Chapter I: Front Matter

THE SPARK OF SKEETER BILL

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.