Chapter IV

Cautiously, Skeeter lifted his head. The shots had come from the north, and Skeeter caught sight of something moving. It was a man, or men, on horseback. Skeeter’s view was only momentary but Skeeter Bill was not being fooled by anybody. He stayed right there for at least fifteen minutes. There was not a sound. Several cows drifted in from the south and began drinking.

Skeeter Bill walked out and looked at his dummy. One bullet had hit the hat, gone through the thin piece of fence post, mushroomed badly, and blown a hole five inches across at the front of the old hat. Another bullet had struck about a foot lower on the post, and had split it into two pieces. The bullet-hole was a foot below the top of the collar. The third bullet had missed.

“Mighty good shootin’ in that light,” said Skeeter Bill, his face grim. “Either of those bullets would have blasted the life out of a man.”

Skeeter Bill took the coat, hat and overalls. He threw them on his blankets before starting up the slope. He was careful, as he went up through the brush. The killer might not be quite satisfied with his own convictions, and come back to verify them. Bill worked his way slowly, watching the ground. He had gone about a hundred yards when he found where a boot-heel had cut into the dirt.

Then he found where a horse had been tied, and more boot-prints. It was not difficult for Skeeter Bill to backtrack those high-heel tracks, because the man had made no attempt to disguise his trail. Finally he found the spot where the man had rested, waiting for daylight, and here he discovered three empty brass hulls where the man’s rifle had flung them. They were of thirty-thirty caliber and of a well-known brand. Skeeter looked them over carefully and put them in his pocket.

Then he got down on his hands and knees, examining every inch of the dirt around where the man had waited. He rolled and smoked a cigarette before going back to his blankets, which he rolled up, with the bullet-marked clothes, and went to his horse.

Breakfast was almost ready at the ranchhouse as Skeeter dismounted and carried his bundle up to the house. Fuzzy greeted him at the door.

Skeeter Bill merely unrolled the bundle, handed the hat to Fuzzy for examination, and held up the coat for him to look through. Fuzzy squinted at Skeeter, his jaw sagging a little.

“I made up a dummy,” said Skeeter, “and that’s what they done to it. Three shots--two of ’em dead-center.”

Aunt Emma and the two cowboys came in to look at the remains, and they all stood around, solemn-faced.

Fuzzy said, “That kind of ruins my appetite for breakfast, Skeet.”

“Dead-center--twice!” breathed Len Riggs. “How far, Skeet?”

“At least a hundred yards--and in awful bad light, too.”

“Breakfast is ready,” said Aunt Emma soberly.

There was little conversation at breakfast. For once in her life, Aunt Emma had no suggestions. This was a serious business. When they had finished Skeeter and Fuzzy stood outside together.

Fuzzy said, “Skeet, you must have been lookin’ for somethin’ like this, or yuh wouldn’t have made up that dummy.”

Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Just a hunch, Fuzzy--a hunch that worked out.”

“I’m still fightin’ my hat,” said Fuzzy. “Yuh mean to say that they want water so bad that they’re willin’ to murder to keep that spring unfenced?”

Skeeter shook his head slowly. “I don’t, Fuzzy. This deal goes back a couple years, I believe. Somebody don’t want Skeeter Bill Sarg in circulation.”

“Hu-u-uh? You mean--they’re gunnin’ for you Skeet?”

“They knew I was watchin’ that water-hole, Fuzzy, and they believed I was dumb enough to set on that post-pile. My hunch is that the water ain’t got a thing to do with it.”

Fuzzy Davis’ eyes held a strained, nervous expression, as he tried to get the situation straight in his own mind. It was difficult to puzzle out anyone’s reasons for wanting to kill Skeeter Bill. Finally he said:

“I don’t sabe the deal, Skeet. You ain’t had no trouble with anybody around here. Shucks, you jist got here.”

“Take a look at that old hat,” said Skeeter soberly, “and don’t forget they thought my head was inside it.”

* * * * *

Skeeter Bill wanted to go to town, so Fuzzy went with him. They tied their horses to the rail in front of the general store where Skeeter wanted to buy more tobacco. Emory Van Ness, the old merchant, shook hands warmly with Skeeter Bill, and sold him the tobacco.

“I heard you was in town, Skeeter,” he said. “Going to stay with us for a while, I hope.”

“Yuh can’t never tell about me,” replied Skeeter Bill. “I’m a tumble-weed, Emory.”

Skeeter’s eyes swept over the supply of rifle and revolver ammunition on a shelf behind him, but did not see the brand of rifle cartridges he had found at the water-hole.

“Do yuh need some shells?” asked Fuzzy.

“I’ve got plenty for my six-shooter,” replied Skeeter. “Have you got a thirty-thirty, Fuzzy?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one, but the firin’-pin is busted. Been layin’-off to get it fixed, but there ain’t no gunsmith around here.”

Skeeter mentioned the brand of the shells he had found at the water-hole, but Van Ness shook his head slowly.

“We ain’t had none of them for a couple months. Got some ordered. Sam Keenan bought the last box I had. Them others are the same thing. In fact, I have more calls for them.”

They left the store, and Skeeter Bill drifted down to the New York Chop House to say hello to Margie Edwards but she was not in evidence. Another woman was waiting on the tables.

Shorty Hale, the owner, came out from the kitchen, his face just a bit sheepish. Skeeter Bill asked about Margie.

Shorty said, “She quit the job last night.”

“Yea-a-ah? Did she get a better job, Shorty?”

“She--she didn’t say. Just left.”

Skeeter went down to the little house and found Mrs. Edwards laboring over a wash-tub.

“Shorty told me you’d quit the restaurant, Margie,” Skeeter said.

“Shorty must be getting polite,” she said. “He fired me.”

Skeeter looked sharply at her. “What for, Margie?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t have any trouble. Everything was going along all right but when my shift was finished, he told me that I didn’t need to come back.” She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I don’t know what I am going to do now.”

Skeeter Bill turned abruptly and left the house, his long legs taking long strides, as he went back to the restaurant. Shorty came out to the counter and found Skeeter Bill waiting for him. The expression on Skeeter’s face was not pleasant, as he said quietly:

“Why did yuh lie to me, Shorty Hale? She didn’t quit.”

Shorty swallowed painfully, but tried to bluster.

“After all--well, she--”

“Go ahead, Shorty. What did she do--or say?”

“Nothin’,” admitted Shorty miserably. “Listen, Skeeter--this is between me and you--I don’t own this place--I work here. The owner said to get rid of her and I had to do it. Honest I did.”

“Who owns it, Shorty?”

Shorty Hale shook his head. “I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. If I did, I’d lose my job. I’m supposed to own the place. Don’t tell anybody that I don’t. I jist had to tell you.”

“Sam Keenan?” asked Skeeter quietly. Shorty blinked rapidly.

“I can’t tell yuh, Skeeter. It’s my job.”

“Shorty, I want an honest answer; does Sam Keenan try to hang around Margie Edwards?”

“I--I hear he does,” whispered Shorty. “I don’t reckon it’s any secret. He kinda liked her--before Hooty got sent up. It ain’t none of my business, but I heard that he asked her to get a divorce and marry him only a week ago--and she refused. She’s kind of foolish. Sam could give her everythin’ and take care of them two kids.”

“Much obliged, Shorty. I won’t mention it.”

“I--I hope yuh don’t. I need this job, Skeeter.”

Fuzzy Davis was waiting for Skeeter Bill in front of the general store. Skeeter said, “Fuzzy, let’s ride out to the Tumblin’ K and see Sam Keenan. We can cut across the hills from there.”

* * * * *

Grumpily, Fuzzy said it was all right with him, but wondered why Skeeter wanted to go to the Tumbling K. In fact, he was trying hard to understand this tall, long-legged cowpuncher, who had always been more or less of an enigma. On the way out Skeeter said:

“Fuzzy, did you ever know that Sam Keenan was tryin’ to shine around Margie Edwards?”

“Well--uh--oh, I’ve heard he was. Never paid no attention, myself. Why?”

“I just wondered,” replied Skeeter Bill.

Sam Keenan’s place was a regular bachelor ranchhouse, with very few refining touches. There was a long, rickety porch. A man was sitting on the steps, working over a gun. He was “Arizona” Ashley, who had been Keenan’s cook for years, a thin, wiry old-timer. He shook hands violently with Skeeter Bill and Fuzzy, and invited them to sit in the shade.

Ashley said, “Sam went to Silver Springs yesterday afternoon and the boys are all workin’. Sam’ll prob’ly be back late this afternoon. How have yuh been, Skeeter?”

“Just fine, Arizona. Yuh’re lookin’ well.”

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

“What are yuh doin’--gettin’ ready for a war?” asked Fuzzy.

Arizona grinned. “No, I hope I ain’t, Fuzzy. The boys are allus kickin’ about the way this gun shoots, so I thought I’d tinker it a little. Just gettin’ ready to try it out. See that tin can on top of the mesquite out there, Skeet? See if you can hit it.”

Skeeter took the rifle, cuddled the butt against his shoulder, and carefully squeezed the trigger. The tin can jumped into the air and disappeared. Skeeter Bill levered out the empty shell, and handed the gun to Arizona, who said:

“See anythin’ wrong with that gun, Skeet?”

“It shoots where yuh hold it, Arizona.”

“That’s what I allus tell the boys--it ain’t the gun, it’s you.”

“Skeet always could shoot the eye out of a gnat,” said Fuzzy.

“And never lift its eyebrow,” added Arizona soberly. “It’s jist a gift, that’s all. Some folks never can learn. Are yuh stayin’ at Fuzzy’s place, Skeet?”

“Yeah, for a few days. I’m sort of a drifter, Arizona.”

“I know yuh are, and I’m sorry, Skeet. It don’t pay. I used to want to keep movin’, but I finally got smart, and I says to me:

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

“What have yuh got?” asked Skeeter Bill.

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

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

“That’s before I got smart, Fuzzy.”