Skeeter Bill comes to town

Skeeter Bill Comes to Town A novelet by W. C. Tuttle This salty seven-footer heads for Yellow Butte to celebrate a kid’s birthday--and does some plumb fast shooting on the way! I William Harrison Sarg, known as “Skeeter Bill,” leaned against the bar of the only saloon in Temple Rock, and considered the fly-specked back-bar. Skeeter was at least seven feet tall, in his high-heels and sombrero. He had wide shoulders, which tapered sharply to a wasp-like waist and a long pair of skinny legs, encased in tight-fitting, faded overalls. He wore a colorless shirt, a wispy, red handkerchief around his long neck, the ends held tight with a blue poker-chip. Around his thin waist was a home-made, form-fitting gun-belt, and his holstered Colt .45 hung low along his thigh. Skeeter Bill was not handsome. His face was long, thin, with high cheek bones, and a gash-like mouth, and eyes that were just a little green tinted. He was not handsome, but he looked efficient. A fat bartender, one damp lock of hair plastered down over one eyebrow, looked questioningly at the tall cowpoke. Skeeter shook his head. “If it was ice-cold I’d take more,” he said quietly, “but I jist cain’t go more’n three bottles of luke-warm pop.” “Yuh’re the only pop-drinker I’ve met,” said the bartender. “Yuh won’t never git happy on that stuff.” “No,” agreed Skeeter, “nor unhappy, either, my friend. How are things these days in Road-Runner Valley?” “Oh, all right,” replied the bartender. “You’ve been there?” “Not for a couple of years. Been down in the Panhandle, where I didn’t hear much news of this country. You been down there lately?” “Couple months ago. I worked there for a year, tendin’ bar in the Seven-Up at Yellow Butte.” “Yea-ah? I used to know Buck Hadley. He still own it?” “Not now. It belongs to Slim Lacey.” “Slim Lacey?” Skeeter stared at the bartender. “Yuh say that Slim Lacey owns the Seven-Up?” “Well, he did a month ago, I know.” Skeeter shoved his hat back and scratched his forehead. He seemed a little astonished. He said: “Well, mebbe it’s all right. You’d prob’ly know Hooty Edwards.” “No, I didn’t, but I’ve heard of him. He left there before I went to Yellow Butte.” Skeeter cuffed his hat sideways on his head, leaned his elbows on the bar and scowled at the fat bartender. “You mean that Hooty Edwards ain’t down there no more?” he asked incredulously. The bartender shook his head. “Didn’t you know about him?” “Know what about him?” asked Skeeter quickly. “That he went to the pen for twenty years.” * * * * * Skeeter’s head and shoulders sagged momentarily, and he blinked in amazement. “You ain’t jokin’--I hope you are, Mister,” he said huskily. “I wouldn’t joke on a thing like that. He’s been gone quite a while, they told me. He wrecked the bank in Yellow Butte. Never did have another one.” “I’m a sea-serpent’s sister!” whispered Skeeter. “Tell me what yuh know about it, will yuh?” The bartender told him that “Hooty” Edwards had forced the banker and his wife from their home to the bank. There he had compelled the banker to open the vault. Then he tied them both up and took his own time in looting the vault. It was close to morning, and the sheriff, coming from an all-night poker game, looked into the bank window and saw moonlight shining through the open doorway at the rear of the room. He ran around to the rear of the building, just as the robber was riding away. They exchanged shots, and the sheriff said he scored a hit, but the man got away. Later in the day they found Hooty Edwards sprawled beside a trail near his own ranchhouse, his white horse tangled up in the brush near him. The bandit had ridden a white horse. Edwards still had the black mask around his neck. The doctor said he had been shot and would have eventually bled to death, if they hadn’t found him. Skeeter listened to the whole tale, his face a mask of his feelings. “Yuh see,” remarked the bartender, “he wasn’t able to prove no alibi. His wife said he left home after supper, comin’ to Yellow Butte. Hooty said he didn’t know what happened. He had a few drinks in Yellow Butte, but everythin’ is a blank after that, except that he remembers gettin’ on his horse. They gave him twenty years--but they didn’t get the money back. They say he cached it, but he swore he didn’t remember what he done.” “He was married,” said Skeeter slowly, “and had two kids.” “Yeah, I’ve seen ’em; a boy and a girl.” “The boy,” said Skeeter huskily, “is named William S. Edwards. They named him after me, Bill Sarg. He’ll be twelve years of age in a few days, and I was aimin’ to help him celebrate his birthday. Came all the way from Texas to do that. Yuh see, he’s the only kid that ever was named after me.” “That’s hard luck, Sarg. So you’re Skeeter Bill Sarg. I’ve heard of you. They say you can drop a dollar with yore right hand from yore hip, draw yore gun and hit the dollar before it hits the ground.” “I have,” nodded Skeeter soberly, “and I’m also shy the little toe on my right foot. They used to say that I had more brains in my right hand than I have in my head, too. Mebbe it’s ’cause I use it more. I wonder what Mrs. Edwards is doin’ to support her family.” “Worked in a restaurant, when I was there, slingin’ hash. She’s a pretty woman, I’ll say that.” “She’s awful nice, too,” said Skeeter. “I wouldn’t like to hear anybody say she ain’t. And that kid was named after me, too. Well, I reckon I’ll be movin’ on. See yuh later.” “Are you goin’ down to see the kid, Sarg?” Skeeter nodded. “After all,” he replied, “no matter what happened, he’ll have his twelfth birthday in a few days.” “Tell him hello for me,” said the bartender. “Jist say that Fatty, the bartender, said Happy Birthday.” “We both appreciate that,” said Skeeter, smiling faintly. “I’ll tell him.” A pall of dust hung over the town of Yellow Butte as Skeeter Bill rode in. They were loading cattle at the big corrals down at the railroad tracks. Yellow Butte was the shipping point for all of Road-Runner Valley. There was nothing beautiful about Yellow Butte, with its crooked, narrow streets, sandblasted signs and false-fronted buildings. * * * * * Lazily Skeeter Bill dismounted and tied his horse at a hitchrack which was mercifully in the shade of the Seven-Up Saloon. On the other side of the street Skeeter could see the faded and scarred gold lettering on a large window, BANK OF YELLOW BUTTE. It was used now as a store-room for the general merchandise store. Skeeter Bill was familiar with all of Yellow Butte, even those places of business whose signs had long since faded out. He went into the Seven-Up Saloon. It was quite a large establishment, with gambling layouts along one side, and a long bar on the other. It smelled of stale beer and spilled liquor, but it was cool in there. Several men were at the long bar, and Skeeter recognized them at a glance--Sam Keenan, owner of the Tumbling K, Al Creedon, the big sheriff, Muddy Poole, his deputy and Slim Lacey who the bartender at Temple Rock had said was the new owner of the Seven-Up Saloon. Muddy Poole was the first to recognize Skeeter Bill in the subdued light of the room, and he emitted a yip of delight. “If it ain’t Old Skeet!” he exclaimed. “Welcome back among us!” “Hyah, Muddy,” grinned Skeeter Bill. “Gents, howdy.” They all shook hands with Skeeter, but not all were as enthusiastic as Muddy Poole, who said: “Where on earth did you drop from, Skeet?” “Oh, I just drifted in, Muddy. Thought I’d see what the old place looked like again. How’s everybody?” “Finer’n frawg-hair--mostly.” Skeeter looked curiously at Slim Lacey. When Skeeter Bill left Yellow Butte, Slim Lacey was a down-at-the-heel swamper in a little saloon at the other end of town, and without a decent shirt to his back, but now he was wearing white silk shirts, broadcloth pants and patent-leather shoes. Slim’s smile was always sickly, and it hadn’t changed much. Skeeter Bill said, “How yuh comin’, Slim?” “Fine, Skeet. Yuh’re lookin’ good. Glad to see yuh back. Have a drink?” “You never knowed Skeet to take a drink,” reminded Muddy. “Thank yuh,” smiled Skeeter Bill. “You’ve got a memory, Muddy.” “It ain’t hard to remember them what don’t drink, Skeet.” “Well, I’ve got to go back to the corral,” said Keenan, placing his glass on the bar. “We’re shippin’ today, Skeet.” “Yeah, I saw the dust in the air, Sam. How’s the market?” “Just fair. It’s always down when I’ve got stuff to ship.” Muddy Poole walked outside with Skeeter Bill. Muddy knew of the friendship between Skeeter Bill and Hooty Edwards. “Do yuh know about Hooty?” asked the deputy quietly. Skeeter Bill nodded. “I saw Fatty, the bartender, in Temple Rock, and he told me about Hooty. First I’d heard, Muddy. It shore hurt to hear a thing like that, don’tcha know it?” “Hurt me, too,” said Muddy. “Hooty was fine. Margie is workin’ down in the New York Chop House, doin’ her best to keep the kids goin’. We’ve tried to help her, Skeet, but she’s proud.” “Yeah, I bet she is. Whatever became of the Circle E, after they sent Hooty away?” “Well, the law took it over for the bank. Yuh see, the bank was busted flat, and so was most folks around here. Yuh never can sell a thing like that for what it’s worth. In fact, nobody was in shape to buy it, but Sam Keenan finally bought it for about two-bits on the dollar.” Skeeter Bill nodded slowly. “I can understand that, Muddy. But how come Slim Lacey owns the Seven-Up? When I left here he didn’t have a cent.” “Well, it does sound kind of funny, but it jist goes to prove that yuh never can tell which way a dill-pickle will squirt. Buck Hadley wanted to sell out and go back East, and Slim got himself a idea. He was tendin’ bar for Buck at the time. So Slim borrowed money to pay down on the place, and paid it off so much a month. Maybe it ain’t all paid off yet, but he’s doin’ all right. Slim shore turned over a new leaf.” “I’m glad to see him gettin’ ahead,” said Skeeter Bill. “Well, I’ll be headin’ for some food, I reckon, Muddy. See yuh later.” Margie Edwards dropped a tray of dishes flat on the floor, and stood there, staring at Skeeter Bill, ignoring the broken glass and crockery. Only a few people were in the little restaurant at the time. The crash was terrific, bringing the cook-proprietor, Shorty Hale, from the kitchen on the run. He blurted: “My gawsh, can’t yuh even--” and then he stopped, staring up at Skeeter Bill. “Howdy, Shorty,” said Skeeter calmly. “Well--huh--howdy! Skeeter Bill Sarg!” “I’m sorry,” said the woman quietly. “It--it slipped.” “That’s all right,” assured Shorty. “I’ll get a broom.” Margie Edwards looked at Skeeter and down at the mess on the floor. She said, “I’ll be off shift in about ten minutes, Skeeter.” “Sorry I scared yuh,” he smiled slowly. “You didn’t. You shocked me, Skeeter.” Shorty came back with a broom and a dust-pan. Skeeter said, “Shorty, I’d like to have about six eggs, sunny side up, and a lot of coffee. The pie can wait until I’m through.” “Comin’ right up,” grinned Shorty. “My, my, you ain’t changed a bit, Skeeter. Six eggs and coffee--and the pie awaits. Set down with him, Miz Edwards, I’ll do the waitin’ this time.” II Less than an hour later, Skeeter sat with Mrs. Edwards on the porch of their little house, which was only an unpainted shack, discussing the misfortunes of the Edwards family. Margie Edwards was still a pretty woman, in spite of her hard work, trying to keep her family together.