not speak. His eyes followed
+Gregory, who got some grain for the horses and threw in fresh straw for
+bedding. Calamity leaned against the wall and absently tested the teeth
+of a curry-comb on his chin.
+
+“Did he put up much of a fight, Hank?” he asked softly.
+
+“Didn’t have much chance,” said Gregory seriously. “One bullet hit him
+in the left shoulder and the other bored straight through his heart.”
+
+This was such a cold-blooded statement of facts that Calamity scratched
+his chin with the curry-comb. Then—
+
+“Well, I hope yuh had a witness, Hank.”
+
+“Joy came just after I found him.”
+
+“After yuh—whatcha talkin’ about?”
+
+“He had already been killed, Calamity. Somebody shot him at the Box X
+just before I got there.”
+
+“The —— they did! Hank, you—”
+
+Gregory shook his head.
+
+“No, I didn’t shoot him.”
+
+“Curley?”
+
+“I don’t know, Calamity. Curley wasn’t there. The sheriff and his deputy
+showed up just after Joy got there. They took the body back to town.”
+
+“They did, eh? Well, I’ll be darned! I remember a case back in 1866,
+when a feller shot—”
+
+“You didn’t see Curley since we left, did yuh?”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“I wish I knew where he is. If he can’t prove where he was, he’s up
+against a bad deal. Monk was killed right at a corner of the front
+porch; probably shot by somebody who was inside the house.”
+
+“My gosh! Do yuh reckon Curley done it, and then high-tailed it out of
+the country? Darn fool kid wouldn’t stop to think that he could beat the
+case. I remember a feller back in—”
+
+But Hank Gregory did not care to hear of something which had happened in
+1866, and was going toward the house. Calamity grunted and followed in
+his wake.
+
+Calamity said nothing, but went to work preparing supper, while Joy and
+her father sat on the porch and tried to cheer each other up. About an
+hour later Calamity announced supper.
+
+“’Sall ready,” he said. “I don’t reckon there’s much appetite around
+here though.”
+
+As they went back to the dining-room, Curley Adams rode up and
+dismounted. They were grouped together, staring at the front doorway,
+when he came in, rattling his spurs and whistling.
+
+“Hello, everybody,” he called. “Am I in time for supper? By golly, I
+sure am—” He hesitated and looked at them curiously. “Say, what’s the
+matter with you folks, anyway?”
+
+Joy went close to him and put her hands on his arms.
+
+“Curley, where have you been today?” she asked softly.
+
+“Where have I been?” Curley laughed foolishly. “Why, I’ve been over to
+San Gregario cañon. Why the question?”
+
+“Over to San Gregario?”
+
+“Sure. I went over to the old saw-mill to see if they had any lumber.
+I’ve got to have some pretty quick.”
+
+“Did they have any?”—hopeful that he had seen some one over there.
+
+“I reckon not, honey. There wasn’t a soul over there.”
+
+“Not a soul?” Joy shook her head hopelessly. “You didn’t see anybody
+over there, Curley?”
+
+“Nope. Say, what’s all the fuss about? What have I—”
+
+“What time did you leave the ranch today?” asked Gregory.
+
+“Time? About noon, I reckon.”
+
+“Have you met any one since?”
+
+“No. Say, what the thunder is the matter with you folks?”
+
+“Let me tell him, will you, Dad?” asked Joy.
+
+“I’d sure be glad if yuh did, Joy,” replied Gregory.
+
+Joy led Curley out to the porch, where she told him what had happened at
+the Box X. And she could tell by the expression of his face that it was
+all news to him. He did not interrupt, except to ask a repeat on some of
+the happenings.
+
+“And I’ve got to prove an alibi, eh?” he said slowly. “Well, I can’t do
+it, Joy. I had intended coming here before I went to San Gregario cañon,
+but I didn’t. There wasn’t a soul at the old saw-mill, and I didn’t meet
+any one on the way back. From the looks of things there hasn’t been any
+one at the old mill for weeks. They’ve moved everything away, except the
+lumber and machinery.”
+
+“Then what will you do, Curley?” Joy was terrified at the prospect.
+
+Curley laughed shortly.
+
+“I dunno, Joy. I can’t run away, yuh know. I suppose the best thing I
+can do is to go right to the sheriff and tell my story. He probably
+won’t believe it.”
+
+“I think he will. Honest, I do. He has kind of a grin on his face all
+the time, and he seems to think a lot. Anyway, he was awful nice to us.
+I expected him to arrest Dad right away, but he seemed to believe our
+story. You know him, don’t you?”
+
+“Not very well, Joy. I’ve known Kennedy quite a while—and he’s on the
+square.”
+
+They walked back to the dining-room and sat down.
+
+“Well, what do yuh think of it?” asked Gregory anxiously.
+
+“I can’t even think,” admitted Curley. “It’s a mystery to me. I’m goin’
+to have a bite to eat and then ride to town. It looks as though I was up
+against it, Gregory. There isn’t a chance for me to prove an
+alibi—nothin’ but my word.”
+
+“Lemme tell yuh about a case I knowed about back in—”
+
+“1866?” laughed Curley. “Calamity, you ought to write a book about
+1866.”
+
+“It sure was a busy old year,” grinned Calamity.
+
+Curley realized what he was up against. There was no way in the world
+for him to prove that he had been to San Gregario cañon. He could not
+imagine who would be in his house in broad daylight and kill Monk Clark.
+
+It did not seem reasonable, but still there seemed to be plenty of proof
+that such a thing had happened. As far as the fireplace was concerned,
+he did not give it a thought.
+
+Joy told him about the misbranded heifer, and she knew from the
+expression on his face that it was all news to him.
+
+“Didn’t you run on that Tin Cup brand?” asked Calamity.
+
+“Certainly not,” declared Curley. “In the first place, would I be fool
+enough to vent a Lazy H and run on the Box X? I’m no fool, Calamity.”
+
+“Certainly he never did it,” said Joy warmly.
+
+“Then who in —— did? Ex-cuse my Spanish, Joy. None of us done it,
+Curley. Must be a crazy person runnin’ in these hills. Dang it all, no
+sane person would do that. Monk Clark found the heifer with yore brand
+on it; so he penned it up in the Deer Creek corral and went after Ertle.
+When he came back there was three vents and the Tin Cup. By golly, I’ll
+pass.”
+
+“I’ll pass, too,” smiled Curley. “But we can’t pass the fact that Monk
+Clark was killed at my ranch, and that I’m suspected of killin’ him.
+What was Monk Clark doin’ at the Box X? Was he comin’ after me?”
+
+Gregory shook his head sadly.
+
+“Monk Clark is too dead to answer, Curley.”
+
+“Sure. And only the man who killed him can answer it. I can see where a
+man named Adams is going to have a lot of difficulty in provin’
+anything.”
+
+“Well,” Gregory coughed softly, “you could make a getaway right now.”
+
+Curley shook his head.
+
+“Nope. I can’t afford to run. They may hang me, but they won’t chase
+me.”
+
+“Oh, Curley, don’t say things like that,” begged Joy. “There must be a
+way out.”
+
+“Sure thing,” smiled Curley. “Don’t worry, Joy. Gosh, this will all come
+out in the wash.”
+
+“I’ll go down with yuh,” said Gregory slowly. “Somehow I’ve got quite a
+lot of faith in that sheriff. They said he didn’t have any sense, but I
+think they’re wrong.”
+
+“I’m going along, too,” declared Joy. “I’ve got as much faith as any one
+else.”
+
+“I’ve got faith, too,” said Calamity dryly. “I’ve also got a hunch—that
+I’ll have to wash and wipe the dishes.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“I thought this shootin’ was a mystery,” said Kaintuck, after he and
+Skeeter had turned the body over to the local coroner, told their story,
+and escaped to their office.
+
+“Ain’t it?” asked Skeeter, relaxing indolently in an old chair, the back
+of which wailed a protest.
+
+“It ain’t. At least a dozen men offered to bet me that Curley killed
+him. Some of ’em offered big odds; so I reckon poor Curley is the
+favorite for the hangman stakes.”
+
+“When a prominent man is killed,” said Skeeter slowly, “the crop of
+detectives is enormous. They all seem to think that Curley killed him
+because of that brandin’ deal. And they’re plumb willin’ to believe that
+Curley tried to steal a Lazy H animal.
+
+“Why, the darn fools are already makin’ bets as to whether he gets a
+life sentence or gets hanged. You’d think that he had confessed, to hear
+some of ’em talkin’.”
+
+“Mebbe he did kill Monk Clark,” said Kaintuck.
+
+“Mebbe. There wouldn’t be anything wonderful about it, if he did. As far
+back as history goes, men have killed each other, and they’ll prob’ly
+keep on doin’ it, Kaintuck. If Curley did kill him, I’ll back him in a
+plea of self-defense.
+
+“Monk Clark had no business in sneakin’ up on the Box X. He died with a
+cocked gun in his hand. But there’s somethin’ else to this deal,
+pardner. Behind it is that counterfeitin’ layout.”
+
+“Skeeter, do you think that Monk Clark was mixed up in it?”
+
+“Hm-m-m. That’s hard to say. I told Moran to come down here as soon as
+he could sneak away from the crowd.”
+
+A few minutes later Frank Moran came in and sat down with them.
+
+“They’re still millin’ around the Half-Moon,” stated Moran. “I don’t
+know what will happen when the Tin Cup outfit hear that their boss is
+dead. What was it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”
+
+Skeeter told him about the fireplace at the Box X and showed him the
+partly-made dollar.
+
+“Clumsy job,” declared Moran. “Looks like they had tried to make one in
+a plaster mold. Was there anything else in the fireplace?”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“I wonder,” said Moran thoughtfully, “if Curley Adams is one of the
+gang?”
+
+“You’ve been at the Tin Cup for quite a while, and you haven’t found out
+anythin’.”
+
+“That’s true, I’ll admit that I’m stuck.”
+
+“Moran, did Monk Clark know that you was a detective?”
+
+Moran nodded.
+
+“Yeah, I told him. I had to do it, in order to have a chance to do my
+work.”
+
+“Ertle, too?”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+Skeeter smiled and shook his head.
+
+“I don’t _sabe_ you fellers, Moran. Why in —— didn’t yuh carry a
+banner?”
+
+“What else could I do?” Moran almost lost his temper. “I had somethin’
+to do besides punchin’ cows. Ranch owners don’t pay cowpunchers to
+pesticate around the country, lookin’ for clues.”
+
+“I beg yore pardon,” said Skeeter seriously. “How long have you been
+with the Tin Cup outfit?”
+
+“About a month.”
+
+“You was with the Lazy H quite a while, wasn’t yuh?”
+
+“Several months. What difference does it make how long I’ve been here?
+These cases sometimes take a year to settle up.”
+
+“Hadn’t ought to, Moran.”
+
+“No?” Moran got to his feet. “Well, if you’re so —— smart, go ahead and
+settle it. If you was any kind of a sheriff you’d have Curley Adams
+behind the bars right now.”
+
+Moran walked across the room, turning his back on the sheriff, and began
+scanning a number of reward notices which had been pasted on the wall in
+lieu of wall-paper. There was no doubt that Moran was angry. Kaintuck
+squinted at Skeeter, his ill-fitting mustaches jerking with mirth.
+
+Skeeter drummed on the table with his fingers and silently contemplated
+Moran’s back. He had deliberately angered the detective, and it amused
+him. Moran shifted and began reading another notice, when Skeeter spoke
+apologetically—
+
+“Aw-w-w-w-w, yuh don’t need to get sore.”
+
+“No? Well, I’m tired of havin’ you tryin’ to tell me what to do all the
+time; _sabe_? I’ll run my end of this, Sheriff.”
+
+Moran turned and stalked out of the office, while Skeeter grinned at
+Kaintuck.
+
+“He got mad at yuh,” said Kaintuck.
+
+“Yeah, he did. Li’l son-of-a-gun. I go ahead and find all kinds of clues
+for him—and he gets mad at me. Ho-o-o, hum! It seems like yuh can’t
+please everybody.”
+
+Kaintuck went to the Half-Moon, to see what the sentiment might be,
+while Skeeter smoked innumerable cigarets and made queer figures on a
+piece of paper with a stubby pencil.
+
+Finally he nodded to himself and wrote a telegram, which read—
+
+    MORAN NEEDS YOU. COME AS FAST AS YOU CAN.
+
+He signed it—
+
+SARG, sheriff of Moon River.
+
+Skeeter walked out of the office and stood on the edge of the sidewalk,
+debating just what to do. He had always followed what gamblers called a
+hunch, and just now he had a big hunch.
+
+The yellow lights from the windows and open door of the Half-Moon saloon
+flooded half of the street, and from within the place came the dull hum
+of conversation. The glow illuminated a part of the hitch-rack,
+high-lighting the string of saddle horses.
+
+A wagon came creaking up the street and drew up in front of a store,
+where the driver dismounted from the wagon and was greeted by several
+men who had been sitting on the edge of the board sidewalk. Somewhere a
+guitar novice essayed the “Spanish Fandango,” but without success.
+
+Skeeter leaned against a porch-post, his mind far away from the sights
+and sounds of Crescent City. He was seeing a pale-faced girl, with
+frightened eyes, who clung to the arm of a man, whose face was twisted
+with apprehension. And on the ground was the body of Monk Clark, staring
+up at the sky.
+
+Skeeter tried to segregate the facts as he had seen them. Some one had
+been in that house when Monk Clark approached, and Clark had known that
+this man was there. That much, Skeeter Bill felt must be true. Else why
+would Clark tie his horse far from the house and approach it on foot?
+
+“What was he lookin’ for?” muttered Skeeter to himself. “Was he sneakin’
+up on Curley Adams? Did Curley kill him, try to dispose of the body, and
+get frightened at the approach of Hank Gregory?”
+
+It looked reasonable. Skeeter shook his head, as his mind flashed back
+to the skeleton hanging in the tree; the fleshless skull which grinned
+blankly at the hills.
+
+Where was the connection, he wondered? But try as he might, he could not
+connect Curley Adams with the killing. For some unknown reason it was
+impossible—as impossible as to think that Curley Adams, a normal
+thinking person, would deliberately vent the Lazy H brand, knowing that
+the Lazy H was the only outfit to brand that particular spot, and run on
+his own iron.
+
+“I’ve got to find the answer for myself,” he decided. “I may not be a
+good detective, but I’ve got the nerve to play out the only hand they’ll
+deal me.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+He shoved away from the post and walked slowly to the depot, two blocks
+away. The agent greeted him pleasantly, as Skeeter produced the telegram
+he had written. The agent scanned it quickly and looked up at Skeeter.
+
+“United States Marshal, eh? Say, I’ve got a telegram for Moran from
+Long. Just came in. Maybe this will cover your wire.”
+
+He handed Skeeter the telegram, sent to Frank Moran, which read—
+
+    WILL ARRIVE CRESCENT CITY TOMORROW TO TAKE CHARGE OF
+    INVESTIGATION. (Signed) Long.
+
+“That’s fine,” nodded Skeeter. “Cancel my wire. I’ll give this to Moran,
+if yuh want me to.”
+
+“Is he in town?”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+“All right, it will save me the trouble. Thanks.”
+
+Skeeter pocketed the telegram and walked outside. Far down the tracks
+sounded the eerie whistle of a locomotive, as a freight train rumbled
+its way toward Crescent City. Skeeter paused. The rails were humming now
+and the beams from the locomotive headlight illuminated the rails down
+the tracks.
+
+But Skeeter Bill was not seeing this. A sudden inspiration seemed to
+strike him, and he made a queer little noise with his lips, a sucking
+whistle. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the door of the
+depot, meeting the agent, who was coming out, carrying a lantern.
+
+“What time is the passenger due through here?” he asked.
+
+“Eleven o’clock.”
+
+“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Is it always on time?”
+
+The agent laughed and shifted his lantern.
+
+“Not always, Sheriff. In fact, it is seldom on time, but not very late.”
+
+“Thanks.”
+
+The freight roared in, as Skeeter walked from the platform and headed
+back toward the office, deep in thought.
+
+“If it works I’m a dinger—if it don’t I’m a sucker,” he decided.
+
+He looked up as he neared the office door. Joy, Curley and Hank Gregory
+were standing there, waiting for him. He came up, opened the door
+silently and let them in, after which he locked the door and smiled at
+Curley.
+
+“Well,” said Curley, “what’s the verdict, Sheriff?”
+
+Skeeter grinned softly and shook his head. “I dunno, pardner. The jury
+is over in the Half-Moon, and Kaintuck is feelin’ their pulse right now.
+Set down, folks.”
+
+He placed some chairs for them and sat down on his desk.
+
+“I haven’t any alibi,” said Curley. “While this was goin’ on I was over
+at San Gregario cañon tryin’ to buy lumber.”
+
+“Tha’sso? Didja buy any?”
+
+“Wasn’t anybody there to buy it from.”
+
+Skeeter hugged one knee and squinted at the floor, while Joy watched him
+anxiously.
+
+“How did the town take the news?” Thus Gregory nervously.
+
+“The sober ones—calmly; drunken ones—as usual. Whisky sure puts a rope
+in a man’s hand. The Tin Cup outfit don’t know it yet, except Frank
+Moran.”
+
+“I suppose he’d like to hang me,” smiled Curley. “Yuh remember I hit him
+a short time ago.”
+
+Skeeter nodded quickly. “Yeah, I remember. Still, I hope he wouldn’t
+want to hang yuh for that.”
+
+“They’ll probably say that I killed Monk Clark over that brandin’ deal,”
+said Curley. “But the fact of the matter is, I never knew a darned thing
+about it until the folks told me about it a while ago.
+
+“I haven’t been to town for a couple of days, and no one has been at the
+ranch to tell me how close I came to being sent up for rustlin’.”
+
+“I know,” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Me and Kaintuck was goin’ over to have
+a talk with yuh, when we ran into this deal.”
+
+“But who balled up the deal for Monk Clark?” wondered Curley. “Somebody
+sure saved my bacon, and I don’t know who would do a thing like that for
+me.”
+
+“A feller never knows who his friends are,” said Skeeter. “Me and
+Kaintuck showed up at the corral just after Ertle had pulled out, and we
+sure had some fun with Clark.”
+
+Joy got to her feet and went close to Skeeter.
+
+She stepped in front of him, looking at him intently, but he shifted his
+eyes, deliberately avoiding her. Curley looked at her, wondering what
+she was trying to do. Skeeter shifted around to Curley, but she stepped
+between them, facing Skeeter.
+
+“Aw-w-w gosh!” grunted Skeeter uncomfortably.
+
+“Look me in the eyes,” she dared him.
+
+Skeeter tried to do it, but one eye shut tightly and he grinned
+foolishly.
+
+“Wasn’t that a queer thing for a sheriff to do?” Softly.
+
+“What?” asked Skeeter. “Look at a girl with one eye?”
+
+“No—to ruin evidence.”
+
+“Well,” Skeeter avoided her eyes, “yuh see, the county only allows us
+thirty-five cents a day to feed prisoners, and we just can’t do it on
+that money.”
+
+Skeeter did not look up at her. He finished his statement, reached in
+his pocket for his tobacco and papers and began rolling a cigaret. Joy
+turned her head and looked at Curley, tears glistening in her eyes.
+
+“Don’t you understand, Curley,” she whispered. “He was the one who—”
+
+“Joy, do you mean that the sheriff vented those brands?” Curley got out
+of his chair and came to Skeeter, but before he could speak again, the
+door opened and Kaintuck came in. He was breathing heavily, and did not
+seem surprized to see Curley and the Gregory family.
+
+“The Tin Cup and the Lazy H outfits are both here now,” he said. “I got
+all the dope I could before I left. They’re goin’ to the Box X first,
+and if Curley ain’t there they’ll go to the HG. Them —— fools won’t even
+wait for a trial.”
+
+“They’ll see that black horse of mine at the hitch-rack!” exclaimed
+Curley. “Everybody knows that black horse.”
+
+“A black, roan and a gray?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+“Yes. Joy rode the roan and—”
+
+“That’s what I thought,” grinned Kaintuck. “I’ve got all three of ’em
+tied behind the office, where nobody will see ’em.”
+
+“Oh, that is wonderful!” Joy almost hugged Kaintuck, much to his
+embarrassment.
+
+“But it don’t end yet,” said Skeeter. “We’ll put Adams’ horse in our
+stable, and Gregory and Miss Joy better fog for home. Be there when the
+posse of lynchers show up. They won’t hurt any of you folks. You don’t
+know where Curley is, and the last place they’d ever look is right
+here.”
+
+“But you’re not going to put him in jail, are you?” Thus Joy fearfully.
+
+“He’ll have to sleep in a cell,” grinned Skeeter. “The doggoned cots are
+fastened to the wall. But I’ll promise to not lock the door.”
+
+“We’ll be traveling, Joy,” urged her father. “As soon as the men ride
+toward the Box X, we’ll go home. Good-by, Curley.”
+
+Skeeter urged Kaintuck and Gregory toward the rear door, while Joy told
+Curley good-by, and in a moment she joined them. They mounted their
+horses, circled the town and rode back toward home. There was no moon as
+yet; so there was little danger of them being seen by the men who were
+heading for the Box X.
+
+The three men went back in the office. Skeeter was careful to lock the
+doors and pull down the blinds. Crescent City might prove a dangerous
+place for Curley Adams, and Skeeter knew that the jail was none too
+capable of withstanding an assault.
+
+“It kinda looks as though I was up against it,” observed Curley. “I’d
+hate to be hung for somethin’ I didn’t do—but I can’t prove I didn’t.
+Everybody probably knows that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ belongin’ to
+the Lazy H, with my brand on its shoulder; and they’d accept that as a
+reason for me to kill him.”
+
+“Reasons don’t make much difference to a mob,” said Skeeter. “I want you
+to answer a few questions, Adams. It’s yore own business, and yuh don’t
+have to answer, yuh know.”
+
+“I’ll answer ’em if I can, Sheriff. I’m not forgettin’ that you saved me
+from a rustlin’ charge.”
+
+“Well, you ain’t obligated to answer these questions. What kind of a
+six-gun do you use?”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Curley drew out his gun and handed it to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41,
+single-action. Skeeter glanced at it and handed it back. “Didja ever
+reload any shells, Adams?”
+
+“Yeah. I’ve got a reloadin’ set out at the ranch. It costs a lot to buy
+shells, and I like to experiment.”
+
+“Uh-huh. What didja find out with yore experiments?”
+
+Curley smiled softly.
+
+“I found out that my loads were not as good as the factory-loaded
+article.”
+
+“Yeah? Adams, did you ever mold a silver bullet and load it in a shell?”
+
+“I did,” Curley answered quickly, making no effort to evade the
+question. “I was moldin’ some bullets one night and wondered how silver
+would shoot; so I melted a dollar and made me one.”
+
+“How did it shoot?”
+
+“I don’t know. It sure made a pretty bullet. I loaded it in my gun, but
+never got a chance to shoot it. The next day I was taken sick. Yuh see,
+I was in bed for a week or so, and when I got back on my feet I plumb
+forgot that bullet. Later on I missed it, and I thought that some of the
+boys had swiped it.”
+
+“Thought some of the boys had swiped it, eh?”
+
+Curley squinted at the floor, pondering the question. He was a good,
+clean-looking sort of a fellow; not at all the sort of a person who
+would shoot from ambush. Skeeter eyed him closely. Finally Curley lifted
+his head.
+
+“What I don’t understand is how you found out about that bullet,
+Sheriff. I made it quite a while ago, and I’d forgotten about it. What’s
+this all about—what are you trying to find out about that silver bullet
+for?”
+
+“Who knew you had molded it?”
+
+Curley scratched his head thoughtfully.
+
+“I dunno. Mebbe I never did tell anybody about it. Come to think of it,
+I didn’t tell any of the boys. That’s kinda funny, too. I remember of
+puttin’ it in one chamber of my gun, but I don’t remember of takin’ it
+out.”
+
+“Where was yore gun when you were sick?”
+
+“Hangin’ up in the bunk-house. Say, how did you know about that silver
+bullet?”
+
+“I’m a mind reader,” grinned Skeeter. “How long ago was it that you was
+sick?”
+
+“About a month ago.”
+
+“Did Gregory tell yuh about what we found in yore ranch-house today?”
+
+“He told me about the fireplace bein’ dug up, and that yuh found where
+somebody had tried to make a dollar.”
+
+“What do yuh think of it?”
+
+“No idea. It sure wasn’t that way when I left home.”
+
+“I reckon the questions are ended,” smiled Skeeter.
+
+“Did I answer ’em to yore satisfaction, Sheriff?”
+
+Skeeter nodded.
+
+“Yeah, I reckon so. Don’t mention that bullet to anybody.”
+
+“Do you know what became of it?”
+
+Skeeter took the bullet from his pocket and handed it to Curley, who
+looked it over carefully.
+
+“It’s been shot,” he said wonderingly. “Was—was that one of the bullets
+in Monk Clark?”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“Where did you find it, Sheriff?”
+
+“I’ll let yuh know some day.” Skeeter took the bullet and dropped it in
+his pocket. “Me and Kaintuck are goin’ over to the Half-Moon to listen
+to things, Adams. You lock the door and keep out of sight.”
+
+“Anythin’ you say, Sheriff. Yo’re sure treatin’ me white.”
+
+“Well, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong, have yuh? C’mon, Kaintuck.”
+
+Curley locked the door behind them and they crossed to the Half-Moon.
+The killing of Monk Clark had made good business in the Half-Moon, and
+whisky-feeling ran high. Men who had no use for Monk Clark when he was
+alive clamored for a chance to pull a rope on the man who killed him.
+
+They were all waiting anxiously for the return of the six men who had
+ridden to the Box X, Jim Searles, Clark’s foreman, Charley Ames and Sol
+Asher, of the Tin Cup, Sam Ertle, Frisco Larkin and Van Cleve, of the
+Lazy H.
+
+There had evidently been plenty of criticism against the sheriff’s
+office, as the conversation lulled at the entrance of Skeeter and
+Kaintuck. Moran was at the bar, drinking with several men, and Skeeter
+noticed that Belden and Stanfield, the owners of the Silver Bell mine,
+were also there.
+
+Several roughly-dressed men were at the bar or playing the games, and
+Skeeter decided that they were men from the mines. Moran joined Skeeter
+a little later and told him that the Silver Bell had closed down.
+
+“That’s Rugg, the superintendent, over there playin’ poker,” said Moran,
+pointing at a big man, slouched in a chair. Rugg was not a pleasant
+looking person. His heavy cheeks were covered with a week’s growth of
+stiff, black whiskers, and a heavy mustache partly covered his thick
+lips.
+
+“I’ll bet that jigger never drank milk when he was a baby,” said
+Kaintuck. “If a rattlesnake ever bit him the snake would get py-o-ree.”
+
+Moran laughed and turned the subject to Monk Clark.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“You knew that some of the boys have gone out to find Curley Adams,
+didn’t yuh?” asked Moran.
+
+“Nobody told me.” Skeeter shook his head. “What do yuh reckon they aim
+to do with him?”
+
+It was such a foolish question that Moran wondered if the sheriff could
+be joking.
+
+“They think Curley killed Clark,” said Moran.
+
+“Tha’sso? Don’t any of ’em _know_ he did, do they?”
+
+“I don’t suppose they do. But—”
+
+“There yuh are. Nothin’ to prove he did it. Don’tcha think they’re a
+little previous?”
+
+Moran laughed shortly. He could not understand Skeeter Bill. It was
+rather unusual for a sheriff to remain inactive, while a posse of men
+were going out with deliberate intent to hang a man.
+
+“Bein’ previous won’t help Adams, if they find him,” said Moran
+meaningly.
+
+“Prob’ly not.” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Who’s leadin’ the bunch?”
+
+“Jim Searles.”
+
+“Good man, I reckon. I don’t know him very well, but he looks like a man
+who would have a little judgment.”
+
+“Charley Ames and Sol Asher went along,” offered Moran. “Ertle, Frisco
+Larkin and Van Cleve made up the rest of the party. Only six of ’em all
+together.”
+
+“Ought to be enough,” smiled Skeeter. “Three from the Tin Cup and three
+from the Lazy H.”
+
+“You don’t seem much interested, Sheriff.”
+
+“It’s none of my business, if six —— fools want to run their own horses
+ragged in the dark, is it?”
+
+“Oh, I see—” Moran nodded understandingly.
+
+It had suddenly occurred to him that Skeeter was indifferent because he
+knew that these men would not find Curley Adams.
+
+Moran drifted over to a roulette game, and Skeeter met Belden at the
+bar.
+
+“I just heard that the Silver Bell mine had closed down,” said Skeeter,
+by way of starting conversation. Belden nodded quickly and invited
+Skeeter to partake of his hospitality.
+
+“Yes, we decided to close down, at least temporarily. Silver is pretty
+low just now, and so we will cease production for a while. You see, we
+have been hit pretty hard lately.”
+
+“Yuh sure have,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “We never got much of a
+chance to trail that cargo of silver. They muffled their pack-horses’
+hoofs, follered that old game-trail to where it spread out, and then we
+didn’t have a ghost of a chance to trail ’em.”
+
+“I was afraid of it, Sheriff. Of course it will be impossible for them
+to move any great quantity of silver from this valley. Every exit is
+being watched, of course, but they may lie low and tire us out.”
+
+Skeeter made no comment. He felt that the men who had taken the silver
+would never attempt to move it, except as silver coin. While Skeeter and
+Belden discussed the stolen silver, Doctor Skeen, the coroner, came in.
+
+Skeen was a small, gray-haired, spectacled man, retiring and
+soft-spoken. He excused himself to Belden and drew Skeeter aside to give
+him two badly-battered bullets. “These were from Monk Clark’s body,” he
+explained. “I had an idea that you might care to look them over.”
+
+They were unmistakably of .45 caliber. Skeeter examined them closely,
+but they told him nothing.
+
+“I put a pair of calipers on the butt of that least battered one, and it
+seems to measure the same as a .45,” stated the doctor. “I can weigh
+them, if you wish.”
+
+“No need of it, Doc. They’re forty-fives. How about holdin’ the inquest
+tomorrow?”
+
+“I was going to suggest it, Sheriff. Will you get in touch with Gregory
+and his daughter? We will need their testimony.”
+
+“I’ll get ’em.”
+
+Doctor Skeen thanked him and went away. Skeeter showed Kaintuck the
+bullets.
+
+“It sure is a good thing for Curley that these ain’t .41’s,” said
+Kaintuck. “But it makes things tough for us. Most everybody shoots
+a .45, except Curley and Frisco Larkin—and I’ve still got Frisco’s gun.”
+
+The presence of Skeeter and Kaintuck had served to still the
+conversation regarding Monk Clark’s death, and every one seemed to be
+anxiously awaiting the return of the six riders.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was almost midnight when they came back. Ertle and Jim Searles strode
+into the Half-Moon and went straight to the bar, where Kaintuck and
+Skeeter were trying to out-guess a nickel-in-the-slot machine.
+
+Jim Searles, foreman of the Tin Cup, was ordinarily a big, good-natured
+cowboy, with a ready smile, but just now the smiling good-nature was
+missing. He strode up to the bar, his spurs rasping harshly, while
+behind him came Ertle, his thin face set in a thoughtful frown.
+
+Skeeter turned and spoke to the two men.
+
+“Did yuh find yore man?” asked one of the players at the faro layout
+anxiously, looking from Ertle to the sheriff.
+
+“We got a man all right,” growled Ertle, and then to Skeeter, “We’ve got
+Hank Gregory out there, Sheriff.”
+
+“Hank Gregory? What have yuh got him for?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Tha’sall right,” growled Searles. “Lot of things you don’t know.”
+
+Skeeter was trying to puzzle out why they should bring Hank Gregory back
+with them, when Doctor Skeen came in again. He had an envelope in his
+hand, but hesitated, realizing that he had interrupted a debate.
+
+“Pardon me,” he said quickly. “In Monk Clark’s pocket I found this
+letter, which he had evidently intended to post. It is addressed to
+Henry Gregory.”
+
+“To Gregory?” blurted Searles. “Lemme see it.”
+
+“It’s sealed,” said Skeeter, making a guess that such was the case. “You
+open that letter—”
+
+But Searles had already taken it from the doctor and ripped off the
+envelope, while Ertle and Van Cleve stepped in front of Skeeter,
+blocking him from interference.
+
+Searles laughed harshly as he scanned the letter, and turned to the
+crowd.
+
+“Listen to this, boys,” he lowered the letter for a moment.
+
+“I’ve worked for Monk Clark a long time, and the other day he said
+somethin’ about bein’ afraid of Hank Gregory. It seemed funny for Monk
+to be afraid of anybody; so I asked him about it. He didn’t want to tell
+me much about it, but he did say that he had the goods on Gregory for a
+killin’ ten years ago.
+
+“Gregory knew that Clark had this deadwood on him, and Clark was afraid
+that Gregory might—well, you know how it would feel to have somethin’
+like that hangin’ over yuh. So, when this death came up, I remembered
+what Monk said, and tonight we decided that Gregory knew more about this
+deal than he was willin’ to tell.
+
+“Now here’s what this letter says:
+
+    “Dear Hank:
+
+    “Just to let you know that I had nothing to do with the misbranding
+    of that Lazy H heifer. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t care
+    a ——. I want you to understand that I won’t stoop to petty larceny
+    to make you see things the way I want you to see them, even if I
+    could send you up for killing the Badger County sheriff ten years
+    ago. I am writing this to explain things, because I refuse to make
+    a fool of myself by coming to your ranch again.
+
+                                                “Respectfully,
+                                                “(Signed) Monk Clark.”
+
+Searles finished reading and scanned the crowd, which were already
+buzzing with amazement. Skeeter was shocked. Perhaps Gregory was the one
+who killed Clark, he thought. Gregory was the one who had discovered the
+body.
+
+If he had met Clark at the Box X and killed him, the first thing he
+would do would be to hide the body. And he admitted that he started out
+to kill Clark. Skeeter squinted at Searles and Ertle, but made no
+comment.
+
+“I reckon the sheriff can see why we brought him in now,” smiled
+Searles. “This letter cinches a reason for the killin’.”
+
+Skeeter nodded quickly.
+
+“Looks thataway, boys. I’ll lock him up.”
+
+One of the cowboys laughed softly. “Lock him up, eh? That’s real kind of
+yuh.”
+
+Skeeter did not turn his head, but spoke directly to Searles.
+
+“You didn’t have any idea, except to lock him up, did yuh?”
+
+Searles hesitated. He was known among the cowboys as a square-shooter,
+sober and industrious; not one whose judgment might be easily warped.
+Then he shook his head.
+
+“You can have him, Sheriff. If he killed Monk Clark, he will get a
+square trial. This evidence looks pretty strong to us, but the law might
+tear —— out of it in a courtroom. We all liked Monk, I reckon. He had
+his faults, just like we all have. If he was murdered I want to see the
+murderer punished—but I don’t want to see an innocent man hanged.”
+
+It was rather a long speech for Searles to make, but it was spoken so
+sincerely that it silenced those who were for immediate action. Skeeter
+walked outside, where he found the rest of the crowd with Gregory.
+
+“Let the sheriff have him,” ordered Searles. “We’ll see that Gregory has
+a fair trial.”
+
+“What was it about that letter?” asked Van Cleve.
+
+Searles told him what Monk Clark had written.
+
+“And you turn him over to the law, after that?” fleered Van Cleve.
+“Yo’re sure gettin’ easy, Jim.”
+
+“That’ll be about all from you,” said Searles coldly.
+
+Skeeter touched Gregory on the arm and they walked to the office
+together. Gregory had nothing to say. It seemed as if the ghost of Monk
+Clark had risen from the grave to point an accusing finger at him and
+tell the world of that mistake of ten years ago.
+
+Curley unlocked the door for them and listened with amazement while
+Skeeter told him what had happened.
+
+“But where is Joy?” asked Curley anxiously.
+
+“Home,” said Gregory wearily. “She doesn’t even know about it. She had
+gone to bed when they came. I heard a noise in the yard, and when I went
+out they stuck a gun in my face and made me come with them. Calamity
+doesn’t know it, either.”
+
+“Well, this sure is a mess,” declared Curley. “You didn’t kill him.”
+
+“No, I didn’t, Curley.”
+
+“How much truth was in that letter, Gregory?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“It was all true, Sheriff,” said Gregory, and told Skeeter all about the
+incident.
+
+“And Monk Clark held this over yuh, eh?”
+
+“Not until a short time ago. He wanted Joy. Up to that time he never
+mentioned the killin’. Maybe he thought he could force me to stop the
+marriage between Joy and Curley. I told him enough for him to know that
+I wouldn’t be blackmailed.
+
+“And when I found out about that misbranded yearlin’, I was sure that it
+was Clark’s first move to get rid of Curley, and I wanted a showdown
+with him. Yeah, I was goin’ to kill him, and I won’t deny it.”
+
+“But Joy is of age,” said Curley. “You couldn’t do anythin’.”
+
+“I told him that, Curley.”
+
+“Well, I dunno just what to do,” said Skeeter. “I’ve got to put yuh in a
+cell, I reckon. I don’t want to do it, but I told ’em I’d take charge of
+yuh. Mebbe you’d be safer there than runnin’ loose. And then I better
+send Kaintuck out to tell Joy and Calamity, ’cause they might worry.”
+
+“Why not let me go?” asked Curley. “I can make a sneak out of here and
+come back without any one knowing it.”
+
+“Well, all right,” said Skeeter. “You’ll sure have to be careful. The
+town is full of folks, lookin’ for excitement.”
+
+Curley lost no time in making his sneak. He went carefully out to the
+stable, mounted his horse and rode away. Skeeter kept a close watch
+until Curley was well on his way. He could hear the noise from the
+Half-Moon, and knew that the crowd would stay in anticipation of the
+inquest. It was not often that Crescent City furnished as interesting a
+subject as it now had.
+
+Skeeter went back in the office and barred the rear door. The jail was
+part of the office, and Skeeter wondered how long it would take a mob to
+tear it all apart. Moon River sheriffs had always depended more upon
+Winchester rifles and sawed-off shotguns for defense than thickness of
+wall.
+
+“Did he get away all right?” asked Gregory, looking out between the bars
+of his cell door.
+
+“Started all right,” replied Skeeter.
+
+“That’s good. Sheriff, I’m sure up against a bad deal. Even if I could
+prove that I didn’t kill Monk Clark, there’s that Badger County deal to
+look forward to.”
+
+“Yeah, that’s true, Gregory. But yuh might be able to prove yore story
+on that. I believe yuh, and when I believe anythin’ it must sound like
+the truth. Just set easy, pardner, and stick to yore story. Mebbe
+somethin’ will bust pretty soon.”
+
+Skeeter walked to the front of the office and was greeted with a sharp
+rap on the door. There was nothing for him to conceal now, so he opened
+the door to see Ertle, Frisco, Sol Asher and Charley Ames.
+
+Frisco and Ames were in front, both of them covering Skeeter with their
+six-shooters.
+
+Skeeter did not put up his hands, nor did they ask him to do so. Frisco
+Larkin leered at Skeeter, and Skeeter had a sudden great desire to hit
+him square in the front teeth, which bulged out badly, causing Frisco to
+appear continually trying to close his lips.
+
+Ertle was grinning with his mouth, but his keen eyes were watching every
+movement of the sheriff, and it seemed to Skeeter that Ertle would like
+to have him try to draw his gun. Skeeter did not pay any attention to
+Sol Asher and Charley Ames, who seemed nervous.
+
+“We’re comin’ in,” stated Ames.
+
+They had all been drinking and were odorous with liquor.
+
+“Come in,” invited Skeeter, stepping aside. Ames kept him covered, while
+the others searched the place.
+
+“You had Curley Adams here,” stated Ertle disgustedly.
+
+“Did I?” Skeeter smiled. “That’s sure remarkable, Ertle. Yuh can see for
+yourself, can’tcha?”
+
+“He ain’t here now,” declared Asher angrily.
+
+“Yore eyesight is plumb remarkable,” said Skeeter admiringly.
+
+“What I don’t _sabe_ is this: You’ve got Gregory behind the bars for
+killin’ Clark, and now yuh want Curley. How many men does it take to
+kill one?”
+
+“Difference of opinion is what makes horse races,” replied Ertle. “Some
+of us don’t think Gregory done the job, and we don’t want to make any
+mistakes.”
+
+“Why don’tcha arrest everybody in the county? You whip-poor-wills make
+me tired. If yo’re through searchin’ my place, yuh might move out.”
+
+Ames had holstered his gun, as had the others. It was evident that they
+had been misinformed.
+
+“You might apologize for this intrusion,” said Skeeter. “A sheriff don’t
+appreciate havin’ a gun stuck in his face, while a bunch of drunks
+search his office and jail.”
+
+“Well, for ——’s sake!” sneered Frisco. “When I apologize to you, they’ll
+be skatin’ in ——!”
+
+Ertle was between Skeeter and Frisco, but before he could shift his
+position Skeeter had back-heeled him, sending him reeling toward the
+door. Frisco reached for his gun, leaving Skeeter a wide-open chance to
+drive his left fist straight into Frisco’s jaw.
+
+It was what was known in ring parlance as a “haymaker.” Skeeter’s fist
+started from behind his hip, described part of an arc and met its object
+just as Frisco’s hand lifted the gun from its holster.
+
+It was all done quickly. Ertle was still clawing for balance when Frisco
+was falling backwards across a chair, where he went to sleep with his
+boots in the air.
+
+Skeeter whirled with his back to the wall, his six-shooter jammed
+against his hip, as he waited for the next move. Ertle had fallen to his
+knees, but now he got up and swore softly.
+
+“Vamoose,” said Skeeter softly. “And next time yuh feel like gettin’
+tough with me—hop to it.”
+
+But none of them accepted the challenge. Ertle rubbed his knees and
+swore bitterly, his eyes fixed on Skeeter’s gun. But Asher and Ames were
+only too glad to call it quits and get out of there. Asher slowly slid
+his gun back in its holster, cleared his throat softly.
+
+“Well, I—I reckon that’s all,” he said foolishly. “Curley sure ain’t
+nowhere around here, gents.”
+
+The three men filed silently out, leaving Frisco still in slumberland,
+with his boot-heels pointing toward the ceiling. Skeeter grinned and
+considered Frisco. It was an interesting sight.
+
+Gregory was questioning Skeeter, trying to find out what had happened.
+The bars of his cell door were facing another cell, and he could only
+hear what was going on.
+
+“Nothin’ much,” laughed Skeeter. “I tripped Ertle and hit Frisco
+Larkin.”
+
+Frisco was showing signs of returning consciousness; so Skeeter took his
+gun, dragged him into a cell and locked the door.
+
+“I’ll keep him for disturbin’ the peace,” grinned Skeeter. “There is a
+law of that kind, Gregory, but it ain’t never been used in this
+country.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Kaintuck came in, all out of breath. The three men had gone to the
+Half-Moon and told their experience.
+
+“Gosh dang it!” wailed Kaintuck. “I missed all the fun. Where is
+Frisco?”
+
+“In a cell.”
+
+“Gosh! What for?”
+
+“Disturbin’ my peace. I’m goin’ to keep him a while, too.”
+
+“Can yuh do that, Skeeter?”
+
+“I reckon I can. You go back and keep yore ears open. Curley has gone
+out to the Gregory ranch to tell Joy and Calamity what has happened.”
+
+Kaintuck hurried out, and Skeeter locked the door. He was glad that
+Curley had gone to the ranch, because it was hard to tell what might
+have happened if he had been there when the four men came in.
+
+Skeeter sat down at his desk and rolled a smoke, a half grin on his
+lips. Things were working out for him—giving him an advantage he had not
+expected. If he could keep Curley safe until the big play was made, that
+would be the rub. There was grave danger if the whisky-drinking element
+caught Curley.
+
+He could hear them over in the Half-Moon—laughter, talking, bursts of
+raucous song. Kaintuck was over there, keeping his finger on the pulse
+of the situation. Skeeter knew that Joy and Calamity would come back
+with Curley, and he wondered how Joy would take the bad news.
+
+“That poor kid sure is gettin’ a lot of jolts,” he decided. “The crowd
+ain’t decided yet which one is guilty—Curley or Hank—and they’d be
+willin’ to hang ’em both so as to be sure.”
+
+He got to his feet and walked the length of the office. He wanted
+action. There were certain things to be tried out, and he did not want
+to wait. His lips twisted in an anxious smile, as he stopped near the
+door, his eyes half-closed, speculating. Then he laughed softly and
+shook his head.
+
+“Hang on to yoreself,” he muttered. “The pot is on the table and you’ve
+got ’em beat in sight. Bluff, you son-of-a-gun! Get out on a limb. If
+they don’t saw it off between you and the tree, yo’re settin’ easy.”
+
+Frisco was swearing in his cell and demanding that he be released.
+Skeeter went to the door and looked in at him.
+
+“What in —— am I in here for?” asked Frisco.
+
+“For disturbin’ the peace.”
+
+“Aw-w-w, ——!”
+
+“Well, we’ll keep yuh in there anyway. Now what do yuh think of that,
+Frisco?”
+
+“I think you’ll be —— sorry when I get out.”
+
+“And I think you’ll be —— glad,” said Skeeter, walking away.
+
+“Hey! Whatcha mean by that?” demanded Frisco.
+
+But Skeeter did not say. He had flung himself down on a cot and was
+building himself a cigaret, a grin on his lips.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was a hectic night in Crescent City. Several fights were started in
+the Half-Moon and whisky flowed freely. But the cold gray dawn, which
+was not cold at all, but very hot, came creeping along to find a lot of
+tired, sleepy-eyed folks, whose stomachs were totally unfit for food,
+voices hoarse and heads heavy.
+
+The majority of them did not care a whoop who got hanged for murder. In
+fact several of them had forgotten everything about it. They growled at
+each other, spat disgustedly and had more drinks. Sam Rugg went about
+like a soreheaded grizzly, looking for trouble.
+
+And he found it in the person of old Calamity, who was also looking for
+trouble. Joy and Calamity had ridden back to town with Curley, just
+ahead of daybreak. Joy had stayed at the sheriff’s office with her
+father and Curley, but old Calamity wanted action.
+
+He had listened to Gregory’s confession to Joy, the story of which had
+already been told by Curley, and swore that Hank Gregory was a —— liar.
+Old Calamity was on the war-path. He wore two guns and a new pair of
+boots. The boots hurt his feet.
+
+Skeeter advised Calamity to stay with them, and his advice was echoed by
+Gregory and Joy, but Calamity swore under his breath and said he was of
+age and would do as he pleased.
+
+So he went out on the street, limping slightly, and looked for what he
+might devour. Several of the cowboys looked old Calamity over and
+decided that they did not want any of his medicine.
+
+Not so Sam Rugg. He was still strangling over a drink of raw liquor, as
+he lurched out of the Half-Moon and almost fell over Calamity. Liquor
+had ruined Rugg’s perspective. He looked upon the old man as legitimate
+prey.
+
+“C’mere!” he snorted as he grasped old Calamity by the arm and whirled
+him around, pinning him against the saloon wall.
+
+“Unpaw me!” snapped Calamity. “Who do yuh think yo’re tryin’ to maul,
+yuh big polecat?”
+
+Rugg slapped a big hand over Calamity’s mouth, rubbing heavily on
+Calamity’s nose. That was the last straw. One of the new boots snapped
+up in a short kick and connected with Rugg’s knee-cap.
+
+Rugg immediately forgot everything, except the sharp pain in his knee.
+He dropped both hands to the injured spot, bumping against Calamity, who
+whipped out a gun, swung it sidewise and rapped Rugg sharply on the
+head.
+
+Rugg forgot about his knee and went down in a limp heap. Calamity
+stepped over him, felt tenderly of his sore nose, and looked around for
+more worlds to conquer. Several men had crowded out of the saloon door,
+goggling at Calamity.
+
+“Pistol-whipped him,” said Calamity. “Yeah, and I’ll pistol-whip some
+more of yuh if yuh monkey with me. I ain’t no dad-durned bluffer. I was
+killin’ men when you fellers was wearin’ didies—and I ain’t forgot how.”
+
+“Nobody goin’ to bother yuh, Calamity,” assured Asher.
+
+“That’s what I ’lowed when I driv up. I ain’t safe. In my state of mind
+I’m liable to be plumb ignorant of humanity. I crave to meet the men who
+came out and took Hank Gregory. I ain’t very big and I’m gettin’ old,
+but by the mighty, muddy Missouri, I can whip any one, or all six, of
+the men who came out there last night.”
+
+“Tha’sall right, old-timer,” said another half-drunk cowboy. “You jist
+go ahead and have a good time. Nobody is goin’ to choose you. But I’d
+advise yuh to look out for Sam Rugg.”
+
+“This half-witted bug-hunter?” Calamity pointed at Rugg, who was resting
+on one elbow, rubbing his head. “Huh!” Calamity snorted his disdain. “If
+he monkeys with me I’ll squirsh him.”
+
+No one seemed to disagree with Calamity; so he crossed the street, while
+some of the men assisted Rugg to his feet and took him back in the
+saloon, where they explained what had happened.
+
+Rugg drank several more glasses of liquor to try and deaden the pain in
+his knee and head. It was humiliating, to say the least.
+
+“Better leave him alone,” advised Moran, who had drunk but little during
+the night.
+
+“The —— I had!” Rugg shook his head angrily.
+
+“All right,” Moran shrugged his shoulders. “Calamity will shoot next
+time.”
+
+“I’ll get me a gun.”
+
+“You better get yuh an army. That old jigger has forgotten more about
+gun fighting than you’ll ever learn—and he hasn’t forgotten the part
+that beats the other feller to the first shot.”
+
+Ertle joined in the argument, trying to convince Rugg that his best
+course was to forget old Calamity. Then Ertle drew Moran aside.
+
+“Say, do you know that Frisco is still in jail?”
+
+“I wondered where he was,” laughed Moran.
+
+“What’s so funny about it? That —— sheriff knocked Frisco out and drove
+us all outside. I’ve been tryin’ to find out why he locked Frisco up.”
+
+“Didja ask the sheriff?”
+
+“No. I thought mebbe some of you fellers had heard.”
+
+“It’s the first time I heard about it, Ertle. Mebbe he had an idea that
+Frisco needed soberin’ up.”
+
+“Aw, he wasn’t that drunk. I’m goin’ to look into this, I’ll tell yuh
+that. He ain’t got no right to lock a man in jail for bein’ drunk.”
+
+“Not unless he gets too bad,” amended Moran. “He’ll probably let him
+loose pretty soon. I’d sure like to know what became of Curley Adams.”
+
+“Well, he wasn’t in the jail last night, that’s a cinch.”
+
+Ertle left Moran and came down to the jail. Skeeter stepped outside the
+office to talk with Ertle, not wishing to have him come inside, but
+Ertle caught a glimpse of the interior and of Curley Adams.
+
+“I wanted to ask yuh about Frisco,” said Ertle.
+
+“Well, he’s doin’ as well as can be expected,” said Skeeter seriously.
+“Of course he’s still runnin’ off at the vocal cords a little.”
+
+“He is, eh?” Ertle spat angrily. “Just what in —— are you keepin’ him in
+jail for?”
+
+“’Cause he’s a bad boy, Ertle. If he was loose I’d have to kill him
+sooner or later.”
+
+“The —— yuh would! Just because he talked back to yuh, eh?”
+
+“Mebbe.”
+
+“Then yuh won’t turn him loose, eh?”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“Yo’re takin’ a lot on yourself, Sheriff. I’ll see that yuh do turn him
+loose. By ——, I’ll go to Judge Grayson and see if you’ve got any right
+to keep one of my men in jail, when he ain’t done anythin’.”
+
+“Tell the judge hello for me, will yuh, Ertle?”
+
+“You go to ——!”
+
+Ertle whirled on his heel and went up the street, carrying his hat in
+his hand. He was thoroughly mad. But he did not go to see Judge Grayson.
+Instead he went to the Half-Moon and announced that Curley Adams was at
+the sheriff’s office.
+
+But his announcement did not cause much excitement.
+
+“That’s all right,” assured Searles. “We can be sure of him bein’ at the
+inquest.”
+
+“That part is all right,” complained Ertle. “But Adams ain’t in no cell.
+They’re sayin’ he killed Clark. Frisco Larkin never done anythin’, and
+he’s in a cell. What do yuh think of that?”
+
+“I reckon we’ll leave that to the sheriff,” said Searles.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+As Ertle turned away from the bar Skeeter Bill came in. Searles spoke to
+him, but Ertle did not. Skeeter leaned across the bar and spoke to the
+bartender.
+
+“I want yuh to think real hard,” said Skeeter. “A little over a month
+ago a man came in here. He was a strange cowpuncher.”
+
+The bartender squinted thoughtfully at the ceiling.
+
+Skeeter had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and he looked past
+the bartender into the back-bar mirror, wherein he could see many of
+those behind him. Moran, who was near a poker table, looked up quickly.
+
+Ertle had stepped away from the bar as Skeeter spoke, but now he stopped
+and slowly turned his head, looking intently at Skeeter who was missing
+none of this. Ertle’s eyes blinked and he turned away, shooting a quick
+glance around the room.
+
+“A little over a month ago? Lemme see. No-o-o, I can’t just remember it,
+Sheriff. What did he want?”
+
+“I think he wanted to know which road to take to get to the Tin Cup
+ranch.”
+
+“O-o-o-oh, yea-a-ah. Say, I remember him now. I’m darned if I can
+remember what he looked like, but—lemme see. It was about noon, and I
+was washin’ the back-bar mirror. He came in and asked me how to get to
+the Tin Cup. I told him to go north and take the right-hand road.
+Afterwards I wondered if he kept on the right-hand road and went to the
+old Box X.”
+
+“Much obliged,” said Skeeter.
+
+He turned and invited Searles to have a drink. Moran was standing near a
+poker table, but did not look up, and Ertle had drifted toward the rear
+of the room.
+
+“Who was the feller?” asked the bartender, accepting of Skeeter’s
+hospitality and pouring himself a drink.
+
+“I dunno.”
+
+“Yuh don’t? Then how do yuh know he asked me that question?”
+
+“Guessed it,” grinned Skeeter. “I knew that a stranger was headin’ for
+that part of the range. If he was a stranger, he wouldn’t know the way,
+and the bartender is the first person a strange puncher would question.”
+
+“That’s guessin’,” laughed Searles. “I haven’t seen a stranger at the
+Tin Cup for longer than that, sheriff.”
+
+“I reckon that’s right, Searles.”
+
+Skeeter turned to the door and Searles walked outside with him. They
+stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and Searles moved in close to
+Skeeter, speaking softly—
+
+“He didn’t find the Tin Cup, eh?”
+
+“Nope. And he never will. Well, I’ve got to go back to the office. We’re
+goin’ to hold the inquest at ten-thirty at the courtroom, and I’ve got
+quite a lot of folks to take care of.”
+
+“Curley Adams showed up, eh?” Searles went on.
+
+“Sure. He was here when you fellers went huntin’ him last night.”
+
+“The —— he was!” Searles smiled sourly. “Well, I’m glad. Ertle is awful
+sore about you keepin’ Frisco in jail.”
+
+“He’ll just have to keep on bein’ sore.”
+
+Skeeter went back to the office, where he found Curley and Kaintuck
+playing seven-up, and Joy talking with her father. His story had been a
+shock to her, but she knew he was innocent of an intentional killing.
+
+“What became of Calamity?” asked Gregory.
+
+Skeeter did not know. It was nearing time for the inquest. He sat down
+beside Curley, motioning for Kaintuck to put away the cards.
+
+“Curley, was there any stranger—a strange cowpuncher—came out to the Tin
+Cup ranch in the last month or two?”
+
+“I never seen any, Sheriff. Frank Moran was the only one to hire out, or
+come out there after I went to work.”
+
+“Uh-huh. Was you there when Moran came the first time?”
+
+“The first time? Yeah, I was sick in bed when he came to work.”
+
+“Are yuh sure of that, Curley?”
+
+“Dead sure. There was a lot of work to do at that time, and the Tin Cup
+was short-handed, through me bein’ sick. I know that Monk Clark inquired
+around, lookin’ for an extra man.
+
+“Moran came out there in the forenoon. Monk was gone, if I remember
+rightly. Moran came down to the bunk-house. I was pretty darned sick,
+but I remember hearin’ him tell Asher who he was, and Asher said that
+Monk Clark was away.
+
+“Asher had been stayin’ pretty close with me, I reckon, and he asked
+Moran to stay with me for a few minutes. I heard him say he’d do it, and
+I think he was there for half an hour. Then he pulled out. It was the
+next day that he got a job with the Tin Cup, and he’s been there since.”
+
+“You didn’t talk with him, did yuh, Curley?”
+
+“No. I was pretty sick and I didn’t want to talk to anybody. But I
+remembered the voice, and he told me afterwards that he had stayed with
+me while Asher went out.”
+
+“Curley, did you know that Frank Moran was a Government detective?”
+
+“Gosh, no! Is he?”
+
+“Yeah. Monk Clark knew it.”
+
+“Is that so? No, I didn’t know it.”
+
+“He worked for Ertle a while. Ertle knows it.”
+
+“Well, I’ll be darned! And what is he detectin’, sheriff?”
+
+“If you mean—what has he detected—not much.”
+
+“And I punched him in the jaw,” said Curley seriously.
+
+“That didn’t mean much to a detective like him,” grinned Skeeter. “I
+reckon we better get ready for the inquest, folks.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Calamity got a few drinks under his belt and threatened to become a
+menace to society. Instead of the liquor acting as an uplift agent, it
+acted the opposite. Calamity became morose, vengeful. He wanted to kill
+somebody.
+
+Fortunately he did not want to kill just anybody. His objective was to
+make sorry the six men who had stolen Hank Gregory away from his home.
+He was perfectly willing to include Rugg, the mine superintendent. Rugg
+had rubbed his nose.
+
+Rugg had also purchased a six-shooter. Calamity knew this, and chuckled
+with unholy glee. Sol Asher, Van Cleve and Charley Ames had heard
+Calamity’s declaration of war, and wanted none of him.
+
+There would be no satisfaction, no glory, in killing an old man. And
+what was more to the point, they knew that Calamity was an old gunman,
+as dangerous as a rattler.
+
+“I’ve got the Injun sign on ’em,” declared Calamity, his back against
+the Half-Moon bar, his hat pulled rakishly over one ear. “I can whip any
+one of ’em on a sheep-skin.”
+
+“Don’t cover too much territory,” advised Ertle disgustedly.
+
+“Oh, my!” Calamity eyed Ertle speculatively.
+
+It had suddenly occurred to Calamity that Ertle was one of the six men
+he was gunning for. He shifted his feet just a trifle and rubbed the
+palm of his right hand against the top of his cartridge-belt.
+
+Ertle tried to appear indifferent and move toward the door.
+
+“Too much territory, eh?” Calamity’s nose twitched. “How’d you like to
+choose me, feller? Tell me what you’d rather fight with, and that’s my
+fav’rite weapon. I’d fight you with anythin’ from a darnin’-needle to a
+double-bitted ax. Ertle, I’ll let you—”
+
+But Ertle had reached the doorway, making a swift, if undignified exit,
+and Calamity started after him. But Calamity slipped, struck his
+shoulder against the doorway and rebounded along the wall.
+
+No one in the Half-Moon laughed. Calamity straightened his hat, adjusted
+his belt, and came slowly back to the bar.
+
+“Too much territory, ——!” he snorted. “They don’t breed ’em tough enough
+for me in this day and age. Back in 1866 they made ’em whale-bone warp
+and bull-hide fillin’. And when yuh found a heel mark in the sand, it
+was made by a _man_.”
+
+No one disputed Calamity. A cowboy came in and announced that some of
+the folks were already going to the courtroom, and this information
+caused the several gambling games to cease operations. Calamity listened
+scornfully to the opinions of several men, and swaggered out of the
+place.
+
+“They better keep him out of the courtroom,” said Moran.
+
+No one disputed him.
+
+“I’d like to know what the sheriff has under his hat,” said the
+bartender.
+
+“Prob’ly an empty head,” laughed a gambler.
+
+“Maybe. Don’t anybody play him for a sucker though.”
+
+The crowd began to dribble out of the saloon, heading across the street
+to a room over the general merchandise store, where Moon River County
+held its court sessions.
+
+Skeeter met Moran near the stairway, which led to the courtroom.
+
+Moran had been drinking, but was not drunk by any means. He removed his
+sombrero and ran his fingers through his matted black hair, his brown
+eyes coldly calculating, as he looked at Skeeter.
+
+“What do yuh know?” he asked bruskly.
+
+His voice was not at all pleasant now. Skeeter looked at his flat nose,
+the deep-set eyes and prominent cheek-bones, wondering if Moran did not
+have a goodly percentage of Indian blood in his veins. Skeeter hesitated
+so long that Moran said—
+
+“What about the inquest?”
+
+“We’ll prob’ly have to put you on the stand, Moran,” said Skeeter. “It
+kinda looks like you won’t be able to keep yore identity a secret any
+longer, ’cause it’ll come out about that fireplace and the pieces of
+silver.”
+
+“I’m sorry about that,” said Moran seriously.
+
+“Can’t be helped, I guess. This killin’ is of more interest to Moon
+River County than counterfeitin’.”
+
+“I suppose. Say, you better take charge of old Calamity. He thinks he
+can run everybody.”
+
+“Oh, he won’t hurt anybody.”
+
+“Won’t he? All right. You’ll have another killin’ on yore hands the
+first thing yuh know.”
+
+“I expect to have several before I run out of ice.”
+
+“Yuh do, eh?”
+
+This sounded interesting to Moran. But Skeeter did not stop to explain.
+Moran scowled at the back of Skeeter, who was heading back toward the
+office.
+
+Ertle and Van Cleve came out of the store and looked cautiously around.
+They were taking no chances on old Calamity. Moran grinned, and it
+angered Ertle.
+
+“Where is that —— old fool?” asked Ertle.
+
+Moran shook his head.
+
+“Probably up in the courtroom.”
+
+“Is, eh? Well, I’m through foolin’ with him. If he makes one more break
+at me, I’m goin’ to shoot him.”
+
+“Sam Rugg got him a gun,” offered Van Cleve.
+
+“I spoke to the sheriff about Calamity,” said Moran. “He don’t think
+Calamity is dangerous.”
+
+“The —— he don’t!”
+
+“And I’m goin’ to be called as a witness.”
+
+“Tha’sso?” Ertle frowned heavily. “You didn’t see it.”
+
+“No, I didn’t. But the sheriff is tryin’ to hook this killin’ up with
+the bad money idea.”
+
+“Yeah?” Ertle stared at Moran. “What’s he got to work on?”
+
+“Nothin’. He’s just a smart sort of a jigger and wants to make a
+showin’, tha’sall.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Ertle scowled down the street.
+
+Skeeter, Kaintuck, Gregory, Joy and Curley were coming from the
+sheriff’s office.
+
+Ertle, Van Cleve and Moran moved back to the entrance of the store,
+while Skeeter and his crowd went into the doorway and climbed the
+stairs.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“It wouldn’t take much for me to smash in that jail and turn Frisco
+loose,” said Ertle. “I’d like to know why he’s keepin’ Frisco in jail.”
+
+“Could we smash in and git him?” asked Van Cleve.
+
+Sam Rugg was crossing the street from the Half-Moon, walking unsteadily,
+but with caution. He grinned at the three men, as he joined them.
+
+But Sam Rugg’s smile was not one of gladness nor mirth; it was a
+grimace. He slouched up to them, his hands in his pockets, rather
+unsteady in his gait. He looked gross—grimy, with his crop of greasy
+black whiskers, his face flushed with liquor, and the red welt still
+showed on his head, where Calamity’s revolver barrel had struck.
+
+“Where is that old terrier?” he asked, meaning Calamity.
+
+“Probably got drunk and fell down—” thus Moran.
+
+“They’ve gone upstairs to start that inquest,” said Ertle, speaking to
+Rugg. “If we don’t show up they’ll think something is wrong; _sabe_?
+They’ve got Frisco still in jail, Rugg. If you had a pick, I think yuh
+can bust in and let him out.”
+
+“Bust in the jail?” The idea seemed rather novel to Rugg.
+
+“Sure,” nodded Ertle. “Knock the lock off the back door; go in and pry
+off the cell door. That old jail is about as strong as a bird-cage.”
+
+“And then,” said Moran, “the sheriff will probably kill somebody.”
+
+“Let him try it. I want Frisco out of the jail. He ain’t got any too
+much brains, and he might think I’ve turned him down.”
+
+“I’ll bust in the jail, if you say so.” Rugg was willing to please.
+
+“Go ahead,” said Ertle. “We’ll go up and listen to the inquest. Take
+yore time, Rugg. Tell Frisco to high-tail it out of town.”
+
+Moran, Ertle and Van Cleve climbed the stairs, leading to the courtroom,
+which already buzzed with conversation.
+
+It was not a big room, and many of the spectators were obliged to stand
+along the walls. Old Judge Grayson, who acted as a justice of the peace,
+presided. Gregory, Joy and Curley sat at a table in front of the judge’s
+desk.
+
+A jury of six men had been drawn, and they all looked ill at ease. The
+doctor had managed to draw a jury of men who were in no way connected
+with either the Tin Cup or the Lazy H.
+
+Skeeter signaled to Moran, offering him a seat near the front, which was
+accepted. A number of the audience were still under the influence of
+liquor, and it was only with difficulty that the judge was able to quiet
+the room.
+
+Kaintuck Kennedy stood near the door, and his position was the topic of
+a whispered conversation in several parts of the room.
+
+Kaintuck was too short to see over the heads of the crowd; so he
+hammered on the wall with his fist and signaled frantically for several
+cowboys to sit down. His mustache bobbed convulsively, and he swore loud
+enough for those close to him to hear. He stood on his toes against the
+wall and tried to be satisfied. A cowboy offered to hold him on his lap,
+but the invitation was not accepted.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Then the judge began speaking. “We are not here to determine the guilt
+or innocence of any one, but to try and determine just how Monk Clark
+came to his death, why he was killed, and who is most likely to have
+killed him. The jury will abide by such evidence as may be brought out
+at this inquest. I will call Doctor Skeen, the coroner, to the stand.”
+
+Doctor Skeen’s testimony was only relative to the fact that Monk Clark
+had been killed by a bullet wound. He described the course of both
+bullets, but was unable to state whether the shots had been fired at
+close or long range.
+
+Skeeter Bill was next called upon to relate what he knew about the
+killing, and he told exactly how he and Kaintuck had found things at the
+Box X ranch. The torn-up fireplace and the finding of the attempt at
+making a dollar caused the audience to sit up and show interest.
+
+Skeeter did not seek to defend Gregory when the judge asked him if, in
+his opinion, Gregory could have fired the shots which killed Monk Clark.
+
+“Did you look at Gregory’s gun?” asked one of the jury.
+
+“I didn’t,” said Skeeter.
+
+“Then you don’t know whether he had fired his gun recently or not?”
+
+Skeeter was forced to admit that he had neglected to inspect Gregory’s
+gun. Several of the audience laughed derisively, and the judge rapped
+for order.
+
+“Put Gregory on the stand,” said Ertle. “Let’s get some action.”
+
+“You better keep quiet in this court, or you’ll get action.” Thus
+Kaintuck, loud enough for every one to hear. Ertle subsided.
+
+The crowd laughed. Even the judge smothered a smile. Kaintuck blushed
+and his mustache jiggled nervously, as he craned his neck to give Ertle
+a menacing glance. Skeeter nodded approvingly at Kaintuck, who
+interpreted the nod correctly. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
+
+“You danged right,” he said. “I’m the greatest little shutter-up yuh
+ever seen.”
+
+Ertle growled something, but Kaintuck could not hear it.
+
+“That’s all, Sheriff,” said the judge. “Henry Gregory, take the stand.”
+
+Gregory walked slowly to the witness chair and looked out at the crowd.
+There was no question that they were hostile to him. Speaking carefully
+he told of his suspicions that Monk Clark had tried to incriminate
+Curley Adams, and that he had, on the spur of the moment, started out
+with the intentions of killing Monk Clark.
+
+He did not try to evade any phase of the incident.
+
+“I could have killed him,” he said slowly. “I reckon I had time to do
+it. I dunno how long it was before Joy came. It was a jolt to find him
+dead. She thought I had killed him.
+
+“Then the sheriff and his deputy came along. I dunno what they thought.
+We looked through the house, like he has told yuh—and that’s all.”
+
+“Ask him about that letter yuh found on Monk Clark,” suggested Sol
+Asher. “That shows why he might kill Monk.”
+
+Doctor Skeen produced the letter, but the judge waved it aside.
+
+“That case has nothing to do with the one at hand. Gregory admits that
+he had reasons for going out to kill Clark. It seems to me that the
+other crime, if it was a crime, was committed ten years ago.”
+
+The judge looked down at Gregory. They had been friends for several
+years, and the old judge was very human. He smiled at Joy and looked at
+the audience.
+
+“You must remember,” he said softly, “that we are not examining into any
+motive actuated by a crime supposed to have been committed ten years
+ago. We do not actually know that any crime had been committed by Henry
+Gregory at that time. As far as that letter is concerned, it has no
+place at this hearing, as long as Henry Gregory admits that he had what
+he considered good and sufficient reasons for wanting to kill Monk
+Clark.”
+
+“Clark was afraid of Gregory,” said Jim Searles.
+
+“Where was Curley Adams when this was goin’ on?” asked Ertle. “It seems
+to me—”
+
+“If you want to be examined as a witness, c’mon up and set in this
+chair,” said Skeeter quickly.
+
+“I only want to get at the bottom of this, Sheriff.”
+
+“You will.”
+
+“Do any of the jury wish to question the witness?” asked the doctor.
+
+“How long was you at the Box X ranch before yore daughter showed up?”
+asked old Mike Gower, who was one of the jurors.
+
+“Long enough to have killed Monk Clark,” replied Gregory.
+
+“By golly, that’s an honest answer,” said old Mike.
+
+“You shoot a .45?”—thus another juror.
+
+“I do.”
+
+“So do I.” Old Mike delivered this information and sank back in his
+seat. A ripple of laughter followed.
+
+Gregory was dismissed and Joy was called to the stand. Skeeter assisted
+her to the chair and stood beside her while she told her story. She did
+not conceal the fact that she had ridden from home, hoping to overtake
+her father and to try and prevent him from attempting to kill Monk
+Clark.
+
+“And when you found him, did you think he had killed him?” asked the
+judge.
+
+Joy nodded slowly.
+
+“Until I talked with him. Then I knew he was innocent.”
+
+“Did Monk Clark ever make love to you?” asked the doctor.
+
+Joy shook her head quickly.
+
+“He did not. Such a question is ridiculous.”
+
+The judge asked the jury if they desired to ask any questions, but none
+of them did; so Joy was dismissed and Curley was asked to take the
+stand. The crowd sat up straight when the Box X cowboy lifted his hand
+and was sworn.
+
+“Where were you when Monk Clark was found dead in the yard of the Box X
+ranch?” asked the judge.
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“You don’t know where you were?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+The crowd sat forward. This was more promising.
+
+“Have you and Monk Clark ever had trouble?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“You have heard that Monk Clark was blamed for misbranding a Lazy H
+yearling and running on your brand.”
+
+“I have heard it—yes.”
+
+“Did you meet Monk Clark after you had heard this?”
+
+“I don’t remember.”
+
+“You don’t remember. What kind of a revolver do you use?”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Curley still wore his gun. He drew it out and placed it on the judge’s
+desk. Skeeter and the doctor leaned forward to examine it.
+
+“A .45 Colt,” said the judge.
+
+“Mike, you better go home and get yours,” whispered one of the jurors
+loudly. “Kinda make it unanimous.”
+
+Skeeter knew that this was not Curley’s gun. It was an old one which
+Curley had substituted for his forty-one, and Skeeter recognized it as
+being a gun he had inherited with his office. It was evident to him that
+Curley believed Gregory guilty, and Curley was trying to throw the
+evidence against himself.
+
+“Since when did you start usin’ a forty-five?” asked Gregory.
+
+Curley did not reply.
+
+“Take a look at the shells in his belt,” suggested Ames.
+
+Curley was stumped. Skeeter slipped a cartridge from one of Curley’s
+belt loops and placed it on the judge’s desk. It was a forty-one.
+
+The judge squinted severely at Curley.
+
+“Have you any story to tell, Adams?”
+
+“None at all.” Curley shook his head.
+
+The judge nodded and Curley went back to the table. Gregory looked
+keenly at him, but Curley did not look in his direction.
+
+“It seems that this is our last witness,” observed the judge. “The jury
+will retire and try to arrive at a——”
+
+“Just a moment, judge,” said Skeeter. “I don’t reckon the evidence is
+all in yet.”
+
+Skeeter glanced at his watch, smiled softly, and looked back at the
+judge.
+
+“I am goin’ to ask Frank Moran to take the stand.”
+
+“I don’t know what good this will do,” protested Moran. “As far as I’m
+concerned, it doesn’t matter, but it looks as though it will merely take
+up valuable time.”
+
+“In just what way is Mr. Moran concerned?” asked the judge.
+
+“Not in any way,” said Moran. He wiped some perspiration from his chin
+and tried to appear indifferent. “I don’t see why valuable time should
+be wasted in examining me. I did not see any of this, your honor.”
+
+The judge turned and looked at Skeeter, wondering why the sheriff should
+insist on examining a man who knew nothing to testify.
+
+“If Mr. Moran will take the stand—please.” Skeeter smiled exasperatingly
+at Moran, who grunted half-angrily, but took the witness chair.
+
+“Why don’tcha call Calamity?” laughed a cowboy.
+
+“Calamity is busy, watchin’ the jail,” grinned Skeeter.
+
+Ertle started to get up, but sat down quickly. If Calamity was watching
+the jail—and Rugg was down there—Ertle swallowed thickly and kicked Van
+Cleve on the ankle.
+
+“Mr. Moran,” said Skeeter slowly, “is a Government detective. Am I
+right, Mr. Moran?”
+
+“Go ahead.” Moran tried to grin, when the crowd shifted and buzzed with
+whispers.
+
+This was something interesting to them—but not to Moran. He shifted
+uneasily and looked at Ertle, whose face was drawn in a scowl of
+apprehension. He wanted to know what was going on down at the jail. If
+Calamity was watching the jail, things might not be so good for Sam
+Rugg.
+
+And Moran was just as anxious as Ertle. Van Cleve’s mouth sagged half
+open as he clasped and unclasped his fingers, realizing that any old
+place would suit him better than that courtroom. Ertle shot a glance
+toward the doorway, as though estimating his chances to get out, but he
+caught a glimpse of Kaintuck Kennedy, and decided to stick it out.
+
+Skeeter turned to the jury.
+
+“Mr. Moran was sent here by the Government to investigate
+counterfeitin’. Maybe some of yuh don’t know it, but you’ve been
+spendin’ a lot of bad money lately. Moran came here to stop it.”
+
+Skeeter paused to let this information sink in thoroughly before he
+continued.
+
+“Mr. Moran has had quite a hard time around here. Monk Clark and Sam
+Ertle knew who he was. He had to let ’em know who he was. Then he came
+to get me to help him. That silver robbery was done by the
+counterfeiters, I think.
+
+“Somewhere between one and two months ago, a strange cowpuncher came to
+this town. I’m not sure, but I think he went to the Lazy H, lookin’ for
+a job. He didn’t get one. Then he came here and asked the Half-Moon
+bartender which way to the Tin Cup.
+
+“The bartender told him. This stranger rode away.” Skeeter looked around
+the room. “I wonder if any of yuh remember seein’ him.”
+
+“What did he look like?” asked Mike Gower.
+
+“I dunno. When I seen him he didn’t have no meat on his bones. Between
+here and the Box X he’s hangin’ in a tree, grinnin’ wide. I wonder what
+he sees that’s so funny.”
+
+The crowd was so silent that a single fly, buzzing on a window-pane,
+sounded painfully loud.
+
+Moran shifted uneasily, a scowl drew his brows down until his eyes were
+concealed, and his elbows lifted to rest on the arms of the chair.
+Skeeter turned his head and looked at Ertle, but the thin-faced
+cattleman refused to look at him. Some one cleared his throat raspingly,
+and Moran tensed noticeably.
+
+“I hung him up there,” said Skeeter sadly. “The coyotes and magpies had
+their feed. He’s got a wonderful grin. He’s laughin’ at somebody—who
+ain’t laughin’ back at him.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Only the uneasy scraping of feet followed this statement.
+
+“What bearing does this have on this inquest?” asked the judge softly,
+leaning forward in his chair.
+
+“Somethin’, Judge. This man was murdered—shot dead. And the queer part
+of it is—he was killed with a silver bullet.”
+
+“Silver bullet!” It was repeated twenty times, as the crowd leaned
+forward, questioning, until the judge rapped for order.
+
+“Why was he shot with a silver bullet?” asked the judge.
+
+Skeeter smiled softly and shook his head.
+
+“Judge, it was fate, I think. The man who fired that shot did not know
+he was shootin’ silver.”
+
+No one questioned Skeeter now. He took plenty of time as he scanned the
+crowd. The jurymen were sitting on the edge of their seats now, leaning
+across the rail in front of them.
+
+Skeeter smiled down at Curley, who was staring blankly at him. For the
+first time, he knew what had become of his silver bullet. Joy reached
+over and put her hand on Curley’s sleeve, as she smiled up at Skeeter.
+Gregory looked dumbly at Skeeter, hardly understanding just what was
+being said.
+
+But the crowd knew that something was coming off soon. They did not know
+just what it was going to be. The jury looked at each other and back at
+Skeeter, whose thin face was set in a determined cast. He knew that they
+were waiting—waiting for him to make his next play.
+
+But Skeeter was too clever a gambler to work fast now. He had made them
+listen to him—made them want more.
+
+“It was a forty-one bullet, made of silver,” said Skeeter, taking it
+from his pocket and holding it up. “It was made from a silver dollar. I
+know the man who made it. He shoots a forty-one six-gun.”
+
+Skeeter toyed with the bullet, while the crowd shifted anxiously. But
+Skeeter was in no hurry. He put the bullet in his pocket and glanced at
+his watch.
+
+“This counterfeitin’ is queer stuff,” he said. “The Silver Bell mine was
+a handy place for them to get material. They had to have a certain
+amount of silver, yuh know.”
+
+Skeeter hesitated and appeared thoughtful. Jim Searles leaned forward.
+
+“Keep talkin’,” he said. “Dog-gone it, tell us about it.”
+
+“All right, Jim. This stranger wasn’t wanted here, it seems. It looks to
+me as though somebody at the Lazy H saw this man. They recognized him,
+yuh understand. He went huntin’ for the Tin Cup, and this feller who
+recognized him, follered him. The stranger got on the Box X road by
+mistake.
+
+“The man who follered him from the Lazy H went to the Tin Cup and found
+that the stranger hadn’t got there yet; so he stole a sick man’s gun,
+went out and met the stranger—and shot him with that stolen gun.
+
+“The stolen gun held a ca’tridge, loaded with a silver bullet. The man
+who killed him thought that the coyotes and magpies would soon destroy
+that body—and they did—but there was the bones, the skull that’s still
+grinnin’—and the silver bullet.”
+
+“Who molded that bullet?” asked the judge.
+
+Skeeter smiled and pointed at Curley Adams.
+
+“He admits it, judge.”
+
+Curley nodded quickly. “I did.”
+
+“Who fired the shot?” demanded Jim Searles.
+
+Skeeter turned slowly and motioned to Kaintuck, who came up to him.
+Skeeter’s whisper was so soft that none heard what he said. Kaintuck’s
+lips shut tightly and he moved aside, his eyes on the crowd, which
+shifted uneasily.
+
+This was something they did not understand. They watched Kaintuck moving
+back toward the door, and they noticed that Kaintuck’s right hand was
+swinging near the butt of his gun, his lips shut tight, eyes flashing
+from one part of the crowd to another.
+
+Moran started to get to his feet, but sat back again, when Skeeter
+looked around at him. Except for the creaking of Kaintuck’s boots, the
+room was quiet. Skeeter drew out his watch and glanced at it. From force
+of habit the judge took out his watch and noted the time. There was an
+old clock on the wall, long since stopped from neglect, and several men
+squinted at it. A spur jingled, as its wearer shifted his feet. They
+were all waiting anxiously—for what?
+
+Somewhere down the street a revolver shot brought them all to attention.
+Two more followed in quick succession. Several of the men sprang to
+their feet, among them were Ertle and Searles.
+
+“What’s goin’ on down there?” demanded Ertle.
+
+Skeeter’s lips shut tightly and he threw up one hand.
+
+“Set down, boys! One thing at a time. I think it’s Calamity.”
+
+“But what in —— is he doin’?” demanded Ertle.
+
+Skeeter ignored the question.
+
+“The man who killed the stranger was the same man who misbranded that
+Lazy H yearlin’; the same man who went to the Box X, tryin’ to get the
+tools that he and his outfit had left under the fireplace where they had
+made bad money before Curley Adams bought the Box X.
+
+“Monk Clark follered him, wonderin’ what he was doin’. Yuh see, Monk had
+a hunch that this was the man who had branded that yearlin’, and he was
+curious to see what he was tryin’ to do. Monk was there at the porch
+when this man came out with his stuff. Monk Clark had the deadwood on
+him; so he killed Monk.”
+
+Skeeter stopped suddenly, lifting his head to listen. From half a mile
+away came the long-drawn wail of a locomotive whistle. The passenger
+train was coming in on time.
+
+“But who was the man who killed Monk Clark?” demanded the judge.
+
+He was nervous and his voice struck a falsetto note. Out in the audience
+a man laughed hoarsely.
+
+Skeeter did not reply just then. He had lifted his head and was
+listening closely. They could hear the dull roar of the train as it
+ground to a stop at the station.
+
+“Who killed Monk Clark?” repeated the judge.
+
+“The man who had to kill him to save his own hide,” said Skeeter. He
+laughed softly, joyfully. “I’ve got him, Judge!”
+
+Skeeter turned quickly to Frank Moran, while his hand dug deeply in his
+pocket. He drew out a yellow slip of paper, which he handed to Moran.
+
+“It came yesterday,” said Skeeter, as Moran took the telegram. “I plumb
+forgot it.”
+
+Moran’s eyes flashed across the words—
+
+    WILL ARRIVE CRESCENT CITY TOMORROW TO TAKE CHARGE OF
+    INVESTIGATION. (Signed) Long.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Moran did not look up, as he slowly folded the telegram. Then he
+half-lifted himself from his chair, as though to put the telegram in his
+pocket. Skeeter was watching him closely, and Skeeter’s hand was
+streaking for the butt of his holstered gun when the telegram fell from
+Moran’s hand, which suddenly jerked back to his holster.
+
+Moran was a gunman _par excellence_, and in spite of the fact that
+Skeeter was anticipating Moran’s move, Moran’s gun was out of the
+holster and coming to a level, when Skeeter fired.
+
+It was all done so quickly that many of those in the little courtroom
+did not see them draw their guns. Moran was knocked back in his chair,
+his right hand helpless, the gun falling between his knees.
+
+But he was game. As quick as a flash he grasped the gun in his left
+hand, falling from the chair, as he tried to pull the trigger. But
+Skeeter’s next bullet knocked all the fight out of him.
+
+The room was in an uproar. Men were milling around, trying to get
+outside. From near the door came the crashing report of Kaintuck’s gun,
+a yell of pain. And above the other noises came Kaintuck’s yell.
+
+“Stop Ertle! Don’t let him go to that winder!”
+
+Kaintuck’s gun crashed again and his bullet smashed the window over
+Ertle’s head, just as Ertle flung himself across the sill and dropped
+outside. The crowd had unwittingly interfered with Kaintuck’s aim, and
+as he tore his way through the crowd, a revolver shot sounded down in
+the street.
+
+Kaintuck ran to the window and leaned out. For a moment he stood there,
+turned and came back, with several men crowding him, questioning,
+sneezing from the powder smoke.
+
+Skeeter was backed against the judge’s desk, a serious grin on his lips,
+while those capable of speech demanded that he tell them what it was all
+about.
+
+Part of the crowd were at the door, but now they parted to let in Frisco
+Larkin and old Calamity, who had Larkin by the arm and was forcing him
+along at the point of a gun. They were both dusty and torn. Calamity was
+grinning, but his teeth were shut tightly.
+
+Calamity marched him straight down to Skeeter and sat him down in a
+chair. The noise subsided, when Calamity began talking.
+
+“I was in the office,” he told Skeeter. “Rugg smashed in the back
+door—and I let him smash. He came in and started to bust in Frisco’s
+cell door. Then I heard Frisco tell him, ‘My, I’m glad yuh came, Rugg!
+They’ve got the goods on us, I tell yuh. Just before the sheriff and his
+outfit pulled out of here a minute ago, I heard him tell ’em about
+findin’ my boot-heel mark in that trail where we stole the silver.’
+
+“Then Rugg says, ‘How much more do they know, Frisco?’
+
+“And Frisco says, ‘That’s enough to cinch me. Let’s git out of here,
+beat it to the Lazy H and grab up what money we can git. We’ve got time,
+if yuh don’t stand there with yore mouth open.’
+
+“Then Rugg smashed in Frisco’s cell door, and I stepped out. Rugg tried
+to draw his gun—and he’s still there.
+
+“Frisco and me had a race out through the back door. Mebbe I’d ’a’ had
+to kill him, too, but he fell over the busted door and I pistol-whipped
+him until he said he’d be good.”
+
+Calamity stopped, panting from the exertion.
+
+“And yuh got Ertle, too, didn’t yuh, Calamity?” asked Kaintuck.
+
+Calamity nodded quickly.
+
+“I per-sume I did. I seen him do his dive out of the winder, and I says
+to myself, ‘Whenever a man leaves a courtroom by an upper winder, he
+ain’t jist right morally,’ so I whopped one shot at him f’r luck—and it
+tuck.”
+
+Old Calamity panted wearily and wiped some blood from his lips. But he
+braced his feet and grinned widely at everybody. Frisco slumped weakly
+in the chair and tried to feel of his swollen head.
+
+“—— old wild-cat!” he blubbered. “Keep him away from me, will yuh?
+My ——, I know when I’ve got enough.”
+
+“I’m through with yuh,” panted Calamity. “I know when I’ve hammered ’em
+down to my size, y’betcha. Thought yuh could outrun the old man, eh?
+Better be —— glad I didn’t have to catch yuh with a hot hunk of lead.”
+
+Jim Searles shoved his way down to Skeeter.
+
+“I don’t _sabe_ it, Sheriff. Was this Moran a Government detective?”
+
+“Said he was, Jim. But I had a hunch he wasn’t. He was one of them slick
+crooks who said ‘yes’ once too often.”
+
+“Tell us about it. Ertle and Van Cleve and Frisco! What a —— of a mess!”
+
+“I got Van Cleve,” said Kaintuck. “He came at me, clawin’ for his gun,
+and I folded him up like a jack-knife. Skeeter told me to watch the two
+of ’em—him and Ertle.”
+
+A stranger had elbowed his way into the room, and was standing on his
+toes, looking around. He was a big man, his gray hair showing beneath
+the brim of his Stetson. Suddenly he caught sight of Skeeter.
+
+“Hello, Sarg!” he called.
+
+“Hello, Long!” yelled Skeeter. “C’mere and lemme shake yore hand. Give
+him room, boys. That’s Mr. Long, the United States marshal. Greetings,
+old timer.”
+
+They shook hands violently.
+
+“What in the world has been going on here?” demanded the officer. “It
+seems that I ran into a shooting match.”
+
+Skeeter pointed at Moran, who was lying on his back, his arms flung
+wide. The officer stooped and studied his features closely for several
+moments.
+
+“Didja ever see him before, Long?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“Yes, and I know who he is. His name is Moran, and he’s about the
+slickest counterfeiter you ever heard about. What in the world has he
+been doing up here in this country? Was he one of the—” Long hesitated.
+He did not want to say too much.
+
+“Yeah, he’s one of ’em,” said Skeeter. “In fact, he was the head of the
+gang. This one prisoner is all we saved out of the set. Didn’t you have
+a man workin’ on this case?”
+
+“I still have.”
+
+“No, you ain’t. This Moran killed him over a month ago.”
+
+“Killed him? Why I’ve got wires—”
+
+“From this feller. He impersonated yore man. Was yore man named Moran?”
+
+“Yes, that’s the name he was using. I think the other man’s real name
+was Moran, but he has had many aliases. My operative knew him, but I
+doubt if he knew he was in this country.”
+
+“Yore man probably told Ertle what his name was when he asked for a job
+on the Lazy H,” said Skeeter. “It sure gave the other Moran a fine
+chance to fill his shoes.”
+
+“That must have been it,” nodded Long. “But how in the world did you
+ever find all this out? What made you suspect a perfectly, or I might
+say, apparently good detective?”
+
+Skeeter smiled widely.
+
+“Did anybody ever call you ‘Shorty’?”
+
+“Not to my knowledge.”
+
+“Did you ever herd sheep down on Sundance Flats?”
+
+“I never herded sheep in my life, Sarg.”
+
+“There yuh are. I called yuh Shorty, and he called yuh Shorty. I asked
+him if he ever heard yuh tell about the time yuh herded sheep in the
+Sundance Flat country, and he said he hadn’t never heard you tell about
+it, but that one of the men in yore office started to tell him about it
+one day. That’s what I had to work on.
+
+“So I knew he was a liar. It simmered down to this Moran. I knew that
+some one at the Silver Bell had tipped ’em off about that shipment of
+silver, and Rugg looked like he might be the one.
+
+“I kinda figured out that Monk Clark was in on the gang, but when he got
+killed I thought he had run into some of the gang who were moving their
+stuff from the Box X. That left the Tin Cup out of it.
+
+“I had to find the feller who wore that certain kind of a boot-heel, and
+I accidentally found it when I knocked Frisco over a chair.” He turned
+to Frisco, who was holding his head in his hands, watched closely by
+Calamity.
+
+“How about it, Frisco? You might as well talk.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Frisco lifted his head wearily. “I dunno what in —— there is to talk
+about. It kinda looks to me like you knew it all. Moran branded that
+yearlin’. I found it out afterward. It was jist luck that Clark found
+it. Moran wanted to git even with Curley for that wallop he got.”
+
+“How long have you been with ’em?” asked Skeeter.
+
+“I dunno. Moran was a friend of Rugg. He came here to steal
+silver—high-grade. It was too slow. Moran knew how to make counterfeit.
+Rugg knew Ertle pretty well; so they got together and framed up this
+deal.
+
+“There was five of us in on the proposition, but only four of us held up
+the wagon and took the silver, ’cause Rugg had to stay at the mine. It
+was me an’ Van and Ertle and Moran who stuck up that wagon and took the
+silver. Rugg tipped us off. We had a —— of a time gettin’ the stuff out
+to the Lazy H. Moran was the one who held the three men from the Silver
+Bell while I drove the team away.
+
+“Moran had a horse tied down the hill, and he got down to where we were
+goin’ to unload before I did. Moran sure was a bad actor. He killed the
+detective and he killed Monk Clark. He was beginnin’ to get scared of
+you, and told Ertle he was goin’ to kill you the first break yuh made. I
+reckon that’s all.”
+
+“Yeah, I reckon that’s all,” nodded Skeeter.
+
+Gregory, Joy and Curley were grouped together listening to Frisco’s
+story, and Skeeter turned to them with a smile.
+
+“I reckon you folks can go home now.”
+
+Gregory shook his head sadly.
+
+“Have you forgotten about that other deal, Sheriff?”
+
+“Oh, that’s right,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully and turned to the
+Government officer.
+
+“Long, can yuh tell me who was sheriff of Badger County ten years ago?”
+
+Long smiled reminiscently.
+
+“I should think I could, Sarg. Ten years ago I was wearing the star of
+that county.”
+
+“I kinda thought yuh was. Yuh served two terms, didn’t yuh?”
+
+“Yes, I was elected twelve years ago last November.”
+
+“Of Badger County?” Gregory stared at him blankly.
+
+“Long, I want yuh to meet Mr. Gregory,” said Skeeter. “This lady is his
+daughter.”
+
+The three of them shook hands solemnly.
+
+“Yuh see,” said Skeeter slowly, “Mr. Gregory is supposed to have killed
+the sheriff of Badger about ten years ago. That was what Monk Clark told
+him.”
+
+“Is that so? Monk Clark? Why, I knew Monk Clark down in Badger County,
+Sarg. That’s right, he did move up here.”
+
+“He—he kept me in a cellar for almost two weeks,” faltered Gregory. “I
+was with two horse-thieves. I didn’t know they were horse-thieves.
+Your—the sheriff’s posse opened fire on us. I got away, and Monk Clark
+kept me under cover. He said I—I had killed the sheriff.”
+
+Long laughed softly and shook his head.
+
+“I guess he exaggerated it, Gregory. I remember the incident. We got the
+two men. They said you were innocent; so we didn’t bother about looking
+for you.”
+
+“For ——’s sake!” Gregory tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace.
+“Didn’t I see one of your men fall?”
+
+“None of them got hit,” said Long. “We got both—oh, yes, I do remember,
+Gregory. Jimmy Lewis’ horse stepped in a badger hole and laid Jimmy up
+with a busted rib,” Long laughed at the memory. “I don’t know why Clark
+ever told you such a thing, unless he wanted something on you; so he
+could use you later on. Clark was politically inclined, if I remember
+rightly.”
+
+The doctor was busy, and several men were assisting him in taking care
+of the casualties; so the courtroom gradually cleared.
+
+“We can’t thank you,” said Joy to Skeeter. “Sometimes there are things
+we can’t even begin to say.”
+
+“Tha’sall right,” smiled Skeeter. “You folks run along and don’t mind
+about thankin’ anybody. If yuh want to thank anybody—thank Calamity—he
+wasn’t bein’ paid to do the job.”
+
+“No,” said Calamity quickly, “I don’t want no thanks. This has shore
+been a holiday for me, but I’ll be —— if I’m goin’ to stand here all day
+and poke a gun into Frisco Larkin’s ribs. If I knowed he was goin’ to
+run, it’d be a different thing.”
+
+“I ain’t goin’ to run,” Frisco shook his head sadly. “Next time I’ll buy
+new boots.” He looked up at Skeeter. “It sure don’t pay to repair yore
+own heels—nor think a sheriff is a —— fool, just because he never was
+sheriff before.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“That’s right,” said Calamity quickly. “He reminds me of a sheriff I
+knowed in 1866—and in them days they shore had sheriffs that was
+sheriffs.”
+
+Which was probably the greatest compliment ever paid to any man in Moon
+River Valley—and the only one ever voiced by Calamity. Then he led the
+way back to the HG ranch, riding in the lead, his two guns hanging from
+the saddle-horn; while Skeeter Bill, Kaintuck and Long rode toward the
+Lazy H to confiscate the tools of a felonious trade.
+
+Or, as Kaintuck expressed it—
+
+“Give Uncle Sam a chance to use some of his money around here, eh? He
+sure lost trade in this country for a while.”
+
+“I was scared,” said Skeeter. “I thought that train wasn’t never goin’
+to come. I wasn’t sure of a darned thing except Frisco’s heel. I wanted
+to shock Moran just at the right time, dontcha see? If he made a break
+for his gun, I’d know my dope was right. Honest to gosh, it was seven
+hours from the time I handed him that telegram until he went for his
+gun.
+
+“If he had stood pat I was stuck. I played for the one thing—breakin’
+Moran’s nerve. He didn’t dare to meet yuh, Long. He was cornered.”
+
+“I’d say it was a clever bit of detective work,” said Long
+appreciatively.
+
+“Just lucky,” Skeeter smiled. “Lucky that I knew yore name wasn’t
+Shorty—and Moran didn’t.”
+
+“And yuh ought to give Skeeter ——,” said Kaintuck solemnly. “He said yuh
+used to herd sheep. He used yore name in vain.”
+
+“I think he used it to advantage,” laughed Long, and they rode down the
+long slope to the Lazy H, where no man lived—now. And over in a little
+swale near the Box X a skull grinned from the forks of a stunted tree,
+while four people rode along the dusty highway to the HG ranch; four
+people upon whom a great peace had descended. And for once in his life,
+Calamity was able to compare the present with the past—and not find any
+great fault.
+
+
+[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
+November 30, 1925. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
+United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78893 ***