THE SPARK OF SKEETER BILL

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Law Rustlers,” “Wise Men and a Mule,” etc.

“Skeeter Bill” Sarg stopped at the door of his tar-paper and lath shack and looked back at the street. Skeeter was cranelike in his proportions, his long legs were slightly bowed and his skinny hands hung well below his thighs. He was one of those solemn-looking individuals whose faces appear on the verge of either laughter or tears.

Just now he seemed undetermined. He rubbed a skinny hand across his chin, spoke softly to himself and went into the house. It was a small shack. A broken mirror hung crookedly from the wall, a broken-top table was littered with dirty dishes. On a bunk, built into a corner of the room, sat a man of undeterminate age. His face was frowsy with gray stubble, his gray hair straggling down over his ears and turning up from his collar at the back of his neck.

The man was of powerful frame, but whisky and the lack of ambition had turned him into a gross, greasy figure, bellied and jowled like a hog. In his hands he held a worn volume. Across the bridge of his nose rested a pair of steel-bowed spectacles, one of the lenses missing.

Skeeter shut the door carefully and sat down on a broken chair. The fat man looked at Skeeter, squinting one eye shut and looking through the empty circle of steel.

“What cheer, Skeeter?” The fat man’s voice was well modulated, although husky from continual libations.

Skeeter shifted his cartridge-belt to bring the holstered gun across his lap. He rolled a cigaret slowly and thoughtfully before he replied.

“I killed Jeff Billings a while ago, judge.”

“Ah!”

Judge Tareyton closed his book softly and removed his glasses. He polished the lenses with a once-clean handkerchief, unmindful of the fact that one lens was missing. He replaced them, polished to his satisfaction, astride his nose.

“Killed Jeff Billings, eh? A pity and still a blessing, Skeeter Bill. It has been brought to my notice that Billings was very instantaneous with a gun. My congratulations.”

“It was an even break,” said Skeeter slowly.

“Brought about, no doubt, by what was done last night.”

“He lied,” said Skeeter simply.

“Yes,” nodded the judge. “Yes, he would do that. I fear that Mr. Billings was a dishonest horse-thief. Mr. Leeds will be very much annoyed, Skeeter Bill.”

Skeeter nodded and reached for his tobacco. Came a tap on the door. Skeeter dropped his hand to his lap and turned to face the door.

“Come in,” called the judge.

The door opened, disclosing a scar-faced cowboy with one empty eye-socket. He squinted at Skeeter for a moment and then:

“Leeds wants to see yuh, Sarg. He’s in his room now.”

“All right, Mears,” said Skeeter, getting slowly to his feet. “I’ll go with yuh.”

No one seemed to know why the town was called Sunbeam. It was located on the summit of Cholo Pass, on the old trail to Ophir. A year before there had been nothing but a log-cabin; but gold had been found in the gulches—gold in abundance. Like magic had sprung the town—a town of false-fronted saloons, gambling-houses, honkatonks.

The old pack-trail became a deep rutted road, over which toiled freighters, gold-seekers and the riffraff which infest a place where money comes easy.

Men sang and fought as men always sing and fight, where riches come without the mark of the mint. Twenty miles away was the cow-country, sans cowpunchers, for the chaps-clad sons of the range were rubbing elbows with prospectors in a frenzied search for gold.

But the song of gold reached beyond, and caravans of treasure-hunters, like the Argonauts of old, headed for the fabled land of Sunbeam. New ground was opened every day and men who had never earned better than a dollar a day now bought chips at a hundred dollars a throw and laughed derisively when it was swept away.

Into this country came the “Sticky-Rope” gang, a crew of cattle-rustlers who had lately transferred their affections to “lifting” horses and gold shipments. “Tug” Leeds controlled this gang, planning the coups, disposing of the stolen stock.

Skeeter Bill Sarg joined this gang. Skeeter’s reputation had preceded him, and Leeds was glad to add him to the crew. Leeds had planned to steal the cleanup from the Solomon Mine, which turned out as planned, except that “Kid” Sisler and “Blondy” Jones, two of the gang, had been killed. Skeeter got no split of the gold, but narrowly escaped being killed when two shots were fired at him in the dark.

A hue and cry had been raised over the robbery. The Solomon men swore that it amounted to twenty thousand dollars, but Jeff Billings, Leeds’ right-hand man, swore that the sacks only contained black sand. The Sticky-Ropes had been hoaxed. Skeeter did not believe this; he believed that Leeds and Billings had double-crossed him after trying to kill him.

Skeeter and Billy Mears crossed the street and went into the Panhandle Saloon, the headquarters of Tug Leeds. Men looked at Skeeter, but made no remarks. The whole town knew that Skeeter had killed Jeff Billings in a fair draw, and Billings was reputed to be as swift and deadly as a rattler.

Mears stopped at the bar, but Skeeter went through the crowd and up to the door of a rear room, where he knocked once and stepped inside.

The room was evidently part office, part bedroom. In the center was a heavy table. The walls were covered with sporting pictures, cut from a well-known yellow weekly. In one corner stood a rumpled bed, with clothing hanging to the foot-posts.

Sitting at the table was a big, black-bearded man. His hard, pig-like eyes were barely visible through the surrounding puffiness at the bottom and the heavy thatched brows above. His nose flared at the nostrils, hinting of negro blood, and his thick lips appeared swollen and cracked.

As Skeeter came in, Leeds got to his feet, disclosing the fact that his trousers were too small around the waist, and one would expect momentarily to hear the snap of a defeated button or the ripping of overwrought woolen.

Leeds glanced down at the Colt pistol on the table top and then at Skeeter, who was watching narrowly. To Sarg, Tug Leeds was merely a fat animal. He wondered why men obeyed Leeds—feared him. Sarg did not fear Leeds. In fact, Skeeter Bill Sarg feared no man. Leeds did not know this, for to him, Sarg was merely a rebellious hired-man. Leeds removed a half-chewed cigar from his lips.

“You shot Jeff Billings?”

Skeeter nodded indifferently.

“Why?” Leeds spat the question, as he leaned across the table, shoving his set jaw close to Skeeter’s face. But Skeeter merely smiled and replied softly—

“Billings lied.”

“Lied?” gasped Leeds.

It was preposterous. Leeds gawped around the room, as if asking the inanimate sporting celebrities to make note of such a foolish reason. His eyes came back to Skeeter.

“You killed him because he lied?”

“Uh-huh,” indifferently.

Leeds chewed viciously on his cigar, studying the lanky cowpuncher.

“What did he lie about, Sarg?”

“You ought to know,” meaningly. “You told him what to say, Leeds.”

Leeds’ face flushed purple and his hand twitched toward the gun on the table, but stopped. Skeeter was watching that hand, a half-smile on his lips.

“Go ahead,” grinned Skeeter. “Yo’re old enough to know what yuh want to do with yo’re own skin.”

Leeds tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat and he coughed hoarsely.

“I told Jeff to lie to you? Why should I want him to lie to you, Sarg?”

“To save yuh money. Billings packed that Solomon clean-up to yuh, while me and Blondy and the Kid blocked them miners. I hefted that sack m’self, Leeds. Them miners never killed Blondy and the Kid, and it wasn’t no miner what shot at me on Little Boy Trail. Billings said there wasn’t nothin’ but black sand in them sacks.”

Leeds licked his lips and shook his head.

“Them miners must ’a’ got Blondy and the Kid, Sarg. I never hired nobody to shoot at you.”

“You ain’t spoke about the clean-up,” reminded Skeeter.

Leeds shook his head.

“No, I ain’t. You’ve made up your mind that we lied to you, and you’re bull-headed about it. Them miners foxed us, don’t yuh know it?”

Skeeter Bill smiled and shook his head. He knew that Leeds was lying. No doubt Leeds had all of that cleanup and intended keeping it.

“Look here,” said Leeds. “Billings is gone and I need a man to take his place. Let’s me and you talk turkey.”

Skeeter shook his head.

“Nope. If I took Billings’ place I’d have to lie, and I won’t lie to nobody. Sabe?”

Leeds removed his cigar and stared open-mouthed.

“Well, my ——, what if you do have to lie? Is lying any worse than stealin’ horses or stickin’ up a stage or a bank?”

“There ain’t nothin’ worse’n lyin’,” stated Skeeter seriously. “Robbin’ banks or stages or liftin’ broncs is just a kind of a livin’, but lyin’—yuh can’t trust nobody what tells lies, Leeds.”

“You’d be a good man for the job,” insisted Leeds.

“No-o-o,” drawled Skeeter. “I won’t lie for you nor anybody else. I don’t need to split with you nor any other horse-thief. I work alone after this. I was fool enough to work for you, and I got lied to and robbed.”

Skeeter stepped in closer and leaned across the desk.

“You’re a dirty, lyin’ coyote, Leeds! You and your pack of sidewinders can go to ——! I work alone; sabe?”

“Work alone, will yuh?” Leeds snarled like an animal. “No, yuh don’t, Sarg! Sunbeam belongs to me, and what I says goes. You get that —— drunken lawyer pardner of yours and vamoose. I’ll give yuh——” Leeds seemed to choke with wrath—“I’ll give yuh five hours to git out of range.”

Sarg laughed. In fact he grew convulsed with mirth, while Leeds panted and spluttered. It was too much. Leeds flung himself on to the table, clawing for the gun, but Skeeter’s open palm caught him on the ear and shoved him off his balance so that he crashed to the floor.

Came a knock at the door, and a man entered. He stopped and looked at the tableau, inquiringly. Leeds got slowly to his feet, his face very white, and faced the man. The man nodded to Skeeter, then turned to Leeds.

“Palo just come in, Leeds. He said there’s a four-wagon outfit due to hit Poplar Springs tonight. Four on each wagon and a couple of extras. Palo says they’s only enough men to handle the teams.”

Leeds nodded, seemingly unable to speak. The man sensed the enmity between Leeds and Skeeter, but continued—

“Palo says the stock looks good.”

Leeds nodded again and spoke.

“Send the boys to me as fast as they come in. Billings died this afternoon.”

“Died? How—killed?”

“Lied himself to death,” drawled Skeeter.

The man stared at Skeeter and then at Leeds.

“I’ll tell the boys to come here,” he said nervously, and went out the door.

“The boys liked Billings,” offered Leeds.

“A hawg acts just like it cared for swill,” observed Skeeter, “but yuh can’t blame the hawg, can yuh? Hawgs will foller the swill-bucket to —— and back, but it ain’t ’cause they loves the man who is packin’ it. You’ve got a lot of hawgs workin’ for yuh, Leeds, but yore head swill-packer is missin’. They ain’t got brains enough to dig deeper than the slop from yore table.”

“Will you take Billings’ place?”

“No!”

“By ——, you’ll wish you had!” roared Leeds.

Skeeter stopped with his back against the door, his thumb hooked over his belt.

“Leeds, do you know anythin’ about God? Anythin’ except to use His name when yuh need a cuss-word?”

“No!” snapped Leeds. “I suppose you do.”

“Yo’re supposin’ wrong, Leeds. ’Pears to me that I’d have to know a feller pretty well to use his name thataway. Kinda sounds too much like yuh was usin’ another man’s name to revile somebody with. Adios.”

Sarg softly closed the door behind him and went back through the saloon. Men looked curiously at him, but he gave them no heed. He knew all of Leeds’ gang, knew that none of them would shoot him in the back until ordered to do so. It was plain that Leeds had figured it would take five hours to get his men together, and Skeeter knew that Leeds would never allow him to work alone in the Sunbeam country.

Sunbeam had little attraction for Skeeter Bill, but he greatly disliked having any one man govern his actions. Skeeter walked between two buildings and headed for his own shack. Leeds had ordered him to take his partner with him—his drunken lawyer partner. Skeeter smiled grimly. If he went away it was a certainty that Judge Tareyton would go with him.

A year or so prior to this time, in a Southwest town, Skeeter had been arrested for robbing a stage. Knowing that the evidence was all against him, he refused counsel. The court offered a legal adviser, but Skeeter refused. Since his arrest he had talked to no one regarding his innocence or guilt.

In that tiny court-room Skeeter bowed his head to the inevitable as the prosecution flayed him alive. Then from the center of the room arose “Judge” Tareyton, a half-drunk, frowsy looking man. In courteous, legal phrases he asked the court to let him defend Skeeter Bill.

Skeeter made no comment. The prosecution, confident in its might, acquiesced. Then, without questioning the defendant, this half-drunk person plunged into the case, harrying witnesses, tearing down the prosecution, while the audience left their chairs that they might not miss a point. It took an intelligent jury five minutes to bring in a verdict of “Not guilty.”

Skeeter, dazed from the trial, met his lawyer on the street and asked him to have a drink. Judge Tareyton, just a little more intoxicated, drew up in dignity and replied—

“Sir, I never drink with a road-agent.”

Skeeter took the rebuke in silence, while the judge became even more dignified and walked on. Skeeter did not feel hurt, because Skeeter had been born with, and had developed, a certain degree of humor.

On the following morning, in an attempted stage robbery, the bandit was shot and killed. He fitted the description of the robber whose crime had been fitted to Skeeter.

Judge Tareyton found Skeeter and in flowery language expressed his desire to retract his former words. He fairly abased himself, while Skeeter, his eyes dancing, accepted the apology. The judge concluded:

“Sir, I have apologized from my heart for what I have said and thought. It is with extreme pleasure that I accept your invitation of yesterday.”

“Think I wasn’t guilty?” asked Skeeter.

“By gad, sir, I know you were not!”

“You’re crazy as ——,” grinned Skeeter. “I was.”

For a moment the judge stared blankly at Skeeter. His left hand rubbed slowly at his stubbly chin. Finally his right hand extended, and Skeeter took it.

“A gentleman,” said the judge softly. “A gentleman, by gad, sir! You may be guilty of everything in the criminal code, but your veracity brands you as a gentleman. I still accept your invitation—proudly, sir.”

Skeeter drank water, which amazed the judge and almost insulted the town. The prosecutor, still stinging from Judge Tareyton’s defense, and being somewhat of a fire-eater, decided that the town was too small to hold himself and the judge. The prosecutor had a number of friends, whom he enlisted in his behalf.

Skeeter, being cold-sober, managed to drag the judge from the center of a bloody brawl, loaded him on the night stage, which was by no means ready to depart, and sat behind the driver, forcing him to gallop his team out of town. Judge Tareyton, the lone passenger, bounced from side to side in the swaying vehicle, trying to stanch the blood from a knife-wound and to drink from a corked bottle at the same time.

The next morning at a stage-station, the judge, very painfully and indignantly, asked Skeeter what in —— he meant by interfering with his affairs.

“Gittin’ even with yuh,” explained Skeeter. “You ain’t worth much to me, but I reckon your life is worth quite a bit to you. You saved mine, yuh know.”

“A debatable point, son,” said the judge. “My life is worth nothing to any one except myself, and I’ve grave doubts about my own valuation of it. Have you ever considered life?”

“No.”

“You are a very, very wise man, my son.”

“Wise?” laughed Skeeter. “Me? If I’m wise, what are you?”

“I?” The judge rubbed his chin for a moment. “I am an educated —— fool.”

“Well,” said Skeeter seriously, “a feller has got to be wise to admit bein’ a —— fool, I reckon.”

“Wisdom is not what you learn,” stated the judge, “but what you remember. I remember that we took that stage by force of arms. Knowing this and forgetting it is idiocy.”

“I reckon we’ll move on,” nodded Skeeter. “I’m wise enough to know that a sheriff is on my trail, and you ain’t goin’ to be of any use to me when we’re handcuffed together.”

Time and the tide of events drifted them into Sunbeam. Perhaps the judge was a little frowsier, more prone to elastic morals and a bit heavier drinker, but Skeeter stuck to him.

Men tried to get Skeeter to cut loose from the drunken old lawyer, who talked in a language which none of them understood, but Skeeter shook his head and kept the judge in liquor and provender. The judge was the first human being to do Skeeter a favor, and Skeeter explained:

“He’s a educated —— fool, the judge is. Says so himself, don’t he? Them kinda folks has got to have somebody lookin’ after ’em. No, sir, I’ve got to hang on to him, y’ betcha. He’s got to have whisky or die. Every time I buy hooch for him it’s like bandagin’ up a cut to keep a feller from bleedin’ to death. Sure, it’ll kill him after while, but I ain’t noways responsible for a feller bleedin’ to death internally, am I?”

Just now, Skeeter was wondering where the judge figured in this five-hour order. He stopped for a moment at the shack door before going inside. The judge was propped up on the bed, reading. Beside the bed, on a box, was a tumbler of liquor.

The judge reached for the liquor and waited for Skeeter to speak, but Skeeter sat down and stared at the wall.

“What did Leeds have to say, Skeeter Bill?” asked the judge hoarsely.

Skeeter smiled.

“Gave me and you five hours to git out of Sunbeam.”

“Five hours,” mused the judge, peering at his glass. “Three hundred minutes. Long enough to depose an emperor or to go broke playing penny-ante. What then, son?”

Skeeter studied the old judge’s face. There was no denying the fact that the judge had imbibed much liquor in the last few hours, but there was no suggestion of it in his eyes nor tongue.

“I dunno, judge,” replied Skeeter slowly.

“Just why does Mr. Leeds desire our departure, Skeeter Bill?”

“Because I refused to stay with him and his gang. From now on I work alone. What I take I take alone, judge. I’m plumb tired of bein’ one of a gang which lies and beats me out of my share. Pretty soon I’d learn to lie, too.”

The judge got uncertainly to his feet and weaved over to a crude cupboard, where he secured a demijohn. He shook the jug and smiled softly as he turned.

“Skeeter Bill, I reckon you done right. Shakespeare said:

“Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

The judge drank deeply and staggered back to the bunk, still carrying the jug.

“Do you know Shakespeare, Skeeter Bill?”

“Don’t reckon I ever met him, judge.”

The judge smiled kindly and shook his head.

“No, I don’t think you ever did, Skeeter Bill. He died a long time ago, but he still lives. After all it is not always what we do in life, but what we leave, that counts. I leave nothing—I think. Perhaps some day some one will say:

“‘Remember old Judge Tareyton? Wasn’t he an old drunken pup?’”

“Quit talkin’ thataway!” snapped Skeeter.

“Ah, but it is true, and the truth hurts no man. I am not expecting the end for quite some time, Skeeter Bill. No, not until I have examined the bottom of many a jug of hard liquor. I have one enemy and one friend.”

“Me and the jug?” asked Skeeter.

“Beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

“Rank pizen and a horse-thief, judge.”

“An enemy of strength and a friend of action. Who could wish for more?”

The judge blinked his eyes slowly and relaxed on the blankets. Skeeter watched him for a few minutes and then spread a blanket across his body.

“You’re a —— old fool, judge,” said Skeeter softly, tucking in the blanket. “You’re killin’ yourself by the gallon, but you’re goin’ to die happy.”

Skeeter walked outside and went to the small barn where he kept his horse. A tall, rangy bay horse nuzzled him as he saddled it swiftly and led it outside. Far in the west a bank of thunder-heads was piling up and fitful gusts of wind presaged a coming storm.

Skeeter studied the storm for a few moments. He looked over at the shack, debating whether he should go and tell the judge what he was going to do, but shook his head. He swung into the saddle and patted the bay’s neck.

“Bronc, we ain’t runnin’ away,” he explained. “We’re likely goin’ to get wet, but if we’re goin’ to buck Leeds’ outfit we’ll start in by beatin’ him to them horses at Poplar Springs. Leeds owes us, and we’re goin’ to collect.”

He turned and rode past his shack, headed for the desert.

The cowboy had told Leeds of this caravan, which was due to stop at Poplar Springs that night. Here was a chance to steal sixteen horses—a good haul, as horses were in demand. But the monetary consideration was not of as much interest to Skeeter as was the chance to get even with Leeds. Skeeter had little foresight in such matters. He made no plans as to the disposition of the animals. He knew that the caravan would be guarded and that he would be bucking big odds, but Skeeter only knew that he had a definite object in view, and that was to keep Leeds’ gang from stealing those horses.

II

A few stunted poplars and cottonwoods, showing green against the desert gray, were all that marked the Poplar Springs. A deeply rutted road wended its way between Joshua Palms, commonly known as “Dancin’ Jaspers,” yucca and sage.

Far to the west stretched the Thunder Mountains, black and sinister. To the east loomed the Ophir range, beyond the desert hills. To the south there was nothing but open desert.

Up this winding road came a string of four covered wagons, four horses hitched to each wagon, creaking through the desert sand. The wind billowed the canvas covers until they appeared as small balloons, threatening to break from their moorings.

The lead team swung out of the rut and headed for the green trees. The rest of the wagons followed, swinging in a circle, until the lead team almost nosed the end-gate of the rear wagon. Teams were quickly unhitched and unharnessed. Ropes were strung from wagon to wagon, making an effectual horse corral. Fires were built and preparations were made for the evening meal. All of the men, with one exception, were strangers in the country, but most of them looked capable.

Rance Williams, a tall, gaunt, desert man, was driving the lead team, and now was inspecting the rope and wagon corral and ordering the distribution of horse-feed.

A small, white-haired man, timid of manner, came up to him and Rance Williams turned from tying a rope.

“Howdy, parson. How yuh standin’ the trip?”

“As well as could be expected,” replied the small man. “It is unpleasant at times, but a messenger of God must not complain of discomforts, Mr. Williams.”

Williams looked down at him and smiled.

“Yore packin’ a message to folks what won’t sabe it, old-timer. Sunbeam ain’t receptive to yore kind of cheerfulness.”

A girl came from between the wagons near them and stood looking off across the desert. She was a tired-looking girl with a tangle of brown hair, which she brushed nervously away as the wind flung it into her eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” said Williams kindly.

“Good evening, Mr. Williams,” she replied, turning toward them. “You also, Dr. Weston. Will we ever get out of this eternal desert?”

“Tomorrow, miss. Sunbeam is about twelve miles away, but it’s a long twelve miles. I reckon the men what measured it used a rubber tape.”

The girl smiled and went on toward the fires. The two men watched her go away and Williams turned to the minister.

“Too danged bad she’s goin’ to Sunbeam. I tried to argy her out of it, but she won’t listen to me.”

“I shall look out for her,” replied the minister.

Williams looked at the rolling storm clouds for a moment and then back at the frail-looking man beside him.

“Lemme tell yuh somethin’, old-timer; you ain’t never been in Sunbeam. You’ve done all yore sky-pilotin’ in a place where a policeman would arrest yuh if yuh yelped after nine o’clock at night. Sunbeam’s raw—raw as ——. Know what I mean? If one moral thought weighed a ton, yuh wouldn’t find enough in this country to fill a .22 ca’tridge with. Yuh mean right, parson, but Gawd help yuh both if yuh get off on the wrong foot.”

The Reverend Josiah Weston shifted his feet uneasily. He did not understand this rough, kindly man at all. What could be the danger in Sunbeam, and what did he mean by “getting off on the wrong foot?”

“What is this danger, Mr. Williams?”

“She’s a dead open-and-shut that Sunbeam don’t hanker fer gospel, but they do admire a pretty face. Bein’ hated is just about as dangerous as bein’ desired. I reckon I better anchor some of this outfit before the storm hits us. Kinda looks like she was goin’ to come a-whoopin’.”

Williams turned, ducked under a rope and disappeared. Dr. Weston walked slowly back to the camp-fires. He was an old man—old in the service of the church, possessor of a snug berth, but had given it up to carry the gospel into the dim places. This was his first pilgrimage, and his old body ached from the desert days. The country and people all seemed unreal.

He missed the respect of a silk-hatted congregation.

Men called him “Old-Timer” and cursed openly before him, without shame. When he explained his mission to Sunbeam, they laughed and advised him to get a pick and shovel and let the devil alone. One man had sent a message by him, a verbal message. It was very confidential. He asked the minister to give his love to the Honkatonk girls. The minister agreed to carry the message, and worried for fear he would forget the family name—Honkatonk. No doubt they were foreigners.

Dr. Weston walked slowly up to one of the fires, where a man was busily slicing bacon. A swirl of sand blew into the man’s face and he got to his feet, cursing profanely. Dr. Weston started to remonstrate with him over his language, but just at this moment six mounted men rode around the circle of wagons and pulled up near the fires.

They were a rough-looking crew, with rifles across their saddle-forks. Their restive horses sent the dust and sand flying as they milled around. Some of the men came from another fire, looking inquiringly at the riders.

A whirl of sand seemed to blot out the group for an instant, but above the hiss of it came Rance Williams’ voice—

“Look out, men!”

The man beside Dr. Weston dropped his slab of bacon and jerked his pistol, but one of the riders swung his rifle forward, fired, and the man plunged forward to the ground. From behind a wagon came the whang! of a rifle, and the rider slid sidewise off his horse.

With a yell the five riders plunged forward. One of the horses struck the minister, knocking him under a wagon, where he fell, unconscious. Bullets whined above the roar of the wind. One of the riders swung down and cut a connecting rope between wagons, and with a yelp of triumph the men rode into the enclosure, cutting loose and stampeding the horses.

Out of the dust cloud loomed a rider, swinging a rope-end at a frightened horse. From the billowing top of a wagon came the snap of a gun, and the rider went down, clutching at the air. Two more men seemed to ride over him, straight for the wagon, emptying their guns into the swelling canvas as they whirled past. A riderless horse crashed into a wagon and went down.

Suddenly the storm broke in its fury, blotting out the world. A tiny light seemed to glow for an instant, as some of the campfire blew into a canvas wagon-cover. Suddenly it broke into a huge flame, as the gale caught it, and the snapping canvas seemed fairly to explode, stripping the bows like a flash and whirling away like a meteor.

A sheet of rain seemed to hurl itself at the desert, as if dashed angrily from a giant pot—a crashing downpour, a deluge. Came a blinding flash of lightning, a deafening crash of thunder—silence. The storm was over.

In a dripping wagon, the top of which had been burned away, crouching against the front end of the box, was the brown-haired girl, terrified beyond words. Under that wagon crouched Dr. Weston, groping blindly for an answer to the questions which seethed in his brain. He knew that he was alive, but the world seemed a vast, dripping void.

Just outside the wagon wheels lay Rance Williams, his old, seamed face toward the sky, a pistol clutched in his right hand. The gun was cocked, one chamber still loaded. He had done his best, but the odds were in favor of Leeds.

III

Skeeter Bill read the storm signs and knew that the open desert would be no place to face it; so when the whirl of wind, sand and rain arrived, he was safely ensconced in a sheltered spot. The deluge of rain cascaded past him, swishing angrily from the protecting cliff.

He had no idea that Leeds’ men had visited the Poplar Springs camp. Skeeter had barely left the Panhandle Saloon, when five of the men had ridden into town. Mears, the one-eyed outlaw, sent them to Leeds, and the six of them had ridden out just ahead of Skeeter.

Leeds had also issued an order against Skeeter Bill and Judge Tareyton, but the outlaws thought more of gain than of settling Leeds’ personal quarrels; so they proceeded to relegate the Skeeter Bill business to some future date.

Skeeter Bill watched the storm volley down across the desert and then rode away from the cliff and back to the road. The deep ruts were gone—wiped out by the whirling sands, and nothing was left of the road to mark the highway to Sunbeam.

Velvet blackness followed the storm, but the clouds soon broke and a pale, early moon shed a ghostly light over the desert. The Dancin’ Jaspers, the gargoyles of the desert, weird in the blue haze, danced their ghostly measures, beckoning with their gnarled, agonized-like branches, throwing out long shadows, which advanced and retreated, giving one the illusion that the moon also danced.

But Skeeter Bill paid no attention to the illusions of nature as he rode steadily toward the Poplar Springs.

He planned nothing in advance, trusting to circumstances and swift action to complete his business. Perhaps he could worm his way to the horses, cut them loose and stampede them into the open, where he could round them up and drive them miles away to a little pole corral.

Perhaps the wagon-train would be well guarded and drive him away, but Skeeter knew that, in case he was defeated in his purpose, it would put the train on its guard, which would also prevent Leeds’ men from surprising them.

Skeeter had made up his mind that in case he was discovered he would merely retreat. He had no desire to take the horses by force. He was a dead shot, but knew that one man, no matter how deadly with a gun, was no match for half a dozen men, who were on their guard.

Then Skeeter saw the wagons. There was no flicker of camp-fires, but Skeeter attributed this to the storm. Perhaps, he thought, they had made supper before the storm came. He secured his horse to a mesquite and went on cautiously on foot. He found the rope link between two of the wagons, and cut it. He listened closely, but could hear no voices.

“That’s danged queer,” he muttered aloud as he peered across the enclosure, trying to see the horses.

He walked cautiously across to the other side and halted near a wagon, the cover of which was missing. Suddenly he turned his head and glanced down at the ground. A beam of moonlight struck across the body of Rance Williams, lighting up his face and glinting from the pistol in his hand. Skeeter Bill stared at him. He knew Rance.

A sudden noise caused him to whirl around and his heart skipped a beat. Within a foot of his face was the face of a girl, peering at him from over the edge of the wagon-box. The girl’s face showed white in the moonlight, a white face with wide, frightened eyes, surrounded with a mass of wind-blown brown hair.

For several moments they stared at each other. The girl’s hand came up and pushed back her hair, and the action seemed to bring Skeeter Bill from his trance.

“Excuse me all to ——, ma’am,” he muttered inanely.

“Wh-what happened?” she whispered.

Skeeter Bill’s gaze traveled around, taking in the body of Rance Williams. From under the wagon came a half-suppressed groan and the figure of Dr. Weston crawled out into the moonlight. He got painfully to his feet and leaned against the wagon. Skeeter Bill watched him for a moment and turned to the girl.

“When things git through happenin’, mebbe I can answer your question, miss.”

The old minister slowly drew a hand across his forehead and looked at Skeeter.

“I—I do not exactly understand,” he murmured.

“Is that you, Dr. Weston?” asked the girl.

“I think—I—I am almost positive that I am,” replied the old minister haltingly.

He moved painfully up to Skeeter and stared at him.

“I do not think I know you, sir.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on me, pardner,” said Skeeter. “Do yuh know just what happened?”

“No.” Dr. Weston shook his head. “I remember that some riders came. A shot or two was fired, I think, but something seemed to strike me and I—I think that was all.”

“I was in this wagon,” said the girl wearily. “I think I came to get something, and the men began shooting. Then the storm—it was terrible.”

Skeeter Bill walked across the enclosure and looked down at the crumpled figure of a man. It was Mears, the one-eyed outlaw. Near him lay the body of a saddled horse. Skeeter turned and went back to the wagon.

“How many folks in your party?” he asked.

“Six of us,” said the girl. “There were four drivers, Dr. Weston and myself.”

She climbed down from the wagon. Her clothes were drenched and the moonlight shone on her wet hair. Skeeter watched her go to the old man and take him by the arm.

“Your daddy must ’a’ got bumped,” observed Skeeter. “Better fix a place and let him lay down.”

He helped her lead the old man back to where the fires had been, where they let him sit down on a wagon-seat, while Skeeter rebuilt the fire. Just beyond the fire lay another man. Skeeter picked him up and carried him inside the enclosure, where he placed him beside Mears. It was Jack Brent, a young outlaw.

The girl was sitting beside the old man, moodily staring into the fire, when Skeeter returned. He asked where he could find food and cooked supper in a short time. Dr. Weston’s appetite had suffered considerable shock, and the girl, still dazed from the events, did not touch the food. After a long period of silence she turned to Skeeter.

“Do you know a man named Leeds?”

Skeeter slopped a cup of hot coffee on his knees, staring at her, open-mouthed.

“Leeds?” he asked wonderingly.

“Yes. A man in Pickett told me that he had heard some one from Sunbeam speak of a man named Leeds.”

“Leeds,” mused Skeeter aloud, recovering his composure. “Ma’am, I ain’t so awful well acquainted in Sunbeam.”

Skeeter refilled his cup and stared into the fire, his brow wrinkled as if in deep thought.

“Know him when yuh see him, ma’am?”

The girl shook her head.

“I do not think so. It has been fourteen years since I saw him, and I was only four years of age. I have been trying for a long time to find him.”

“What did he ever do to you?” asked Skeeter.

The girl smiled.

“Nothing, except to be my father.”

This time the cup of coffee missed Skeeter’s knees and fell hissing into the fire.

“For ——’s sake,” gasped Skeeter wide-eyed, and then quickly recovered and added, “That’s the second cup I’ve spilled. ‘Paw-Paw’ Jim says that coffee’s bad for nerves.”

He raised the cup from the coals and wiped it on his sleeve. Dr. Weston rubbed his left shoulder and spoke to the girl.

“I am feeling much better, my dear. I seemed dazed for a while, but that has left me. You were speaking of your father, were you not—I pray we shall find him for you. It is luck for us that the Good Samaritan came along, otherwise I am afraid we would suffer in our ignorance.”

“Good Samaritan?” said Skeeter Bill. “Meanin’ what?”

“You are a Samaritan, my friend,” said the old man.

“Me?” Skeeter looked blankly at him, “I’ve been called a lot of names, old pardner, but that’s plumb fresh. What does she mean?”

“You have never heard the story of the Good Samaritan, my son?”

“Never heard of none,” admitted Skeeter.

The old minister quoted the entire parable, while Skeeter sat on his heels beside the fire, listening. At the conclusion of the tale he said:

“What do yuh reckon that there Samaritan feller was doin’ along that trail? Was he—uh—say, what do yuh reckon would ’a’ happened if that wounded hombre had been all right when he met him. Yuh got to remember that this feller didn’t have nothin’ left for this here Samaritan to steal; so, mebbe—I dunno.”

“I do not understand your question,” said the minister.

“Tha’s all right,” grinned Skeeter. “I do.”

Skeeter got to his feet and procured a pick and a shovel from one of the wagons.

“Got to dig quite a hole, I reckon,” he stated. “I ain’t never buried ’em in bunches before.”

The girl shuddered. It was a ghastly business. The old minister protested. It was wrong to do this. There should be the usual formalities to be observed, notification of the relatives, death certificates. Skeeter listened to their combined views on the subject.

“Yuh never took the buzzards into your figurin’. Mebbe that’s the way they handles things like this back in your country, but you’re here—not there, folks. Kinda wish we had a sky-pilot, though. Don’t seem right to be plantin’ folks without a preacher—not a lot of folks to oncet.”

“I am a minister,” said Dr. Weston simply.

“——” grunted Skeeter Bill, “I thought you was a medicine-man. She called yuh doctor, yuh know. ’Pears to me that them snake-hunters all died at the right place. Ain’t often that a horse-thief dies handy to a preacher. I’ll do the diggin’ and you do the preachin’, and we’ll give ’em a proper start. I’ll kinda look around and see how many I can collect, while you figures out what yuh can say about ’em. I dunno your outfit, except Williams. He’s worth sayin’ a few words about, but if you can say anythin’ good about Mears or Brent it’s ’cause yuh never knowed ’em.”

Skeeter Bill toiled as he never toiled before. It was a man-sized job and Skeeter Bill was no horny-handed toiler, but the work must be done. Mary Leeds surprised him by coming to the open grave and standing with bowed head, while the old minister read the burial service.

It was a queer funeral service. The large open grave, with its row of bodies; the old white-haired minister, bowed over his book, while Mary Leeds knelt on the sands near him. Across the grave from them stood Skeeter Bill, a tall, gaunt figure, leaning on a shovel-handle. A tall Dancin’ Jasper, shaped like a leaning cross, cast its long shadow across the pile of sand, while others seemed to dance a requiem to the souls of desert men.

Mary Leeds and the old minister turned away toward the wagons, while Skeeter Bill filled in the grave, whistling softly through his teeth. Then he tossed the shovel aside and sat down to smoke and think of Tug Leeds’ daughter. It was almost unthinkable, that this girl could be the daughter of Tug Leeds, outlaw leader, murderer. Skeeter knew that Tug Leeds was a man without any morals. He handled only crooked gamblers to run his games, and his honkatonk girls were of the most vicious breeds. No, there were no redeeming features about the man. And this was his daughter.

Skeeter Bill laughed to himself, wondering what Tug would think when his daughter appeared in Sunbeam. Should he tell her who her father was? Skeeter thought it over, but decided to let her find out for herself. The old preacher—what of him?

Then Skeeter remembered that his five hours were long past. Sunbeam would be a dangerous spot for him now. Leeds had beat him to the horses, and now, if he went back to Sunbeam he would have to fight. Would he go back?

Skeeter stopped the rolling of a cigaret and stared at the ground. Hadn’t Leeds said that Sunbeam belonged to him? Yes, perhaps Leeds did control the town. Then Skeeter Bill crumpled the cigaret paper between his fingers, threw up his head and laughed, laughed foolishly, but joyously.

“Dance, you crooked Jaspers!” he chuckled at the Joshua palms. “Shake yourselves! I’m goin’ to make Sunbeam dance, too.”

He walked swiftly back to the campfire, where Mary Leeds and the old minister were sitting. In the old man’s hands was a Bible, and his soft voice came droning—

“‘And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also.’”

He stopped as Skeeter Bill came up. Skeeter humped over by the fire and began rolling another cigaret.

“Do yuh believe that, parson?” asked Skeeter.

“I do believe it, my son. It is the right way.”

“But do yuh foller them teachin’s, parson? If somebody stole your pants, would yuh yelp for him to come back and take your coat, too?”

“I—I have never—uh—had my pants stolen.”

“Wait till yuh do,” smiled Skeeter Bill. “No, yuh wouldn’t do it, parson, and if yuh did yuh’d be loco as a shepherd. Rustlin’ and robbin’ wouldn’t be no occupation a-tall, if them was the conditions, ’cause everybody would be takin’ your pants—and I’m thinkin’ you’d be kinda pant-huntin’ yourself.”

Mary Leeds laughed. It was ridiculous to think of the Reverend Josiah Weston stealing any one’s clothes, but there was crude wisdom in Skeeter Bill’s argument. The old minister smiled at Skeeter Bill, and finally they all laughed.

“I have been warned that Sunbeam may be hostile to me,” said the old minister, “but I am going to Sunbeam and open a church.”

“You’re —— right you are,” agreed Skeeter warmly if profanely. “I’m backin’ your play plumb across the board. Me and you are goin’ to peddle gospel in Sunbeam as long as you can talk and I can shoot. Them coyotes are goin’ to church; sabe? Sunbeam is headed for ——, and she’s up to us to crack in ahead of the stampede and turn ’em back, parson. There’s a lot of ring-tails in that cavvy, but me and you are goin’ to run ’em till the kinks come out.”

Mary Leeds and the Rev. Josiah Weston stared at him. They were unable to decipher all of his meaning, but there was no doubt of his enthusiasm.

“My son,” said the old minister, “I am glad to hear you promise assistance to the cause. Have you ever been converted to any faith?”

“No,” said Skeeter Bill slowly. “No, I don’t reckon I have, parson, but I’m goin’ to get more fun out of this than yuh could shake a stick at. Whoo-ee! If yuh get a bell, will yuh let me ring it?”

Skeeter Bill laughed and got to his feet.

“I reckon you folks can find dry beddin’ in one of the wagons, can’t yuh? Go to sleep and don’t be scared, cause nobody is goin’ to bother yuh tonight.”

Skeeter turned and walked back to where he had tied his horse, and led the animal back to the fire. He took off the saddle and bridle and tied the animal to a wagon-wheel. From one of the wagons came Mary Leeds’ voice—

“Good-night, tall man.”

“Skeeter Bill,” he called back at her laughingly.

“Good-night, my son,” came the call from another wagon.

“Snore easy, parson,” he replied.

IV

Tug Leeds was as sore as a wounded grizzly. He got up from his desk and glared at the three men who had come to report of the affair at Poplar Springs. One of the men had his left arm in a dirty sling and was white-faced from suffering.

“Kid Brent was killed first,” said one of the men. “We didn’t look for any fight, Tug. Somebody yelped ‘Look out!’ and one of them campers went for a gun. I seen Mears fall off his horse, and then me and Monte smoked up the wagon where the shot comes from. About that time the storm hits us.”

“—— of a fine job!” growled Tug Leeds. “Lose two of my best men, lose their horses and all we gets is eight half-worn-out workhorses.”

“We done the best we could,” stated the wounded outlaw. “It was blowin’ and as dark as pitch, and yuh couldn’t hear yourself yell. I reckon we was lucky to get as many horses as we did.”

“Billings would ’a’ got the whole works,” said Tug. “Mears didn’t have no brains.”

“What was this stuff about Skeeter Bill?” asked the wounded outlaw.

“All through!” snapped Tug. “I gave him five hours to git out, and I reckon he went. If he shows up in Sunbeam, shoot him.”

“Sounds all right,” grinned the wounded one painfully. “Shootin’ Skeeter Bill ain’t no cinch. He’s dangerous, Tug. When he stands sideways there ain’t nothin’ to shoot at.”

“By ——, I won’t stand for him livin’ here!” snapped Tug venomously.

“Me and you is two different kind of caterpillars,” smiled the wounded outlaw. “Skeeter Bill ain’t never done nothin’ to me.”

“I’m runnin’ this town!” roared Tug.

“Then run Skeeter Bill,” retorted the wounded man, turning to the door, “I’m goin’ to git my arm fixed up.”

He shut the door behind him and almost ran into a man who was just coming in. The man growled and went inside. He went straight to Leeds. This newcomer was a lanky, pasty-faced type, and his breath came jerkily as he blurted:

“Tug, I just heard somethin’ yuh might like to hear. Some of the miners had a meetin’ tonight and they’re goin’ to form a vigilance committee to stop——”

“Hold on!” snapped Tug. “Git your breath, Cullop. Now, talk slow and don’t git excited.”

“Up at the Keystone,” explained Cullop, “I heard ’em talkin’, Tug. Said they was goin’ to band together and lynch everybody what they suspected of robbin’ miners. There was about a dozen of ’em. I heard ’em mention Skeeter Bill.”

Tug Leeds laughed raspingly.

“That’s good. By ——, I’ll furnish the rope if they want to hang him. Cullop, you keep your ears and eyes open. Allen, you and Benson go to bed and keep your mouths shut. These miners will have a fine chance of findin’ out anything. If Skeeter Bill shows up, let me know right away. Cullop, yuh better go to Skeeter’s shack in the mornin’ and see if that —— drunken lawyer went away, too.”

The three men went out. Tug Leeds sat down at his desk and lit a fresh cigar. As far as the miners were concerned he felt no anxiety, but he was afraid that the effect of the vigilance committee might discourage his men. He could ill afford to have anything moral happen to Sunbeam.

He deliberated what he would do to “Sandy” McClain, the wounded outlaw, for insubordination. Sandy was temperamental, inclined to rebel, and Tug could not afford to have a discordant note in his organization. Either Billings or Mears could have disposed of Sandy, but both of them were gone. Tug left the dirty work to his assistants, not being a gunman himself. Tug could shoot, but not face to face with a man. He was an organizer—not an operative. He had at least a dozen men left, but not one of them could he trust as he trusted Billings and Mears.

“—— Skeeter Bill!” grunted Tug aloud.

He spat out his frayed cigar and prepared for bed. It had been a most unprofitable day for Tug Leeds, and Tug hated any day that did not show a balance on the right side of his ledger.

V

Skeeter Bill slept little that night. One of the outlaw’s saddlehorses drifted into the camp and Skeeter Bill caught it. The horse had belonged to Mears. Somehow, Skeeter Bill was indignant at Leeds for sending his men on this mission. He felt that Mears and Brent had received their just deserts for robbing the wagon-train, and for some reason he did not feel this way because of anything antagonistic to Leeds.

Skeeter Bill found himself alined with law and order, but quickly recovered. Didn’t he come down there to rob? Did the presence of this girl and the old preacher make him glad he was too late to beat Leeds’ gang? No, that was not it. The girl did not interest him at all and he had no sympathy for the minister.

He knew that Leeds and his gang would put him out of the way as speedily as possible when he showed up in Sunbeam. There were plenty ways of doing this—ways that would exonerate any one concerned. Skeeter was no supershot. It would be a dozen against one. He knew that the wisest course would be to start traveling away from Sunbeam, but Skeeter Bill had little wisdom in these things.

No, he would go back in spite of Leeds. The idea of backing the preacher amused Skeeter. He knew that Leeds and several other men would balk at a sermon in Sunbeam.

“Anyway,” decided Skeeter, “I’ve got to go back after the judge, and this sky-pilot gives me a excuse. I’ve got to present Leeds with his daughter. Skeeter Bill, it’s goin’ to be a busy day for you.”

Skeeter Bill prepared breakfast. Mary Leeds was cheerful, but Skeeter was able to see that she had slept little. The old minister walked with a decided limp and his left arm was very painful, but he talked cheerfully.

“Tell me something of this town of Sunbeam,” said the minister as he watched Skeeter deftly removing slices of bacon from the spattering grease.

Skeeter looked over his shoulder at the old man.

“—— was built a long time ago, but somebody got hold of a map of it and built Sunbeam after the same idea.”

“I—I—uh—surely you exaggerate,” stammered the old minister. “Perhaps you are prejudiced.”

Skeeter fished out more bacon before he replied.

“Yuh got me fightin’ my own head, parson. Two of them words I don’t sabe a-tall. You and the judge would make a good pair to draw to. He swallowed a dictionary. Put on your nose-bags, folks. That coffee looks like stewed gunnysacks, don’t it? If I was cookin’ for saw-mills I wouldn’t get a splinter. The judge does the cookin’ at our shack, when he’s sober enough, which ain’t three meals a day reg’lar. Parson, I wish you’d temperance him for a while. The —— old fool is goin’ to kill himself. First time he seen a pink elephant, and the second time it was a green buffalo, and now I’m bettin’ he’s about due to see a pinto geewhinkus. Any time he sees a pinto gee-whinkus he’s due to hammer a harp, yuh know it?”

The minister and Mary Leeds, neither of whom knew what Skeeter Bill meant, both nodded their heads and sat down to eat. Skeeter grinned, but the grin faded and he rubbed a hand across his chin. He turned to the minister and the girl.

“Folks, I want yuh to understand that Sunbeam ain’t no civilized place. You’re goin’ into a camp-town, where everythin’ goes except the cook-stove and three joints of pipe. Far as I can see you’re both buckin’ a brace game, and I just been figurin’ out a combination that might help yuh both.

“Suppose, parson, that you kinda adopts the lady. Let everybody think she’s your daughter. It ain’t goin’ to hurt neither one of you, is it? Kinda gives her protection, parson.”

The old minister nodded slowly over his coffee and turned to the girl.

“My dear, I think our friend is right. I am more than ready to offer my protection, if you will accept.”

“But why should we stoop to deception?” asked Mary. “Surely there is no harm in my going to Sunbeam to seek my father.”

“Sunbeam,” said Skeeter, “won’t care a —— what you came there for. You’d be a maverick, miss. No, yuh better go in there as a preacher’s daughter.”

“Well,” said Mary wearily, “it does not make the slightest difference to me. I fail to see why I should do this, except to humor you, Mr. Bill.”

Skeeter Bill nodded seriously, but his face broke into a wide smile as he looked at her.

“Name’s Sarg, ma’am. Everybody calls me Skeeter Bill for short. I dunno whether you made any more mistakes in your discourse or not, ’cause I don’t sabe anythin’ except English and cuss-words, but I appears to decipher that you’ll be the preacher’s daughter.”

Mary Leeds nodded and smiled. It was almost impossible to look at Skeeter’s homely face without smiling. The old man was slowly sipping at his coffee, looking absently off across the desert, but now he turned to Skeeter.

“My son, what line of endeavor do you pursue?”

Skeeter looked up quickly and stared at the old man.

“Just grazed me, parson,” he said softly. “Hit me dead center with plain United States, will yuh?”

“I do not understand you.”

Skeeter reached out a hand to the minister.

“Shake,” he grinned. “Sabe sign-talk?”

“Sign-talk? No, I—I——”

“We’re kinda ace-deuce, I reckon, parson. Your talk goes antegodlin’ to me and I reckon my wau-wau fogs your brain complete-like. Just what did you ask me?”

“He wants to know what you do for a living,” explained Mary Leeds, smiling at Skeeter’s serious expression.

“Me?” Skeeter debated for a moment. “I’m a horse-thief.”

“A horse-thief?” echoed Mary, while both of them stared blankly at Skeeter.

“When there’s horses,” nodded Skeeter. “Feller can’t be too particular, yuh know. Might get into a goat country and starve to death.”

“I can not believe that statement,” declared Mary.

“Yuh can’t?” Skeeter’s smile faded. “That’s the worst of it,” he wailed. “If I lied you’d believe me, but when I tell the truth I’m called a liar.”

“Surely you are not sincere,” said the minister. “No man will willingly admit a thing that would incriminate himself. It is ridiculous for you to assert to us that you follow such a sordid profession.”

Skeeter got slowly to his feet and brushed some crumbs off his wrinkled shirt.

“I reckon you two can ride my bronc to Sunbeam. He’s broke to pack double, but I dunno a —— thing about this hammer-headed ring-tail what belonged to Mears; so I’ll fork him myself.”

“I do not attempt to follow your discourse,” stated the minister, “but I wish you would eliminate the profanity, especially in the presence of the lady.”

“My ——!” gasped Skeeter Bill, and turned to Mary. “Ma’am, I spent six weeks in a Cree Indian lodge. Had a busted leg, and the sheriff was ridin’ sign on me. It was natcheral that I hankered for information, but the old war-whoop didn’t sabe English and I didn’t sabe Cree; so we argued to beat —— for six weeks and parted friends, ’cause neither one of us knowed what the other one meant. I’m kinda between, I reckon. A wise man uses words which I don’t sabe, and a —— fool talks stuff that there ain’t no sense to.”

“Please do not swear so much,” begged the minister.

“Swear—so—much?” Skeeter Bill was amazed. “Why, parson, I ain’t swore once.”

“I do not wish to appear critical,” stated the minister, “but your adjectives are a—uh—trifle—uh——”

Skeeter Bill scratched his chin and studied the old minister, who was trying to grasp the proper word to convey the exact meaning. Mary Leeds turned away to hide a smile. Skeeter broke the silence.

“We’ll let her go as she lays, parson. There’s peace between us now, but I’ll send you a red belt as sure as ——, if yuh don’t quit talkin’ thataway. Let’s hit the trail. I want to get home before the judge gets so drunk I can’t rope him to a saddle.”

VI

Judge Tareyton awoke from his debauch. To him there was no “morning after” because of the fact that his drunks corresponded to the average man’s daily doings. The jug was empty, which also corresponded to the empty cupboard to the average man. The judge did not hunger, but he thirsted a-plenty.

As he placed the jug back on the chair, some one rapped loudly on the door. To have said, “Come in” would have been a very great effort for the judge’s dry throat; so he got shakily out of bed and answered the knock in person. It was a miner, bearded to the eyes and with the muck of the creek upon him. The judge shoved his frowsy face through the door and waited for the other to speak.

“Feller named Sarg live here?”

The judge took this under advisement, but finally admitted it with a curt nod.

“Here now?” asked the miner.

The judge considered this question, but gave a negative shake of his head. The man turned as if to leave, when the judge decided to take a chance on his vocal cords.

“What did you require of him?”

The man stopped and looked at the judge, as though undecided whether to disclose his mission or not. He stepped in closer and in a confidential tone inquired:

“Do yuh know if he heard about the vigilance committee or not?”

Judge Tareyton’s face twitched, but he cleared his aching throat and shook his head.

“We’re goin’ to make these thieves around here danged hard to catch.”

The judge swallowed with great difficulty, and watched the man walk away. He shut the door, stumbled back to his bunk and sank down.

“Vigilance committee!” he gasped aloud, and then added, “Lookin’ for Skeeter Bill.”

He picked up the empty jug, hoping against hope that it contained something beside an odor, but cast it aside, after holding it unsteadily over a tin cup. He looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Where was Skeeter Bill? Maybe the vigilantes had already found him. The judge groaned aloud at his inability to do anything, when prompt action was needed.

He lifted his wadded pillow and disclosed two big Colt pistols. At least he could help a little, he thought. His hand trembled with the weight of one of them, the barrel describing irregular circles. He laid the gun on the bed and shook his head.

“I’m a menace to myself,” he said aloud. “Not even able to hold a gun. As God is my judge, if I ever get over this—I’ll very likely do it all over again. I’ll——”

He stopped talking aloud to himself and stared at the floor. Again he looked at his watch.

“Five hours!” he grunted hoarsely. “Five hours they gave us to get out. Where is Skeeter Bill? Have they killed him?”

The judge almost squeaked that last question, but the bare walls of the shack did not even echo a reply. He got to his feet, found the remains of an old derby hat, an old Prince Albert coat, faded and torn. Fully attired he looked at himself in a broken mirror. For a moment he stared at the reflection, and with a sweep of his hand sent the glass crashing to the floor. His hand went to his eyes and he stumbled toward the door, where he stopped and looked back.

“Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursel’s as ithers see us,” he quoted bitterly. “Seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror. Judge Tareyton, you’re a disreputable old reprobate! By gad, sir, you are not fit to wear a steel bill and pick food in a barnyard with the chickens. I repeat, sir; you disgrace me. I wish——”

Came the sound of footsteps on the hard ground outside. For a moment the judge hesitated. There was not the slightest doubt but what this was either the vigilantes or some of Leeds’ men, he thought. He settled his battered derby at a more secure angle, squared his stubbled jaw and opened the door. There stood Skeeter Bill, a girl and an old man.

Judge Tareyton rubbed a hand across his eyes and stared at them. The girl was smiling at him, and the judge wondered if it was for him or at him. Skeeter turned to the minister and the girl.

“Folks, I wants to make yuh used to Judge Tareyton.” Then he turned to the judge. “This here is a preacher named Weston, and the lady is his daughter.”

The judge removed his battered hat and bowed low. It was an almost disastrous bow, for the judge was not at all steady in the knees, and his recovery was just a bit wabbly.

“Sir and ma’am, I am honored. Welcome to our humble village. There is not much for a visitor to see, that is true, but you must remember that the place is still in its swaddling clothes. Did I understand that you are a minister of the gospel?”

“Correctly,” nodded the minister. “I am here to bring a message to the dim places. Perhaps it is just a trifle strange for a man of my age to take up missionary work, but I felt called to do this and—I am here.”

“No doubt of that,” nodded the judge absently. “Not a scintilla of doubt.”

The judge shifted his bleared eyes and swept the visible part of the town.

“Sir, I have often groped for a word which would describe Sunbeam, but until now it has evaded me. Dim. Yes, that is the word. By gad, sir, this most surely is one of the dim places, and I hope your light never flickers.”

“God willing, it never will, sir.”

“I’m backin’ his play, judge,” stated Skeeter Bill.

Judge Tareyton stared at Skeeter, as if not believing his own ears. He stared at Skeeter until Skeeter shifted uneasily under that steady gaze.

“Perhaps we had better go to the hotel,” said Mary Leeds.

“There ain’t none,” replied Skeeter slowly. “I just been thinkin’ that mebbe Mrs. Porter would take yuh both in. Don’t yuh reckon that’s the best idea, judge?”

The judge nodded slowly and cleared his throat.

“A very, very good idea, Skeeter Bill. I have no doubt but what the good soul would welcome them.”

Skeeter Bill turned as if to go on, but the judge stopped him.

“Skeeter Bill, have you four-bits? The oil has all burned out of the old lamp.”

Skeeter grinned and handed him a silver dollar.

“Come on, folks, we’ll visit Mrs. Porter. Adios, judge.”

The judge nearly fell trying to execute his bow and move swiftly toward the street at the same time. His whole being shrieked for liquor and he forgot Leeds’ warning or the danger of a vigilance committee. His right hand gripped that silver dollar until it fairly cut into the palm of his hand.

“Dim places,” he muttered as he stumbled into the street. “By gad, the old lamp is badly in need of oil.”

Blindly he entered the Panhandle and leaned on the bar. The dollar clattered on the painted wood, the clink of bottle-neck on thin glass—the old lamp flickered up again.

Mrs. Porter had been made a widow by virtue of a stick of dynamite, which did not live up to its scientific principles of only exploding when detonated. She had found herself alone in Sunbeam, in dire necessity of making a living; so she turned to the business of laundress.

History of the old West does not record that outlaws ever stooped to dealing with such plebeian things as a bundle of laundry, but it is a fact that many of them had human desires for clean clothes. Skeeter Bill and the judge had little knowledge of laundry—hence the acquaintance of Mrs. Porter and her flat-irons.

Mrs. Porter was busily engaged in her chosen profession when Skeeter Bill arrived with his charges.

“Would you believe it?” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, after the introductions. “A preacher and his girl! Well, now ain’t it too bad you didn’t show up a month ago? Jim Porter didn’t have no preacher to speak over him. Jim was pretty good—good as husbands go—and it was hard to plant him without any respectable prayers.”

“Can yuh put ’em up for a while, ma’am?” asked Skeeter Bill.

“I can, Mr. Sarg. I have a cot for the lady; and the preacher—” Mrs. Porter sized up the old minister, much to his embarrassment— “I think he ain’t too long for the lounge. Jim hung over at both ends, when he layed down on it, but you’re kinda runty. Sure, I can put you up. When do you start preachin’?”

“Is there a church?”

“A church?” Mrs. Porter wiped a soapy hand on her apron and looked appealingly at Skeeter. “Church in Sunbeam? Now would you listen to the innocent man, Mr. Sarg?”

“I reckon they don’t understand Sunbeam, ma’am,” said Skeeter, and added, “But I reckon they’ll learn.”

“I dunno.” Mrs. Porter shook her head sadly. “I dunno. Jim Porter ’lowed he knowed dynamite from A to Izzard. ’Course, nobody knows what Jim done, but it’s almost a cinch he got flip with a stick of it. Say, Jeff Billings had some laundry here, which is a total loss to me, as you might say.”

Skeeter Bill rubbed his chin for a moment, but reached in his pocket and took out some money.

“Dollar cover it, ma’am?”

“Plenty,” nodded Mrs. Porter, accepting the silver. “Might as well take the stuff and wear it.”

Skeeter opened his mouth several times, as if unable to frame a reply, but finally shook his head violently. Skeeter Bill was hard-boiled, but he could hardly think of wearing the clothes of the man he had killed.

“Go right in the house,” urged Mrs. Porter, and Mary Leeds and the minister started in.

“Ain’t you comin’ in, Mr. Sarg?” asked Mrs. Porter.

“Nope,” Skeeter shook his head. “I—I’ve gotta job to do. See yuh later, folks.”

“Thank you so much,” said Mary Leeds, holding out her hand.

Skeeter reached for the hand, but missed and grasped her elbow, much to his confusion, but he shook her arm solemnly and hurried away without looking back.

“Gee cripes!” he muttered to himself. “Clumsy danged hippy-pot-a-must! Can’t even shake hands. That drunken old pardner of mine makes me ashamed that I never learned how to bow. Now, I reckon I’ve got to turn reg’lar killer to make good with the sky-pilot.”

He swung into the street and headed for the Panhandle.

VII

The silver dollar worked wonders with Judge Tareyton. After the second drink he began to realize the seriousness of his position. Leeds’ warning, as told by Skeeter, came back to him. Nervously he ran the back of his hand across his lips and turned his head slowly, feeling that some one was watching him.

Behind him, leaning against the edge of a table, stood Tug Leeds. They faced each other. The liquor had made the judge strangely cool, and his form straightened in dignity as he gazed upon the man who had ordered him out of the town. Then Tug Leeds spoke.

“Still in town, eh?”

“I beg your pa’don,” drawled the judge slowly, brushing an imaginary speck from the lapel of his frayed coat. “You spoke to me, sir?”

Tug Leeds walked slowly up to the judge, his heavy under-jaw shoved out, as if trying to intimidate the other with his physical appearance. He halted with his face within a foot of the judge’s face and stared into his eyes.

“You know —— well I spoke to you!” snarled Tug. “I told Sarg I’d give yuh both five hours to git out of this country. I reckon he had brains enough to take my warnin’.”

“You gave us five hours?” queried the judge. “By gad, that was generous of you, sir—mighty generous. Not to be outdone in generosity, Skeeter Bill gave us five hours, and the least I could do would be to reciprocate, which gave us a grand total of fifteen hours. I am sure that Skeeter Bill will join me in thanking you kindly, sir.”

For a moment Tug Leeds studied this reply. Tug was slow of understanding, but it suddenly dawned upon him that the judge was making a fool of him and belittling his warning.

Like a flash, Tug drew back his right hand and drove his fist into the judge’s face. The blow sent the judge staggering back, blinded by the impact. Leeds sprang into him, striking with both hands. The judge went to his knees, with both hands covering his face.

Came the scrape of a boot across the threshold and a lithe, lanky figure flashed past the crouched figure of the old judge and faced Tug Leeds. Skeeter Bill’s face was white with wrath. His eyes were mere, indistinct slits under his eyebrows, and the big humorous mouth was as narrow and harsh as a pencil-mark.

Tug Leeds’ hand dropped to his gun and he tried to move back, but Skeeter struck—struck as the panther strikes, and the blow, curving downward, struck Leeds on the chin. The force of the blow seemed to unhook Leeds’ under-jaw and paralyze his nerves.

Swiftly Skeeter moved ahead half a step. A long, left arm uncoiled, with the weight of that long, muscular body behind it and the fist caught Leeds under that sagging chin. Came the snap of teeth, a short animal-like grunt, and Tug Leeds slumped in a heap—knocked cold.

Quickly Skeeter Bill caught his balance and faced the room, a heavy Colt pistol tense at his hip. But the awed crowd made no move. Several of Leeds’ men were in the audience, but they remained unmoved. The judge got slowly to his feet, blood trickling from his battered face, and looked around. Tug Leeds did not move. The judge looked from Tug to Skeeter, and then stepped over beside Tug, where he appeared to examine the fallen man.

“Skeeter Bill,” he said painfully, “I’m sorry you hit him so hard.”

“You feelin’ sorry for him?” Skeeter’s voice was barely audible.

The judge nodded.

“Skeeter, I am sorry for any man who was born without any conception of humor. This man would be a good citizen if he knew when to laugh.”

Skeeter did not reply. It is doubtful whether he knew what the judge meant. He had not taken his eyes off the men in front of him. Now he spoke.

“I just want to say to yuh all; I’m goin’ to stay in Sunbeam—as—long—as—I—live. Any of yuh can pack that talk to Tug Leeds when he wakes up. Yuh can tell him that I’m goin’ to kill the next man what touches my pardner. That goes for Sunbeam; sabe?”

Without turning his head he spoke to the judge—

“Go out ahead of me, pardner.”

The judge turned and went out of the door, and Skeeter Bill backed slowly out of the place until he hit the rickety board sidewalk, where he stepped swiftly aside out of range of the windows and hurried after the judge.

They walked back to their shack and went inside before either spoke a word. Skeeter got a towel and sponged the blood from the judge’s face, working as tenderly as a woman.

“Ought to ’a’ let him start to pull,” muttered Skeeter. “Reckon I forgot I had a gun.”

Skeeter finished his rough surgery, and the judge walked over across the room to where the mirror had hung, but remembered smashing it.

“I am beginning to be superstitious, Skeeter Bill,” he said, turning to Skeeter. “I smashed our mirror today, and the old belief concerning broken mirrors seems to have started its baleful predictions.”

“Tug Leeds must ’a’ smashed one, too,” grinned Skeeter, examining his sore knuckles. Then, seriously, “What did he say to you, judge?”

“Chided me for not obeying his order. He was under the impression that you had left the country. By the way, Skeeter Bill, the miners are forming a vigilance committee to run out outlawry from Sunbeam.”

“What?” Skeeter Bill got to his feet staring at the judge. “Vigilance committee? How do yuh know?”

“One of them came looking for you.”

Skeeter Bill’s eyes were serious and the lines deepened around his mouth. It was one thing to fight outlaws and another to fight against law and order. It was true that no one knew him as one of the outlaws, none that he knew about, but why should one of the committee come to find him? The judge’s voice brought him out of his reveries.

“What about this minister and the girl, Skeeter Bill? What did you mean by saying that you were going to back them?”

“What I said, I reckon,” replied Skeeter, staring at the floor.

“Getting religious, Skeeter Bill?” softly.

Skeeter looked at the judge and a smile wreathed his lips.

“No-o-o, I reckon not, judge. Yuh see I kinda figured that a sky-pilot would rasp Tug Leeds plumb ragged. Tug orates that he owns the town, and I knowed he’d just about rise and shine at the idea of holdin’ church in Sunbeam.”

“Just where did you discover these folks?”

Skeeter told him of the fight at the Poplar Springs, and the wiping out of the whole outfit, with the exceptions of the minister and the girl. Judge Tareyton listened closely to the description of the burial, shaking his head sadly.

“I knew Williams,” he said softly. “Tug Leeds’ soul, if he has a soul, should shrivel and die with last night’s work. Williams was a good man. By gad, Skeeter Bill, this outlawry should be wiped out! Leeds and his crew should be dangling from ropes at this minute. I’m——”

“Hol’ on,” said Skeeter hoarsely, “Hol’ on, judge. I’m no better than they are. I ain’t never killed no helpless folks—ain’t never killed no man who ain’t had a even break, but I reckon mebbe they’d better string me up with the rest of ’em.”

Judge Tareyton stared at Skeeter Bill’s outburst. It was not often that Skeeter Bill showed any emotion by voice or action, but now his homely face was very serious, and his long arms dangled loosely at his sides as he stared into space.

For an appreciable space of time not a word was spoken; then the judge crossed the room and put his hand on Skeeter Bill’s shoulder.

Skeeter looked up quickly.

“Don’t say it, pardner. You’d argue that I wasn’t as bad as that bunch and didn’t deserve what they do, but you’re wrong. If they deserve a rope—so do I.”

“Skeeter Bill,” said the judge softly, “you jump at conclusions. I was just going to agree with you.”

Skeeter looked up at the serious expression on Judge Tareyton’s face and broke into a laugh. Skeeter Bill did not confine his merriment to facial contortions and vocal expression—he laughed from his heels to his head.

“They may hang you,” said the judge when Skeeter had regained normal conditions, “but I am fairly sure that you will be the only one at the occasion to see any humor in the situation.”

“I hope it’s a funny hangin’,” said Skeeter, serious again. “’Pears to me that it’s a even bet whether I get hung or killed with a bullet. Kinda between the devil and the deep blue sea, as my dad used to say. I ain’t got much choice, I reckon, unless it is to get out of town, and I hates to be herded.”

“Perhaps we had better go,” suggested the judge. “There are many, many places where we could go, Skeeter Bill. Suppose we pack up our belongings and——”

“Hol’ on!” Skeeter shook his head. “What about the old minister and the girl? I reckon I’ve got to see that they gets a square deal. I tol’ the old sky-pilot that I was with him from the dally to the hondo, and I can’t renege, judge.”

“But what can you do?” argued the judge. “One man against a dozen or more. No, I think we had better go.”

Skeeter Bill shook his head.

“Nope.”

Judge Tareyton studied Skeeter for a while, a half-smile on his face.

“Has this—uh—young lady anything to do with your —— stubbornness, Skeeter Bill?”

Skeeter looked up quickly.

“I don’t reckon so, judge. No-o-o, I wasn’t thinkin’ about her.”

“Nice looking girl,” observed the judge wisely. “Very fine face. Well worth knowing, I might say. Her father did wrong in bringing her here.”

“He didn’t.” Skeeter shook his head. “Not the way you mean, judge. She came lookin’ for him.”

“Looking for him? What do you mean?”

Skeeter smiled.

“That preacher ain’t her father. I just fixed it up thataway so she’d have protection. She comes here kinda huntin’ her father, like I said before, but I—her father is—Tug Leeds.”

“Tug Leeds?” The judge’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

“Her name is Mary Leeds,” explained Skeeter. “She’s likely forgot what he looks like, bein’ as she ain’t seen him for fourteen years. She heard somebody say that a man named Leeds lived in Sunbeam. I dunno how to tell her, ’cause Tug ain’t fit to be her dad.”

Judge Tareyton’s mouth twitched and his hand trembled as he wiped it across his dry lips. For a few moments he seemed incapable of speech.

“I dunno how we can keep her from findin’ it out,” said Skeeter helplessly. “She don’t know how low her dad is, judge.”

“No,” said the judge hoarsely. “No, she don’t, Skeeter Bill, and we’ve got to keep her from ever findin’ it out, if we can.”

“Which don’t stop him from bein’ her dad,” said Skeeter. “She’s got to find it out pretty soon. Tug Leeds is too prominent, and somebody is bound to mention him where she can hear it. Nobody outside of me and you and his gang knows what he really is, but everybody knows he kinda bosses the town, and they all knows the kind of—shucks!”

“You had a fair start, Skeeter Bill, but you got all tangled up with words. I know what you mean anyway. Just what is to be done? We must try and keep the girl from meeting him, because she is too fine, I think, to have her future marred by knowing that she is the daughter of Tug Leeds.”

Skeeter stared at the judge for a moment and got to his feet. He was very deliberate as he dug under the pillow on the bunk and took out one of the heavy pistols, which he shoved inside the waist-band of his overalls.

“What is the idea, Skeeter Bill?” asked the judge.

Skeeter half-smiled.

“I’m goin’ to kill Tug Leeds, judge. Mebbe we can get somebody to tell her that Bill Jones got in the road of my bullet. Anyway, we can get him buried before she has a chance to find out who he was, and, anyway, she ain’t seen him for years.”

The judge nodded slowly, as if in agreement with Skeeter’s scheme, but when Skeeter finished the judge said:

“Rough in construction, Skeeter Bill. The intent is very good, I might say, but your scheme reminds me of the Frenchman’s flea-powder directions, ‘First you must catch de leetle flea.’ When you open that door again, you are an animated target for Leeds’ men. Does——”

Both men glanced at the door and at each other. Some one was knocking softly on the outside. Skeeter Bill backed against the wall, loosened both guns and nodded to the judge, who had walked close to the door. He opened the door, shielding himself with it as he swung it open.

Three men, one of them the miner who had inquired for Skeeter that morning, were standing at the door. He nodded to the judge and said—

“Sarg in yet?”

“Sure is,” said Skeeter Bill, moving toward the door.

He had a smile on his face, a careless swing to his slow movements, but both hands were kept near his guns, as he came up beside the judge.

“Like to talk to yuh, Sarg,” said the miner. “Can we come inside?”

“Sure—come on in,” nodded Sarg, and the three men filed past him.

Two of them sat down, but the spokesman stood near the table. He was a middle-aged man, his beard and hair slightly gray. The other two were younger, but their clothes and general appearance proclaimed them to be placer miners.

“My name’s John McClung,” stated the spokesman, “McClung of the Solomon.” He pointed to the other two. “This is Jerry Byler, of the Ophir, and Dick Franklyn, of the Keystone.”

“Glad t’ meetcha,” nodded Skeeter. “Gents, this is Judge Tareyton, my pardner. Whatcha got on your mind?”

McClung hesitated, as if a trifle afraid to start the conversation. He cleared his throat softly.

“Sarg, you killed Jeff Billings yesterday.”

Skeeter’s eyes flashed from face to face, but there was nothing to show that these men were more than mildly interested in the fact that he had killed Billings.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Skeeter. “An’ then what?”

“Billings was a gun-fighter,” stated McClung. “He had a bad rep. We found out today that Billings was the leader of the gang that robbed my place and took two hundred ounces of gold.”

“Two men was killed,” said Byler. “Two men that we didn’t know. They has been buried.”

“Two hundred ounces of gold ain’t goin’ to break me,” continued McClung, “but it shows that we’ve got to protect ourselves. Billings wasn’t alone in this here robbery. We just heard that Rance Williams was killed at Poplar Springs last night and his whole outfit wiped out—all except a preacher and his girl. This preacher told Jerry.”

“Jerry was over to see Mrs. Porter,” said Franklyn meaningly. “He has dirty shirts every day in the week and two on Sunday.”

“I found ’em,” nodded Skeeter.

“They said yuh did,” agreed Byler. “That’s one of the reasons we come to see yuh. McClung was lookin’ for yuh this mornin’. After we found out that yuh brought the preacher and the girl in, we came again.”

“Just why did yuh want to see me?” asked Skeeter.

“’Cause you’ve got nerve,” stated McClung quickly. “Sunbeam needs a man with nerve right now.” He looked at the judge and back at Skeeter. “Your pardner is a lawyer, and we kinda reckoned that a lawyer won’t hurt us none, bein’ as we wants this kinda done right. We’re formin’ a vigilance committee and we need a leader. You are the man we need.”

Skeeter turned his head slightly and looked at the judge, who was staring at the floor, a half-smile on his flabby face.

“Tug Leeds said you was the right man to get,” said Byler.

Skeeter’s mouth sagged for a moment at this statement, but he turned slowly to Byler, a quizzical smile on his lips.

“Tug Leeds said that?”

“Today,” nodded McClung. “Kinda funny, at that. We talked about you last night. Tug has bought half-interest in the Keystone—bought it this mornin’, and he comes to Dick and opines that the best thing to do is to get up a vigilance committee to stamp out the outlaws. He said that you was the one man in Sunbeam to be the leader.”

“Anybody speak about me before he did?” asked Skeeter.

“I did,” replied Franklyn. “Tug offered me a big price for half of my claim, and after the deal was all closed, he suggested this committee. I told him we had talked it over, and kinda figured on gettin’ you for a leader. He said he thought it was a good scheme, but he said he’d take charge if we couldn’t get hold of you.”

“It’s goin’ to take a little time,” said McClung. “We don’t know just what we’re goin’ to do first, and we don’t want to make no bad moves. All we wants is for you to take charge of it, if yuh can. Yore pardner can give us the benefit of what he knows about law. We don’t want to go ——in’ into somethin’ and do it all wrong.”

“No,” agreed the judge absently, “you do not want to do things wrong. It is a weighty problem, gentlemen, and I would like to talk things over with Mr. Sarg before he decides what he will do.”

“Sure, take your time,” agreed McClung. “This ain’t nothin’ yuh can rush, but we’ve got to kinda get organized as soon as possible. When can yuh let us know?”

“Tomorrow,” replied the judge. “Tomorrow morning, I reckon.”

“Seen Leeds lately?” asked Skeeter.

“Not since early this mornin’,” replied Franklyn. “He came to my cabin and bought in with me. Said he thought you had left Sunbeam for good.”

“Might be a good thing for you to have a talk with Leeds,” suggested McClung. “Seems like he’s got some good ideas on handlin’ this here proposition.”

Skeeter nodded slowly.

“Mebbe I better do that, McClung. I’ll try and see yuh tomorrow.”

The three miners shook hands with Skeeter and the judge and went out. Skeeter watched them walk back toward the north end of town and then turned back to the judge, who was sitting on the edge of the bunk, holding his head in his hands.

“Skeeter Bill,” he said hoarsely, “I want to laugh. I want to shake my sides with merriment, but I am—too— —— dry. I’d sell my soul to a scavenger for one drink of bad whisky.”

Skeeter studied him for a few moments. There was no question but what Judge Tareyton was suffering. Skeeter walked to a corner of the room, lifted a half-nailed board and groped under the rough flooring. His hand came up holding a quart flask of liquor, and he looked at it in disgust. He looked back at the humped figure on the bunk, and the lines of his face softened.

“Judge,” he said, as he walked slowly over to the bunk, “I had this cached away for a rainy day. I reckon we’ll prognosticate a stormy night.”

Judge Tareyton lifted his head and stared at the bottle. His tongue-tip ran slowly across his dry upper lip and his bushy eyebrows lifted perceptibly, as he reached for the bottle.

“Skeeter Bill, you have saved my life,” he whispered. “The devil laughs at a time like this.”

He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank greedily. The liquor flashed through his being and he shrugged his heavy shoulders, as if shuddering from pain.

“Well!” He looked up at Skeeter seriously. “Well, I hope he gets a good laugh out of it, because I believe in giving the devil his due.”

“What do you think of Leeds?” asked Skeeter.

“Clever scoundrel,” pronounced the judge; “anticipated the vigilantes by joining at once. Became a mine-owner for self-protection.”

“Told ’em I’d make a good leader,” mused Skeeter.

“Protecting himself in case you are assassinated,” declared the judge. “Make you the leader, because you can’t very well denounce him without incriminating yourself. You will soon be killed and he will be the leader. Tug Leeds is fairly clever, Skeeter Bill, and he will use the vigilante organization to further his own ends.”

“No, I can’t tell on him,” agreed Skeeter. “I kinda like these miners, judge. They’re right, don’t yuh know they are? I ain’t no danged milk-fed calf, judge, but I kinda wish me and you was right. Aw, I ain’t afraid of Tug Leeds, nor afraid of them honest miners, but——”

Judge Tareyton sat staring at the half-empty bottle, scratching at the dirty label with a rough thumb nail. He looked up at Skeeter.

“I know how yuh feel, Skeeter Bill. God put a spark of something into all of us—a spark that flares up once in a while. I had one—once, but I guess I drowned it with hooch.”

“Aw-w, you’re all right,” said Skeeter quickly; “I was thinkin’ about me. I’ve stole cows, horses, money and I’ve killed men. I’ve been a ——winder of a cute little person, ain’t I?

“Now, some honest men comes along and asks me to help ’em put a rope around the necks of my own kind. Me and you and Tug Leeds are the only ones in Sunbeam what knows who I am. Tug knowed about me from somebody down Mohave way, I reckon, and that’s why he asks me to work with him. Billings and ‘Blondy’ Jones and ‘Kid’ Sisler knowed I was in that Solomon deal, but they’re all gone now. Tug is the only one of the gang what could yelp out loud about me. The rest could only say what they’ve heard.”

“You promised to help that preacher,” reminded the judge.

“Sure did, judge. That goes as she lays, and I reckon the only way I can help out his cause is to kill Tug Leeds right away.”

Skeeter opened the door to go out, but stopped on the threshold, facing the Reverend Josiah Weston.

VIII

Skeeter’s blows had both injured and humiliated Tug Leeds. His lower jaw pained him greatly, but the greater pain was within his soul, for Tug Leeds had never been knocked out before. He knew that his power in Sunbeam had dwindled, because no man respects or cares to take orders from the vanquished.

Nothing was said about the fight to him. He was allowed to recover in his own way, get to his feet by his own volition. Tug was in a killing mood when he went back to his own room and proceeded to imbibe quantities of liquor and rub liniment on his wrenched jaw muscles.

“Twin” Shevlin, who had charge of the Panhandle gambling business, thoroughly enjoyed it. Tug had beaten Twin thoroughly a week before, and Twin’s crooked mind had worked overtime in wishing disaster to come upon Tug Leeds.

Twin was a frail anemic flash gambler type. His linen was always spotless, his nails manicured and his tiny mustache always trimmed to a nicety. Twin was a crooked gambler. Otherwise he would not have been in Tug Leeds’ employ.

It was Twin who first saw Mary Leeds as she came quietly into the gambling-hall, looking timidly around, and he lost no time in approaching her. He listened while she asked permission to post a notice in the place. He read one of the hand-printed notices and looked thoughtfully at her.

“I’ll see the boss, if you want me to,” said Twin and went back to the room, where Tug was lying on his bed.

Tug cursed vitriolically at the request, but sat up when Twin described the girl. Girls were scarce in Sunbeam. The habitués of the Panhandle were greatly interested in Mary Leeds. The coarse dance-hall girls examined her raiment at close range and were not a bit delicate in their comments, but scattered like partridges at the approach of Tug Leeds.

Tug read the notices, a cold glint in his eyes, and was about to give the girl to understand that religion was not wanted in Sunbeam, when she mentioned the fact that Mr. Sarg was going to help them. Tug grew interested.

“What did yuh say Sarg was goin’ to do?” he asked.

Mary told him about the trouble at the Poplar Springs, and of how Skeeter Bill had assisted them. The Panhandle crowd listened closely while she innocently told of how Skeeter Bill was going to help them bring the gospel to Sunbeam. Tug nursed his sore jaw and worked his mind overtime.

The Reverend Josiah Weston came to the Panhandle, looking for Mary Leeds, just in time to be taken into consideration by Tug Leeds.

“Your daughter’s been tellin’ me about how yuh got taken in by Skeeter Sarg,” stated Tug. “He’s a slick hombre, that feller. Murdered Jeff Billings yesterday, and we runs him out of town. Likely mixed up in that killin’ at the Springs and came back to see if there was anythin’ he overlooked.”

The Reverend Dr. Weston was shocked. Mary Leeds started to voice her unbelief, but the buzz of corroborative conversation, regarding the killing of Jeff Billings, convinced her that her estimate of Skeeter Bill was all wrong. It was hard to believe that Skeeter Bill was a murderer, but facts are facts. Skeeter had told them that he was a horse-thief.

“But,” objected the Reverend Weston, “why should he be so anxious to assist us?”

Tug grinned and caressed his sore jaw. His eyes turned to Mary Leeds and back to the minister.

“Pretty girls are scarce in this country,” he said enigmatically.

Mary Leeds flushed and a suppressed giggle came from the group of dance-hall girls.

“Do you mean to say that Mr. Sarg had ulterior motives?” asked the minister.

“I reckon yuh might call it that, if yuh wanted to be polite,” agreed Tug. “He sure had a motive.”

Tug grinned and glanced around the room. There was no one in the place except his own crowd. Leaning against the bar, one arm in a sling, stood Sandy McClain, indifferently watching and listening. Tug’s eyes narrowed at the sight of McClain and their glances met.

McClain was thin-faced, thin-lipped, with eyes as expressionless as blue agate. McClain was a capable man—too capable. He was like a wolf which runs with the pack, but is not one of them; a strong fighter, which seems to bide its time to step in and wrest the leadership from the old pack master. Tug Leeds feared McClain.

Tug’s eyes shifted from McClain and he spoke directly to the minister.

“Your horse-thief friend promised yuh a lot, I reckon, but I’ll show yuh that Sunbeam appreciates your comin’. Tonight at nine o’clock I’ll let yuh preach right in here—here in the Panhandle.”

For a moment there was silence—then McClain laughed. It was not a hearty laugh, but a toneless flutter of the vocal cords. The crowd flashed a look at McClain, but his face had not changed expression. In fact he was not seemingly interested in the conversation. Tug’s heavy body stiffened, but he made no move. That laugh annoyed him.

“You—you mean that we can hold services in here?” faltered the minister.

“Y’betcha,” nodded Tug, his eyes still on McClain.

“I think it is very kind of you,” said Mary Leeds sweetly.

Again McClain’s lips parted in that toneless chuckle. His eyes lifted and he looked blankly at Tug for a moment and then moved sidewise to the door and went out.

The going of Sandy McClain seemed to leave a chill over the place. Gamblers looked at each other meaningly. One of the dance-hall girls drew a hand across her lips, leaving a crimson smudge across her cheek. They all had a feeling that something was going to happen very soon. McClain was a killer—a rattlesnake which might strike without any warning. There was also Skeeter Bill to reckon with. They looked askance at Mary Leeds, as if blaming her for interrupting the peace of Sunbeam.

“Then it is settled,” said the minister, breaking the quiet, “I shall hold services here this evening, and I want to thank you for your kindness to me and my—er—daughter. Good-day, sir.”

Mary Leeds turned and followed the old minister outside, while the crowd watched them in silence. Then Tug Leeds laughed loudly. Some of them, appreciating the wit and humor of their king, also laughed, but there was little mirth and no joy in the laughter.

IX

Skeeter Bill stared at the minister.

“I—I was just goin’ to start in helpin’ yuh,” stammered Skeeter, foolishly.

“I thank you,” said the old minister kindly. “It was fine of you not to forget me, but I do not think I will need any assistance. Things are progressing very nicely.”

“Yuh got started already?”

“Yes, indeed. Miss—er—my daughter——”

“Miss Leeds,” corrected Skeeter, as the minister hesitated at the sight of Judge Tareyton standing behind Skeeter. “The judge sabes the whole works.”

“Ah, yes,” nodded the minister; “I see. As I was saying, she has been of very much service to me today. I was a trifle dubious over the reception accorded me, don’t you see. I talked with the estimable Mrs. Porter and she suggested that I—er—preach on the street. I could see the wisdom of such a course at once.

“Miss Leeds and I discussed this, with the result that I prepared several announcements for services this evening. Miss Leeds and I proceeded to post these in prominent places. There was no doubt of the sensation these created.”

“I reckon not,” drawled Skeeter.

“But that is not all,” said the minister triumphantly. “Miss Leeds asked the owner of a place called the Panhandle if she might post a notice therein. The man read it, rather curiously, I think, but acquiesced. He talked with Miss Leeds and I for some little time, but at the conclusion of this talk he offered to let us have the use of his entire establishment for the evening. I told him about your kindness to us.”

“Keep on talkin’,” said Skeeter seriously. “What did he say about me?”

“I told him that you were going to help me and he seemed to be greatly amused. You were very good to us, Mr. Sarg, and I came over to assure you that in spite of anything we appreciate your kindness.”

“In spite of anythin’,” repeated Skeeter. “You’re just as welcome as if you burned your shirt.”

For a while there was silence. The minister seemed to be trying to continue the conversation, but lacked fitting words. Skeeter Bill’s gaze slowly swept the rear of visible buildings and came back to the minister.

“Yuh don’t know what that man’s name was, do yuh?”

“They called him Mr. Tug, I think.”

“Mr. Tug,” said Skeeter slowly. “I know him.”

“Yes, I thought you did,” said the minister. “He told me he had ordered you out of town.”

“My ——!” gasped Skeeter. “He didn’t leave much of anythin’ to talk about, did he? Was the lady there when he talked so much?”

“Yes. He said she should know everything. But I assure you that we are very grateful——”

“You’re awful danged welcome,” said Skeeter bitterly. “Good day.”

Skeeter started to shut the door.

“Just a moment,” said the minister, and Skeeter turned his head. “Do you know of a family named Honkatonk? I have a message to the Honkatonk girls, and I——”

But Skeeter Bill shut the door, leaving the minister finishing his sentence to the exterior of the shack.

Judge Tareyton faced Skeeter and they stared at each other for several moments. From outside came the sound of footsteps as the minister turned and started away. Then the judge sat down on his bunk and picked up the bottle.

“At any rate, Skeeter Bill, you are relieved from any further necessity of assisting the spreading of gospel in Sunbeam town.”

Skeeter stared at the floor and rubbed a hand slowly across his chin.

“Well, judge, they can’t say I lied to ’em. I told ’em I was a horse-thief but they wouldn’t believe me.”

“Skeeter Bill,” said the judge seriously, “you have been vindicated, but I still maintain that we are in a —— precarious position.”

“Feller can’t die but once, judge.”

“Nor live,” nodded the judge, “I am still of the opinion that our skin is worth more to us than to posterity. Tonight, when the mantle of darkness covers the hills, we really must fold our tents and silently steal away.”

“I am a thief,” nodded Skeeter, “but I won’t steal away. Tonight when this here mantle covers the hills, I’m goin’ to church; sabe?”

Judge Tareyton measured a spot on the bottle and lowered the contents to the exact spot.

“Skeeter Bill, I shall go with you. It will shock the devil—I am very sure of that, but there will be little cause for the angels to sing—yet.”

Judge Tareyton sighed with regret as the supply of liquor dwindled. Night came swiftly after the sunset, and the room was already in semidarkness. Across the room from the judge stood Skeeter Bill, leaning against the one window, his tall figure slightly bowed. There were no sounds in the room except the creak of the bed as the judge reached for and replaced the almost empty bottle.

Suddenly Skeeter straightened and peered out of the window. A figure was coming toward the shack. As it came closer Skeeter saw that it was Mary Leeds. As she passed the corner of the shack, Skeeter stepped over and opened the door.

She stopped just short of the doorway and peered at him. Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute, then Skeeter Bill said softly—

“Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Oh, I—I couldn’t see you very well,” faltered Mary Leeds, “I——”

“Won’t yuh come in?” asked Skeeter.

“No, I——”

“Thassall right,” nodded Skeeter. “I don’t blame yuh.”

“But I want you to—I—” Mary Leeds grew confused.

“Lemme say it for yuh, ma’am. You know I’m a bad hombre, but you’re tryin’ to excuse me. That’s fine. I sure do appreciate it, but the fact that I’m a bad hombre still hangs around, don’t it? Mebbe you’re sorry for me, ma’am.”

“Yes,” said Mary Leeds simply.

“Don’t do it, ma’am,” Skeeter straightened up. “Don’t do it. Laugh at me if yuh want to, but——”

“I just wanted you to know that it doesn’t make any difference what they say about you,” interrupted Mary Leeds. “You were very kind and considerate, and I want to thank you for it.”

Judge Tareyton came slowly to the door, brushing back his long hair and trying to make his weak knees carry his dead-weight body.

“Good evening,” said Mary Leeds.

“I have never seen a better one,” replied the judge hoarsely, bowing with difficulty. “The night hath many charms, but never before have I observed them from my own door. Will you not come in?”

“No,” Skeeter shook his head. “No, judge. It ain’t square to her to ask her into our house, ’cause she might accept to keep from hurtin’ our feelin’s.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mary Leeds softly, and turned away.

They watched her disappear in the direction of the Porter home.

“She is sorry,” stated the judge. “Did you hear that, Skeeter Bill? She pities you, and pity is akin to love.”

Skeeter laughed hoarsely.

“Pity a horse-thief? Mebbe she could, judge, but it would be as impossible as —— for her to love one. No, she don’t feel sorry for me. She’s like a lot of human bein’s, who comes around and tells yuh how sorry they are—not doin’ it because they’re sorry, but because they figger that it’s the proper thing to do. If she was honest she’d tell me that she was much obliged for my help and sorry she bothered me.”

“I would rather hear you laugh, Skeeter Bill,” said the judge. “Tug Leeds would howl with delight if he knew how you were feeling at this moment. I anticipate something out of the ordinary in sermons tonight, as I am keyed to such a pitch that I could enjoy something extraordinary.”

“If I go there it will mean a killing,” said Skeeter thoughtfully. “The preacher and the girl both think I’m plumb ornery now, and if I start a killin’ they won’t feel any better about me.”

“Painful but true,” admitted the judge. “But just why did Tug Leeds give them the use of the saloon? It is a sure thing that it is not because he favors a sermon. Mary Leeds is a mighty likely-looking girl, Skeeter Bill.”

Skeeter nodded and turned away from the door. It was dark in the cabin and Skeeter mechanically picked up an old bottle and lit the candle which was stuck in the neck. The candle flickered for a moment from a draught from the open door. Came the crash of splintering glass, the candle disappeared, and from outside sounded the whip-like crack of a rifle.

Skeeter flung himself sidewise against the wall, while the judge stumbled out of line with the door. Two more shots pinged through the door, splintering their way out through the back of the cabin.

“Skeeter!” called the judge fearfully.

“Present,” grunted Skeeter. “Everythin’ accounted for except the bottle and candle. Keep out of line with that door, judge.”

“Tug Leeds opens the dance,” observed the judge.

“With a bad mistake,” chuckled Skeeter. “He should ’a’ held a foot further to the left. That’s the beauty of bein’ skinny, judge. If you’d ’a’ been in my place you’d a been a ghost right now.”

“What will we do now?”

“Kill somebody, judge. That was a good bottle. I reckon we’ll have to Injun a little, but it kinda makes me happy, don’t yuh know it.”

They remained flattened against the walls for a while, but no more shots were fired. A cloudy sky blotted out the moon, which made it safe for them to leave their protection.

“Just what is our move, Skeeter Bill?” asked the judge. “It is likely that the bushwhacker still desires our demise.”

“I dunno,” confessed Skeeter softly, searching around on the floor for their candle and placing it on the table.

“I’ve got to see Tug Leeds for a minute or two, and then I’ll—sh-h-h!”

Some one was walking boldly to the cabin, making no pretense of keeping quiet. Skeeter stepped in closer to the half-open door, covering the opening with his gun. A man stumbled on the crude step and grasped the side of the door.

“Sarg!” he called softly.

“Kinda close to yuh, pardner,” said Skeeter Bill easily.

The man laughed.

“Thought I’d missed yuh, Sarg. This is McClung.”

He stepped inside. Skeeter Bill scratched a match as he closed the door, and walked over to the candle.

“Didn’t see no light, so I thought mebbe yuh was uptown,” observed McClung, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

“The mosquitoes were bad,” explained the judge. “They’re deadly enough in the dark and we don’t intend to give them a light to work by.”

“I dunno much about ’em,” grinned McClung. “Never seen one in this country.”

“Perhaps I was wrong,” admitted the judge; “I am no bugologist, but I heard several of them humming and just drew a natural conclusion.”

McClung looked curiously at Skeeter, who laughed.

“Somebody fired three shots through the door and one of ’em busted the light.”

“In the dark?” asked McClung.

“Few minutes ago,” assented Skeeter. “Didn’t amount to nothin’, but kinda shows that a feller’s home ain’t sacred nowadays.”

McClung smiled, but grew serious.

“Sarg, we gave you until tomorrow to decide about leadin’ us, but the boys are at the Keystone cabin and they want to see yuh.”

Skeeter looked at the judge, who was hanging a blanket over the one window. Suddenly the judge staggered back, as if from a heavy blow, and from the outside came the whang of a rifle.

The judge regained his balance and turned, a quizzical look on his frowsy face. He looked at Skeeter and McClung and pointed back at the window.

“Skeeter Bill—you—forgot—window—I—I—they—by—gad—it’s—dark——”

He swayed forward and Skeeter Bill caught him in his arms and half-dragged him to the bed. McClung helped Skeeter remove the judge’s old Prince Albert coat and the faded shirt. The bullet had torn its way completely through the shoulder, making a wicked wound.

“Lucky it was on the right side,” muttered McClung.

Skeeter Bill’s homely face was drawn with suffering as he looked down at his partner—his old drunken lawyer partner—and then he looked up at McClung.

“He can’t make it, McClung,” hoarsely. “He’s all burnt up with whisky. Might as well hit him dead center.”

Judge Tareyton gasped and opened his eyes. For a moment he seemed uncertain, but the blurred look faded from his eyes and he half-smiled up at Skeeter.

“I know you won’t lie to me, Skeeter Bill,” he said weakly. “Have I got a chance?”

Skeeter’s eyes turned slowly away and the lines of his face seemed to harden to granite as he turned slowly back and looked down at the judge.

“Judge, that ain’t a fair question. God A’mighty is the only one what can answer that. Old pardner, you’ve got a big hole in your right shoulder and your body ain’t fit for a hard battle. You’ve still got a fightin’ chance, but it’s got to be fought with your brains.”

Judge Tareyton smiled.

“Brains? Skeeter Bill, if I had brains I would still have a fighting body. You have been good to me, son. It appears that until now I have not realized how good you have been.”

Skeeter Bill turned away, rubbing the palms of his hands on his hips. The blurred look came back to Judge Tareyton’s eyes and he began to talk incoherently.

“Doc Brashear went to Ophir this afternoon,” said McClung softly. “There ain’t a soul what can help him, Sarg.”

“Oh, ——, don’t I know it?” groaned Skeeter. “He’s just a drunken old lawshark, McClung, but he’s my pardner. He’s the only one what cares a —— about me. That shot was for me, don’t yuh know it?”

Skeeter looked back at the bed for a moment and then turned to McClung.

“Friend, will yuh stay here with him for a little while? I dunno whether he’d like it or not, but I’m goin’ to get that preacher. They use preachers when folks are passin’ out, don’t they?”

“They do when they can get ’em,” agreed McClung.

Skeeter shifted his cartridge belt and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

“Mebbe this one won’t want to come, but he’ll come if I have to cripple his legs and pack him here.”

Skeeter hurried to the Porter shack, but there was no one at home. Skeeter had no way of telling what time it was, but he knew that the minister must be at the Panhandle and that it would be a man-sized job to hold conversation with him in that place.

X

Sunbeam had started in early on its nightly orgy. The yellow lights from the saloons and gambling-houses threw shadows out of which weaved miner and cowboy as they made their way from place to place. The rasping notes from fiddles, the discordant jangle of out-of-tune piano, blended with the raucous whoops from alcoholized vocal cords.

Skeeter Bill noticed that the larger crowd was at the Panhandle and he surmised that the sermon was the attraction. Straight to the doorway he went and squeezed his way inside. Luckily Skeeter was taller than most of the crowd, which gave him an almost unobstructed view of things.

On the performer’s platform stood the minister, with Mary Leeds beside him. At the other end of the platform was the fiddler and piano player. Tug Leeds leaned against the piano, grinning at a half-nude dance-hall girl, who was just coming from the rear of the platform. She halted at the center and laughed down at the crowd, which yelped a welcome to her. Tug Leeds swung away from the piano and came to her side, where he held up his hand for silence.

“Gents, it’s customary to open church with a song, ain’t it? All right, we’ll have the song.”

The two-piece orchestra broke into the introduction of a vulgar honkatonk song—a song too unclean for sober minds. Skeeter Bill knew what it meant—knew what Tug Leeds was aiming at. He was going to disgust the minister. Mary Leeds’ face was indistinct through the haze of tobacco smoke, but Skeeter could see her glance around as if seeking an avenue of escape. The minister moved closer to her, as though to protect her as much as possible.

The shrill voice of the singer began on the second verse, when Skeeter moved forward. No one gave him any heed except to swear at him for jostling them. Tug Leeds’ gang were grouped close to the platform, enjoying the song, when Skeeter Bill shoved his way past the last man and sprang to the platform. The fiddler blocked his way, but Skeeter flung him aside and he fell off the edge of the platform into the crowd.

Tug Leeds leaned forward and stared at Skeeter, who stepped back until he had no one behind him. Skeeter swung a heavy pistol in his right hand as he faced the assemblage. Like a flash the singer darted back and disappeared to the rear of the platform. Not a sound came from the audience. Suddenly a man seemed to move. Like a flash Skeeter fired straight down into the front row of the crowd.

The heavy pistol seemed to shake the building—then absolute silence for a moment. A man spoke:

“By ——, that’s shootin’! Cullop never moved, ’cept to go down.”

“What do you want here?” asked Tug, and his voice was almost a croak.

Skeeter Bill never moved a muscle and his eyes were invisible slits, which seemed to hide the pupils completely, making it impossible to tell just where he was looking. His lips barely moved as he replied:

“Your hired murderer missed me and hit my pardner. I want the preacher to go and see him.”

“Don’t move, Tug,” he gritted, as Leeds relaxed. “I’m takin’ a little time on your case. ’Pears to me that I can’t make up my mind whether to shoot yuh through the head and kill yuh all to once or to shoot your insides out one at a time and give me somethin’ to laugh at.”

From down in the crowd came a toneless laugh. Sandy McClain was standing on the front row, one arm still in a sling. The laugh jarred on Tug’s nerves and he turned his head to glare at McClain.

Men began to ease out of the place, backing into each other in their haste to get out of range. The minister and Mary Leeds had turned and were staring at Skeeter.

“You want the preacher?” asked Tug hoarsely. “I ain’t keepin’ him, am I?” Tug’s voice shrilled at the finish of the sentence.

“You dirty coyote!” Skeeter’s voice was dangerously even. “You brought that preacher and the girl here to make ’em ashamed. You invited ’em to use this place for a church and then you makes ’em listen to a rotten song sung by a naked woman who ain’t got no more shame than a buzzard.”

Tug Leeds did not reply. From down on the floor in front of the crowd came a muffled curse. Some one had trampled on the fiddler’s hand. Again came Sandy McClain’s toneless chuckle. Skeeter Bill spoke directly to the minister.

“Go to my place as fast as yuh can and see if there’s anythin’ yuh can do for my pardner. Take the girl with yuh, and see if yuh can’t find Mrs. Porter. This ain’t no place for either of yuh. Git goin’, can’t yuh?”

The platform was built about three feet above the floor level and the entrance was at the rear, but the minister dropped to the floor and helped Mary Leeds down. The crowd parted to let them through, but closed in behind them again. Skeeter saw three of Leeds’ men swing in behind them, but he was unable to stop them before the lane was choked with moving figures. For an instant Skeeter was off his guard, but it was enough.

Like a flash Tug Leeds grasped the back of the fiddler’s chair and hurled it at Skeeter. Leeds was a powerful man and he threw the chair as an ordinary man would fling a cane. Skeeter whirled and fired, but the chair struck him across the face and hand, spoiling the shot. Before he could shoot again Leeds was into him with a rush and they went backward off the platform.

The crash of their fall shook the building, but they fell sidewise with neither man on top. A pistol flashed almost in Skeeter’s face and the powder seared his cheek, but he broke Leeds’ hold and plowed forward on his hands and knees. Men were kicking at him and more than one landed, but he managed to block them from his face. Above the yells of the attack came the slow pop-pop of a pistol, as if some one were shooting deliberately.

Skeeter fought his way to his feet, crashing a man against the wall and securing his gun by main strength. He dashed the blood from his forehead, where he had cut it in the struggle for the gun, and whirled.

Against the side of the platform stood Sandy McClain, leaning on his injured arm, and as Skeeter looked he fired his last shot. A man slid against the wall, clawing for support and went down. From the packed crowd came a shot and McClain dropped his gun. He swayed for a moment, looked over toward Skeeter and spoke clearly:

“Go after Leeds, Sarg! He’s got it framed to steal the girl for himself and then lead the vigilantes to hang you for it. You’ve spoiled his game, but he’s tryin’ to get her anyway.”

Skeeter Bill shoved away from the wall, covering the remains of the crowd.

“Why do you tell me this, McClain?” asked Skeeter.

McClain laughed tonelessly, swaying on his feet.

“Go and get her, man. For ——’s sake don’t let Tug——”

He swayed to his knees and sat flat on the floor.

Skeeter backed to the door and sprang into the night. He had no idea of where to go. Blindly he ran to the Porter shack and flung the door open. Mrs. Porter, resplendent in a new hat, which was half-twisted on her head, her dress torn and soiled, as if she had been in a battle, was sitting rigidly in a home-made rocking-chair, staring into space.

“Where is that girl?” asked Skeeter breathlessly.

Mrs. Porter looked at him trance-like, and he went over and shook her roughly.

“Where is that girl?” he repeated.

“The stable!” Mrs. Porter’s vocal cords suddenly came to life. “Tug Leeds’ stable! I was near the door of the saloon when they came out. Two men grabbed her. I tried to stop them but they knocked me down.” Mrs. Porter shook as if she had a chill, but continued. “Then Tug Leeds came running and helped them. I—I—they struck me when I screamed, but I saw them go to Tug’s stable.”

Skeeter Bill whirled and ran out. It was about three hundred yards to Leeds’ stable and corral, but Skeeter covered the distance as if running for his life. Around the corral fence he ran and stopped just in time to keep from crashing into several saddled horses. Muffled voices came from inside the barn, and he could hear Tug Leeds’ voice cursing harshly.

The door was flung open and the three came out, carrying a muffled figure. Skeeter was standing on the right side of the horse, motionless as a statue. The men came up to the left side of the animal.

“Is this the right horse?” asked Tug.

“Uh-huh,” growled one of the men.

“Well, rope her on good,” ordered Tug. “Tie her feet to the stirrups and under the horse’s belly and then tie her to cantle and horn. I hope to —— that somebody killed Sarg. He busted up a good thing for me, —— him! Now, we’ve all got to leave. Anyway, I got that old booze fightin’ lawyer.”

Not a sound came from the muffled figure as they hoisted it to the saddle.

“Go around and rope the other side, Allen,” said Leeds.

Skeeter stepped in close to the horse, and as Allen came up from under the horse’s neck Skeeter brought the barrel of his six-shooter down across his head. Allen dropped without a sound.

“What in —— was that?” asked Leeds.

Skeeter reached out, picked up the reins and with a swift spring swung on behind the saddle. As his left leg whirled across he felt the toe of his boot strike a man in the head.

Came a muffled curse, and the flash of a pistol lit up the scene. The horse whirled sidewise, snorting with fear, and bucked viciously. It was probably its first experience in carrying double and it resented it with every muscle in its body.

Skeeter grasped the swaying figure in both arms, locked his heels into the animal’s flanks and rode as he had never ridden before. They crashed into the corral fence and the horse stumbled to its knees, but floundered back into its stride and pitched straight ahead in the dark, while behind them came curses and pistol shots.

Skeeter had no control over the bucking horse, as he had to devote all his time to keeping himself and the blanketed figure in the saddle from being thrown. He was forced to drop his gun. Leeds and his men had selected a powerful horse—a horse well versed in the arts of bucking, and Skeeter was riding under a handicap. He was unable to judge the future actions of the animal, unable to see where they were going.

Suddenly the animal seemed to spin in the air, came the crash of splintering poles and the horse and its riders came down in a tangle. The horse had bucked sidewise into a pole corral.

Skeeter rolled loose from the tangle, dazedly trying to prevent the horse from regaining its feet. He knew that Mary Leeds’ right foot must be tied to a stirrup and that he must not let the horse get up. Suddenly he realized that the horse was making no effort to rise. It was but the work of a moment to remove the ropes from the stirrup and drag her away from the saddle.

He found a match and scratched it on his boot heel. From the folds of a large blanket Mary Leeds’ frightened eyes looked up into his face.

“Skeeter Bill,” she whispered painfully.

“One and the same,” grinned Skeeter painfully. “We sure do meet in the ——est places, don’t we, ma’am.”

As the match flickered out he saw her eyes close and her body relax.

XI

Skeeter could hear horses running and the hoarse cry of a man, trying to give an order. A running horse passed them and swung to the left beyond the corral fence. Skeeter got to his feet. He was bruised and wrenched and one sleeve of his shirt was missing. He shook the haze from his brain and leaned against the fence.

Skeeter knew that Leeds would not give up trying to get the girl and he laughed foolishly as he thought of Tug Leeds trying to kidnap his own daughter. Then he thought of Judge Tareyton. Events had happened so fast that he had forgotten his old partner.

He picked up the inert figure of the girl and stumbled around the corral, tripping over loose poles in his haste. Shadowy outlines of buildings gave him direction and he weaved toward his shack. He saw the door open and a man went inside, leaving the door half-open. The figure looked big and unreal, as it bulked into the doorway, blotting out the candlelight.

Into the doorway stumbled Skeeter Bill with his burden and stopped, letting the girl half-slide to the floor. Mary Leeds was conscious again and grasped Skeeter for support. Skeeter stared around the room. On the bed was the judge, his face as gray as his unkempt hair. The gross appearance seemed to have left his features—bringing back the old lines of character. The blanket had been pulled to his chin and, except for his eyes, he was as motionless as though dead.

Skeeter’s eyes shifted to McClung, who was standing near the head of the bed, his hands raised as high as his shoulders. Skeeter turned quickly. Standing between him and the door was Tug Leeds, a pistol in each hand and a sneering grin on his face. Mary Leeds shuddered as she clung to Skeeter.

“You was so —— strong for religion, Sarg; go ahead and pray.”

Tug Leeds’ voice was quivering with anger. He stepped slowly around, as if afraid some one might come to the door behind him.

Skeeter Bill made no move. Tug had McClung’s gun, and Tug knew that every one in the room was at his mercy. Skeeter Bill glanced back at the judge, whose burning eyes were fastened on Tug Leeds.

“Where is the preacher?” asked Skeeter softly.

Tug Leeds laughed aloud and without turning his head, pointed toward the corner, where Skeeter could see the crumpled figure of a man.

“Tried to tell me my business,” sneered Tug.

“Well, what do yuh aim to do?” asked Skeeter bluntly.

Tug laughed mockingly.

“You won’t care, Sarg. No, you won’t care, ’cause you won’t see it, —— you; you’ve ruined me in Sunbeam, but it ain’t goin’ to be no satisfaction to you, sabe? I don’t mind tellin’ you that I’m goin’ to take that girl with me.

“I ain’t got a —— bit of use for her, Sarg. I can get all the girls I want—plenty of ’em. You’ve crossed me and I’m doin’ this to make you pay, do yuh understand? When I get through with her she can blame you for it all, and I want you to die knowin’ that I’m doin’ this—not because I want the girl, but because I want to get even with you.”

Skeeter looked down at the terrified eyes of Mary Leeds and back at Tug’s grinning face.

“You can’t take her, Tug.” Skeeter’s voice was cold as ice. “You can kill me, but yuh can’t take her.”

“Can’t I?” laughed Tug. “Who will stop me?”

“You will,” said Skeeter wearily.

Tug leaned closer, his knuckles white around the butt of the heavy caliber pistol.

“I will? Whatcha mean?” Tug’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Talk—can’tcha?”

Skeeter Bill looked at Mary Leeds.

“I’ve gotta do it, ma’am. I don’t want no hurt to come to yuh, but I reckon the hurt is less this way.

He lifted his eyes and stared at Tug Leeds for a moment, and then:

“Tug, you —— near made a big mistake. This girl——”

The shack seemed to shake with a muffled explosion. Skeeter whirled toward the bed, where a cloud of smoke eddied from under the corner of the blanket and a tiny spiral mounted from a torn, smudgy spot just over where the judge’s hand would be.

Beyond a slight jerk, Tug Leeds did not move for a moment. His hand unclasped from the butt of his pistol, which had covered Skeeter, and it fell to the floor. The other pistol dropped from his left hand and he looked foolishly around.

“Well,” he whispered, as if in agreement, “well—that—is—finished—” and fell slowly, as a tree falls.

Skeeter swept the two guns from the floor, looked down at Tug Leeds and then stepped quickly over to the bed, smothering out the fire from Judge Tareyton’s pistol. He looked down at the judge, who was trying to speak.

“Skeeter Bill,” he whispered painfully, “I had to do it to save you both. Keep smiling, son, and don’t forget that God put a spark in you—a spark that will flare up and build a big flame for you—if you let it. I never gave mine a chance, but——”

He tried to lift himself a trifle, but sank back.

“Skeeter Bill, the preacher was right, when he said it was a dim place. Yes, by gad, it’s getting awful dim.”

He smiled up at Skeeter and his voice was barely audible.

“I—I—guess—the—old—lamp—needs—oil.”

Skeeter turned away, his eyes blurred. A man stumbled through the door and stopped near the middle of the room. It was Sandy McClain, hatless, almost shirtless, with a smear of blood across his face and chest. His eyes stared vacantly around the room and came to rest on the prone figure of Tug Leeds.

Mary Leeds stepped in close to Skeeter and grasped him by the arm.

“What—who is that man,” she asked, pointing to Tug. “What were you going to tell him? Who is he?”

“Somebody beat me to it,” said McClain in a hollow voice, shaking his head sadly. “I kinda wanted to kill Tug Leeds myself. I—I wanted to—honestly.”

“Tug Leeds?” asked Mary foolishly, looking up at Skeeter. “Tug Leeds?”

Skeeter nodded.

“Yes, ma’am. I reckon you’ve got to know it sometime.”

“My father?”

Mary Leeds moved forward, staring down at the body of Tug Leeds. Sandy McClain stared at her, open-mouthed, vacantly. He looked at Skeeter Bill and back at her.

Mary turned to Skeeter.

“Why—why didn’t somebody tell me that he was my father?”

McClain stepped closer to her, peering at her face.

“What is your name?” he asked slowly. “Your name?”

“Mary Leeds.”

Sandy McClain stared at her—stared at her as if she was a ghost. A look of wonderment flashed across his face and he glanced quickly around the room. His lips twitched for a moment and he turned back to the girl.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Jane.”

“Jane Holden.”

“Yes,” said Mary Leeds wonderingly. “My father’s name was James Leeds.”

“He was a thief,” said McClain slowly. “He was sent West to buy a lot of cattle, but he—” McClain stopped and looked around. “That was years ago and the West was a long ways from the East. He went back East and lied to those men. He told them that he had been robbed—that a man had impersonated him and cashed the checks. They sent him to prison.”

Mary Leeds looked down at Tug Leeds and shook her head, while the tears ran down her cheeks. She threw out her arms in a gesture of weariness.

“That was not true,” she said brokenly. “I have been trying to find him and tell him it isn’t true, but now——”

“What was that?” exclaimed McClain. “Wasn’t true?”

“No, it wasn’t true. One of the men—a man who knew he was going West with that money, and who followed and helped rob him—died over a year ago, but before he died he confessed enough to clear my father’s name. But my father escaped from prison the night of that confession.”

Mary Leeds dropped on her knees beside Tug Leeds’ body and sobbed brokenly. Sandy McClain, wounded outlaw, laughed hollowly, foolishly. Skeeter Bill stepped in close to him, thinking that McClain had lost his mind, but McClain shoved away from him and weaved over to Mary.

“Get up,” he croaked, and Mary looked appealingly up at him. “Get up! My ——, don’t waste tears on that carrion. That man is the one who impersonated your father. Don’t you hear me? He took the name of Leeds and he’s never been able to change it.”

“This man is not my father?” Mary Leeds got to her feet and stared around. “Not—my—father?”

McClain shook his head.

“No. I knowed your father, Miss. Me and him was in the same penitentiary. That man—” he pointed at Tug Leeds’ body—“that man wasn’t fit to oil his boots. He ruined your father and ended by killing him.”

“What do yuh mean?” gasped Skeeter Bill.

McClain pointed to the bunk.

“Judge Tareyton was James Leeds. I knew his story. My time was up a few days after he escaped.”

McClain finished his explanation and turned toward the door, where a crowd of miners were coming in, headed by Jerry Byler and Dick Franklyn. They stopped and stared at the body of Tug Leeds. The old minister had got to his feet and was looking weakly around, a welter of blood on his gray hair, where Tug had hit him with a gun.

“Boys,” said McClung, “I reckon there ain’t much use for a vigilance committee now. Dick, your pardner was the head of the whole gang.”

“We kinda cleaned up up-town,” nodded Franklyn. “That feller Cullop told us a few things before he cashed in and we rounded up all the rest—cripples and all. Sunbeam is rid of outlaws, Mac—thanks to Sarg.”

“Thanks to Sarg,” said Skeeter Bill slowly. “Boys, I’ve lost my pardner—my old drunken lawyer pardner. I asks yuh to see that he gets p-planted right—preacher and all. He wasn’t much to anybody—but me, don’t yuh see—not while he was alive. I—I reckon I’ll say adios to yuh all, folks.”

Skeeter Bill turned and started for the door. The miners stepped aside to let him pass out, but McClung stopped him at the threshold.

“Sarg, you ain’t goin’ to leave Sunbeam, are yuh?”

Skeeter smiled wistfully and nodded.

“Sunbeam has got to be clean, McClung—clean of outlaws. There’s two left. McClain is entitled to your thanks for what he done tonight, and I know danged well he’ll go straight if yuh give him a chance—and a doctor.

“The other one—” he stopped and glanced back at the figure on the bed—“the other one don’t want no thanks—not till he works that little spark up to a decent-sized blaze. He’s goin’ now—thanks to Sarg.”

He stepped quickly outside and went around the corner toward his little barn. The miners poured question after question at Mary and McClung, but the girl shoved them away and ran to the door.

“Skeeter Bill!” she called. “Skeeter Bill!”

The crowd edged in behind her, wonderingly, silently listening for a reply.

A few moments later it came—a diminuendo of galloping hoofs. Skeeter Bill Sarg was heading for the desert, following a star, which was, as yet, only a tiny spark.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 30, 1922 issue of Adventure magazine.

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by The Ridgway Company in Adventure Magazine, March 30, 1922

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).