Skeeter Bill comes to town
Skeeter Bill walked out and looked at his dummy. One bullet had hit the
hat, gone through the thin piece of fence post, mushroomed badly, and
blown a hole five inches across at the front of the old hat. Another
bullet had struck about a foot lower on the post, and had split it into
two pieces. The bullet-hole was a foot below the top of the collar. The
third bullet had missed.
“Mighty good shootin’ in that light,” said Skeeter Bill, his face grim.
“Either of those bullets would have blasted the life out of a man.”
Skeeter Bill took the coat, hat and overalls. He threw them on his
blankets before starting up the slope. He was careful, as he went up
through the brush. The killer might not be quite satisfied with his
own convictions, and come back to verify them. Bill worked his way
slowly, watching the ground. He had gone about a hundred yards when
he found where a boot-heel had cut into the dirt.
Then he found where a horse had been tied, and more boot-prints. It was
not difficult for Skeeter Bill to backtrack those high-heel tracks,
because the man had made no attempt to disguise his trail. Finally he
found the spot where the man had rested, waiting for daylight, and here
he discovered three empty brass hulls where the man’s rifle had flung
them. They were of thirty-thirty caliber and of a well-known brand.
Skeeter looked them over carefully and put them in his pocket.
Then he got down on his hands and knees, examining every inch of the
dirt around where the man had waited. He rolled and smoked a cigarette
before going back to his blankets, which he rolled up, with the
bullet-marked clothes, and went to his horse.
Breakfast was almost ready at the ranchhouse as Skeeter dismounted and
carried his bundle up to the house. Fuzzy greeted him at the door.
Skeeter Bill merely unrolled the bundle, handed the hat to Fuzzy for
examination, and held up the coat for him to look through. Fuzzy
squinted at Skeeter, his jaw sagging a little.
“I made up a dummy,” said Skeeter, “and that’s what they done to it.
Three shots--two of ’em dead-center.”
Aunt Emma and the two cowboys came in to look at the remains, and they
all stood around, solemn-faced.
Fuzzy said, “That kind of ruins my appetite for breakfast, Skeet.”
“Dead-center--twice!” breathed Len Riggs. “How far, Skeet?”
“At least a hundred yards--and in awful bad light, too.”
“Breakfast is ready,” said Aunt Emma soberly.
There was little conversation at breakfast. For once in her life, Aunt
Emma had no suggestions. This was a serious business. When they had
finished Skeeter and Fuzzy stood outside together.
Fuzzy said, “Skeet, you must have been lookin’ for somethin’ like this,
or yuh wouldn’t have made up that dummy.”
Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Just a hunch, Fuzzy--a hunch that worked
out.”
“I’m still fightin’ my hat,” said Fuzzy. “Yuh mean to say that they
want water so bad that they’re willin’ to murder to keep that spring
unfenced?”
Skeeter shook his head slowly. “I don’t, Fuzzy. This deal goes back
a couple years, I believe. Somebody don’t want Skeeter Bill Sarg in
circulation.”
“Hu-u-uh? You mean--they’re gunnin’ for you Skeet?”
“They knew I was watchin’ that water-hole, Fuzzy, and they believed I
was dumb enough to set on that post-pile. My hunch is that the water
ain’t got a thing to do with it.”
Fuzzy Davis’ eyes held a strained, nervous expression, as he tried to
get the situation straight in his own mind. It was difficult to puzzle
out anyone’s reasons for wanting to kill Skeeter Bill. Finally he said:
“I don’t sabe the deal, Skeet. You ain’t had no trouble with anybody
around here. Shucks, you jist got here.”
“Take a look at that old hat,” said Skeeter soberly, “and don’t forget
they thought my head was inside it.”
* * * * *
Skeeter Bill wanted to go to town, so Fuzzy went with him. They tied
their horses to the rail in front of the general store where Skeeter
wanted to buy more tobacco. Emory Van Ness, the old merchant, shook
hands warmly with Skeeter Bill, and sold him the tobacco.
“I heard you was in town, Skeeter,” he said. “Going to stay with us for
a while, I hope.”
“Yuh can’t never tell about me,” replied Skeeter Bill. “I’m a
tumble-weed, Emory.”
Skeeter’s eyes swept over the supply of rifle and revolver ammunition on
a shelf behind him, but did not see the brand of rifle cartridges he had
found at the water-hole.
“Do yuh need some shells?” asked Fuzzy.
“I’ve got plenty for my six-shooter,” replied Skeeter. “Have you got a
thirty-thirty, Fuzzy?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one, but the firin’-pin is busted. Been layin’-off to
get it fixed, but there ain’t no gunsmith around here.”
Skeeter mentioned the brand of the shells he had found at the
water-hole, but Van Ness shook his head slowly.
“We ain’t had none of them for a couple months. Got some ordered. Sam
Keenan bought the last box I had. Them others are the same thing. In
fact, I have more calls for them.”
They left the store, and Skeeter Bill drifted down to the New York
Chop House to say hello to Margie Edwards but she was not in evidence.
Another woman was waiting on the tables.
Shorty Hale, the owner, came out from the kitchen, his face just a bit
sheepish. Skeeter Bill asked about Margie.
Shorty said, “She quit the job last night.”
“Yea-a-ah? Did she get a better job, Shorty?”
“She--she didn’t say. Just left.”
Skeeter went down to the little house and found Mrs. Edwards laboring
over a wash-tub.
“Shorty told me you’d quit the restaurant, Margie,” Skeeter said.
“Shorty must be getting polite,” she said. “He fired me.”
Skeeter looked sharply at her. “What for, Margie?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t have any trouble. Everything was going along
all right but when my shift was finished, he told me that I didn’t need
to come back.” She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I don’t
know what I am going to do now.”
Skeeter Bill turned abruptly and left the house, his long legs taking
long strides, as he went back to the restaurant. Shorty came out to
the counter and found Skeeter Bill waiting for him. The expression on
Skeeter’s face was not pleasant, as he said quietly:
“Why did yuh lie to me, Shorty Hale? She didn’t quit.”
Shorty swallowed painfully, but tried to bluster.
“After all--well, she--”
“Go ahead, Shorty. What did she do--or say?”
“Nothin’,” admitted Shorty miserably. “Listen, Skeeter--this is between
me and you--I don’t own this place--I work here. The owner said to get
rid of her and I had to do it. Honest I did.”
“Who owns it, Shorty?”
Shorty Hale shook his head. “I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. If I did, I’d
lose my job. I’m supposed to own the place. Don’t tell anybody that I
don’t. I jist had to tell you.”
“Sam Keenan?” asked Skeeter quietly. Shorty blinked rapidly.
“I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. It’s my job.”
“Shorty, I want an honest answer; does Sam Keenan try to hang around
Margie Edwards?”
“I--I hear he does,” whispered Shorty. “I don’t reckon it’s any secret.
He kinda liked her--before Hooty got sent up. It ain’t none of my
business, but I heard that he asked her to get a divorce and marry him
only a week ago--and she refused. She’s kind of foolish. Sam could give
her everythin’ and take care of them two kids.”
“Much obliged, Shorty. I won’t mention it.”
“I--I hope yuh don’t. I need this job, Skeeter.”
Fuzzy Davis was waiting for Skeeter Bill in front of the general store.
Skeeter said, “Fuzzy, let’s ride out to the Tumblin’ K and see Sam
Keenan. We can cut across the hills from there.”
* * * * *
Grumpily, Fuzzy said it was all right with him, but wondered why
Skeeter wanted to go to the Tumbling K. In fact, he was trying hard
to understand this tall, long-legged cowpuncher, who had always been
more or less of an enigma. On the way out Skeeter said:
“Fuzzy, did you ever know that Sam Keenan was tryin’ to shine around
Margie Edwards?”
“Well--uh--oh, I’ve heard he was. Never paid no attention, myself. Why?”
“I just wondered,” replied Skeeter Bill.
Sam Keenan’s place was a regular bachelor ranchhouse, with very few
refining touches. There was a long, rickety porch. A man was sitting
on the steps, working over a gun. He was “Arizona” Ashley, who had
been Keenan’s cook for years, a thin, wiry old-timer. He shook hands
violently with Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy, and invited them to sit in
the shade.
Ashley said, “Sam went to Silver Springs yesterday afternoon and the
boys are all workin’. Sam’ll prob’ly be back late this afternoon. How
have yuh been, Skeeter?”
“Just fine, Arizona. Yuh’re lookin’ well.”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
“What are yuh doin’--gettin’ ready for a war?” asked Fuzzy.
Arizona grinned. “No, I hope I ain’t, Fuzzy. The boys are allus kickin’
about the way this gun shoots, so I thought I’d tinker it a little. Just
gettin’ ready to try it out. See that tin can on top of the mesquite out
there, Skeet? See if you can hit it.”
Skeeter took the rifle, cuddled the butt against his shoulder, and
carefully squeezed the trigger. The tin can jumped into the air and
disappeared. Skeeter Bill levered out the empty shell, and handed the
gun to Arizona, who said:
“See anythin’ wrong with that gun, Skeet?”
“It shoots where yuh hold it, Arizona.”
“That’s what I allus tell the boys--it ain’t the gun, it’s you.”
“Skeet always could shoot the eye out of a gnat,” said Fuzzy.
“And never lift its eyebrow,” added Arizona soberly. “It’s jist a gift,
that’s all. Some folks never can learn. Are yuh stayin’ at Fuzzy’s
place, Skeet?”
“Yeah, for a few days. I’m sort of a drifter, Arizona.”
“I know yuh are, and I’m sorry, Skeet. It don’t pay. I used to want to
keep movin’, but I finally got smart, and I says to me:
“‘Arizony, yuh’re gettin’ old. A rollin’ stone gathers no moss. You get
a good, steady job and stick with it.’ And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve
been here eighteen years, and look what I’ve got.”
“What have yuh got?” asked Skeeter Bill.
“A steady job and I only owe three dollars and six bits. Yuh never can
tell how I’d be fixed if I kept on driftin’.”
“Yuh’ve made a lot of sacrifices to git where yuh are, too,” remarked
Fuzzy. “I ’member when yuh didn’t have anythin’.”
“That’s before I got smart, Fuzzy.”
V
Declining to wait and eat supper at the Tumbling K, Skeeter Bill and
Fuzzy cut across the hills to the Bar D. Aunt Emma was a little worried.
She said, “After what happened this mornin’, I’d naturally worry.”
“Nobody wants to hurt Fuzzy,” said Skeeter Bill.
“They shot up a dummy, didn’t they?”
“I resent that, Emmy,” protested Fuzzy. “Mebbe the heat has affected
yore good manners. Set down and fan yourself.”
“I think I will,” she smiled. “I’ve got the mulligan simmering on the
stove, and the biscuits ready to shoot into the oven. That old stove is
hotter than what sinners have facing them. Any news in Yellow Butte?”
“We didn’t find any,” sighed Fuzzy, fanning himself with his hat.
“At least, I didn’t--I dunno about Skeet. I seen him come from the
New York Chop House, walkin’ like the devil was proddin’ him. He was
gone a few minutes, and came back faster’n that. Into the Chop House
he goes, stays a minute or two, and comes out.”
“Keepin’ cases on me, eh?” Skeeter Bill. “I’d like to ask yuh a
question, Fuzzy; did you ever hear that Sam Keenan owns the New York
Chop House?”
“Sam Keenan? No, I never did, Skeet. Where’d yuh get that idea?”
“Things kind of come to me,” replied Skeeter Bill.
“How is Margie Edwards?” asked Aunt Emma.
“She got fired,” replied Skeeter Bill. “Shorty told me she quit, and she
said she was fired. So I put it up to Shorty and he said that he didn’t