Chapter 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.]