SILVER .41

A Complete Novel by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Hidden Blood,” “The Lovable Liar,” etc.

“Skeeter Bill” Sarg, newly elected sheriff of Moon River County, sat awkwardly at his desk, squinting closely at a strange cowboy who was perched on a chair opposite the sheriff.

This cowboy was not a stranger to Crescent City, but he was to Skeeter Bill, who knew only a few of the riders in that part of the county. This cowboy was of medium height, with black, curly hair cut rather short, high cheek-bones, a slightly flattened nose and deep-set brown eyes. His mouth was narrow, with rather prominent lips, his chin square, with scarcely any depression between his lower lip and chin.

Sitting on his boot-heels, humped back against the office wall was “Kaintuck” Kennedy, Skeeter Bill’s deputy, trying to roll a cigaret with one hand. A pile of torn cigaret papers and spilled tobacco attested to the fact that Kaintuck was not at all proficient.

Skeeter Bill picked up a silver dollar from his desk and looked at it closely. To him it was a perfectly good dollar, a trifle new, but good, honest coin of the realm. He looked back at the stranger.

“How can yuh tell?” he asked.

The strange cowboy smiled knowingly.

“Easy enough. I’ve tested a good many of ’em, Sheriff. That is only one of many.”

“Uh-huh.”

Skeeter took several silver dollars from his pocket and handed them across the table. Unhesitatingly the cowboy selected two of the dollars.

“Yuh mean to say that they’re bad?” asked Skeeter.

“Bad. Yuh might say, they’re both bad and good. In fact, they are almost too good, Sheriff. Combination of lead, silver and glass. Oh sure, they sound good. It would take an expert to detect them—but nevertheless they are counterfeit.”

“Uh-huh. Where do yuh reckon they’re made?”

“Somewhere in Moon River Valley.” The man lowered his voice. “It has taken the Government over a year to trace it to this valley. My work has been confined to range cases, because I can qualify as a cowpuncher.

“I came here with the intention of working alone. It is not our policy to take the local officers into our confidence until the actual arrests are ready to be made. I have been working at the Tin Cup ranch for a month, and before that I was at the Lazy H.

“But I seem to be up against a stone wall, Sheriff. That money comes out of Moon River Valley, just as sure as eggs are eggs; but I am free to admit that there isn’t a clue of any kind to work on.”

“Yuh said yore name was Frank Moran, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah.”

“Pleased t’meetcha, Moran. That’s Kaintuck Kennedy over by the wall, Moran. He’s my deputy.”

Kaintuck looked up and grinned—

“Howdy. Didja ever learn to roll ’em with one hand?”

“Never tried it,” smiled Moran. “Looks easy.”

“Yeah, it does,” admitted Kaintuck. “Like catchin’ counterfeiters.”

“That’s right,” laughed Moran. “Mebbe you’ve got an idea how to catch ’em, Kennedy.”

“Uh-huh. Use the same scheme that ‘Frenchy’ Le Blanc used. He was runnin’ a sort of a store up in the Bitter Roots, and he does a credit business. Frenchy don’t know one figure from another; so he figures out a lot of funny marks that mean so-and-so owes him a certain amount.

“He writes all these funny marks on a board, and when he collects all his debts, he planes the board off and starts in all over again. One day he sells somebody a case of aigs, and forgets who it is.

“So at the end of the month he charges up one case of aigs to everybody that deals with him. He had three fights before he hit the right party, but he got paid for his aigs—four times. Now, my idea would be to arrest everybody in Moon River Valley that had one of them bad dollars in their pocket.”

“You’d probably get into a lot of trouble,” laughed Moran.

“Yeah—” dryly. “And you’d probably get a —— of a lot of criminals, too.”

“Kaintuck is a pessimist,” grinned Skeeter. “He never sees any good in anythin’.”

“Only when I look in the mirror, Skeeter. Say, Moran, is all them dollars the same date?”

“No. They’ve made several molds. Most of ’em are from 1899 to 1906. I’m expectin’ you boys to keep all this under your hats, of course.”

“Sure thing,” nodded Skeeter. “It’s somethin’ I don’t know a danged thing about. I dunno how they’d go ahead to make the money; but I’m takin’ yore word for it, Moran. Quite likely they’ll object to bein’ caught, eh?”

“Uncle Sam does not deal lightly with counterfeiters.”

“You’ve been takin’ a big chance—workin’ alone.”

“We have to take a chance.” Moran got to his feet. “If it was known who I am, I wouldn’t last a week. I am lettin’ you in on this, Sheriff, because I need help, and because of another reason. Here.”

He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Skeeter Bill. It read—

Frank Moran: Would advise taking up matter with new sheriff. Know him to be capable man. Must get action soon or relinquish the case, because it is taking too long to suit the Department. My regards to the sheriff. (Signed) Long.

“‘Shorty’ Long, U. S. marshal, eh?” smiled Skeeter Bill, handing back the letter. “Yeah, I sure know him.”

“Good old Shorty,” nodded Moran. “He’s sure a white man.”

“Yeah,” nodded Skeeter thoughtfully. “Shorty sure is. Yuh never happened to hear him tell about the time he herded sheep down in Sundance Flats, did yuh?” Skeeter laughed softly.

“No, he never told me about it,” grinned Moran. “But one of his deputies started to tell me the story one day, and somethin’ interrupted him; so I never heard it.”

“Well, you git him to tell yuh,” laughed Skeeter. “I’d only spoil it.”

“I sure will,” grinned Moran. “Well, I’ll mosey along. Probably drop in here in a few days and see what you’ve found out. In case yuh write to Long, tell him I’m doin’ the best I can. Yuh might explain what I’m up against, Sheriff. I’ve tried to show ’em, but they probably don’t understand.

“In another letter he suggests sendin’ in another man to help me, but that would only complicate matters, don’tcha see. These counterfeiters are always lookin’ for Government men, and they’d be suspicious of a stranger.”

“That’s a cinch,” nodded Skeeter. “I’ll see what I can find out and let yuh know. If it was rustlers or bank robbers, I’d stand a show; but bad money is sure a new proposition to me.” He shook hands with Moran, who went back up the street. Skeeter sat down and squinted at Kaintuck, who was still tearing cigaret papers and spilling tobacco.

“How long do yuh reckon it’ll take yuh to learn to roll one cigaret one-handed, Kaintuck?” he asked curiously.

“How long?” Kaintuck grinned lazily. “Well, I dunno, Skeeter. Prob’ly as long as it’ll take you to catch a counterfeiter.”

“I’m scared yo’re goin’ to waste a lot of tobacco, cowboy.”

“And yo’re goin’ to waste a lot of time, Skeeter.”

“Time don’t mean nothin’ on this job,” laughed Skeeter. “I’m goin’ to be here for two years.”

It was Skeeter’s first month as sheriff of Moon River County, and the job was still a mystery to him. He knew nothing of clerical work. Kaintuck Kennedy knew even less than Skeeter Bill.

Even the election was a surprize to Skeeter. He had not expected to be elected. In fact he had won by eleven votes, which was a substantial majority in Moon River.

Skeeter was tall, thin, and with a serious expression. But he was not always serious. Back of those level gray eyes and inquisitive eyebrows was an over-developed sense of humor, and he had the faculty of wearing the same expression under all conditions.

As one of his staunch supporters had said—

“Skeeter Bill shore is fitted to this new job. Havin’ been a real good horse-thief, he’s able to think like one; and that helps a lot, when yo’re huntin’ one.”

All of which shows that Skeeter Bill’s past did not interfere with his present and future. Until his election he had been working for the KG7 outfit, twenty miles south of Crescent City, the county seat. He and Kaintuck had bunked together, and it was entirely fitting that he make Kaintuck his deputy.

Kaintuck was the opposite physically to Skeeter Bill. He was not over five feet seven inches in height, rather stout and bow-legged. He tried hard to wear a mustache, but it was rather a dismal failure; being wispy and yellow, one end insisting on twisting toward his chin, while the other pointed indifferently toward his eye.

“Looks like somebody had pasted a danged S on yore lip,” was Skeeter’s opinion. “Yuh ought to get a crutch for one end, or hang a weight on the other.”

Crescent City was a nondescript cattle town. A branch line of the N. W. railroad swung in out of the desert, wound its way through a pass, and into the valley; only to leave by another heavily graded pass.

The main street of the town was crooked, as though one end of the place did not care to have the other end know what it was doing. Being the county seat, it naturally became the center of industry. Twenty miles to the north was a fairly new mining district, which outfitted at Crescent City, although the Silver Bell mine was the only one to employ any great number of men.

A two-horse stage made tri-weekly trips to the Silver Bell district, carrying the mail and express. It was a bad road, built with an idea of economy, and naturally followed the lines of least resistance. An empty buggy was a good load for two horses, but the turns were so short and the road so narrow that four horses would have been just two too many.

There were a number of cattle outfits in the valley, but the Tin Cup and the Lazy H were the largest. The Tin Cup brand was owned by “Monk” Clark, who raised both horses and cattle, while the Lazy H, Sam Ertle’s brand, raised only such horses as were needed in handling their cattle.

Both Clark and Ertle had worked against Skeeter in the campaign. Clark had thought himself sort of a political boss in Moon River County, and a defeat did not please him in the least.

Monk Clark was a big, burly man, middle-aged, and with a hair-trigger disposition. Sam Ertle was small, wiry, soft-spoken, and a very capable cattleman. He had only operated the Lazy H for about fifteen months, having bought it in at a sale, after Cleve Hart, the original owner, had been killed.

Skeeter Bill had never had any serious trouble with either of them, and their opposition to his election was merely because of political differences.

For several minutes after Moran left the office Skeeter silently contemplated his two counterfeit dollars. Kaintuck continued to tear papers and spill tobacco.

“You got any silver dollars?” asked Skeeter. Kaintuck looked up at him.

“Have I got any silver dollars?” Kaintuck rubbed his chin and squinted at Skeeter. “Cowboy, I reckon I know what yo’re thinkin’ about, and all I can do is shake my head and hope you’ll believe me. I know how yuh feel about them two dollars that just spoiled on yuh. Yo’re melancholy, that’s all—and misery likes company.”

“But it ain’t ethical for yuh to spend bad money.”

“I ain’t spendin’ it, am I?”

“That’s true. If I was a detective I’d know what to do. Dang that feller, anyway! I’m supposed to investigate on the quiet. Investigate what?”

“Counterfeitin’,” grinned Kaintuck. “Kinda make a house-to-house canvass, and ask everybody if they’ve seen anybody makin’ bad money. Yuh might start out by—”

“Gettin’ killed,” finished Skeeter. “When it comes to detectin’, me and you run a dead-heat.”

“Prob’ly. Still there’s one satisfaction, Skeeter; yuh don’t have to catch ’em. There ain’t nothin’ in yore oath of office that says you’ve got to catch counterfeiters.”

“No, that’s right, too, Kaintuck. I wish somebody would rob a bank or steal a horse to take this off my mind.”

“Mine too,” said Kaintuck seriously. “I ain’t took a shot at anybody since I’ve been a deputy. ——! If I thought that all sheriffs and deputies was as incompetent as we are, I’d resign right now and take up horse stealin’. I shore would, Skeeter.”

Kaintuck walked to the office door and slouched against the side.

“Train’s in,” he announced.

A few moments later he looked back at Skeeter and said—

“Looks like a couple of drummers had come in, Skeeter.”

“Tell ’em we ain’t buyin’ nothin’ today.”

“One of ’em has got on a hard hat. I’ll betcha they’re comin’ to see us, Skeeter.”

Skeeter got to his feet and walked to the doorway, where he watched the two middle-aged, well-dressed men approach the office door. He nodded to them and they stopped.

“Howdy, folks,” said Skeeter pleasantly.

“How do you do?” said one of them, looking at the sign over the door. “Thought perhaps you would be able to furnish us with some information. We are on our way to the Silver Bell mine, and it seemed impossible for us to get reliable information as to when the stage trips are made.”

“You just about hit it,” said Skeeter, squinting up the street. “The stage is about due to travel, I think. Stay on this side of the street and yuh can’t miss it.”

They thanked him and went on.

“Them ain’t drummers,” declared Kaintuck.

“No-o-o? Jist how do yuh read their sign?”

“Don’t have to read, Skeeter. What in —— would a drummer do at the Silver Bell—sell ’em some silver?”

Skeeter grinned slowly.

“You’ve got all the instincts of a successful detective, Kaintuck Kennedy. Let’s me and you go and find somethin’ to eat. We ought to be detectives enough to find food.”

They closed the office, crossed the street and walked past the big Half-Moon Saloon and gambling house to a little Chinese restaurant. Several cowboys were eating their noonday meal, and one of them waved a fork at them as they sat down.

“That’s ‘Curley’ Adams,” said Kaintuck. “He worked for the KG7 before yuh came, Skeeter. He’s with the Tin Cup now.”

Adams was a young man, with a pleasant, devil-may-care sort of face, and a winning smile. In a few minutes he came over and shook hands with Kaintuck, who introduced him to Skeeter.

“Yo’re with the Tin Cup, ain’t yuh, Curley?” asked Kaintuck.

“Yeah. I’ve been out there almost a year now, Kaintuck. How do yuh like bein’ a deputy sheriff?”

“Got a good bed,” grinned Kaintuck. “Been settin’ on a chair for so long that my legs prob’ly won’t bend sideways enough to let me set in a saddle. Yo’re stickin’ to the job kinda steady, ain’t yuh, Curley?”

“Yeah,” Curley flushed slightly. “Savin’ my money these days. Yuh see, I’ve kinda got an idea I’d like to have somethin’ for myself, Kaintuck.”

“Yea-a-a-a-ah? My ——!” Kaintuck opened his eyes wide and stared at Skeeter. “I’ll betcha the boy’s in love!”

Curley’s ears grew red and he tried to smile.

“Don’t try to fool yore Uncle Dudley,” warned Kaintuck. “I sabe all about it. Now, you take my advice and—”

“Don’t do it, Adams,” advised Skeeter. “I mean—don’t take his advice. He’s never been married, and I don’t reckon he’s ever been in love; so tighten yore own cinch.”

“Ain’t never been in love!” Kaintuck snorted loudly. “Say, I’m the jigger that showed Romeo what to say.”

“You’d run if a woman tried to speak to yuh.”

“Shore I would. ’F you had as much experience as I have, you’d run, too. I could write books about my love experiences.”

Curley Adams laughed and walked out with the other cowboys from the Tin Cup ranch. Kennedy squinted after them, a grin on his lips.

“I wonder who the girl is, Skeeter?” he said. “Curley shore is a real nice boy. He ain’t as wild as the rest of that gang, and he’s got brains enough to start out for himself.”

“Other folks’ matrimonial affairs don’t interest me none,” said Skeeter thoughtfully. “I can’t think of nothin’ but bad dollars these days. Tomorrow me and you start detectin’.”

“Sounds good,” grinned Kaintuck. “I’ve read detective stories and they shore listened real good. But yuh got to find yuh a clue, Skeeter. Yuh never get nowhere without a clue.”

“I’ve got me one.”

“Yuh have? Gee, that’s fine! Lemme hear it.”

“I will not. Go get yore own clue, Kaintuck.”

“Shucks! Ain’t it big enough for two of us?”

“Well,” explained Skeeter softly, “it ain’t big enough yet. Mebbe it’ll grow, and if it gets big enough, and you ain’t got one by that time, mebbe I’ll let yuh gnaw on a corner of mine.”

A buckboard, drawn by a pair of tired-looking bronchos, bumped along over the dusty road, heading away from Crescent City and going toward the HG ranch, which was located about five miles east of the town.

Hank Gregory, the owner of the ranch, humped over in his seat, the reins held loosely in his big hands, while beside him sat his twenty-year-old daughter, Joy. The rear of the buckboard held a trunk and numerous hand-baggage.

There had been no rain for months in the Moon River Valley, and the yellow dust of the road was fetlock deep to the horses. It rolled up on the wheels, drifting away in clouds to turn more gray the immediate landscape.

It was a fairly steady climb from town to the HG ranch, the road winding through brushy coulées, twisting to higher ground, where patches of alkali, like spilled mortar, made huge gaps in the purple and gray of the sage.

To the eastward towered the blue line of the main divide, as if a painter had swept a full brush of blue to break the line between the gray of the hills and the pale blue of the sky. Grasshoppers buzzed and crackled away from the plodding team, and from along the slope came the piping bark of a prairie-dog, as though protesting against any one stirring up so much dust.

Gregory was a big, slow-moving sort of person, with iron-gray hair and a deeply lined face. Joy did not resemble her paternal ancestor in any way. She was not beautiful, but by no means unbeautiful. Joy Gregory was just an average girl; possibly a trifle more capable than the average, due to living where capability rates higher than feminine attractiveness.

She studied the serious profile of her father’s face for several moments, as they rode along through the filmy dust.

“Dad, you don’t seem glad to have me back,” she said.

He glanced sideways at her, spat over the wheel and cleared his throat.

“No, you don’t need to fix up any excuse,” she said quickly. “You can’t blame me, Dad. Aunt Emma died so suddenly that I hardly knew what to do; and you couldn’t expect me to stay down there in Cheyenne alone. I know what you want to say. You contend that a cattle ranch is no place for a young lady. Well, what’s to be done about it? I’m here.”

“Yeah, yo’re here,” nodded Gregory grimly.

“And I’ve been away a year,” said Joy slowly, “and my own father never said he was glad to see me.”

“Joy, don’t say that. I’m glad to see yuh. But I’ve always said—”

“That a cattle ranch wasn’t any place for your daughter. My mother was the daughter of a rancher.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“And I’m as good at punching cows as any man, Dad.”

Gregory snorted and helped himself to another huge chew of tobacco. He had his own ideas of how his daughter should be raised.

“And besides,” Joy smiled softly, “I might marry a cowboy.”

“That’s what I reckoned—” dryly. “Curley Adams, eh?”

Joy laughed.

“Quien sabe, Dad? I haven’t seen Curley for over a year. But he writes wonderful letters. Curley is educated. He has been saving his money all that year, and—who knows?”

“Yeah! He must ’a’ saved as much as four hundred dollars in a year. That won’t give him much of a start.”

“You started on nothing, Dad.”

Gregory winced slightly, but did not reply.

“And he’s honest,” continued Joy. “That is something that you can’t say about a majority of the cowpunchers in the Moon River hills.”

“Well, we won’t argue that point, Joy. There’s a lot of honest men in the poorhouse.”

“But not many in the penitentiary.”

Gregory laughed shortly.

“I’ve had the last word on the HG ranch for over a year, but I’m runnin’ second now. Well, there’s the old starve-to-death layout, Joy. It ain’t changed much in a year, has it?”

They had driven around the point of a hill, where they might look down at the sprawling buildings of the little ranch. It was located on a little flat, at the mouth of a cañon; a huddle of one-story buildings, sheds and corrals. None of the buildings had ever felt the caress of a paint-brush.

Two huge oaks shaded the rambling old ranch-house, giving a note of color to the otherwise drab exterior. Several horses drowsed inside the pole-corrals, a tall, red steer poked around the fence, picking up an occasional straw, while a flock of mongrel chickens chased grasshoppers in the front yard of the ranch-house.

“No-o-o-o, it hasn’t changed much,” agreed Joy. “I don’t believe that the red steer was there the last time I saw it; so there is some change, Dad. I don’t suppose the house has been cleaned since I left.”

“Yes it has. When I got yore letter, I had old ‘Calamity’ give it a cleanin’.”

“I’ll bet it was good,” laughed Joy. “How is old Calamity?”

“Well, I dunno. The —— old mossback is prob’ly a little worse than he was a year ago.”

They drove up to the front of the ranch-house and Calamity came out to greet them. No one had ever known—that is, no one in Moon River Valley had ever known—what his right name was.

He was just Calamity; a thin-faced, hawk-nosed, little old man; philosopher, liar, who loved his friends, but cursed them as thoroughly as he did his enemies. Calamity lived almost entirely in the past, when he was a gunman, and when, as he expressed it—

“There wasn’t a —— stran’ of bob-wire as long as yore finger from Laredo to the No’th Pole.”

“Hello, Calamity!” called Joy.

The old man came slowly out to the buckboard, squinting at her, as if trying to remember her, although he knew she was coming.

“Well, ’f it ain’t little Joy!” he exploded. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! Growed up so I didn’t know yuh. Took one look at yuh, and I says to myself, ‘Darned if Hank ain’t brought a strange woman home with him.’ I did so.

“Brought yore trunk, too. Look at the valises! Whooee! Say, I knowed a woman that traveled plumb from the Gulf of Mexico to Astoria, Oregon, and didn’t even have a pocket-book.”

Joy laughed, as she dismounted—

“That woman must have had a tough time, Calamity.”

“She died before she started the trip,” laughed Calamity. “They took her no’th in a casket. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Well, I s’pose I’ve got to unload that trunk. Oh, I ain’t foolin’ myself. I know what a woman’s trunk usually weighs.”

Joy laughed and ran up the front steps into the house, while Gregory helped Calamity remove the trunk. Joy looked around the living-room, a frown between her eyes. Everywhere was dirt. She kicked aside a Navajo rug, disclosing a great accumulation. Calamity had made the cleaning as easy as possible for himself.

Her father and Calamity came in with the trunk and found her inspecting Calamity’s trash-heap.

“That’s a woman for yuh,” wailed Calamity. “They’ve got to uncover all the scandal they can find. Them dirt-heaps has been as safe as a church all this time.” Calamity shook his head sadly. “I suppose you’ll be washin’ winders next.”

“They need it,” said Joy. “Why, you can’t see through any of them.”

“Well, why should yuh? There ain’t nothin’ to look at out there, Joy. And nobody can shoot yuh through a winder they can’t see through. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“Well, I’d rather be shot than to live like a pig,” retorted Joy. “Put a kettle of water on the stove.”

“Yes’m.” Calamity became very meek and hastened to comply with her orders.

He knew that his usual equivocations would have little effect on Joy.

He put a big kettle of water on the stove, filled up the firebox and went outside, where he joined Gregory, who was unhitching the team.

“Joy goin’ to stay here?” asked Calamity.

“Yeah. Where in —— else can she stay?”

“Yuh don’t need to git mad at me about it, Hank. I jist asked, tha’sall. A year has shore made a lot of difference with that girl, Hank. She’s a woman.”

“Uh-huh.”

Gregory stripped the harness off a horse and let the animal loose. He hung up the harness and leaned against a corner of the shed, watching two riders who were coming in from the west.

It was Monk Clark and Frank Moran, the government detective, who had talked with Skeeter Bill. They rode up to Gregory and Calamity. Clark had seen Joy through the open door, as he rode past the house.

“Howdy, gents,” he greeted them.

They returned the greeting in kind. Clark jerked a gloved thumb toward the house, as though in interrogation.

“Joy came this mornin’,” said Gregory. “I got a letter from her last night, and had to drive in this mornin’. Her aunt died in Cheyenne, and she had to come home.”

“Huh!”

Clark turned his head and squinted toward the house, where Joy was hanging some Navajo rugs over the railing of the porch.

“Young lady, eh?” smiled Moran.

“Woman,” corrected Calamity.

Monk Clark smiled. He was a big, rawboned individual, possibly forty years of age. His face was heavily lined, rather sullen in repose, his eyes scarcely ever more than half-open. His mouth was wide, thin-lipped, and decorated with a black, brushlike mustache.

Clark wanted to boss Moon River Valley politically, and had succeeded fairly well until the recent election. His candidates for prosecuting attorney and sheriff had both been defeated, and those were the two offices that Clark particularly wanted to dominate.

“Yeah, she’s a woman now,” nodded Clark.

“And a pretty one,” added Moran. “I’d like to meet her, Gregory.”

Hank Gregory squinted at Moran.

“Yeah? Well, I reckon yuh can. C’mon.”

The four men walked to the porch, and Joy shook hands with Monk Clark before she was introduced to Frank Moran. After the introduction Joy excused herself and went back to her work.

“Hm-m-m-m,” mused Clark aloud. “And she’s only been away a little over a year, eh? Big change, Hank. Goin’ to keep her here at the ranch?”

“Until she mates up with some cowpuncher, I s’pose.”

“And that won’t be long,” laughed Moran. “I haven’t seen many like her in Moon River Valley.”

“Don’t let yore rope drag too much,” advised Clark coldly.

Moran laughed softly.

“My rope ain’t draggin’, Boss. But I’ve got a good pair of eyes.”

A few minutes later Clark and Moran left the ranch and rode toward Crescent City. Clark seemed very thoughtful, and his demeanor drew a smile from Moran.

“That HG ranch ain’t such a nice place for a young lady,” offered Moran.

“No,” said Clark shortly. “Joy is a nice girl.”

“Looks nice.”

“Yeah.”

They rode into Crescent City and tied their horses at the Half-Moon hitch-rack. It was in the middle of the week, and there was little activity in Crescent City, except on Saturday and Sunday.

Curley Adams was coming up the street, and met them at the door of the Half-Moon.

“How soon can yuh give me my time, Monk?” asked Curley.

“Eh? You quittin’ the Tin Cup, Curley?”

“Yeah. I just bought out the old Box X brand.”

Clark shoved the sombrero back on his head and squinted at Curley.

“You bought the old Box X ranch?”

“Well, there wasn’t much to buy,” admitted Curley. “The old buildings are pretty badly shot to pieces, and there ain’t nothin’ much left, except the brand—but it’s a start.”

“Yea-a-ah, I suppose it is,” Monk Clark grinned slowly. “All yuh need is some cattle and horses, Curley.”

“Well, they’ll come, Monk.”

“Uh-huh,” Monk scratched his chin reflectively and smiled at Curley. “One thing yuh got to remember, young man—there’s a maverick law in this country now. All mavericks belong to the Cattlemen’s Association. It ain’t what it used to be.”

“When you started, eh?”

Moran laughed, when Monk’s ears turned red. It was well known that Monk Clark had been a great gatherer of mavericks—unbranded calves, which had been weaned, and on which any man might put his own brand.

It had been a legitimate procedure, until the practice became such a source of profit that some men did not wait for the calf to desert its mother. They forced the issue and got rich on the results. It was a common occurrence for one man’s cows to bring in twin calves, while the cows of his neighbor brought in nothing but a sad expression.

“Well, yuh might say that things have changed,” admitted Monk Clark coldly.

He did not relish having any one laugh at him.

“You’ve got about thirty-five dollars comin’, ain’t yuh, Curley? I’ll buy a drink. C’mon.”

They entered the saloon, ordered their drinks, and Clark counted out the money to Adams.

“So yo’re goin’ to be a cattleman, eh?” queried Monk. “It’s a long, hard pull, Curley. Better stick to a salary.”

Curley shook his head.

“Not for mine, Monk. I’ve got to get somethin’ for myself, and I don’t know anythin’ but cows.”

“You own a horse and a rope, don’t yuh?” asked Moran.

Curley turned his head and looked at Moran.

“Yeah.”

“Well, what more could yuh want? Many a puncher has got rich—if he didn’t get hung in his own loop.”

“Thank yuh,” coldly.

“Oh, yuh don’t need to get frosty, Adams. I don’t know how yuh ever expect to make a livin’ off that old Box X—and keep honest.”

“Maybe I won’t make a livin’, Moran.”

Moran laughed sneeringly.

“Oh, I guess you’ve got it figured out all right.”

Splat! Curley’s fist landed just beneath Moran’s left cheek-bone, knocking him the full length of the bar, where he went flat on his back. A little lower and Moran would have been completely knocked out, but as it was he was so badly dazed that he goggled foolishly, while his left eye puffed rapidly, assuming a deep mauve tint.

“I’d swear to gosh, that was some punch,” observed the bartender blandly.

He was used to scenes of violence. Curley started toward the prostrate Moran, but Monk Clark stopped him.

“That’s a-plenty,” said Clark. “Let him get up now.”

Moran got slowly to his feet, and Clark stepped aside, as though to give Moran a chance to retaliate; but the fight had all been taken out of Moran. He leaned against the bar and felt tenderly of his eye, which was completely shut now.

“Next time,” said Curley softly, “yuh might do a little thinkin’ before yuh speak, Moran.”

“I might,” nodded Moran. “Mebbe I will, and mebbe I won’t.”

He picked up his hat, yanked it viciously down on his head and strode toward the door.

Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck were coming in, and Moran halted to let them in before he went out. Kaintuck squinted at the swollen eye and whistled softly.

“Stick flew up and hit yuh, eh?” he questioned.

Moran snarled an unintelligible answer and brushed past them into the street.

“Must ’a’ been at least a cord of wood,” declared Kaintuck, as they turned toward the bar. Curley was caressing his sore knuckles, but grinned at them.

“What happened?” asked Kaintuck.

Monk Clark moved away from the bar, but did not speak to either Skeeter Bill or Kaintuck.

“Moran spoke before he thought,” said the bartender.

“Didn’t amount to anythin’,” said Curley easily. “Merely a difference of opinion.”

“Must ’a’ been quite a difference,” grinned Kaintuck. “I heard that yuh bought the old Box X, Curley.”

“Uh-huh—today, Kaintuck.”

“By golly, that’s fine. And the next thing will be the weddin’ bells, I suppose. Whooee! Won’t we have some shivaree!”

“I’m afraid that’s a long time off,” said Curley.

“Picked the girl, ain’tcha?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Say! Yo’re half married right now. Will she have yuh?”

“Wait a minute,” cautioned Skeeter Bill. “This ain’t no place to discuss such things, Kaintuck. Let’s have a drink.” Skeeter turned and motioned to Monk Clark.

“Have a drink?”

“No, thank yuh.” Clark shook his head and walked out of the saloon.

Moran was not in sight. Clark crossed the street and walked to the little post-office, where he secured the ranch mail. Old Abe Neeley, who wore his glasses on the end of his nose and chewed tobacco so violently that the glasses seemed to oscillate continually, was the postmaster.

“How’s everythin’ at the Tin Cup, Monk?” he asked.

“All right, Abe. What’s new around here?”

“New, ——! Nothin’ ever happens around here. Didja know that Hank Gregory’s daughter came home t’day? Changed a lot in a year. Stopped here for the mail, and I didn’t hardly know her. Thought Joy Gregory was goin’ t’ be one of them runty kind of females; but she sure talled up considerable.

“Shouldn’t be surprized ’f we had a weddin’ around here after while, unless I’ve read the signs all wrong.”

“Weddin’? Who’s goin’ to get married?” asked Monk.

Old Abe chawed reflectively for several moments.

“Well, as I done said, the signs look right. For the past year I’ve been gettin’ letters for Curley Adams, sent from Cheyenne; and every few days he posts one to Miss Joy Gregory, Cheyenne. Big, fat letters too, Monk. A feller don’t waste two-cent stamps and good paper, ’less he means somethin’.”

Monk nodded thoughtfully. So that was who Kaintuck Kennedy had meant, he mused. Curley Adams had bought out the Box X, and was going to marry Joy Gregory.

“Of course, I may be wrong,” admitted old Abe.

“Yuh may be,” nodded Monk. “If I was you I wouldn’t tell any more people about it. Yuh might get yore foot in it, Abe.”

“Well, yeah, I s’pose that’s right, too.”

Clark left the post-office and met Moran at the hitch-rack, where they mounted their horses and started toward the Tin Cup ranch.

“Does yore eye hurt yuh much?” asked Clark.

“Not much,” sullenly.

“Get a piece of fresh beef from the cook and bind it on. It’ll take the swellin’ out.”

“Yeah. I suppose that —— fool thinks he can do things like that and get away with it.”

Monk Clark turned in his saddle and looked at the disgruntled Moran.

“You shot off yore face too much, Moran, and got what was comin’ to yuh. Let it drop now. Curley is touchy about his honesty. He’s on the square; so let him alone, sabe?”

“All right. Just the same—”

“We won’t argue about it, Frank. He knocked yuh loose from yore boots and made yuh goggle like an owl. If it had been guns instead of fists, you’d be gettin’ a measure for a pine overcoat. Curley Adams is just too —— smart with a gun for you.”

“You talk like he was yore best friend, Monk.”

“Well, he’s not,” denied Clark. “But I like to give the devil his due. I’m just tellin’ yuh this, Frank; it might save yuh a lot of skin to know that Curley Adams can whip yuh at any mark in the road, and if yuh intend to swap lead with him—don’t let him know it ahead of time, tha’sall.”

“Much obliged, Monk.”

“Oh, ——, yo’re welcome.”

Kaintuck hungered for action. Neither he nor Skeeter Bill had seen anything of Frank Moran since Curley Adams had hit him, which was several days ago. Kaintuck complained audibly because Skeeter Bill would not share his clue with him. Then he grew skeptical, pessimistic.

“You ain’t got no clue, Skeeter,” he declared.

“I’ve got one,” grinned Skeeter, “but I dunno how good it is. Let’s me and you ride out and see what Curley Adams is doin’ to the poor old Box X.”

“That’s a good idea, Skeeter. I’m shore tired of the fish-pots of civilization, and I crave a ride on a horse.”

“Yuh mean flesh-pots, don’tcha, Kaintuck?”

“I stand corrected, but not convinced. A man’s a sucker to stick around a town—and if a sucker ain’t fish, I’m a camel.”

They saddled their horses and rode out of town. The Box X was located northeast of Crescent City and about midway between the Tin Cup and the HG. It was a tumbledown sort of a place, the oldest brand in the valley, and in recent years it had gone from bad to worse.

Ownership had finally descended to Mike Gower, proprietor of a general merchandise store, who had probably taken it for a debt. There were several good water-holes, a running stream and a well-known brand.

Perhaps Curley Adams had visions of building it up again and making it a producing outfit. It would take several hundred dollars to repair the buildings—and it takes money to start a herd—but Curley was young and optimistic.

Skeeter and Kaintuck rode north out of town, left the main highway and went into the hills. There was no hurry; so they poked along lazily. The average cowpuncher is not a fast rider, except in an emergency.

They rode up a long slope through greasewood and sage, following one of the ages-old trails, which led out over a pinnacle, giving them a fine view of the Moon River Valley, although slightly hazy in the heat.

To the west, far down the valley they could see the green line of foliage which marked the course of Moon River. It swung in to the south of Crescent City, fading to a thin line where it entered San Gregario cañon.

Northward they could follow the course of the road, which led to the higher hills at the Silver Bell mine, where the deep cañons already showed purple in the haze. To the east stretched the broken hills of the Tin Cup and Box X ranches.

A bunch of range horses filed slowly out of the cañon to the north, stopped against the skyline and considered the two riders on the pinnacle. Evidently not caring for closer associations, they wheeled and disappeared over the ridge.

Skeeter Bill puffed slowly on his cigaret, his eyes half closed against the strong light.

“Must ’a’ been quite a lot of noise around here when this country was in the makin’, Kaintuck. Some of it got blowed up and some got blowed down.”

“Uh-huh,” said Kaintuck meditatively. “I’ve often wondered if this country was made on purpose.”

“I reckon there was a reason, Kaintuck. But me and you ain’t goin’ to argue about it jist now. Let’s move on.”

They were within about a mile of the Box X, riding around the head of a brushy coulée, when Skeeter reined in his horse and squinted down across the hills.

“Whatcha see?” asked Kaintuck, reining in his horse.

“Couple of coyotes,” said Skeeter.

He looped one leg around the horn of his saddle and began rolling a cigaret.

“Couple of coyotes?” queried Kaintuck. “My gosh, this sure is awful! Yuh don’t reckon they’ll bite us, do yuh, mister?”

“Yuh never can tell about a coyote,” said Skeeter seriously, as he scratched a match on his chaps and lighted his cigaret.

“Do yuh reckon we better turn back?” grinned Kaintuck.

“No, we’ll turn down. C’mon.”

Skeeter rode straight down the side of the coulée, fairly sliding his horse through the thick brush. Kaintuck swore at Skeeter for being a fool, but followed him down.

About a hundred yards from where they had entered the coulée, Skeeter pulled up his horse and they dismounted.

“Them coyotes came out of the coulée just about here,” said Skeeter. “Smell it, Kaintuck?”

“Somethin’ has been dead,” nodded Kaintuck, wrinkling his nose.

Skeeter circled back through the brush, while Kaintuck held the two horses. In a few minutes he heard Skeeter calling him.

“Tie them horses and come over here,” called Skeeter.

Kaintuck had little trouble locating Skeeter, and he could see that Skeeter was deadly serious.

Kaintuck shoved his way through the brush and stood beside Skeeter, who was looking down at the skeleton of a man. The coyotes had torn the bones apart, and there were only shreds of cloth to show that the body had once been clothed.

“That’s what my hunch done for me,” said Skeeter softly. “When I seen them two coyotes, I got a hunch to see what they had been feedin’ on.”

Kaintuck squatted on his heels and looked at the bones. It was the first time he had ever seen the skeleton of a man, and there was something fascinating about the grisly, grinning skull, which had once been the head of a man.

“Ain’t a darned thing left to show who he was,” stated Skeeter mournfully. “Mebbe some old prospector that died a natural death.”

“Might be,” said Kaintuck sadly. “He ain’t been dead so awful long.”

They rolled smokes and considered their find. A couple of magpies swooped up the swale, cackling angrily when they discovered that some human beings were interfering with their prospective meal.

“No, I don’t reckon he’s been dead so awful long,” said Skeeter. “The coyotes and magpies would pick him pretty clean in a week. I dunno what we’re goin’ to do with him, Kaintuck. It’s a cinch we can’t carry him back on our horses, and we ain’t got no right to bury him.

“Suppose we hang the bones up in a tree and come back later for ’em. The magpies will prob’ly get at ’em, but they can’t hurt ’em much now.”

“Wish I had gloves,” complained Kaintuck, as Skeeter drew a pair from under his cartridge-belt.

“I’ll hang ’em,” smiled Skeeter.

He assembled the bones and was about to pick them up, when something attracted his eye. It had been lodged in the vertebrae, and rolled loose when Skeeter moved the upper part of the skeleton.

Skeeter picked it up, looking it over closely.

“This feller didn’t die of his own accord, Kaintuck. Here’s the bullet that done the job, I reckon.”

Together they examined the bit of metal, which was as perfect in shape as the day it came from the bullet mold, except for the markings of the lands, which had shaped its course through the revolver barrel.

“Looks like a .41,” observed Skeeter. “Didja ever see a more perfect bullet, Kaintuck?”

“Never did. Probably didn’t hit a bone, ’cause the nose of it ain’t even dented. Must ’a’ kinda got lodged in the spine and stayed there until now. But that don’t mean nothin’, Skeeter.”

“Well, not much,” admitted Skeeter. “Who shoots a .41?”

“I used to,” said Kaintuck thoughtfully. “Never liked it. That was down in Texas. I dunno who uses one around here.”

Skeeter put the bullet in his vest pocket and proceeded to place the bones in a stunted cottonwood. They searched the ground thoroughly, but were unable to find anything more.

“It’s kinda funny where his clothes went to,” said Skeeter, as they mounted their horses.

“Mebbe he didn’t have any on,” suggested Kaintuck.

“Yeah, that might be true. By golly, you’ve got all the instincts of a detective.”

They rode along for quite a while, both of them wondering who the unfortunate had been. As far as they knew there had not been any one reported missing.

“It’s kinda hard luck,” said Kaintuck slowly. “Nobody will ever know who he is—none of his friends, if he had any.”

“That’s right. Let’s keep it dark for a while, Kaintuck. It can’t hurt him none to hang there in a tree for a while. If somebody killed him, they’ll shut up like a steel trap if his skeleton is found. They’re as safe as a church—now.”

“All right,” grudgingly.

Kaintuck liked to talk, and he had visions of much telling about their discovery.

They did not find Curley at the Box X, although there were evidences that he had been there recently. An old shed had been torn down to furnish boards for some repairs on the ranch-house; a stove had been installed in the kitchen, and a small stock of groceries adorned the shelves.

The old Box X ranch-house faced the north, a weathered old wreck of a place, with little of its former beauty left as far as paint was concerned. The roof sagged in the middle, the shingles stood up in ungallant array, and the chimney looked like the top of the badly decayed tooth of some prehistoric creature.

The stable was almost roofless, its door swinging from one hinge. To the west of the house was a flat piece of ground, extending out about a hundred feet to the edge of a creek bank. Brush grew almost to the front porch on the north, and to the northeast was a deep washout filled with greasewood and wild rose bushes.

Skeeter and Kaintuck walked around, looking the place over, wondering how long it would take Curley Adams to make the old place habitable.

“Got a lot of work ahead of him,” grinned Kaintuck. “But I’m bettin’ that Curley will get a lot of fun out of it.”

“He’s got the right idea, anyway,” said Skeeter. “Let’s go over to the Gregory ranch. I’d kinda like to get a look at that girl.”

“She’s prob’ly engaged,” warned Kaintuck seriously.

“’Sall right with me,” laughed Skeeter. “I’m a detective—not a Romeo. And, anyway, a sheriff ought to get acquainted with the folks.”

“I thought yuh was goin’ to say ‘friend’,” said Kaintuck. “I’ve heard that Gregory trailed along with Monk Clark, tryin’ to beat yuh for office.”

“Tha’sall right, Kaintuck. I prob’ly wouldn’t ’a’ voted for Gregory if he’d been runnin’ for sheriff. But that’s no reason why I should keep away from him.”

“I s’pose that’s a pious way of lookin’ at it, Skeeter. Forgive yore enemies, but don’t forget ’em. An old preacher down in Texas explained all that to me—about forgivin’ my enemies. I told him that his argument was one-sided, ’cause the enemies might not know it.

“He told me all about turnin’ the other cheek, when somebody slapped yuh, and I asked him how many times he’d been slapped. It jist don’t work out, Skeeter Bill.”

“Lotsa things don’t, Kaintuck. The idea is fine. If yuh happen to hate somebody, it ain’t so hard to kinda forgive ’em. Yuh can do it. Life is too short to go around with yore heart full of hate agin’ anybody.”

“Shore,” nodded Kaintuck. “Yeah, that’s fine. But suppose somebody hates you? That makes ’em an enemy, don’t it? And all the forgivin’ yuh can boil up in yore system ain’t goin’ to stop ’em from bustin’ yuh one, if they get a good chance.”

Skeeter grinned at the bobbing ears of his horse and shook his head slowly.

“I can’t argue agin’ that, Kaintuck. Mebbe a preacher could show yuh how it works out—I can’t.”

“Yeah! Jist like a jigger down in Texas. He showed me a non-refillable whisky bottle. It shore looked great. He was goin’ to make a million dollars on it. I never did see a feller as happy as he was—until I asked him how in —— he was goin’ to get the whisky into it in the first place.

“When it comes to religion, I ain’t got a leg to stand on in an argument—not a leg. But when it comes to whisky bottles, I shore am conversant with the subject, from the distillery to the delirium tremens.”

They rode to the Gregory ranch, but found only Calamity at home. He masticated violently, squinted at Skeeter’s badge, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Yo’re the new sheriff, eh? Name’s Sarg, ain’t it? I’m Calamity. Rode the range before yuh could even find barb-wire in a dictionary. Yessir, I can remember when Sittin’ Bull was a calf. They had reg’lar sheriffs in them days, by ginger!”

“I’ve heard that you was an old-timer,” smiled Skeeter.

“Old-timer! My ——, I sh’d say so.”

“Where’s Gregory?” asked Skeeter.

“Gregory? Oh, yeah. Ex-cuse me. Yuh see, everybody calls him Hank, and yuh kinda had me confused f’r a minute. Gregory—yeah. Well, I dunno where he is. Said he was goin’ to town.”

“Prob’ly that’s where he went,” said Kaintuck dryly.

“His daughter came back a few days ago, didn’t she?”—thus Skeeter, trying to act indifferently.

Calamity opened his mouth widely, closed it slowly and spat audibly.

“Oh, that’s the Gregory yuh wanted to see, eh? Huh! Well,” Calamity turned his head and looked toward the hills. “She piled on to a jug-headed roan a while ago and said she was goin’ to find out if they’d moved any of the hills since she went away. —— only knows where she is now.”

They did not stay long at the HG ranch. Calamity wanted them to listen to him tell about how the early day sheriffs handled bad men, but neither of them cared to hear it.

Back in Crescent City, they stabled their horses and sat down in their office. Skeeter took the bullet from his pocket and looked it over. Outside of the scorings on it, there was nothing to show that it had ever been fired. The rim of the blunt point was as clear cut as it could be made.

“I wish that darn thing could talk,” said Kaintuck.

He had opened his tobacco and book of papers, preparatory to making another attempt at one-handed rolling.

Skeeter had taken out his knife and was testing the quality of the bullet. It did not cut like lead.

“Kaintuck,” he said softly, “this bullet is silver!”

“No!” Kaintuck swept his papers aside and leaned across the table. “How do yuh know, Skeeter?”

“Look at it. Try to cut the edge of it. You never seen any lead as hard as that. If it ain’t silver—what is it?”

Kaintuck examined it closely, tested it. He took a dollar from his pocket and whittled at the milled edge.

“They cut about the same, Skeeter. But why in —— would any one mold a silver bullet to shoot a man with?”

Skeeter shook his head and took the bullet.

“I dunno. I can sabe why a man would counterfeit a dollar, but I’ll be darned if I know why he’d counterfeit a bullet—in silver.”

“Find the man who shoots silver bullets,” grinned Kaintuck.

“Yeah—find him. But for gosh sake, don’t mention this to a single soul, Kaintuck.”

“Why not?” blankly.

“My gosh, if yuh do we’ll never find out. Listen, Kaintuck; if the man who fired that shot knew we was lookin’ for the man who shot a silver bullet, wouldn’t he cover his tracks so danged deep that we’d never find out?”

“I s’pose,” dubiously. “But how in —— are yuh goin’ to find out anythin’ if yuh don’t ask questions? We’ve got a skeleton in a tree and a silver bullet in yore pocket, but we don’t dare to mention it. This is a —— of a job!”

“It sure is a fine job,” grinned Skeeter.

“You’ll tell Moran, won’t yuh, Skeeter?”

“Tell nobody. These are our clues, Kaintuck. Let Moran find some for himself—if he can. Where would a man get silver to mold into bullets?”

“Silver Bell mine, or they might melt a dollar.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter grew thoughtful. “And the Silver Bell ain’t in the habit of givin’ away silver, I don’t suppose.”

“A feller could buy some, couldn’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose he could. Anyway, in the mornin’ me and you are goin’ to the Silver Bell mine, Kaintuck.”

“All right. We’ve had so much in our mind today that we’ve plumb forgot to eat. I could fold m’self plumb around some ham and aigs and feel like a medder-lark.”

Skeeter shoved the mysterious bullet deep down in his pocket and they headed for a restaurant.

“I think we’re gettin’ along good,” said Skeeter. “For once in our lives we’re usin’ our brains.”

It was shortly after Skeeter and Kaintuck had left the Gregory ranch that Monk Clark rode up to the ranch-house and dismounted.

Calamity had watched him from a front window, a quizzical expression on his seamed face, as he noted that Clark was “all dressed up.” It was seldom that Clark dressed up; so seldom that Calamity could not remember the time.

Calamity went out on the porch and squinted at Clark, who was self-conscious of his appearance. A spotless, white bosom, which bulged badly, a high collar, red four-in-hand tie, and an old cutaway coat covered the upper half of his body. From his waist downward, he remained as usual.

“Did somebody die?” queried Calamity in awe-struck tones.

“What do yuh mean?” growled Clark.

“All duded up thataway. Yuh ought to use glue on that shirt. It kinda gaps open and shows yore red undershirt, Monk. And jist one more thing; yuh better git a lower collar or move yore ears up another notch or two, ’cause yo’re sure sawin’ ’em off close to yore head.”

“My looks are none of yore —— business!” snapped Monk.

“I s’pose not. I remember a dude, back in 1866. He—”

“I don’t care a —— what you remember! Where’s Gregory?”

“I dunno. Said he was goin’ to town.”

Monk moved past Calamity and peered into the living-room.

“No, she ain’t here either,” said Calamity. “I shore appreciate havin’ yuh dress up thataway to come over to see me, but it don’t impress me a —— of a lot. Back in 1866—”

“Aw-w-w-w, stop it!” exploded Monk. “Calamity, I wonder how you ever lived as long as you have.”

“I ain’t never met my match,” said Calamity seriously.

“Mm-m-m-yah! I suppose that’s true,” Monk sat down in a rocking-chair and his bosom immediately bulged beyond his chin.

Calamity chuckled hoarsely and went into the house. He knew that Monk’s patience was stretched to the breaking point. While many of the others felt that Clark was a man who must be treated with great respect, Calamity did not.

In fact, he hated Monk Clark. Not such a strange thing, at that, because Calamity hated nearly everybody. And he was not afraid of anybody. It was not often that Calamity was amused sufficiently to chuckle, but he was now. To think of Monk Clark coming to see Joy Gregory almost made Calamity laugh.

But it was no laughing matter with Monk Clark. He planted his feet against the railing and swore to himself. At times Calamity peered out to see if Monk was still there—and he was. At least Monk was no quitter.

It was late in the afternoon when Hank Gregory came home and found Monk on the porch. Calamity came out, after Monk and Hank had exchanged greetings. Hank noticed Monk’s attire, but said nothing.

“Where’s Joy?” asked Gregory.

“I dunno,” said Calamity. “She rode away jist a short time after you left, Hank.”

“Rode away? Where was she goin’?”

“I never asked her.”

“Huh! No, I don’t suppose yuh did. Go alone?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t, eh? Who was she with?”

“Cowpuncher.”

“Who?”

“Curley Adams.”

Monk glared at Calamity. He had been sitting on that porch for hours waiting for her to come home. Calamity actually chuckled and went back in the house. The chuckle grated on the soul of Monk Clark.

“—— curly-headed cowpuncher!” he muttered.

“Who—Calamity?”

“Calamity, ——!”

For several minutes there was only silence. Then Monk Clark cleared his throat harshly and leaned closer to Gregory.

“Hank, are you goin’ to let yore daughter marry Adams?”

“Am I goin’ to let her?” Gregory laughed shortly. “Joy is of age, Monk.”

“Of age, eh?”

“Yeah—couple of years past.”

“Means that you ain’t got nothin’ to say about who she marries, eh?”

“Just about that, Monk. Curley is all right, I guess. Just bought the old Box X ranch, I heard.”

Monk snorted with disgust.

“Old Box X! What in —— does that amount to?”

“I dunno, Monk. Anyway, it’s their business. Say, what interest have you got in this matter?”

“Well,” slowly, “I’m free, white and twenty-one.”

“You—uh—say, Monk, you—” Gregory checked a laugh. “Monk, you wasn’t figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, was yuh?”

“What in —— is so funny about that?”

“Oh, I see.”

“I could give her more than a forty-a-month puncher could.”

“I suppose yuh could—mebbe.”

“Why the ‘mebbe’?”

“I reckon she loves Adams, Monk.”

“And yuh think she’ll marry him?”

“I kinda look for it.”

“And starve to death with him on the Box X.”

“No-o-o-o, I wouldn’t say that, Monk. Yuh see, there ain’t nobody ever starved to death in Moon River Valley.”

“All right,” Monk got to his feet and hitched up his belt. “I reckon I’ll be goin’.”

He went down to his horse just as Curley and Joy rode in through the gate.

They continued on up to the porch and dismounted. Curley suppressed a grin with difficulty. It was the first time he had ever seen Monk Clark dressed like that.

“How do you do, Mr. Clark?” said Joy pleasantly.

“Howdy,” grunted Clark. “Well, I’ll be goin’.”

Calamity had appeared on the porch again.

“Don’t hurry away,” said Joy. “Won’t you sit down a while?”

Calamity chuckled again, and Clark swung into his saddle.

“Thank yuh,” he said ungraciously. “I’ve set long enough.”

“Back in 1866, I knowed about a hen that set for two months on a basket of Chiny aigs—” began Calamity seriously.

Clark swung his horse around and galloped toward the gate. Down in his heart was a desire to kill Calamity. Joy’s burst of laughter floated to his ears, and he felt that she knew he had made a fool of himself.

“Go ahead and laugh,” he muttered. “I sure made a —— fool of myself.”

Back in the hills, he stopped long enough to divest himself of the white shirt, collar and tie, which he threw away. Then he knotted a black muffler around his neck and rode on.

At first Clark was in a rage against Calamity. If Calamity had told him that Joy was riding with Curley Adams, it would have been all right, but to keep him sitting out on that porch for hours, dressed up—that was the rub.

And he knew that Joy had laughed at him. A laugh hurt Monk Clark more than a blow—a laugh from a girl. He wondered bitterly if they were all laughing at him now. It was the first time he had ever dressed up to visit a girl—and the last.

He rode past the Box X, but drew rein long enough to look at the place. The setting sun threw long shadows from the old buildings. There was such an air of utter desolation about the place, like the ruins of some ancient dwelling, that Monk Clark shook his big head as he remembered that Curley Adams intended to marry Joy Gregory and bring her there to live.

He rode on, reaching the Tin Cup ranch just at dark. The well-lighted ranch-house, nestled in a group of huge sycamores and cottonwoods, the wide veranda, the huge red stable looming up against the hills, the well-kept fences, all spoke of prosperity, good management—a fit home for any daughter of the ranges. Yet she chose the Box X.

He stabled his horse and walked to the house. The boys were eating supper in the long dining-room, and he halted near the door long enough to hear his name mentioned.

“I tell yuh he went courtin’,” insisted one of the boys. “I seen him. He had on a boiled shirt and a red tie. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Had on his funeral coat, too. I’ll make yuh a little bet that he went to see Joy Gregory.”

He did not wait to hear more, but went to his room, where he changed shirts, took a stiff drink of liquor and sat down to think it over; to think what a fool he had been.

Some of the boys found his horse in the stable and notified Wong, the cook, who hurried up to Clark’s room, and timidly knocked on the door.

“Come in!” snapped Clark.

Wong opened the door and bobbed his head.

“Yo’ like some sluppah, Misser Clark?”

“No!” roared Clark. “Get to —— out of here!”

Wong shut the door softly and padded back to the kitchen, shaking his head slowly.

“Too much love one time—no good,” he decided.

It was the following day that a heavy wagon came creaking down over the grades from the Silver Bell mine. The rear wheels were locked, the team was holding back as much as possible, but even at that there were times when the wagon threatened to run over the team.

On the one seat sat the driver, a stolid-faced, round-headed sort of person, who regularly hauled supplies from Crescent City to the Silver Bell mine, and with him sat the two well-dressed men who had inquired of Skeeter Bill about the stage to the mines.

There was little chance for conversation among the three, as it required all their efforts to cling to the jerking, bouncing seat. While the driver braced heavily against the brake with his foot and held tightly to the lines, he was able to maintain an equilibrium of sorts, but the two passengers had nothing except the wagon-box and the seat to keep them from being flung off the equipage.

Lurching and jerking, the rear wheels almost skidding off the narrow grade, they swung around a sharp curve on to a piece of comparatively level road.

The two passengers relaxed slightly, with sighs of relief, but jerked back to attention when two masked men dropped off the upper side of the road and leveled rifles at them.

“Whoa!” The driver threw his weight on the brake so suddenly that his passengers almost left the seat.

The two masked men came forward, still covering the driver and passengers.

“Git down,” ordered one of the masked men.

The passengers were so cramped from their ride and frightened that they were hardly able to climb down over the wheel. One of them slipped and almost fell off the grade, and a masked man chuckled with amusement.

“Go back past the wagon, all three of yuh,” ordered the spokesman.

Wonderingly they filed to the rear, herded by one of the holdup men, while the other climbed to the driver’s seat, kicked the brake loose and drove away.

They could hear the wagon rattling along the rocky grades, the sound growing more faint until it died away in the distance. For possibly ten minutes more the masked man kept them covered. Then he motioned down the road.

“I reckon I can git along without you fellers,” he said.

“We can go now?” asked the driver wonderingly.

“I don’t care a —— what yuh do now.” The masked man backed around the curve and disappeared.

For a space of time the three men grouped together on the grade, hardly knowing just what to do.

“That was a crazy thing to do,” declared the driver. “Who in —— ever heard of anybody holdin’ up a tote-wagon?”

The two passengers looked at each other helplessly.

“And stealin’ a few hundred pounds of lead,” continued the driver.

“A few hundred pounds of lead,” echoed one of the men. “You fool, that wasn’t lead—it was silver!”

“The —— it was! Why Sam Rugg said—”

“No matter what Sam Rugg said!” snapped the other. “There was approximately a thousand pounds of silver bullion in that wagon.”

“Geeminy gosh! Why did he ever send it—”

The driver took off his hat and mopped his brow. He had wondered why Sam Rugg, superintendent of the Silver Bell, had loaded his wagon with lead bars.

Some one had told him that these two strangers were Belden and Stanfield, owners of the Silver Bell, and he had heard hints that they had come to see why the silver production had fallen so heavily in a year.

There had also been rumors of high-grading—ore stealing—at the Silver Bell, although none of the workmen seemed to know whether there was any truth in the matter or not. But this matter of a thousand pounds of silver was almost beyond the imagination of the driver.

“And it was our own suggestion,” said Frank Belden disconsolately. “It seemed the safe thing to do. There has been a leak somewhere, Ed.”

“And rather a heavy leak, it seems,” nodded Stanfield. “No doubt the high-graders have accomplices at the mine.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I suppose we may as well start walking.”

“Might as well,” agreed the driver. “It’s a —— of a long walk to Crescent City, but it’s mostly all downhill.”

They started down the grades without further comment. Far below them stretched the Moon River Valley, hazy in the morning sun.

“That’s a pretty big steal of silver,” said Stanfield. “I don’t see how they can ever use it, Frank. A thousand pounds of silver won’t be an easy thing to dispose of—especially with some one watching for it.”

“I’ve been wondering about that part of it,” replied Belden. “They’ll have to carry it in the wagon, and it might not be hard to trace that outfit.”

“Might as well save your breath,” advised the driver. “It’s a long walk to town, and that sun is sure goin’ to be hot.”

And while the three men drifted along the grades, Skeeter Bill Sarg and Kaintuck Kennedy were coming up the lower grades out of the valley, heading for the Silver Bell.

Because of the steep road they traveled slowly, stopping at times to give their horses a chance to rest, while they scanned the country. Neither of them had ever been at the Silver Bell mine.

“I never could see why they don’t discover mines close to town,” complained Kaintuck. “They’d save a lot on the haulin’.”

“Yuh ought to take it up with ’em,” grinned Skeeter. “Mebbe they never thought of it.”

“I s’pose not. Any danged fool that’ll dig for a livin’ ain’t got much sense. I might git a patent on it, Skeeter.”

They laughed and rode on up the grades. About a mile farther on they stopped again. Just beyond them, the road circled the head of a deep cañon, swinging back along the cañon rim opposite them. It was about two hundred yards on an air-line across the cañon to the opposite grade, at a point where the road disappeared around another right-hand curve.

And just at this curve stood a team and wagon, where two or three men were working frantically to unload something.

Skeeter and Kaintuck watched them for several moments.

“Whatcha s’pose they’re tryin’ to do, Skeeter?” queried Kaintuck.

“I dunno. Mebbe they broke down and have to unload.”

It was too far for Skeeter and Kaintuck to recognize any of the men. The heavy growth of jack-pines and underbrush grew up against the lower side of the grade, and it seemed as if these men were unloading into this brush.

One of the men sprang from the rear of the wagon into the brush, while another climbed down over the right front wheel, leaving one man in the wagon. These two seemed to be arguing over something.

Another man clambered from the brush at the lower side of the grade and joined the one at the front wheel.

“Four men,” muttered Skeeter.

As if in answer to his statement, one of the men looked across the cañon and saw them.

His discovery seemed to electrify the other three. They ran around the rear of the wagon, while the fourth man climbed over the opposite side of the wagon-box.

“What in —— do you reckon that means?” asked Kaintuck.

“Trouble!” snapped Skeeter.

He had seen a man appear over the top of the wagon, holding a rifle.

They whirled their horses around and spurred them into a run down the grade, heading for a protecting curve, while the rocks beside them splattered lead. The curve was within twenty feet of the two riders, when Kaintuck’s horse lurched sideways, went down on one shoulder, flinging Kaintuck over the edge of the grade and turning a complete somersault.

Skeeter’s horse barely made the turn, its hind feet throwing rocks off the grade, as Skeeter whirled it back against the upper side and fell out of the saddle.

Drawing his gun, he ran back to the curve, calling Kennedy’s name. The horse was dead, its body half off the grade, blocked against a pine snag. But Kaintuck did not answer. Skeeter slid along the bank, trying to get another view of the men at the wagon.

A bullet smashed against the rocks near his head, apprising him of the fact that the men were still anxious to kill him. Skeeter squinted ruefully at his six-shooter. It was about three hundred yards from there to the wagon.

“I’ve gotta lot of chance against rifles,” he grunted, shoving the gun back in his holster.

Another bullet struck the ground near the dead horse, and showered him with gravel. He withdrew around the curve, while two more bullets whined past him.

“Them fellers are sure enterprising,” he announced to himself. “Kaintuck! Hey! Kaintuck!”

But Kaintuck did not answer.

“Went and got himself killed,” mourned Skeeter. “Well, I’ve got to find him, I reckon. I wish I knowed why they’re shootin’ at me, and what they’re doin’ with that wagon.”

Keeping the point of rock at the curve between himself and the wagon, he slipped off the grade and began working back toward the spot where Kaintuck had gone over.

He could not see the team now, and had no idea what the four men were doing. In fact, they were of less interest to him than Kaintuck was just now. He slipped and slid along the side of the hill around the curve, clinging to the jack-pines.

Then he heard a welcome sound—Kaintuck swearing. At least, thought Skeeter, he is not dead yet.

“Where are yuh, Kaintuck?” asked Skeeter cautiously.

“Gee-o-graphically speakin’, I dunno where in —— I am,” replied Kaintuck disgustedly. “Part of me is on the ground and part of me is in a —— tree.”

“Which end is in the tree?”

“South. —— it, I’ve got my ankle hung up in the crotch of a snag, and I can’t hump high enough to get loose.”

“Why don’tcha slip yore foot out of the boot?”

“Think yo’re smart, don’tcha? C’mon down and show me how yuh think I ought to do it.”

Skeeter slid down to him and managed to extricate the boot. Kaintuck slumped down on the ground and grinned painfully. His face was scratched, his shirt badly torn, and one leg of his overalls had been ripped open from thigh to knee.

“Yuh didn’t get hurt none, didja?” asked Skeeter anxiously.

“Didn’t I? Huh! Horse dead?”

“Yeah. Turned over once and quit cold. My gosh, you sure turned a hooligan, Kaintuck.”

“Didn’t I?” Kaintuck laughed convulsively and squinted back toward the grade. “I jist sailed down here, all spraddled out like a flyin’ squirrel, hooked one foot in the top of that snag and went ’round and ’round, like a—say, what became of them jiggers that was shootin’ at us?”

“Still there, I reckon—” dryly. “I went back to take a look, and they shot at me some more. If yuh feel like goin’ back to the road, we’ll take another look at ’em.”

Kaintuck shook his head, rubbing his knee with both hands.

“Nawsir. Them danged fools ain’t got no better sense than to shoot right at yuh, and they’ve got rifles. Say, I shore put a lot of strain on this one leg. I’ll betcha she’s a foot longer than the other one.”

“Can yuh walk on it, Kaintuck?”

Kaintuck got to his feet, grimacing with pain.

“Don’t think I can make it, Skeeter. Mebbe it’ll ease up a little if I set down a while. First time I ever played pop-the-whip with my leg, and I sure took all the kinks out. F’r instance, I used to have a bulge, which was knowed as a knee, but I yanked it all out.”

“Prob’ly be a cripple for life,” nodded Skeeter. “Let a thing like that rest too long and yuh never can get it unhooked. Yuh never can tell about it, Kaintuck. Yore knee might bend the other way, like a stork’s does.”

“Git me a bill and spear frogs,” nodded Kaintuck, flexing his knee. “That doohickey that keeps it from bendin’ the wrong way is all right; so I reckon I’m all right. Let’s try and git back to the road.”

With much swearing, Kaintuck managed to pull himself up the hill, favoring his left leg as much as possible. They worked around the point and reached the road near Skeeter’s horse.

As they stood on the road, debating their next move, they heard the rattle of a wagon coming down the hill.

They exchanged a swift glance and moved in against the rocky bank, drawing their guns.

“Got a lot of nerve,” gritted Skeeter. “Good luck, Kaintuck.”

“Same to you,” said Kaintuck evenly, his six-shooter balanced in his right hand. “They’ll pay for that horse.”

The rattle and crunch of the wagon came closer and closer. They could hear some one talking, the jingle of harness. Then the horses swung almost into them, shied toward the outer edge, and were jerked to a stop.

Skeeter and Kaintuck stepped out, covering the three men on the seat. It was Belden, Stanfield and the driver. Their six arms went upward in unison. “For ——’s sake!” snorted Belden. “Again?”

Skeeter went closer, looking them over carefully.

“Yuh might talk a little,” said Skeeter.

“We might talk a whole lot,” said the driver.

“If we get tired of listenin’ we’ll tell yuh when to stop,” said Skeeter. “It might interest yuh to know that one of yore shots killed my deputy’s horse.”

“One of our shots?” gasped Belden.

“The shots we heard,” said Stanfield. “I’ll bet—”

“We’re not gamblin’,” said Skeeter. “Do some talkin’.”

Stanfield had been leaning forward, squinting at the insignia of the sheriff’s office on Skeeter’s shirt.

“Are you the sheriff?” he asked.

“Yeah. And I’ve got a gun in my hand and a finger on the trigger, and I hadn’t ought to miss yuh at this distance.”

“These are the two men who asked us about the Silver Bell stage,” said Kaintuck.

“I know it,” nodded Skeeter.

“My name is Stanfield, and my companion’s name is Belden. We own the Silver Bell mine. This other man does freighting for the mine.”

“Tha’sall right with me,” said Skeeter. “But that ain’t no reason for yuh to shoot at us.”

“We never did!” blurted the driver. “We ain’t even got a gun.”

“Let me tell him about it,” said Belden. “Several miles up the grades, we were held up by two masked men who took our team and wagon. One man held us there until the other had driven away.

“There was nothing for us to do except to start walking down into the valley. That was quite a while ago. We must have walked five miles, at least. We heard the echo of some shots, and wondered what it meant.

“Just back there a little ways we found our team and wagon in the middle of the road. There wasn’t a soul around; so we climbed in and came on. That’s our story.”

“Sounds pretty good,” nodded Skeeter. “The holdup part sounds kinda funny though. What did they take, except the team and wagon?”

“A thousand pounds of silver bullion.”

“A—a—take down yore hands, gents.”

The three pairs of hands came down and three men sighed with relief.

“Half-a-ton of silver!” blurted Kaintuck. “Gee-e-e mighty!”

“And they unloaded it over there,” said Skeeter. “No wonder they didn’t want us to come along. Of all the danged nerve in the world!”

He squinted off across the hills and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

“You can stop them, can’t you?” asked Belden nervously. “They haven’t had time to get far away.”

“And I’d get stopped,” said Skeeter seriously. “There’s four men in the gang—four that we seen. It means that they had some pack horses ready for the stuff. One or two men will act as a rear guard for that stuff, and—” Skeeter shook his head slowly. “Nope, it would be suicide.”

“But you are the sheriff,” said Belden. “It is your duty—”

“Tha’sso? There ain’t nothin’ in my oath of office that says I’m supposed to get killed. Yuh might read about a sheriff that shoved his beak into danger on purpose, but when yuh do yuh can just bet it ain’t old man Sarg’s high-pocket kid.”

Skeeter turned to Kaintuck, who was grinning softly.

“Kaintuck, I reckon yo’re elected to rest a while. Set down in the brush and practice rollin’ ’em one-handed, while I go back to Crescent City, get yuh a live horse and a couple of rifles. Be back as quick as I can.”

He walked to his horse, mounted almost on the run and was out of sight so fast that no one had a chance to offer any suggestions.

“That’s jist like him,” grinned Kaintuck.

“But—but the thieves will be miles away before he can return,” protested Belden. “Is he afraid to—”

“Yuh can take that out and burn it,” interrupted Kaintuck. “Skeeter Bill ain’t afraid, but he’s no —— fool. My horse is dead, and them jiggers have rifles. We’ve got to have an even break, pardner.”

There was no argument left, as far as Kaintuck was concerned; so the driver kicked the brake loose and the equipage proceeded on down the grade, while Kaintuck limped to his dead horse and removed saddle and bridle.

Then he sat down in the shade and wasted much tobacco and cigaret papers. His strained leg gave him a little trouble, but Kaintuck was an optimist, as far as injuries were concerned. He knew it was about eight miles to Crescent City, and that Skeeter Bill would be back as soon as possible; so he made himself comfortable.

Skeeter Bill did not make his return to town at all conspicuous. He rode in at the rear of his office, walked to the livery-stable, where he secured a horse, and came back to his office. It did not take him long to procure two rifles, two belts of ammunition and some extra shells for their six-shooters.

Leaving at the rear of his office he rode quietly out of town, swung back to the road and headed for the grades at top speed. He met the three men with the wagon, but did not stop to talk.

Kaintuck was still wasting tobacco when Skeeter rode up, but pocketed the rest of the sack and proceeded to saddle the horse.

“Anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“I find out that some cigaret papers are tougher than others. Yuh shore made good time, Skeeter. Meet the wagon?”

“Uh-huh.”

Kaintuck belted on his rifle cartridges, stuffed the loading-gate full of 30-30’s, levered one into the chamber, and announced himself ready.

They rode back to the spot where the wagon had been unloaded, dismounted and led their horses off the edge of the grade. There was plenty of evidence that the unloading had been done at that spot. The brush had been trampled down and there was an abundance of horse tracks a little further down the hill, where a heavy growth of jack-pines had masked them from the road.

“All unshod horses,” said Skeeter, after examining the spot where the packing had been done.

They picked up several empty cartridge shells from the grade, and found them all to be 30-30 caliber.

“We’ll just have to follow ’em down the hill,” said Skeeter. “They’ll all stick together and mebbe we can trail ’em.”

There was an old game trail leading toward the bottom of the cañon, starting almost from the spot where the packing had been done, but there were no horse-tracks on it. In fact, it showed no tracks of any kind.

“They’ve got to get out of this cañon,” declared Skeeter. “We’ll take the old trail and take a chance on cuttin’ their tracks further down.”

“Mebbe,” nodded Kaintuck. “They prob’ly had reasons for not takin’ the trail.”

Skeeter started down the trail, leading his horse, but had only gone a few feet when he stopped. In the middle of the trail was the imprint of a man’s boot sole, clearly etched in a film of dust.

It was the print of a right boot. Skeeter squatted down and studied it, while Kaintuck moved in close and looked it over.

“That feller sure left his imprint,” said Skeeter. “He runs his heels over on the outer edge, Kaintuck.”

“How do yuh know, Skeeter?”

“’Cause it shows that he does. Prob’ly run ’em over bad. See that line through the heel mark? He didn’t want to take ’em to a shoemaker and have a new heel put on; so he squared up that heel on the outer edge, fitted in a piece of sole-leather and filled her plumb full of nails. And to make it last a while, he took a big nail, cut it short and nailed it close to the edge. Yuh can see the head of the nail.”

“Yeah, that shore is it,” agreed Kaintuck. “But how can yuh tell it wasn’t done by a shoemaker?”

“’Cause it’s a bad fittin’ patch. And a shoemaker would ’a’ put on one of them iron jiggers, shaped like a half-moon instead of a ten-penny nail.”

Skeeter grinned widely at his own acumen and led the way down the trail. There were no more tracks in the trail. They reached the bottom of the cañon and began their search for horse-tracks.

The game-trail passed through an open swale at the bottom of the cañon, but as far as they could discover no horses had passed through the swale.

“Well, they couldn’t cross below nor above here,” complained Kaintuck. “The brush is so danged thick yuh can’t even see through it.”

Skeeter climbed up on the side of the cañon, searching for another opening where the pack train might have crossed, but as far as he could see there was no place. He mounted his horse and rode back over the game-trail to the grade, where he dismounted and searched for the spot where the horses had gone down the hill.

The ground was fairly hard, but the prints were plain enough where the loading had been done. For several minutes Skeeter puzzled over the problem. The game-trail was the one way down, and it did not seem reasonable that the thieves would slow their getaway by traveling over down-timber and brush. The old trail had been packed so hard that Skeeter’s shod horse only showed the calk marks, except at the upper end of the trail where a miniature slide had left a dirt patch large enough to show the imprint of the patched-heel boot.

Anyway, he could find no tracks away from where the horses had milled around during the packing up of the silver.

“Must ’a’ had wings,” he told himself.

An idea suddenly came to him, and he went back to the trail, where he examined it closely. A grin flashed across his lips and he mounted hurriedly, riding as swiftly as possible back to Kaintuck, who was still searching near the open swale.

“Git yore horse,” called Skeeter. “These jiggers muffled their horses’ hoofs. No wonder there ain’t a mark of any kind.”

Kaintuck mounted and they spurred down the narrow trail. Not a hundred yards further along the trail they found where a horse had slipped a chunk off the trail, leaving the fresh dirt exposed.

“I thought of that, while you was up the hill,” said Kaintuck wisely.

“That’s why yuh spent all yore time lookin’ somewhere else, I suppose,” laughed Skeeter.

“Well, anyway, we’ll be in a —— of a fix as soon as we run out of trail,” said Kaintuck. “They won’t foller this old deer-trail forever.”

“I thought of that quite a while ago,” said Skeeter.

They followed the old trail to a point where it disappeared, and there they lost all chance of picking up the horse-tracks. The ground was hard, and the muffled hoofs made no marks. There was nothing for them to do, except to follow the slope down into the valley, trusting to luck to pick up the tracks again.

But luck was not with them. After hours of hard riding, circling back and forth across the hills, they reached the banks of Moon River, which they followed back to Crescent City. It was after dark when they stabled their horses and went out to eat.

They found Frank Moran in the restaurant, and after they finished their meal Moran went to the office with them and Skeeter told him the story of the silver robbery.

“I heard it talked about,” said Moran. “These two men who own the mine told all about it when they got back. I guess every one around here has heard about it.”

Skeeter stretched his legs and puffed on his cigaret.

“It kinda looks to me like the counterfeiters had picked enough stuff to keep ’em moldin’ dollars for a long time,” he observed. “It ain’t nothin’ that I’d hang a man for, but dang ’em, they killed Kaintuck’s horse and darned near got Kaintuck. I can’t forgive ’em for doin’ that.”

“It shows that they’re desperate men,” said Moran.

“Yeah, I s’pose they are. Slick, too. They muffled their pack-animals’ hoofs.”

“Is that so?” Moran grew interested. “Couldn’t you find a track?”

“Not a horse-track, except where they packed up. They shoot 30-30 rifles, and they shoot straight.”

“Yo’re danged right they do,” agreed Kaintuck, flexing his sore leg. “I’m goin’ to declare open season on counterfeiters right now.”

“You heard anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.

Moran shook his head.

“Got any more letters from Shorty Long?”

“No. Kinda expected to hear from him today, but no mail came. I’m danged if I can find out anythin’.”

“It looks to me,” said Skeeter slowly, “as though somebody at the mine is workin’ with ’em—somebody who put ’em wise to the shipment of this silver. Do you know the superintendent, Sam Rugg?”

“I’ve seen him,” said Moran. “He’s a big, hard-faced sort of a jigger, with a black mustache.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted at his boots for several moments. Then—

“Moran, have you accomplished anythin’ since you’ve been workin’ on this case?”

“Just what do yuh mean, Sheriff?”

“What I said. You’ve been punchin’ cows and workin’ at the different ranches; but have yuh done anythin’? Have yuh even got a suspicion of where this money is bein’ made?”

Moran was inclined to get a trifle peevish at Skeeter’s tone, but thought better of it and was forced to admit that he had accomplished nothing.

“It isn’t a thing yuh can come right out and show your flag,” said Moran. “You know how long I’d last if it was known that I was a detective.”

Skeeter nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“You can see how hard it is to get a clue,” said Moran.

“Well, I dunno. I’ve got several, Moran.”

“You have?” This was interesting.

Skeeter nodded and began manufacturing a cigaret.

“Mind tellin’ me what they are?” queried Moran.

“I’m goin’ to tell you the same thing I told Kaintuck; to go out and get some for yourself.”

Skeeter grinned widely at Moran, who was at a loss just what to say.

“And I ain’t got me none yet,” complained Kaintuck. “It kinda looks like when they parceled out the brains I was out fishin’. Skeeter is real smart.”

Moran laughed shortly.

“That ain’t hardly fair, Sheriff. This case is mine, and I don’t like the idea of a sheriff getting a clue and keepin’ it from me.”

“Tha’sso?” Skeeter grinned at the ceiling. “Yo’re like that picture of the kid in a bathtub, reachin’ for a slippery bar of soap. Won’t be happy till he gits it. Well, I’ve got my bar of soap, Moran.

“I dunno much about the manufacture of bad money, but I do sabe holdup stuff. These jiggers are awful smart. At first I had an idea they was smarter than me, but they ain’t. Nawsir, I’m jist as smart as they are.”

“Well, that’s good—” thus Moran, just a little peevish—“I wish you’d tell me what you’ve stumbled on to, but if you won’t, you won’t. I’m willin’ to put my cards on the table, face up.”

“You ain’t got any cards,” grinned Skeeter. “If I didn’t hold more cards in this game than you do, I’d call for a new deck. Aw, yuh don’t need to get sore, Moran. I’m no detective, but I’ve got somethin’ to work on—and that’s more than you’ve got.”

“Anythin’ is more than I’ve got,” Moran grinned and got to his feet. “If it gets to be more than you can handle, let me in on it. Uncle Sam is dependin’ on me to clear up this case, and I hate to fall down completely, yuh know.”

“All right,” promised Skeeter. “Mebbe a little later I’ll tell yuh what I know. But I want to be sure first.”

They shook hands and Moran went away. Kaintuck squinted at Skeeter and shook his head.

“You shore bragged about yourself a lot, cowboy. I dunno what got into yuh.”

Skeeter laughed at Kaintuck.

“Mebbe I threw a scare into him, Kaintuck. He’d hate like —— for a ordinary sheriff to clear up a case that he couldn’t handle.”

“You kinda usin’ a spur on him, eh?”

“Yuh might say I am. I was scared you might mention that boot-track in the trail, Kaintuck. Let him find his own clues. He’d prob’ly go around the country, killin’ folks jist for a chance to look at the bottom of their heels.”

“Aw, ——, he wouldn’t do a thing like that, Skeeter.”

“Yuh never can tell what a detective like him might do.”

It was the following day that Monk Clark came back to the Gregory ranch; but this time he did not wear his Sunday garments, nor did he go to the ranch-house. Hank Gregory was at the stable when Clark rode up, and Calamity was helping Joy plant some roses in the front yard—much to Calamity’s disgust.

“What do you know about roses?” asked Joy, straightening up from a bush and pushing her hair back from her eyes.

Her hand was dirty and it left a streak on her nose.

“What do I know,” grinned Calamity, “about roses? Lemme tell yuh about some roses I set out in—”

“1866,” finished Joy quizzically.

“A tub,” corrected Calamity. “It was in the summer of 1866, if I remember. Say, Joy, here comes Monk Clark. If yuh act like yo’re workin’, he mebbe won’t come up here. That is, unless yuh want to see him.”

“I don’t,” declared Joy.

“He’s got a lot of money.”

“I suppose he has,” Joy picked up the shovel and began digging around the bush.

“And he ain’t so bad lookin’,” added Calamity thoughtfully.

Joy dropped the shovel and looked closely at Calamity.

“Are you pleading Monk Clark’s cause?” she asked.

“My ——, I should say not! I was just kinda feelin’ sorry for him, tha’sall. Geemi-nee-e-e, he sure must love yuh! Any man that’ll wear what he wore over here—”

“Quit it, Calamity! He’s going down to the stable where dad is. I hope he stays there until he gets ready to go home.”

Calamity squinted toward Clark, who was riding up to Hank Gregory, and turned back to his job of criticizing Joy’s botanical efforts.

“I came past the Box X,” offered Clark, after the customary greetings had been exchanged.

“Yeah? Understand Curley is fixin’ things up over there.”

“He’s got a lot of fixin’ to do, Hank.”

Gregory laughed shortly and squinted toward the front of the house, where Joy and Calamity were arguing over the placing of a certain bush. Clark scowled toward them, but turned away.

“I don’t know how yuh stand for that —— old fool around here,” said Clark. “He’s no good.”

“Calamity? Oh, he’s all right. Did yuh see Curley as yuh came past, Monk?”

“Yeah. I didn’t stop. He’ll starve to death on that ranch—if nothin’ worse happens to him.”

Gregory squinted at Clark closely.

“Meanin’ what, Monk?”

“Well, yuh never can tell what might happen to him.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a note of suspicion in Gregory’s voice. “I hope nothin’ happens to him, Monk. Him and Joy are goin’ to get married as soon as he gets the old place fixed up.”

“Tha’sso?” Clark spat viciously. “Mebbe they will.”

For several moments, the two men looked closely at each other. Gregory looked toward the house, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Then—

“I dunno what yuh mean by that, Monk. I told Curley that it would be all right with me. If Joy wants him, she sure can have him.”

“I didn’t say anythin’,” replied Clark. “It’s a free country. And another thing, Hank—you better not get too short with me. I play square with my friends, as long as they remain friends. I know too much about you, sabe?”

Gregory’s lips shut tightly for several moments and he looked toward the house, while Clark grinned softly.

“I sabe all that,” said Gregory softly.

“Might not listen well to some folks,” suggested Clark.

Gregory shook his head.

“No, I reckon not. I’ve often wondered about it, Monk. I dunno whether I killed that sheriff or not.”

“That part don’t matter, Hank. There were three of yuh. Two of yore outfit died in their saddles. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been hanged. Just stop and remember that I kept yuh under cover until the chase had died down enough for you to make a getaway. They’re probably still lookin’ for the man who killed the sheriff—and you was the only survivor.”

Gregory nodded slowly.

“That’s true, Monk. But I wasn’t guilty of doin’ anythin’ wrong. I didn’t know them two fellers had stolen horses until it was all over. When a man begins to shoot at me, I shoot at him.”

Clark smiled wisely.

“That’s all very fine, but you’d have a fine time explainin’ that to a jury in Badger County.”

“Prob’ly—” slowly. Gregory’s eyes were steady as he looked straight at Clark and said:

“Monk, why bring this up now? You ain’t aimin’ to hold a club over me, are yuh?”

“I just wanted yuh to know how I stand.”

“That happened almost ten years ago, Monk.”

“I know it. Almost long enough for us to forget, eh? But not quite, Hank.”

“Uh-huh,” Gregory laughed bitterly. “Almost like somethin’ yuh read about, Monk. You know enough about me to send me to the penitentiary, and yo’re willin’ to use that knowledge to make me do what yuh want me to do, eh?”

“I don’t think yo’re a —— fool, Hank,” coldly.

“No? Well, I am —— in some things, Monk.”

Gregory shoved himself away from the stable wall and came closer to Clark.

“There are some things in which I don’t show a lick of sense. When yo’re playin’ yore cards, Monk—remember this.”

Clark scowled heavily. He had not counted on this.

“Just what things do yuh mean, Hank?” he asked.

“Anythin’ affectin’ Joy and Curley.”

“Oh. Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, Hank. If you want that girl to starve to death with a rattle-headed cowpuncher, it’s yore business, I reckon.”

Monk Clark picked up his reins and climbed into his saddle.

“Yuh can tell the sheriff that I’m here when he wants me,” said Gregory.

Clark laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t be a fool. I’ve been yore friend a long time, Hank. I didn’t think you’d turn me down. But if I happen to feel like it, I’ll tell the sheriff.”

He turned his horse and rode away. Joy and Calamity stopped their labors long enough to watch him ride down the road. They were laughing as they resumed their planting. Gregory leaned against the stable wall, his mind going back to a day, almost ten years before.

It happened in a little county in a far corner of the State. Gregory was riding through, and joined with two congenial fellows, who were well mounted. Almost without warning they were fired upon by several mounted men.

Without any inkling that he was with two horse-thieves, Gregory returned their fire. The battle did not last long. Both of the thieves were shot from their saddles. Gregory saw one of the posse fall.

It was only through the speed of his horse that Gregory had been able to escape the posse. Monk Clark, who had been one of the posse, recognized Gregory’s horse when Gregory came to his ranch that night.

Believing that honesty was the best policy, Gregory told his story to Clark, who seemed to accept Gregory’s explanation. It was then that Clark told him that the sheriff had been killed and that his story would not save him if the authorities knew where he was.

The two horse-thieves were dead; so their testimony would not be available. Clark explained that the sheriff was well liked in that country; so well liked, in fact, that he—Gregory—would probably not be accorded a fair trial.

For over a week, he remained in hiding, until the excitement had died down, before leaving the ranch. Clark had kept him posted, and Gregory knew that they were looking for him for the killing of the sheriff.

Gregory had made his way back to the Moon River country, and later Monk Clark had acquired the Tin Cup outfit. But in all this time, Clark had never—until today—mentioned the incident.

It had been the natural thing for Gregory to assist Clark in any way possible, and Gregory had thought that Clark believed his story at the time of his escape. But guilty or innocent, Gregory knew that he could never prove it to a jury.

He wondered if Clark would use his knowledge. Gregory had never told it to any one else. Joy’s mother had died before this happened, and Joy was living with her mother’s sister in another State.

Gregory knew now that Monk Clark wanted Joy, and that he would do everything possible to prevent Joy from marrying Curley Adams. Gregory knew that Joy disliked Monk Clark and would be greatly amused at even a hint of her marrying him.

But Gregory was not worried about Monk doing anything to Joy. What he could and might do to Curley was a different matter. He knew Monk Clark for a determined man, and it seemed that Monk’s conscience was fairly flexible.

He wanted to tell Curley to be on his guard, but it would be a difficult thing to explain without telling more than he cared to tell. It was nearly supper time when Curley rode in and announced that he was tired of his own cooking.

He exhibited some bruised fingernails as evidence that he had been working.

“Sawed my knee-cap three times today,” he declared. “I’ve heard of architects puttin’ their souls into their work; but I’m puttin’ my flesh and blood in mine. Every darned nail I’ve got is hinged in the middle. What I need is a wide-faced hammer and some tacks.”

“Joy cooked some apple pie,” announced Calamity. “When we git through with the crusts I’m goin’ to sew ’em together and make a cover for my old saddle. Rawhide! Whooee! I knowed a cook back in 1866 that made a pie and—”

“You was in the penitentiary in 1866,” retorted Joy.

“Shore I was. This feller was the penitentiary cook, Joy. This cook says to me, ‘Calamity, I’m——’”

“The penitentiary cooks don’t speak to common prisoners.”

“Is that so? Huh! He wasn’t any better than I was. We was both in for the same crime—killin’ a man.”

“The same man?” grinned Curley.

“Yessir. By golly, it shore was a queer deal. Happened in a saloon. Me and this here cook are facin’ the bar, when a jigger walks in on the other side of me. Him and this cook has had trouble, and the cook is layin’ for him.

“I seen this cook pull his gun, and the other feller backs away from the bar. Well, sir, I steps in between ’em and tries to block the cook from shootin’, but it wasn’t no use. This danged cook shot me through the arm and the bullet killed this jigger as dead as a petrified fish. We both got sent to the penitentiary for it.”

“Calamity, yo’re an awful liar,” said Curley. “Why should they send you to the penitentiary for what the cook did?”

“Well, sir,” grinned Calamity, “the jury said that it was through me that this feller got killed, so I—ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Calamity did a jig-step into the kitchen, slapping himself on the leg.

“That is like most of Calamity’s stories of 1866,” laughed Joy. “He will chuckle over it to himself for a week.”

“And swear at everything and everybody the rest of the time,” grinned Curley.

“That’s true, Curley. But Calamity is awful human. Get him alone and he’s different. He doesn’t really hate any one.”

Gregory came in and shook hands with Curley. Joy went to the kitchen to help Calamity with the supper, and Gregory took Curley out on the front porch.

“Curley, I want to warn yuh to look out,” said Gregory.

He had spoken so abruptly that Curley looked at him in amazement.

“What about, Gregory?”

“I can’t tell yuh any more, Curley. Mebbe I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree— mebbe not. But you know how easy it is to frame a crime on to a man. Keep yore eyes peeled, son.”

“This ain’t another 1866 joke is it?” asked Curley.

“I wish it was a joke.”

Curley scratched his nose and looked thoughtfully at the man who was soon to become his father-in-law. Gregory was not joking, Curley knew. He glanced back toward the door.

“Nothin’ concernin’ Joy, is it?”

“If anythin’ happened to you, it would affect her, don’t yuh think?”

“Well—yes. Can’t yuh give me any more information?”

“No. It may only be a suspicion, son. I hope it is. But I had to tell yuh.”

“But why would any one want to frame a crime on me?”

“Yo’re figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, ain’t yuh?”

“You bet!”

“Uh-huh. Never stopped to think that there might be other men who would like to do the same thing, have yuh?”

“Oh!”

Curley’s eyes widened momentarily and he started to say a name, but shut his lips tightly. He knew what Gregory meant, now. And Gregory knew that there was no need to mention any names.

“I’m much obliged,” said Curley slowly. “I’ll kinda keep my eye peeled—thank yuh.”

Calamity was yelling for them to “come and get it!” so they changed the conversation and went to the dining-room.

“I heard that yuh busted a feller in the jaw the other day, Curley,” said Calamity. “That new feller on the Tin Cup.”

“Moran,” said Gregory.

“It wasn’t anythin’,” smiled Curley. “He got fresh.”

“Yeah, I heard he did. Worked for the Lazy H a while. I seen him ridin’ with Sam Ertle. Know anythin’ about him?”

“Not much, Calamity. He was with the Tin Cup while I was there, but we didn’t have much to do with each other. He came to work while I was sick in bed.”

“You had quite a time, didn’t yuh?” observed Gregory. “Monk Clark thought yuh was goin’ to have pneumonia.”

“I guess I did almost have it. They kept me in bed for over a week.”

“And I came very near coming home,” said Joy. “I didn’t get a letter from you for over two weeks.”

“Well, I couldn’t help it, Joy. By golly, I sure was helpless. That Crescent City doctor didn’t know what to do. The boys took turns settin’ up with me. It was mighty fine of ’em.”

“How’s the ranch comin’?” asked Calamity.

“Kinda slow. Gee, I never knew there was as many things to be repaired. It’s worse than building a new place. But I’ve got one room rain-tight, I think. It’s fun though.”

“That’s what love does to yuh,” said Calamity. “I remember a feller that fell in love back in 1866—”

But that was as far as he got, because Curley reached for the coffee-pot, and Calamity subsided with a chuckle.

Curley did not tell Joy what her father had told him. He knew that Gregory had meant Monk Clark, and he wondered just what Monk would be able to do. They had always been friendly enough—as friendly as Monk usually was with any of his cowboys.

Curley had urged Joy to marry him at once, but she told him to wait until he had fixed up the old ranch. Calamity nearly floored them all by offering to come down and help Curley with his carpenter work.

“Well, that’s sure fine,” said Curley. “But do you know anything about carpentering, Calamity?”

“Do I? Huh! Say, I knowed a carpenter in 1866—”

All of which was sufficient proof that Calamity knew all about the building trade.

That same afternoon Skeeter Bill sat on a counter in Mike Gower’s store, playing with a three-legged gray cat whose name was Shy. Old Mike lounged on the counter and puffed at his old pipe, which sizzled like a frying egg.

“Curley Adams might make a go of the old ranch,” said Mike thoughtfully. “He’s a good sort of a kid, yuh know. The old place ain’t worth much, and it didn’t cost him much.”

“Looks kinda tumble-down,” nodded Skeeter. “Still, I like to see a young feller try to make a start. Yuh might hand me down a box of forty-fives, Gower.”

The old storekeeper lifted a box of cartridges off a shelf and slid them over to Skeeter, who examined the label of the box.

“You carry quite a stock of cartridges, don’t yuh?” observed Skeeter.

“I have to. Of course, there’s certain sizes that I never have any call for. Nobody shoots anythin’ smaller than a .38. Mostly .44’s and .45’s.”

“Ever have any calls for .41’s?”

“Not very much. Curley Adams has a .41. He’s one of them fellers that likes to experiment; so he has me buy a reloadin’ set for him. He tries different kinds of powder and all that. I dunno what he finally decides to do. One of the boys at the Tin Cup said that Curley had ruined every tin-can on the ranch.”

“Loadin’ his own shells, eh?”

“I s’pose so. Anyway, he ain’t asked me to stock any .41’s since I got him that outfit.”

Skeeter opened his box and filled the loops in his belt. The fact that Curley Adams owned a reloading set for a .41 revolver, and used a .41, made it interesting knowledge.

“Don’t any one else use a .41 around here?” asked Skeeter.

“Not that I know of. Mostly everybody buys their shells from me. I can get yuh some if yuh—”

“No, I didn’t want any. I never used one.”

He patted the gray cat, adjusted his belt and walked back to the office, where he found Kaintuck playing solitaire.

“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.

“I found out that Curley Adams owns a .41, and also owns a reloading outfit.”

Kaintuck whistled softly, as he gathered up his cards.

“Anybody else around here own a .41, Skeeter?”

“I reckon not.”

“It means that we’ll have to investigate Mr. Adams, eh?”

“I dunno, Kaintuck. Mebbe somebody else owns a .41. We’ll keep this under our hats and see what else we can find out.”

A little later they went to the Half-Moon Saloon, where they met Sam Ertle, owner of the Lazy H, and “Frisco” Larkin, one of Ertle’s cowpunchers. Frisco was a tall, saturnine sort of person, with buck-teeth and a bald head.

Ertle was not a congenial sort of cowman. He was not inclined to conversation and seemed to mind his own business fairly well. Some one had told him about the silver robbery, and it was the topic of conversation when Skeeter and Kaintuck came in.

“Jist how in —— could yuh steal a thousand pounds of silver?” Frisco wanted to know, but no one seemed able to enlighten him.

“And if yuh got it, what would yuh do with it?” asked Frisco.

“You might ask the sheriff,” smiled the bartender.

Frisco squinted at Skeeter Bill closely. He had imbibed a few drinks and desired an argument.

“All right; I ask him,” said Frisco. “From what I’ve heard about him, he don’t know a —— of a lot; so I don’t expect him to answer my question.”

“Then I’m not goin’ to disappoint yuh,” smiled Skeeter.

Frisco laughed and pounded on the bar. “Name yore weapons, gents. I’ve found a sheriff that ain’t afraid to admit he’s ignorant. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ain’t goin’ to disappoint me, eh?”

Frisco fairly leered at Skeeter, who kept his temper admirably, much to the disgust of Kaintuck.

“I never like to disappoint anybody,” said Skeeter evenly.

“Sure yuh don’t,” fleered Frisco. “Everybody says that about yuh. They don’t expect anythin’ from yuh—and they don’t get anythin’. Yuh sure are some sheriff, I’d tell a man.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” admitted Skeeter slowly.

“Well, for ——’s sake!” exploded Kaintuck disgustedly.

Frisco squinted at Kaintuck closely, blinking his eyes as though the deputy was of some strange species. He ignored Skeeter now, concentrating entirely on Kaintuck.

“Now, whatcha s’pose this is?” he queried.

Kaintuck’s left hand went slowly up to the brim of his wide sombrero, crumpled the edge of it slightly, as though about to wipe off his brow with the back of his hand.

Then, as quick as a flash, he whipped the hat off his head and slashed Frisco across the face with it. It was done so quickly and took Frisco so utterly by surprize that he staggered back against the bar, throwing both hands up to his eyes.

As Kaintuck’s left hand swept aside and as Frisco’s hands went up to protect his eyes, Kaintuck took a half step forward and drove his right fist into Frisco’s anatomy, just below the arch of his breast-bone.

It was a terrific punch. Frisco’s hands dropped limply, his eyes rolled, and he slumped down between the rail and the bar, knocked completely out. Kaintuck stepped back, put on his hat and leaned one elbow against the bar, looking down curiously at Frisco, who had not moved again.

“Nobody but a —— fool ever starts trouble and ain’t set to meet it,” said Kaintuck dryly.

“There’s a lot of truth in that,” said the bartender.

Ertle did not say a word, but managed to drag Frisco away from the bar and stretch him out in the middle of the room.

“You sure sung him to sleep,” stated the bartender, as he walked around the bar, carrying a glass of water, which he threw in Frisco’s face.

The shock of the cold water partly revived Frisco, who was able to sit up and groan hollowly and clutch at his stomach.

“He won’t give a —— what the cook puts on the table tonight,” said Kaintuck.

Ertle gave Kaintuck a side glance, but kept his lips shut.

After another minute Frisco was able to get to his feet and slump back into a chair. He was still a mighty sick man.

“How’r yuh comin’, Frisco?” asked Ertle.

Frisco shook his head, his lips compressed painfully. Then he got to his feet and went outside with Ertle, where he leaned on the hitch-rack until his breathing apparatus began to function normally again.

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t hit him, Skeeter,” complained Kaintuck. “Are you gettin’ meek, cowboy?”

“I’m the sheriff,” grinned Skeeter. “I ain’t got no right to fight everybody that disagrees with me.”

“Uh-huh? Say, that don’t affect me, does it?”

“It didn’t seem to. But yuh don’t need to feel contrite over it. That pelican was cravin’ trouble.”

“He was.” The bartender was emphatic.

“Well, his cravin’ ought to be satisfied,” grinned Kaintuck. “Unless the man is a reg’lar hog for punishment, he ought to be plumb pleased over his success.”

“He didn’t show good sense”—thus the bartender, polishing the top of the bar industriously—“wanted trouble and didn’t look for it. He’s mostly always like that when he’s drinkin’.”

Kaintuck walked to the door and looked toward the hitch-rack, where Ertle and Frisco were having a heated argument. Ertle had hold of Frisco’s arm and was trying to dissuade him from doing something.

“Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, then!” snorted Ertle.

Frisco yanked away from him and started back toward the saloon door. It was evident to Kaintuck that Frisco was coming back to wipe out the disgrace.

He stepped aside, flattened himself against the wall, and the maddened Frisco walked past him, squinting at the bar, where Skeeter and the bartender were standing, wondering what it was all about. Kaintuck saw that Frisco had drawn his gun and was carrying it behind him.

For a moment Frisco stared at the two men, and in that moment Kaintuck’s revolver barrel rapped him sharply across the knuckles of his right hand, causing him to drop the gun. He whirled quickly and found himself looking into the muzzle of Kaintuck’s .45.

Kaintuck kicked Frisco’s gun aside and motioned for Frisco to get out of the saloon.

“You must be one of them fellers who never know when they’re whipped, ain’t yuh?” queried Kaintuck. “I ought to pistol-whip yuh right here and give the doctor somethin’ to sew up, you bat-eared ant-eater. Git on yore bronc and go home.”

Kaintuck followed Frisco to the hitch-rack. Ertle had come back to the saloon door, but preceded Frisco and Kaintuck to the rack. They mounted their horses and rode out of town, with never a backward glance, while Skeeter and the bartender stood in the doorway and grinned at each other.

“You’ve got a real capable deputy,” observed the bartender.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Skeeter. “Don’t let him hear it. The first thing he knows he’ll be thinkin’ he is somebody.”

Kaintuck swaggered back to the saloon and picked up Frisco’s gun.

“Give it to the bartender,” said Skeeter. “He can give it to Frisco the first time he shows up.”

Kaintuck was examining the gun intently, but did not give it to the bartender. Moran and Monk Clark came in. They nodded to Skeeter and Kaintuck, who took advantage of their coming to leave the saloon.

Back in their office Kaintuck took the gun from his pocket and handed it to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41.

“That’s why I didn’t give it to the bartender,” said Kaintuck. “And I don’t want yuh to forget that that is my clue.”

“It sure is,” grinned Skeeter. “And you earned it, cowboy. That makes two .41’s in evidence. If we get any more, we’re up against it. You better look out for Frisco. He came back there to kill yuh, that’s a cinch.”

“He sure did. I’d like to know why he tried to pick trouble with you, Skeeter. We’ve never done anythin’ to him.”

“Mebbe he ain’t killed no sheriff yet,” grinned Skeeter. “He strikes me as bein’ one of them fellers that won’t be satisfied until they’ve killed a sheriff. He’s a bad boy.”

“He ain’t so bad as he used to was,” grinned Kaintuck. “If he wants his gun back he’s got to say ‘please, Mister Kennedy’—which he won’t do; so I’ll keep the gun.”

It was about fifteen minutes later that Clark and Moran rode past the office, going south. Moran gave them a friendly wave, but Clark did not turn his head. They had disappeared when Kaintuck saw the bartender standing in the door of the Half-Moon, waving at him.

Curiosity impelled them both to go back to the saloon.

“Clark didn’t stop at your place, eh?” said the dispenser of drinks.

“Why should he?” asked Skeeter.

“Well, from what they said I thought sure he would. They’re on the way to the Lazy H to see Sam Ertle. It seems that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ heifer today, which had a vented brand on its right hip, and a fresh Box X on its left shoulder.”

“Yeah?” Skeeter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Uh-huh. Meanin’ that—” He hesitated for a moment. “On the right hip, eh? Who brands on the right hip?”

“The Lazy H.”

“Anybody else around here?”

“No. The Tin Cup brand on the right shoulder, HG on the left hip—and the Box X on the left shoulder.”

“Then they must ’a’ vented a Lazy H, eh?”

“Looks like it. I heard Monk and Moran talkin’ about it. It seems that Monk had started for the Gregory ranch, but run into this heifer. He said the new brand made him suspicious; so he roped the animal and put it in an old corral on Deer Creek, between here and the Box X. He cut back to the road and run into Moran who was comin’ to town.”

“It’s kinda funny he didn’t come to me,” mused Skeeter. “Bein’ the sheriff, I’m interested in cattle stealin’.”

“Yuh ought to be,” smiled the bartender.

Skeeter paid for a round of drinks and led the way back to the office, going straight through the place and out to the little stable at the rear. Kaintuck looked at him curiously, but saddled his horse without comment.

Frisco Larkin was in a vile frame of mind when he got back to the Lazy H ranch. It was the first time he had ever been completely knocked out—the first time he had ever lost his six-shooter. To a man like him nothing could have been more humiliating.

Frisco was not endowed with an overabundance of imagination, but he had a certain amount of pride, and it galled him deeply to think that he had been whipped. As he rode along through the dust he removed his hat and wiped his bald head with a flirting motion of his hand.

His stomach was still fluttering, and there was a great vacancy beneath his breastbone. He shifted painfully in his saddle, spat between his front teeth and spurred his horse savagely. He wanted revenge on something. Then he yanked cruelly on the reins, almost throwing his horse off the road.

He roweled the animal savagely and raced it all the way to the Tin Cup ranch, where he dismounted and sat down in the shade of the stable, trying to ease his cramping insides.

Van Cleve, Ertle’s other cowboy, a stolid-faced person, with scraggly, yellow mustaches and a crooked mouth came down from the ranch-house, wondering what was the matter with Frisco. His teeth were like aged tombstones in a badly-kept cemetery—sadly out of line.

“You got a stummick-ache?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Et somethin’ yuh hadn’t ort to, eh?”

“Na-a-aw! Deputy sheriff hit me in the belly.”

Van Cleve filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and sat down with Frisco, who told his story in meager detail.

“I’m prob’ly goin’ to kill him for that,” declared Frisco, after his story was finished.

Van Cleve had little to say. He gave Frisco another gun and a box of cartridges, closing the incident, as far as he was concerned. But it was not closed as far as Frisco was concerned.

“And when yuh went back to kill him, he took yore gun?” asked Van Cleve.

It seemed marvelous to Van Cleve; so marvelous that he picked his teeth thoughtfully with the blade of his pocket-knife.

“Bad hombre,” he said, after careful consideration.

“Hit me when I wasn’t lookin’,” said Frisco.

“What was yuh lookin’ at?”

“Oh, ——!” Frisco felt too badly to explain. “Did yuh ever get hit real hard right here?” He indicated his solar plexus.

Van Cleve shook his head.

“Never got hit anywhere, except in the back.”

“Somebody sneak up on yuh, Van?”

“Na-a-a-aw, ——! They outrun me.”

“You think this is funny, don’tcha?”—indignantly.

“’F I do, it’s because I can’t help m’self, Frisco. You poked yore beak into the molasses and got it stuck, tha’sall.”

“Yeah, and I’ll poke it some more, if I want to.”

“Tha’sso? Frisco, you’ve got intestinal trouble, ain’tcha?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Yo’re overbalanced.”

“Meanin’ what?”

“Too much guts and too few brains. I dunno how in —— he ever knocked yuh down.”

“That will be about all,” said Ertle warningly. “There’s been enough fighting.”

As Ertle turned toward the house, Monk Clark and Frank Moran came in sight. Ertle stopped and waited for them to ride up. Clark and Ertle exchanged nods of greeting, and Clark came right to the point.

“I’ve got a heifer in the old corral on Deer Creek, waitin’ for you to look it over, Sam. There’s a fresh brand vent on the right hip, and a new Box X on the left shoulder. Kinda thought yuh might be interested.”

Ertle scowled heavily.

“Tha’sso?” He turned to Frisco and Van Cleve. “Saddle up the horses.”

Ertle walked to the house and came back carrying a rifle in a scabbard, which he fastened to his saddle, when Frisco came with the horse.

“Old Deer Creek corral, eh?” he asked Monk Clark.

“Yeah. We’ll ride over with yuh, Sam.”

“The more the merrier. Did yuh tell the sheriff?”

“I did not.”

“Suits me. Let’s go.”

The five men rode away from the Lazy H, heading straight for the bridge across Moon River, after which they swung to the northeast, passing between Crescent City and the Gregory ranch.

It was only about eight miles, but they were unable to make much speed across the hills. There was little conversation. They struck Deer Creek about a quarter of a mile below the old corral, but rode along the ridges to a point above the small flat where the old corral was located.

Even at a distance they could see the spotted yearling, moving about the dusty old enclosure. They went down the hill, crossed the little creek and drew up at the corral fence. Clark and Ertle dismounted and climbed over the fence, while the yearling circled wildly. The process of branding an animal does not serve to make it gentle in any way.

The two men stopped near the center of the corral. Ertle was carrying a coiled lariat, which he shook out and roped the animal on the first throw. It bawled and protested, but he drew it up to an old snubbing-post in the center of the corral, while they looked it over.

Ertle walked around it, his eyes half closed, and came back to Monk Clark whose face registered extreme wonder.

But Clark did not speak. He looked at Ertle, as though wondering what thoughts might lie behind the keen eyes of the wiry little cattleman. And Clark knew he was treading on thin ice.

Ertle stepped away from him, circled the animal and came back to face Clark. He pointed at the yearling.

“Does this happen to be the one yuh mentioned, Clark?” Ertle’s voice was pitched low.

“Well, by ——, it looks like it! But—”

The other cowboys had climbed the fence and were gazing at the animal. On its two hips were burned splotches, where brands had been eliminated, as also was a burned area on its left shoulder. But on the right shoulder, clumsily drawn but unmistakable, was the outline of the Tin Cup brand.

“I don’t understand—” began Clark, his face black with wrath. He choked raspingly. “When I left here that yearlin’—”

Ertle’s sarcastic laugh interrupted him.

“Somebody was just as smart as you was, Monk. It looks like the deadwood was on the Tin Cup, and not on the Box X.”

“You don’t think I’d slap my brand on a Lazy H, and then call yore attention to it, do yuh?” demanded Monk belligerently.

“Nobody has proved it to be a Lazy H. With three vented brands on it, yuh can call it what yuh like. It looks to me as though it was a Tin Cup right now. If I was in yore place, I’d herd that —— critter home and make veal out of it before anybody else finds out what you’ve done.”

Ertle turned on his heel, climbed the fence and went back to his horse, followed by Frisco and Van Cleve. They mounted and rode away, while Clark leaned against the snubbing-post and swore roundly, much to the amusement of Frank Moran, who perched on the top pole of the corral and smoked a cigaret.

Monk Clark walked over to the corral fence and watched Ertle and his two men ride away. He looked back at the calf and swore witheringly. He knew positively that some one had found this calf and had branded it again, wiping out all trace of the brand which would incriminate Curley Adams.

Clark walked back and examined the brands closely, while the calf bawled some more and kicked up dust. Satisfied that there was no trace left of any original brand, Clark turned to Moran.

“That —— pup of an Adams saw me corral that heifer,” complained Clark. “He sneaked in and balled up everythin’.”

“What would yuh expect him to do?” grinned Moran. “If I was in yore place, I’d drop the whole thing, Clark. You haven’t any proof that Curley Adams did the job, and if Adams hears about it you might get in trouble.”

Clark cursed witheringly, as he took Ertle’s rope off the animal, threw the rope aside and let down the bars.

“Goin’ to take Ertle’s advice?” asked Moran, as they mounted their horses.

“What in —— else can I do? Be a —— of a fine thing for somebody to find a heifer with three vented brands on it—and my brand put on with a runnin’-iron.”

Monk Clark rode into the corral to chase the yearling out, when Moran whistled warningly. Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck had ridden out of the brush just above the corral, and were coming toward them.

Monk Clark spat out a curse against all sheriffs and other meddling fools, and tried to make the yearling break for freedom. But with the perversity of its species, the yearling ignored the opening and ran around behind Clark.

Clark stopped, shifted his gun and wiped the perspiration from his face, while the calf came close to him, nosing out toward the man who would have given many dollars to have been miles away at this time. Clark looked appealingly at Moran, but that worthy was watching the officers approach, a half grin on his thin lips.

Skeeter and Kaintuck rode up to the corral opening, nodding pleasantly to both men. Clark glowered heavily, but Moran wore an amused smile. It was nothing to him.

“You prob’ly didn’t know we were in town when yuh went out to the Lazy H,” said Skeeter slowly, eyeing the heifer. “We heard that somethin’ was wrong out here; so we came out.”

“Oh, the —— you did!” snorted Clark.

Skeeter and Kaintuck were looking closely at the vented brands, and now they looked at each other.

“That darned bartender never got it right,” observed Kaintuck. “He said that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. Shucks, there’s been three brands vented and the Tin Cup run on.”

Skeeter dismounted and came inside the corral. Clark eyed him narrowly, wondering just what this lean-faced, inquisitive-looking sheriff might do in a case of this kind. He watched anxiously as Skeeter circled the animal, looking closely at the burned spots.

Skeeter seemed seriously amused, as he straightened up, hitched up his belt and looked knowingly at Kaintuck, who had ridden his horse up close to the fence and was rolling a cigaret. Clark coughed slightly, apologetically.

Skeeter looked at Monk Clark curiously.

“We had a hard time findin’ this old corral, Clark.”

“Yuh did, eh?”

“Yeah. I sure wish you’d tell us about them vented brands.”

Clark shut his lips tightly and there was a strained expression around his eyes. He realized that he was in bad. Skeeter turned to Moran.

“What do you know about it, Moran?”

“Not a thing, Sheriff. He told me that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. We got Sam Ertle to come over—and this is what we found.”

“By ——, I’d like to know who done it!” exploded Clark.

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “I dunno who would steal cattle for you, Clark—do you?”

Clark bristled angrily.

“Look here, Sheriff! Don’t you—”

“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” protested Skeeter angrily. “It looks to me as though the heifer belongs to you.”

“It does not!”

“All right. I’ll take it back to town with me.”

“Back to town? What in —— do yuh want to take it to town for?”

“See if I can find out who owns the darned thing.”

Clark swallowed heavily and scowled at the offending animal. It put him in a ridiculous position, and he realized that every one in the Moon River country would hear about it.

It looked as if he had made a clumsy attempt to steal a heifer. Of course it would be impossible to tell who had been the original owner, but that would not lessen the fact that the animal did not belong to him. He squinted at the right shoulder of the animal, a painful scowl on his face. The outline of a tin cup was too plainly drawn for any one to mistake it.

“Well,” he said slowly, “can’t we arrange this, Sheriff? You can see where it puts me.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” smiled Skeeter. “If I was doin’ my duty I’d arrest you, Clark. If I was you, I’d herd that heifer home, make meat of it and burn the hide.”

“Is that all right with you?”

“I’ll make it all right, I reckon.” Skeeter turned his horse and motioned to Kaintuck, who followed him. Skeeter looked back at Clark and said:

“It’s all right this time, Clark; but I don’t want to see any more vented brands around this country. You caught me when I was feelin’ awful good-natured.”

Skeeter and Kaintuck crossed the creek and rode over the ridge, where they looked back to see Clark and Moran going in the opposite direction, herding a frightened heifer. Kaintuck looked at Skeeter and they both doubled over their saddle-horns, choking with unholy mirth.

“Mamma, pin a rose on me!” howled Kaintuck. “Caught yuh when yuh was feelin’ awful good-natured! Haw, haw, haw, haw!”

Kaintuck grew incoherent at sight of the tears running down Skeeter’s face. The tall cowboy was unable to talk.

“We had him foul,” choked Kaintuck. “My ——, it’s too bad we wasn’t there when Sam Ertle seen the critter.”

Skeeter managed to clear his throat.

“I like t’ died all the time, Kaintuck. The expression on Clark’s face was the funniest thing I ever seen.”

“And we didn’t finish any too danged quick either,” said Kaintuck. “I never drawed a picture of a tin cup with a hot cinch-ring before in my life. Haw, haw, haw, haw! It sure was a shame to burn places where there wasn’t any brand.”

“We had to make it a puzzle,” said Skeeter laughing. “I’m not sure that Monk Clark tried to hang a crime on to Curley Adams, but somebody did. That kid is too smart to do a thing like that.

“Curley hit Moran that night, and that would make Moran hate Curley. Mebbe Moran did the job to put Curley in bad, and Monk Clark happened to find the animal.”

“That would be a —— of a thing for a Government detective to do, wouldn’t it, Skeeter?”

“Sure it would. But yuh never can tell anythin’ about a detective, because they’re just human bein’s, Kaintuck.”

“That’s right, I s’pose. And I’ve an idea that Monk Clark ain’t goin’ to like us so awful well after this.”

“Tha’sall right. We’re goin’ to be disliked a lot before this deal is all finished. Shake up that goat yo’re ridin’, or we’ll be late for supper.”

But there was little mirth in the heart of Monk Clark as he herded the misbranded heifer toward the Tin Cup ranch, assisted by Moran, who had offered no sympathy nor advice.

“That sheriff is all right,” offered Moran.

Clark spurred around the animal, cutting it off from going down the side of a coulée, and rode back beside Moran.

“Yuh think he’s all right, do yuh?”

“He let you off easy.”

Clark shut his jaws savagely, but was forced to admit that Moran was right.

“Yuh just played in hard luck, Clark. Adams saw yuh corral the critter, came over and saw what yuh had done, and proceeded to ruin things.”

“If I thought—if I knew that for a fact, I’d kill that —— puncher,” said Clark evenly. “But I don’t know. Mebbe it was Gregory or Calamity. Either one of ’em would do it for Curley.”

“I suppose,” nodded Moran.

They drove the heifer down through a brushy swale, and Clark spurred in close to it, forcing it against a barrier of greasewood, where it tried to turn back past him. Shooting from his hip he dropped the animal the first shot. His horse swerved aside, whirling completely around, but he curbed it and dismounted.

With a few flicks of his knife he stripped the Tin Cup brand from its shoulder and flung it far off across the brush, where it hung, dangling from a limb for a moment and dropped into a thick bush.

“Give the coyotes a feed,” he said as he mounted, and they rode on toward the Tin Cup in silence.

Hank Gregory had been doing a lot of thinking about his conversation with Monk Clark. He wondered if it might not be a good thing to explain everything to Curley. He felt that Curley would keep the secret. Still, he did not want to share it with any one.

Old Calamity had ridden to Crescent City to get the mail and a few groceries, and Joy was still cleaning house. Calamity was glad to get away from the ranch, where Joy had drafted him into the army of cleanliness.

Hank Gregory sat humped in a rocking-chair on the shady porch and chewed on the stem of his pipe, his soul troubled greatly. He had resolved to kill Monk Clark if Clark tried to interfere with the wedding. That much was settled in his mind.

Calamity came back and stabled his horse. Gregory could see that Calamity carried news by the way he hurried up from the stable. He tossed a mail-order catalogue on the porch, handed Gregory a newspaper and squinted through the front door.

He thought he heard Joy working in the kitchen, but she was on her knees behind a living-room chair, fixing the carpet. He stepped back to Gregory.

“Hank, there’s a funny deal been pulled off,” he said.

Joy straightened up and came closer to the doorway, as Calamity continued—

“Frisco Larkin was in town this mornin’. Got drunk and told everybody in sight that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ with the Lazy H vented and the Box X run on.”

Gregory stared at Calamity, his mind working fast.

“Monk and this Moran person went to get Ertle to look at the heifer, which was in the old Deer Creek corral, and when they got there somebody had vented the Box X and put on the Tin Cup. Ertle got mad and went home.”

“Frisco told this?” wondered Gregory. “Meanin’ that Curley Adams tried to steal a Lazy H yearlin’, Calamity?”

“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hank. But somebody ruined it, don’t yuh see. The laugh was on Monk Clark.”

“The laugh, eh?” Gregory surged out of his chair. “Curley never done that, Calamity.”

“He’d be an awful fool to do it,” amended Calamity. “The Lazy H is the only one to brand on the right hip. A vented brand on the right hip means that it was a Lazy H.”

“Monk Clark did it,” said Gregory slowly. “—— him! He wants to marry Joy, and he did this to jail Curley Adams.”

“How do yuh know?” blurted Calamity.

“Never mind how I know.” Gregory walked down the steps and went toward the stable.

Calamity sat down in the rocking-chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Joy had heard all of it.

It seemed ridiculous to think that Monk Clark wanted to marry her badly enough to try to fasten a crime to Curley. She shook her head wonderingly. Why, she had not spoken a dozen words to Monk Clark since she had come home. It must be that her father was wrong, she thought.

She peeked out at Calamity, who was still deep in thought, and walked to the window. Her father was saddling a horse at the corral, and she wondered whether he was going to town. He mounted and rode away through the big gate, but did not go toward town. He was going toward the Box X.

She walked back to the doorway. Calamity looked at her and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Wasn’t much mail, Joy,” he said. “How’s the cleanin’?”

“I heard what you told Dad,” she said.

“Yeah? Well,” Calamity simulated a yawn, and rubbed his stubbly cheek, “I don’t reckon it was any secret.”

“Where has Dad gone, Calamity?”

“He didn’t say, Joy.”

“Haven’t you any idea?”

“Well, yuh can’t hardly call it an idea, Joy. He had a rifle under his knee, and I kinda think he went to kill Monk Clark.”

Calamity spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though a killing was nothing to speak about.

“You’re joking, Calamity.”

“I hope so, Joy. I’ve knowed yore father a long time, and I can kinda read him. Mebbe I’m wrong. If Monk Clark misbranded a critter to send Curley to the penitentiary, he shore needs killin’.”

“But, Calamity, don’t you realize what it would mean? They would hang him for murder. Oh, why didn’t you stop him—make him listen to reason?”

“I dunno. It’s a free country, Joy—and I don’t like Monk Clark.”

“But it is such a foolish idea, Calamity! Monk Clark doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Don’t he?”

“Certainly not!”

“Shows —— bad taste then.”

Joy knew that she could get no satisfaction out of talking with Calamity; so she resolved to do the only thing possible to avert a tragedy.

She ran through the kitchen and down to the stable, where she saddled her own horse, a hammer-headed roan that had little brains but plenty of speed. Calamity stood at a corner of the porch and watched her ride after her father.

He did not offer to assist nor interfere. Calamity was absolutely neutral. Nobody could ever accuse him of stopping a fight, and if one man wanted to kill another, it was no affair of Calamity’s.

The hammer-headed roan was not the best riding horse in the country, and Joy was having difficulty in convincing it that she was its master. A liberal application of the quirt showed the roan that its ways were not liked, and after that it decided to do better.

She knew that her father would waste no time, but there was a possibility that he might stop at the Box X; so she swung further down the slopes, where it was possible to make better time.

Joy was a good rider—a good hill rider, which is some different than riding on the flat. She knew all the tricks of helping a horse over tough going, and as a result she was able to make time where an inexperienced rider would have hunted for an easier way around.

And never before did she have such an incentive for speed. She felt sure that she could convince her father of the folly of his intentions. Even if Monk Clark was guilty of an attempt to send Curley to the penitentiary, he had failed, she reasoned.

And it was Curley’s battle, not her father’s. She could not understand her father’s sudden animosity toward Monk Clark, because they had always been friendly, as far as she knew. And while she commended her father’s attitude in defense of the man she was to marry, she did not agree that he should commit murder for something which had not injured Curley.

She sent the roan scrambling over a ridge and galloped him straight down the brushy hill, where a slip might send horse and rider pin-wheeling to the rocky bottom. They hit the bottom in a cloud of dust and a shower of stones, but the roan gamely kept its feet and lurched into a gallop down the slope to Deer Creek.

She crossed Deer Creek near the old corral and continued straight north, intending to strike the Tin Cup road about two miles from the ranch, but when she reached the old road, which led east to the Box X, she hesitated. Something seemed to tell her to take this road.

“He might have stopped at the old ranch,” she told herself, and turned in that direction. There was plenty of run left in the roan and it did not take her long to cover the mile to the Box X.

She could see a man near the ranch-house and a saddled horse stood between the house and the old stable. A closer inspection convinced her that the horse was the one her father had ridden from home.

She rode up beside the house and dismounted. Her father was standing just in front of the house, looking at something on the ground. He had seen her coming, but did not look up as she walked up to him.

Lying in front of him, half-hidden in the rank growth of foxtail grass, was Monk Clark, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. His right elbow was bent, and in his right hand was a cocked six-shooter. He had drawn the gun, cocked it, but died before he could pull the trigger.

Joy’s face blanched at sight of him and she drew back, staring at her father.

She knew now that she had come too late. He had ridden faster than she had anticipated, and had met Monk Clark at the Box X. She looked down at him, a big hunk of lifeless clay, his jaw sagging. It seemed as though he might be yelling a battle cry, his gun lifted for a shot. She could not realize that Clark was dead.

She looked at her father, hardly able to tear her eyes away from the face of the dead man, and found him staring into space. His shoulders were bowed, as though bearing a great weight, and he seemed to have aged years in an hour.

A wild canary swung from a stunted bush near them and began singing. Joy turned and looked at the little yellow bird, wondering that anything could be happy now. She looked at Monk Clark and shuddered sickeningly. Her father spoke—

“How did yuh happen to follow me?” he asked softly.

“To try and stop you, Dad,” she said hoarsely. “I heard what Calamity told you, and I—I knew why you came.”

“I heard shots,” he said wearily. “They sounded like they were fired over here. But I didn’t see anybody. You can see him from the front porch.”

“Didn’t you kill him, Dad?”

Gregory shook his head.

“I didn’t have a chance, Joy. Somebody beat me to it.”

Somebody beat him to it? wondered Joy. Somebody? Who was the somebody who would shoot Monk Clark? She looked at her father and found him looking at her, his eyes filled with sorrow. They were thinking the same thing, and both knew it. Gregory compressed his lips, turned his head and looked at Monk Clark.

Joy’s lips felt like leather when she tried to moisten them with a dry tongue, and there was a tightness about her throat, an aching tightness that hurt her to breathe. Her voice sounded far away, thin, vibrant, as she said—

“Who? Oh, Dad, you don’t suppose Curley—”

“Hush! We don’t know.”

“Well, he can’t hear me. There is only us, Dad. You don’t suppose—oh, here comes somebody!”

Joy grasped her father’s arm and pointed at the two riders who were coming toward the ranch.

“We can’t prove anything, don’t you see?” she panted. “Oh, what will we do?”

“Keep yore nerve,” he cautioned her, as the riders drew closer. “I didn’t kill him, and we don’t know who did.”

It was Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck. Both of them had met Gregory, but not Joy. They dismounted and came across the yard.

“Howdy,” greeted Skeeter. “Nice day, folks.”

Gregory nodded, but his answer to the greeting was to indicate the body of Monk Clark. Skeeter moved in closer, flanked by Kaintuck, who whistled softly through his teeth. Skeeter dropped on his knees and examined the body closely.

Skeeter did not hurry. He slowly unbuttoned Clark’s shirt and examined the bullet holes. He sat back on his heels, looking the body over, and his eyes roamed back to the house, as though estimating where the person had been who fired the shot. He took hold of the gun in Clark’s hand, and found it clutched in a death grip.

Kaintuck leaned down, still whistling through his teeth, and looked at the bared chest of the dead man. Joy had taken her father by the arm, her eyes squinted with pain, thinking what it was going to mean for all of them. Skeeter turned to them.

“Shot twice,” he said. “Second one must ’a’ cut him off quick. First one went through his left shoulder.”

Skeeter got to his feet and brushed the dust off his knees, as he looked questioningly at Gregory.

“I don’t know who killed him,” said Gregory. “I stopped here to see Curley Adams, and from the porch I could see the body lying out here.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully. “Didja hear any shots?”

“Yeah, I did. That’s why I came.”

Skeeter turned and looked at Joy.

“It kinda seems as though nobody is goin’ to introduce us, ma’am. I know yo’re Miss Gregory. I’m Sarg, the sheriff. I want yuh to meet Kennedy, my deputy.”

Joy’s hand trembled as she shook hands with the two officers, but their grins were reassuring.

“You came in kind of a hurry, didn’t yuh?” asked Skeeter.

“Why, I—I—what makes you think I did?” stammered Joy.

“Well, for one thing, yuh forgot to put a saddle-blanket on yore horse, and yo’re still wearin’ an apron.”

For the first time Joy realized that she was wearing her old cleaning apron, no hat, and an old pair of shoes. And she remembered that she had forgotten to put a saddle-blanket on her horse.

“She came after me,” said Gregory. “She had an idea I was goin’ to the Tin Cup ranch to kill Monk Clark. She had just got here when you showed up.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Skeeter. He knew that Gregory was telling the truth. “She thought you was goin’ to the Tin Cup to kill Monk Clark, eh?”

Gregory nodded.

“And that’s where I was goin’, Sheriff.”

The admission was a decided shock to Joy, but did not seem of any great moment to Skeeter Bill.

“Mind tellin’ us why yuh wanted to kill Clark, Gregory?”

“Not at all. Clark wanted to marry my daughter, who is goin’ to marry Curley Adams. I heard that Clark found a yearlin’, on which the Lazy H had been vented and the Box X run on. So I knew that Monk Clark had tried to send Curley to the penitentiary.”

Skeeter and Kaintuck exchanged quick glances. They knew all about that part of it.

Skeeter nodded and walked back to the porch, where he looked back toward them. He could see the body plainly from there. He sat down on the steps and they came up to him.

“What do yuh make of it?” asked Kaintuck.

“I dunno. There’s one thing sure—Monk Clark is dead. And the worst of it is, he was killed here. Dang it, I’m sorry!”

“Will it incriminate Curley?” asked Joy quickly.

“Unless he can prove where he was at the time.”

“Oh, I know he didn’t do it,” said Joy tearfully.

“I sure hope yo’re right,” Skeeter got up and moved over to a lower corner of the steps, where he examined the ground.

“Kinda funny,” he muttered, squinting back toward the body.

After another examination of the ground he walked back and squatted beside the body again, while the three people on the porch watched and wondered what he had discovered.

Kaintuck stepped down and looked at the ground, which had seemed of interest to Skeeter. On the sandy soil was a dark colored spot, still damp, covering a space about a foot square.

Skeeter got to his feet and walked back to the porch.

“It kinda looks to me like Monk Clark was shot right here beside the porch,” he stated. “There’s a big spot of blood at the corner of the porch, and hardly any out at the body. His gun is gripped awful tight in his hand, which might happen when a man is killed so quickly, and I find where his heels scraped along the ground, as he was carried out there.”

“But what does that signify?” asked Joy.

“I dunno, ma’am. It kinda looks as though he came up to the porch and got killed. Mebbe the man who killed him wanted to get rid of the body and started out to hide it, but seen yore dad coming and made his getaway.”

“That sounds reasonable,” nodded Gregory. “It wasn’t so long after the shots were fired that I came. Possibly ten minutes.”

“Have you been in the house?” asked Skeeter.

“No. I came on the porch and called Curley’s name. There was no answer, and when I looked around I saw the body. I was out there lookin’ at it when Joy rode up. You came a few minutes later.”

“Might be worth while to look around a little,” suggested Skeeter.

The front door was partly open; so they went in. The living-room of the old ranch-house was about sixteen by twenty-four feet in size, with a large stone fireplace in the front, right-hand corner.

There were no furnishings, and the wall-paper, discolored by age, was nearly all peeled from the rough board walls. The boards of the floor were broken and warped, and the windows had been patched with cardboard, newspapers and other opaque materials, until little light filtered in.

Skeeter walked directly to the fireplace, where a number of scattered, fire-blackened bricks were lying, and found that the bottom of the fireplace had been recently torn out, disclosing a cavity about three feet long, two feet wide and two feet deep.

“Looks like Curley had been rebuildin’ his fireplace,” observed Kaintuck.

Skeeter made no comment. He had picked up a piece of metal, which greatly resembled silver; a splattery-looking piece, which looked as though it had been spilled while melted. Down in the cavity he found another piece, which appeared to be a silver dollar on one side, but a blank on the other. The imprint of the coin was not well done.

“What in the world is that?” asked Joy.

Skeeter handed her the piece of metal and continued his search, but there was nothing more to be found, except a fragment of white substance, which might have been plaster-of-paris.

“It looks as though somebody had tried to make a dollar,” said Gregory.

“Yeah, it does,” agreed Skeeter thoughtfully. “We better look around a little more.”

At the rear of the living-room were two doors, one of which opened to a bedroom, the room which Curley had been repairing, and the other to the kitchen and dining-room, which were still in need of repairs.

The bedroom contained Curley’s personal effects, and on a shelf Skeeter discovered the reloading outfit, a small can of powder and a bullet mold. But there was nothing to indicate tragedy.

Further search disclosed the fact that Curley’s horse and saddle were not at the stable. While Kaintuck, Joy and Gregory argued over what might have happened, Skeeter mounted his horse and rode back over the route taken by Gregory on his way to the ranch.

He came back in a few minutes and went to the west side of the house, searching the ground closely.

“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.

“Not very much,” said Skeeter. “A man had his horse here on this side of the house. He was in the house when Clark came up to the steps, and he shot Clark.

“He wanted to hide the body, I reckon, but he saw Gregory on the skyline of that hill back there; so he dropped the body, ran back to his horse and rode south-west. The house would mask him from Gregory until he was able to cut down through the brush and into that gully. Clark’s horse is down in the brush, tied to an old snag. He probably sneaked up here on foot.”

“Well, I’d say yuh found out quite a lot,” said Kaintuck.

“But why would Monk Clark sneak up here?” asked Joy.

Skeeter squinted at Clark’s body.

“Didn’t you say that Clark tried to put Curley Adams in bad because he wanted to marry this young lady?”

“He did,” Gregory was very positive.

“Uh-huh. Do yuh reckon Clark would go so far as to try and shoot Curley?”

“Meanin’ that Clark sneaked up here to shoot Curley, and got beat at his game?”

“Not meanin’—just wonderin’, Gregory.”

“I don’t know what Clark would do, Sheriff. But I don’t think that Curley would kill him and run. He ain’t that kind.”

Skeeter rolled a cigaret, shaping it carefully. It gave him a chance to do a little silent wondering for himself.

“I don’t understand about that imprint of a dollar,” said Gregory.

“Experimentin’, I reckon,” said Skeeter. “I wish Curley would show up.”

“You don’t think he did it, do you?” asked Joy hopefully.

Skeeter smiled softly.

“I hope he didn’t, Miss Joy. Yuh see, I’m doin’ my darndest to think of somebody else that did do it. Whoever killed Monk Clark was here at the house, I think.

“Everythin’ points to the fact that Monk Clark sneaked up here and somebody shot him through the shoulder. Monk draws his six-shooter, pulled back the hammer— and got a bullet right through his heart. I dunno what Monk Clark was doin’ here. His horse is down there in the brush, two hundred yards away, which makes it look like Monk sneaked up here, lookin’ for trouble.”

“And he got it!” said Kaintuck emphatically.

“Yeah, he did. You go down and get Clark’s horse, Kaintuck. We’ve got to pack the body to town.”

“Want us to go with yuh?” asked Gregory.

“No-o-o-o, I don’t think so. You folks ain’t goin’ to run away.”

Kaintuck brought the horse, and the three men draped the body of Monk Clark across his own saddle, roping it securely.

“If you see Curley before I do, tell him to come down to see me right away,” said Skeeter. “And don’t talk to anybody about this. It sure looks awful bad right now, but there ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks.”

The two officers shook hands with Joy and Gregory.

“I’m awful glad you look at it in the right way,” said Joy. “I certainly went weak all over when I saw you coming.”

“I’ll bet yuh did. You knew yore father was goin’ out to kill Monk Clark; so yuh went out to stop him, eh? I don’t blame yuh for feelin’ weak in the knees. Well, be good.”

They rode away, leading the loaded horse, while Joy and her father mounted and headed for home.

“This shore is a funny deal,” declared Kaintuck. “What’s yore theory, Skeeter?”

“I’d hate to say. Here’s how it looks. The Box X ranch-house has been used by them counterfeiters. They melted their stuff in the fireplace, and kept their tools under the bricks, in the hole.

“For some reason Monk Clark made a sneak over here and caught this feller removin’ some of the stuff, or the tools. It looks as though this feller, knowin’ that he’s caught with the goods, starts shootin’. That’s how it looks to me.”

“But who was the feller?”

“My ——, you don’t want to know much, do you?” exploded Skeeter.

“If it wasn’t Curley Adams, what was Monk after him for?”

“How do I know?”

“You think that the counterfeiters had been usin’ the old ranch-house as a place to make their bad money, and they wanted to get their stuff out before Curley discovered it?”

“That wouldn’t be very hard to think, would it?”

“Nope. I’ll bet this killin’ will sure cause a lot of talk, Skeeter. Why, Monk Clark was our most prominent citizen.”

“’S a funny old world, Kaintuck. Almost any jury would hang Hank Gregory for this. He started out to kill Monk Clark, yuh know. Admits it. Prob’ly sorry he didn’t get a chance. If Curley killed him, I don’t blame Curley.”

“But yuh don’t think he did, Skeeter?”

“I’m tryin’ not to, yuh know. I sure hope Curley has been where folks can prove he wasn’t at home at the time of the killin’.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Then I’m scared we’ll have to put Curley in jail.”

Gregory and Joy were worried over the same thing as they rode back home. Neither of them believed that Curley had killed Clark; but could he prove it, they wondered?

Calamity met them at the stable, interested to know what had happened. Joy left her horse for Calamity to unsaddle and went to the house.

“Didja find Monk Clark, Hank?” queried Calamity.

Gregory hung up his saddle and turned to Calamity.

“Monk Clark is dead,” he said shortly.

Calamity’s mouth opened widely, but he did not speak. His eyes followed Gregory, who got some grain for the horses and threw in fresh straw for bedding. Calamity leaned against the wall and absently tested the teeth of a curry-comb on his chin.

“Did he put up much of a fight, Hank?” he asked softly.

“Didn’t have much chance,” said Gregory seriously. “One bullet hit him in the left shoulder and the other bored straight through his heart.”

This was such a cold-blooded statement of facts that Calamity scratched his chin with the curry-comb. Then—

“Well, I hope yuh had a witness, Hank.”

“Joy came just after I found him.”

“After yuh—whatcha talkin’ about?”

“He had already been killed, Calamity. Somebody shot him at the Box X just before I got there.”

“The —— they did! Hank, you—”

Gregory shook his head.

“No, I didn’t shoot him.”

“Curley?”

“I don’t know, Calamity. Curley wasn’t there. The sheriff and his deputy showed up just after Joy got there. They took the body back to town.”

“They did, eh? Well, I’ll be darned! I remember a case back in 1866, when a feller shot—”

“You didn’t see Curley since we left, did yuh?”

“Nope.”

“I wish I knew where he is. If he can’t prove where he was, he’s up against a bad deal. Monk was killed right at a corner of the front porch; probably shot by somebody who was inside the house.”

“My gosh! Do yuh reckon Curley done it, and then high-tailed it out of the country? Darn fool kid wouldn’t stop to think that he could beat the case. I remember a feller back in—”

But Hank Gregory did not care to hear of something which had happened in 1866, and was going toward the house. Calamity grunted and followed in his wake.

Calamity said nothing, but went to work preparing supper, while Joy and her father sat on the porch and tried to cheer each other up. About an hour later Calamity announced supper.

“’Sall ready,” he said. “I don’t reckon there’s much appetite around here though.”

As they went back to the dining-room, Curley Adams rode up and dismounted. They were grouped together, staring at the front doorway, when he came in, rattling his spurs and whistling.

“Hello, everybody,” he called. “Am I in time for supper? By golly, I sure am—” He hesitated and looked at them curiously. “Say, what’s the matter with you folks, anyway?”

Joy went close to him and put her hands on his arms.

“Curley, where have you been today?” she asked softly.

“Where have I been?” Curley laughed foolishly. “Why, I’ve been over to San Gregario cañon. Why the question?”

“Over to San Gregario?”

“Sure. I went over to the old saw-mill to see if they had any lumber. I’ve got to have some pretty quick.”

“Did they have any?”—hopeful that he had seen some one over there.

“I reckon not, honey. There wasn’t a soul over there.”

“Not a soul?” Joy shook her head hopelessly. “You didn’t see anybody over there, Curley?”

“Nope. Say, what’s all the fuss about? What have I—”

“What time did you leave the ranch today?” asked Gregory.

“Time? About noon, I reckon.”

“Have you met any one since?”

“No. Say, what the thunder is the matter with you folks?”

“Let me tell him, will you, Dad?” asked Joy.

“I’d sure be glad if yuh did, Joy,” replied Gregory.

Joy led Curley out to the porch, where she told him what had happened at the Box X. And she could tell by the expression of his face that it was all news to him. He did not interrupt, except to ask a repeat on some of the happenings.

“And I’ve got to prove an alibi, eh?” he said slowly. “Well, I can’t do it, Joy. I had intended coming here before I went to San Gregario cañon, but I didn’t. There wasn’t a soul at the old saw-mill, and I didn’t meet any one on the way back. From the looks of things there hasn’t been any one at the old mill for weeks. They’ve moved everything away, except the lumber and machinery.”

“Then what will you do, Curley?” Joy was terrified at the prospect.

Curley laughed shortly.

“I dunno, Joy. I can’t run away, yuh know. I suppose the best thing I can do is to go right to the sheriff and tell my story. He probably won’t believe it.”

“I think he will. Honest, I do. He has kind of a grin on his face all the time, and he seems to think a lot. Anyway, he was awful nice to us. I expected him to arrest Dad right away, but he seemed to believe our story. You know him, don’t you?”

“Not very well, Joy. I’ve known Kennedy quite a while—and he’s on the square.”

They walked back to the dining-room and sat down.

“Well, what do yuh think of it?” asked Gregory anxiously.

“I can’t even think,” admitted Curley. “It’s a mystery to me. I’m goin’ to have a bite to eat and then ride to town. It looks as though I was up against it, Gregory. There isn’t a chance for me to prove an alibi—nothin’ but my word.”

“Lemme tell yuh about a case I knowed about back in—”

“1866?” laughed Curley. “Calamity, you ought to write a book about 1866.”

“It sure was a busy old year,” grinned Calamity.

Curley realized what he was up against. There was no way in the world for him to prove that he had been to San Gregario cañon. He could not imagine who would be in his house in broad daylight and kill Monk Clark.

It did not seem reasonable, but still there seemed to be plenty of proof that such a thing had happened. As far as the fireplace was concerned, he did not give it a thought.

Joy told him about the misbranded heifer, and she knew from the expression on his face that it was all news to him.

“Didn’t you run on that Tin Cup brand?” asked Calamity.

“Certainly not,” declared Curley. “In the first place, would I be fool enough to vent a Lazy H and run on the Box X? I’m no fool, Calamity.”

“Certainly he never did it,” said Joy warmly.

“Then who in —— did? Ex-cuse my Spanish, Joy. None of us done it, Curley. Must be a crazy person runnin’ in these hills. Dang it all, no sane person would do that. Monk Clark found the heifer with yore brand on it; so he penned it up in the Deer Creek corral and went after Ertle. When he came back there was three vents and the Tin Cup. By golly, I’ll pass.”

“I’ll pass, too,” smiled Curley. “But we can’t pass the fact that Monk Clark was killed at my ranch, and that I’m suspected of killin’ him. What was Monk Clark doin’ at the Box X? Was he comin’ after me?”

Gregory shook his head sadly.

“Monk Clark is too dead to answer, Curley.”

“Sure. And only the man who killed him can answer it. I can see where a man named Adams is going to have a lot of difficulty in provin’ anything.”

“Well,” Gregory coughed softly, “you could make a getaway right now.”

Curley shook his head.

“Nope. I can’t afford to run. They may hang me, but they won’t chase me.”

“Oh, Curley, don’t say things like that,” begged Joy. “There must be a way out.”

“Sure thing,” smiled Curley. “Don’t worry, Joy. Gosh, this will all come out in the wash.”

“I’ll go down with yuh,” said Gregory slowly. “Somehow I’ve got quite a lot of faith in that sheriff. They said he didn’t have any sense, but I think they’re wrong.”

“I’m going along, too,” declared Joy. “I’ve got as much faith as any one else.”

“I’ve got faith, too,” said Calamity dryly. “I’ve also got a hunch—that I’ll have to wash and wipe the dishes.”

“I thought this shootin’ was a mystery,” said Kaintuck, after he and Skeeter had turned the body over to the local coroner, told their story, and escaped to their office.

“Ain’t it?” asked Skeeter, relaxing indolently in an old chair, the back of which wailed a protest.

“It ain’t. At least a dozen men offered to bet me that Curley killed him. Some of ’em offered big odds; so I reckon poor Curley is the favorite for the hangman stakes.”

“When a prominent man is killed,” said Skeeter slowly, “the crop of detectives is enormous. They all seem to think that Curley killed him because of that brandin’ deal. And they’re plumb willin’ to believe that Curley tried to steal a Lazy H animal.

“Why, the darn fools are already makin’ bets as to whether he gets a life sentence or gets hanged. You’d think that he had confessed, to hear some of ’em talkin’.”

“Mebbe he did kill Monk Clark,” said Kaintuck.

“Mebbe. There wouldn’t be anything wonderful about it, if he did. As far back as history goes, men have killed each other, and they’ll prob’ly keep on doin’ it, Kaintuck. If Curley did kill him, I’ll back him in a plea of self-defense.

“Monk Clark had no business in sneakin’ up on the Box X. He died with a cocked gun in his hand. But there’s somethin’ else to this deal, pardner. Behind it is that counterfeitin’ layout.”

“Skeeter, do you think that Monk Clark was mixed up in it?”

“Hm-m-m. That’s hard to say. I told Moran to come down here as soon as he could sneak away from the crowd.”

A few minutes later Frank Moran came in and sat down with them.

“They’re still millin’ around the Half-Moon,” stated Moran. “I don’t know what will happen when the Tin Cup outfit hear that their boss is dead. What was it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”

Skeeter told him about the fireplace at the Box X and showed him the partly-made dollar.

“Clumsy job,” declared Moran. “Looks like they had tried to make one in a plaster mold. Was there anything else in the fireplace?”

“Nope.”

“I wonder,” said Moran thoughtfully, “if Curley Adams is one of the gang?”

“You’ve been at the Tin Cup for quite a while, and you haven’t found out anythin’.”

“That’s true, I’ll admit that I’m stuck.”

“Moran, did Monk Clark know that you was a detective?”

Moran nodded.

“Yeah, I told him. I had to do it, in order to have a chance to do my work.”

“Ertle, too?”

“Yeah.”

Skeeter smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t sabe you fellers, Moran. Why in —— didn’t yuh carry a banner?”

“What else could I do?” Moran almost lost his temper. “I had somethin’ to do besides punchin’ cows. Ranch owners don’t pay cowpunchers to pesticate around the country, lookin’ for clues.”

“I beg yore pardon,” said Skeeter seriously. “How long have you been with the Tin Cup outfit?”

“About a month.”

“You was with the Lazy H quite a while, wasn’t yuh?”

“Several months. What difference does it make how long I’ve been here? These cases sometimes take a year to settle up.”

“Hadn’t ought to, Moran.”

“No?” Moran got to his feet. “Well, if you’re so —— smart, go ahead and settle it. If you was any kind of a sheriff you’d have Curley Adams behind the bars right now.”

Moran walked across the room, turning his back on the sheriff, and began scanning a number of reward notices which had been pasted on the wall in lieu of wall-paper. There was no doubt that Moran was angry. Kaintuck squinted at Skeeter, his ill-fitting mustaches jerking with mirth.

Skeeter drummed on the table with his fingers and silently contemplated Moran’s back. He had deliberately angered the detective, and it amused him. Moran shifted and began reading another notice, when Skeeter spoke apologetically—

“Aw-w-w-w-w, yuh don’t need to get sore.”

“No? Well, I’m tired of havin’ you tryin’ to tell me what to do all the time; sabe? I’ll run my end of this, Sheriff.”

Moran turned and stalked out of the office, while Skeeter grinned at Kaintuck.

“He got mad at yuh,” said Kaintuck.

“Yeah, he did. Li’l son-of-a-gun. I go ahead and find all kinds of clues for him—and he gets mad at me. Ho-o-o, hum! It seems like yuh can’t please everybody.”

Kaintuck went to the Half-Moon, to see what the sentiment might be, while Skeeter smoked innumerable cigarets and made queer figures on a piece of paper with a stubby pencil.

Finally he nodded to himself and wrote a telegram, which read—

MORAN NEEDS YOU. COME AS FAST AS YOU CAN.

He signed it—

Sarg, sheriff of Moon River.

Skeeter walked out of the office and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, debating just what to do. He had always followed what gamblers called a hunch, and just now he had a big hunch.

The yellow lights from the windows and open door of the Half-Moon saloon flooded half of the street, and from within the place came the dull hum of conversation. The glow illuminated a part of the hitch-rack, high-lighting the string of saddle horses.

A wagon came creaking up the street and drew up in front of a store, where the driver dismounted from the wagon and was greeted by several men who had been sitting on the edge of the board sidewalk. Somewhere a guitar novice essayed the “Spanish Fandango,” but without success.

Skeeter leaned against a porch-post, his mind far away from the sights and sounds of Crescent City. He was seeing a pale-faced girl, with frightened eyes, who clung to the arm of a man, whose face was twisted with apprehension. And on the ground was the body of Monk Clark, staring up at the sky.

Skeeter tried to segregate the facts as he had seen them. Some one had been in that house when Monk Clark approached, and Clark had known that this man was there. That much, Skeeter Bill felt must be true. Else why would Clark tie his horse far from the house and approach it on foot?

“What was he lookin’ for?” muttered Skeeter to himself. “Was he sneakin’ up on Curley Adams? Did Curley kill him, try to dispose of the body, and get frightened at the approach of Hank Gregory?”

It looked reasonable. Skeeter shook his head, as his mind flashed back to the skeleton hanging in the tree; the fleshless skull which grinned blankly at the hills.

Where was the connection, he wondered? But try as he might, he could not connect Curley Adams with the killing. For some unknown reason it was impossible—as impossible as to think that Curley Adams, a normal thinking person, would deliberately vent the Lazy H brand, knowing that the Lazy H was the only outfit to brand that particular spot, and run on his own iron.

“I’ve got to find the answer for myself,” he decided. “I may not be a good detective, but I’ve got the nerve to play out the only hand they’ll deal me.”

He shoved away from the post and walked slowly to the depot, two blocks away. The agent greeted him pleasantly, as Skeeter produced the telegram he had written. The agent scanned it quickly and looked up at Skeeter.

“United States Marshal, eh? Say, I’ve got a telegram for Moran from Long. Just came in. Maybe this will cover your wire.”

He handed Skeeter the telegram, sent to Frank Moran, which read—

WILL ARRIVE CRESCENT CITY TOMORROW TO TAKE CHARGE OF INVESTIGATION. (Signed) Long.

“That’s fine,” nodded Skeeter. “Cancel my wire. I’ll give this to Moran, if yuh want me to.”

“Is he in town?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, it will save me the trouble. Thanks.”

Skeeter pocketed the telegram and walked outside. Far down the tracks sounded the eerie whistle of a locomotive, as a freight train rumbled its way toward Crescent City. Skeeter paused. The rails were humming now and the beams from the locomotive headlight illuminated the rails down the tracks.

But Skeeter Bill was not seeing this. A sudden inspiration seemed to strike him, and he made a queer little noise with his lips, a sucking whistle. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the door of the depot, meeting the agent, who was coming out, carrying a lantern.

“What time is the passenger due through here?” he asked.

“Eleven o’clock.”

“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Is it always on time?”

The agent laughed and shifted his lantern.

“Not always, Sheriff. In fact, it is seldom on time, but not very late.”

“Thanks.”

The freight roared in, as Skeeter walked from the platform and headed back toward the office, deep in thought.

“If it works I’m a dinger—if it don’t I’m a sucker,” he decided.

He looked up as he neared the office door. Joy, Curley and Hank Gregory were standing there, waiting for him. He came up, opened the door silently and let them in, after which he locked the door and smiled at Curley.

“Well,” said Curley, “what’s the verdict, Sheriff?”

Skeeter grinned softly and shook his head. “I dunno, pardner. The jury is over in the Half-Moon, and Kaintuck is feelin’ their pulse right now. Set down, folks.”

He placed some chairs for them and sat down on his desk.

“I haven’t any alibi,” said Curley. “While this was goin’ on I was over at San Gregario cañon tryin’ to buy lumber.”

“Tha’sso? Didja buy any?”

“Wasn’t anybody there to buy it from.”

Skeeter hugged one knee and squinted at the floor, while Joy watched him anxiously.

“How did the town take the news?” Thus Gregory nervously.

“The sober ones—calmly; drunken ones—as usual. Whisky sure puts a rope in a man’s hand. The Tin Cup outfit don’t know it yet, except Frank Moran.”

“I suppose he’d like to hang me,” smiled Curley. “Yuh remember I hit him a short time ago.”

Skeeter nodded quickly. “Yeah, I remember. Still, I hope he wouldn’t want to hang yuh for that.”

“They’ll probably say that I killed Monk Clark over that brandin’ deal,” said Curley. “But the fact of the matter is, I never knew a darned thing about it until the folks told me about it a while ago.

“I haven’t been to town for a couple of days, and no one has been at the ranch to tell me how close I came to being sent up for rustlin’.”

“I know,” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Me and Kaintuck was goin’ over to have a talk with yuh, when we ran into this deal.”

“But who balled up the deal for Monk Clark?” wondered Curley. “Somebody sure saved my bacon, and I don’t know who would do a thing like that for me.”

“A feller never knows who his friends are,” said Skeeter. “Me and Kaintuck showed up at the corral just after Ertle had pulled out, and we sure had some fun with Clark.”

Joy got to her feet and went close to Skeeter.

She stepped in front of him, looking at him intently, but he shifted his eyes, deliberately avoiding her. Curley looked at her, wondering what she was trying to do. Skeeter shifted around to Curley, but she stepped between them, facing Skeeter.

“Aw-w-w gosh!” grunted Skeeter uncomfortably.

“Look me in the eyes,” she dared him.

Skeeter tried to do it, but one eye shut tightly and he grinned foolishly.

“Wasn’t that a queer thing for a sheriff to do?” Softly.

“What?” asked Skeeter. “Look at a girl with one eye?”

“No—to ruin evidence.”

“Well,” Skeeter avoided her eyes, “yuh see, the county only allows us thirty-five cents a day to feed prisoners, and we just can’t do it on that money.”

Skeeter did not look up at her. He finished his statement, reached in his pocket for his tobacco and papers and began rolling a cigaret. Joy turned her head and looked at Curley, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Don’t you understand, Curley,” she whispered. “He was the one who—”

“Joy, do you mean that the sheriff vented those brands?” Curley got out of his chair and came to Skeeter, but before he could speak again, the door opened and Kaintuck came in. He was breathing heavily, and did not seem surprized to see Curley and the Gregory family.

“The Tin Cup and the Lazy H outfits are both here now,” he said. “I got all the dope I could before I left. They’re goin’ to the Box X first, and if Curley ain’t there they’ll go to the HG. Them —— fools won’t even wait for a trial.”

“They’ll see that black horse of mine at the hitch-rack!” exclaimed Curley. “Everybody knows that black horse.”

“A black, roan and a gray?” asked Kaintuck.

“Yes. Joy rode the roan and—”

“That’s what I thought,” grinned Kaintuck. “I’ve got all three of ’em tied behind the office, where nobody will see ’em.”

“Oh, that is wonderful!” Joy almost hugged Kaintuck, much to his embarrassment.

“But it don’t end yet,” said Skeeter. “We’ll put Adams’ horse in our stable, and Gregory and Miss Joy better fog for home. Be there when the posse of lynchers show up. They won’t hurt any of you folks. You don’t know where Curley is, and the last place they’d ever look is right here.”

“But you’re not going to put him in jail, are you?” Thus Joy fearfully.

“He’ll have to sleep in a cell,” grinned Skeeter. “The doggoned cots are fastened to the wall. But I’ll promise to not lock the door.”

“We’ll be traveling, Joy,” urged her father. “As soon as the men ride toward the Box X, we’ll go home. Good-by, Curley.”

Skeeter urged Kaintuck and Gregory toward the rear door, while Joy told Curley good-by, and in a moment she joined them. They mounted their horses, circled the town and rode back toward home. There was no moon as yet; so there was little danger of them being seen by the men who were heading for the Box X.

The three men went back in the office. Skeeter was careful to lock the doors and pull down the blinds. Crescent City might prove a dangerous place for Curley Adams, and Skeeter knew that the jail was none too capable of withstanding an assault.

“It kinda looks as though I was up against it,” observed Curley. “I’d hate to be hung for somethin’ I didn’t do—but I can’t prove I didn’t. Everybody probably knows that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ belongin’ to the Lazy H, with my brand on its shoulder; and they’d accept that as a reason for me to kill him.”

“Reasons don’t make much difference to a mob,” said Skeeter. “I want you to answer a few questions, Adams. It’s yore own business, and yuh don’t have to answer, yuh know.”

“I’ll answer ’em if I can, Sheriff. I’m not forgettin’ that you saved me from a rustlin’ charge.”

“Well, you ain’t obligated to answer these questions. What kind of a six-gun do you use?”

Curley drew out his gun and handed it to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41, single-action. Skeeter glanced at it and handed it back. “Didja ever reload any shells, Adams?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a reloadin’ set out at the ranch. It costs a lot to buy shells, and I like to experiment.”

“Uh-huh. What didja find out with yore experiments?”

Curley smiled softly.

“I found out that my loads were not as good as the factory-loaded article.”

“Yeah? Adams, did you ever mold a silver bullet and load it in a shell?”

“I did,” Curley answered quickly, making no effort to evade the question. “I was moldin’ some bullets one night and wondered how silver would shoot; so I melted a dollar and made me one.”

“How did it shoot?”

“I don’t know. It sure made a pretty bullet. I loaded it in my gun, but never got a chance to shoot it. The next day I was taken sick. Yuh see, I was in bed for a week or so, and when I got back on my feet I plumb forgot that bullet. Later on I missed it, and I thought that some of the boys had swiped it.”

“Thought some of the boys had swiped it, eh?”

Curley squinted at the floor, pondering the question. He was a good, clean-looking sort of a fellow; not at all the sort of a person who would shoot from ambush. Skeeter eyed him closely. Finally Curley lifted his head.

“What I don’t understand is how you found out about that bullet, Sheriff. I made it quite a while ago, and I’d forgotten about it. What’s this all about—what are you trying to find out about that silver bullet for?”

“Who knew you had molded it?”

Curley scratched his head thoughtfully.

“I dunno. Mebbe I never did tell anybody about it. Come to think of it, I didn’t tell any of the boys. That’s kinda funny, too. I remember of puttin’ it in one chamber of my gun, but I don’t remember of takin’ it out.”

“Where was yore gun when you were sick?”

“Hangin’ up in the bunk-house. Say, how did you know about that silver bullet?”

“I’m a mind reader,” grinned Skeeter. “How long ago was it that you was sick?”

“About a month ago.”

“Did Gregory tell yuh about what we found in yore ranch-house today?”

“He told me about the fireplace bein’ dug up, and that yuh found where somebody had tried to make a dollar.”

“What do yuh think of it?”

“No idea. It sure wasn’t that way when I left home.”

“I reckon the questions are ended,” smiled Skeeter.

“Did I answer ’em to yore satisfaction, Sheriff?”

Skeeter nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon so. Don’t mention that bullet to anybody.”

“Do you know what became of it?”

Skeeter took the bullet from his pocket and handed it to Curley, who looked it over carefully.

“It’s been shot,” he said wonderingly. “Was—was that one of the bullets in Monk Clark?”

“Nope.”

“Where did you find it, Sheriff?”

“I’ll let yuh know some day.” Skeeter took the bullet and dropped it in his pocket. “Me and Kaintuck are goin’ over to the Half-Moon to listen to things, Adams. You lock the door and keep out of sight.”

“Anythin’ you say, Sheriff. Yo’re sure treatin’ me white.”

“Well, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong, have yuh? C’mon, Kaintuck.”

Curley locked the door behind them and they crossed to the Half-Moon. The killing of Monk Clark had made good business in the Half-Moon, and whisky-feeling ran high. Men who had no use for Monk Clark when he was alive clamored for a chance to pull a rope on the man who killed him.

They were all waiting anxiously for the return of the six men who had ridden to the Box X, Jim Searles, Clark’s foreman, Charley Ames and Sol Asher, of the Tin Cup, Sam Ertle, Frisco Larkin and Van Cleve, of the Lazy H.

There had evidently been plenty of criticism against the sheriff’s office, as the conversation lulled at the entrance of Skeeter and Kaintuck. Moran was at the bar, drinking with several men, and Skeeter noticed that Belden and Stanfield, the owners of the Silver Bell mine, were also there.

Several roughly-dressed men were at the bar or playing the games, and Skeeter decided that they were men from the mines. Moran joined Skeeter a little later and told him that the Silver Bell had closed down.

“That’s Rugg, the superintendent, over there playin’ poker,” said Moran, pointing at a big man, slouched in a chair. Rugg was not a pleasant looking person. His heavy cheeks were covered with a week’s growth of stiff, black whiskers, and a heavy mustache partly covered his thick lips.

“I’ll bet that jigger never drank milk when he was a baby,” said Kaintuck. “If a rattlesnake ever bit him the snake would get py-o-ree.”

Moran laughed and turned the subject to Monk Clark.

“You knew that some of the boys have gone out to find Curley Adams, didn’t yuh?” asked Moran.

“Nobody told me.” Skeeter shook his head. “What do yuh reckon they aim to do with him?”

It was such a foolish question that Moran wondered if the sheriff could be joking.

“They think Curley killed Clark,” said Moran.

“Tha’sso? Don’t any of ’em know he did, do they?”

“I don’t suppose they do. But—”

“There yuh are. Nothin’ to prove he did it. Don’tcha think they’re a little previous?”

Moran laughed shortly. He could not understand Skeeter Bill. It was rather unusual for a sheriff to remain inactive, while a posse of men were going out with deliberate intent to hang a man.

“Bein’ previous won’t help Adams, if they find him,” said Moran meaningly.

“Prob’ly not.” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Who’s leadin’ the bunch?”

“Jim Searles.”

“Good man, I reckon. I don’t know him very well, but he looks like a man who would have a little judgment.”

“Charley Ames and Sol Asher went along,” offered Moran. “Ertle, Frisco Larkin and Van Cleve made up the rest of the party. Only six of ’em all together.”

“Ought to be enough,” smiled Skeeter. “Three from the Tin Cup and three from the Lazy H.”

“You don’t seem much interested, Sheriff.”

“It’s none of my business, if six —— fools want to run their own horses ragged in the dark, is it?”

“Oh, I see—” Moran nodded understandingly.

It had suddenly occurred to him that Skeeter was indifferent because he knew that these men would not find Curley Adams.

Moran drifted over to a roulette game, and Skeeter met Belden at the bar.

“I just heard that the Silver Bell mine had closed down,” said Skeeter, by way of starting conversation. Belden nodded quickly and invited Skeeter to partake of his hospitality.

“Yes, we decided to close down, at least temporarily. Silver is pretty low just now, and so we will cease production for a while. You see, we have been hit pretty hard lately.”

“Yuh sure have,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “We never got much of a chance to trail that cargo of silver. They muffled their pack-horses’ hoofs, follered that old game-trail to where it spread out, and then we didn’t have a ghost of a chance to trail ’em.”

“I was afraid of it, Sheriff. Of course it will be impossible for them to move any great quantity of silver from this valley. Every exit is being watched, of course, but they may lie low and tire us out.”

Skeeter made no comment. He felt that the men who had taken the silver would never attempt to move it, except as silver coin. While Skeeter and Belden discussed the stolen silver, Doctor Skeen, the coroner, came in.

Skeen was a small, gray-haired, spectacled man, retiring and soft-spoken. He excused himself to Belden and drew Skeeter aside to give him two badly-battered bullets. “These were from Monk Clark’s body,” he explained. “I had an idea that you might care to look them over.”

They were unmistakably of .45 caliber. Skeeter examined them closely, but they told him nothing.

“I put a pair of calipers on the butt of that least battered one, and it seems to measure the same as a .45,” stated the doctor. “I can weigh them, if you wish.”

“No need of it, Doc. They’re forty-fives. How about holdin’ the inquest tomorrow?”

“I was going to suggest it, Sheriff. Will you get in touch with Gregory and his daughter? We will need their testimony.”

“I’ll get ’em.”

Doctor Skeen thanked him and went away. Skeeter showed Kaintuck the bullets.

“It sure is a good thing for Curley that these ain’t .41’s,” said Kaintuck. “But it makes things tough for us. Most everybody shoots a .45, except Curley and Frisco Larkin—and I’ve still got Frisco’s gun.”

The presence of Skeeter and Kaintuck had served to still the conversation regarding Monk Clark’s death, and every one seemed to be anxiously awaiting the return of the six riders.

It was almost midnight when they came back. Ertle and Jim Searles strode into the Half-Moon and went straight to the bar, where Kaintuck and Skeeter were trying to out-guess a nickel-in-the-slot machine.

Jim Searles, foreman of the Tin Cup, was ordinarily a big, good-natured cowboy, with a ready smile, but just now the smiling good-nature was missing. He strode up to the bar, his spurs rasping harshly, while behind him came Ertle, his thin face set in a thoughtful frown.

Skeeter turned and spoke to the two men.

“Did yuh find yore man?” asked one of the players at the faro layout anxiously, looking from Ertle to the sheriff.

“We got a man all right,” growled Ertle, and then to Skeeter, “We’ve got Hank Gregory out there, Sheriff.”

“Hank Gregory? What have yuh got him for?” asked Skeeter.

“Tha’sall right,” growled Searles. “Lot of things you don’t know.”

Skeeter was trying to puzzle out why they should bring Hank Gregory back with them, when Doctor Skeen came in again. He had an envelope in his hand, but hesitated, realizing that he had interrupted a debate.

“Pardon me,” he said quickly. “In Monk Clark’s pocket I found this letter, which he had evidently intended to post. It is addressed to Henry Gregory.”

“To Gregory?” blurted Searles. “Lemme see it.”

“It’s sealed,” said Skeeter, making a guess that such was the case. “You open that letter—”

But Searles had already taken it from the doctor and ripped off the envelope, while Ertle and Van Cleve stepped in front of Skeeter, blocking him from interference.

Searles laughed harshly as he scanned the letter, and turned to the crowd.

“Listen to this, boys,” he lowered the letter for a moment.

“I’ve worked for Monk Clark a long time, and the other day he said somethin’ about bein’ afraid of Hank Gregory. It seemed funny for Monk to be afraid of anybody; so I asked him about it. He didn’t want to tell me much about it, but he did say that he had the goods on Gregory for a killin’ ten years ago.

“Gregory knew that Clark had this deadwood on him, and Clark was afraid that Gregory might—well, you know how it would feel to have somethin’ like that hangin’ over yuh. So, when this death came up, I remembered what Monk said, and tonight we decided that Gregory knew more about this deal than he was willin’ to tell.

“Now here’s what this letter says:

“Dear Hank:

“Just to let you know that I had nothing to do with the misbranding of that Lazy H heifer. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t care a  ——. I want you to understand that I won’t stoop to petty larceny to make you see things the way I want you to see them, even if I could send you up for killing the Badger County sheriff ten years ago. I am writing this to explain things, because I refuse to make a fool of myself by coming to your ranch again.

“Respectfully,

“(Signed) Monk Clark.”

Searles finished reading and scanned the crowd, which were already buzzing with amazement. Skeeter was shocked. Perhaps Gregory was the one who killed Clark, he thought. Gregory was the one who had discovered the body.

If he had met Clark at the Box X and killed him, the first thing he would do would be to hide the body. And he admitted that he started out to kill Clark. Skeeter squinted at Searles and Ertle, but made no comment.

“I reckon the sheriff can see why we brought him in now,” smiled Searles. “This letter cinches a reason for the killin’.”

Skeeter nodded quickly.

“Looks thataway, boys. I’ll lock him up.”

One of the cowboys laughed softly. “Lock him up, eh? That’s real kind of yuh.”

Skeeter did not turn his head, but spoke directly to Searles.

“You didn’t have any idea, except to lock him up, did yuh?”

Searles hesitated. He was known among the cowboys as a square-shooter, sober and industrious; not one whose judgment might be easily warped. Then he shook his head.

“You can have him, Sheriff. If he killed Monk Clark, he will get a square trial. This evidence looks pretty strong to us, but the law might tear —— out of it in a courtroom. We all liked Monk, I reckon. He had his faults, just like we all have. If he was murdered I want to see the murderer punished—but I don’t want to see an innocent man hanged.”

It was rather a long speech for Searles to make, but it was spoken so sincerely that it silenced those who were for immediate action. Skeeter walked outside, where he found the rest of the crowd with Gregory.

“Let the sheriff have him,” ordered Searles. “We’ll see that Gregory has a fair trial.”

“What was it about that letter?” asked Van Cleve.

Searles told him what Monk Clark had written.

“And you turn him over to the law, after that?” fleered Van Cleve. “Yo’re sure gettin’ easy, Jim.”

“That’ll be about all from you,” said Searles coldly.

Skeeter touched Gregory on the arm and they walked to the office together. Gregory had nothing to say. It seemed as if the ghost of Monk Clark had risen from the grave to point an accusing finger at him and tell the world of that mistake of ten years ago.

Curley unlocked the door for them and listened with amazement while Skeeter told him what had happened.

“But where is Joy?” asked Curley anxiously.

“Home,” said Gregory wearily. “She doesn’t even know about it. She had gone to bed when they came. I heard a noise in the yard, and when I went out they stuck a gun in my face and made me come with them. Calamity doesn’t know it, either.”

“Well, this sure is a mess,” declared Curley. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No, I didn’t, Curley.”

“How much truth was in that letter, Gregory?” asked Skeeter.

“It was all true, Sheriff,” said Gregory, and told Skeeter all about the incident.

“And Monk Clark held this over yuh, eh?”

“Not until a short time ago. He wanted Joy. Up to that time he never mentioned the killin’. Maybe he thought he could force me to stop the marriage between Joy and Curley. I told him enough for him to know that I wouldn’t be blackmailed.

“And when I found out about that misbranded yearlin’, I was sure that it was Clark’s first move to get rid of Curley, and I wanted a showdown with him. Yeah, I was goin’ to kill him, and I won’t deny it.”

“But Joy is of age,” said Curley. “You couldn’t do anythin’.”

“I told him that, Curley.”

“Well, I dunno just what to do,” said Skeeter. “I’ve got to put yuh in a cell, I reckon. I don’t want to do it, but I told ’em I’d take charge of yuh. Mebbe you’d be safer there than runnin’ loose. And then I better send Kaintuck out to tell Joy and Calamity, ’cause they might worry.”

“Why not let me go?” asked Curley. “I can make a sneak out of here and come back without any one knowing it.”

“Well, all right,” said Skeeter. “You’ll sure have to be careful. The town is full of folks, lookin’ for excitement.”

Curley lost no time in making his sneak. He went carefully out to the stable, mounted his horse and rode away. Skeeter kept a close watch until Curley was well on his way. He could hear the noise from the Half-Moon, and knew that the crowd would stay in anticipation of the inquest. It was not often that Crescent City furnished as interesting a subject as it now had.

Skeeter went back in the office and barred the rear door. The jail was part of the office, and Skeeter wondered how long it would take a mob to tear it all apart. Moon River sheriffs had always depended more upon Winchester rifles and sawed-off shotguns for defense than thickness of wall.

“Did he get away all right?” asked Gregory, looking out between the bars of his cell door.

“Started all right,” replied Skeeter.

“That’s good. Sheriff, I’m sure up against a bad deal. Even if I could prove that I didn’t kill Monk Clark, there’s that Badger County deal to look forward to.”

“Yeah, that’s true, Gregory. But yuh might be able to prove yore story on that. I believe yuh, and when I believe anythin’ it must sound like the truth. Just set easy, pardner, and stick to yore story. Mebbe somethin’ will bust pretty soon.”

Skeeter walked to the front of the office and was greeted with a sharp rap on the door. There was nothing for him to conceal now, so he opened the door to see Ertle, Frisco, Sol Asher and Charley Ames.

Frisco and Ames were in front, both of them covering Skeeter with their six-shooters.

Skeeter did not put up his hands, nor did they ask him to do so. Frisco Larkin leered at Skeeter, and Skeeter had a sudden great desire to hit him square in the front teeth, which bulged out badly, causing Frisco to appear continually trying to close his lips.

Ertle was grinning with his mouth, but his keen eyes were watching every movement of the sheriff, and it seemed to Skeeter that Ertle would like to have him try to draw his gun. Skeeter did not pay any attention to Sol Asher and Charley Ames, who seemed nervous.

“We’re comin’ in,” stated Ames.

They had all been drinking and were odorous with liquor.

“Come in,” invited Skeeter, stepping aside. Ames kept him covered, while the others searched the place.

“You had Curley Adams here,” stated Ertle disgustedly.

“Did I?” Skeeter smiled. “That’s sure remarkable, Ertle. Yuh can see for yourself, can’tcha?”

“He ain’t here now,” declared Asher angrily.

“Yore eyesight is plumb remarkable,” said Skeeter admiringly.

“What I don’t sabe is this: You’ve got Gregory behind the bars for killin’ Clark, and now yuh want Curley. How many men does it take to kill one?”

“Difference of opinion is what makes horse races,” replied Ertle. “Some of us don’t think Gregory done the job, and we don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“Why don’tcha arrest everybody in the county? You whip-poor-wills make me tired. If yo’re through searchin’ my place, yuh might move out.”

Ames had holstered his gun, as had the others. It was evident that they had been misinformed.

“You might apologize for this intrusion,” said Skeeter. “A sheriff don’t appreciate havin’ a gun stuck in his face, while a bunch of drunks search his office and jail.”

“Well, for ——’s sake!” sneered Frisco. “When I apologize to you, they’ll be skatin’ in ——!”

Ertle was between Skeeter and Frisco, but before he could shift his position Skeeter had back-heeled him, sending him reeling toward the door. Frisco reached for his gun, leaving Skeeter a wide-open chance to drive his left fist straight into Frisco’s jaw.

It was what was known in ring parlance as a “haymaker.” Skeeter’s fist started from behind his hip, described part of an arc and met its object just as Frisco’s hand lifted the gun from its holster.

It was all done quickly. Ertle was still clawing for balance when Frisco was falling backwards across a chair, where he went to sleep with his boots in the air.

Skeeter whirled with his back to the wall, his six-shooter jammed against his hip, as he waited for the next move. Ertle had fallen to his knees, but now he got up and swore softly.

“Vamoose,” said Skeeter softly. “And next time yuh feel like gettin’ tough with me—hop to it.”

But none of them accepted the challenge. Ertle rubbed his knees and swore bitterly, his eyes fixed on Skeeter’s gun. But Asher and Ames were only too glad to call it quits and get out of there. Asher slowly slid his gun back in its holster, cleared his throat softly.

“Well, I—I reckon that’s all,” he said foolishly. “Curley sure ain’t nowhere around here, gents.”

The three men filed silently out, leaving Frisco still in slumberland, with his boot-heels pointing toward the ceiling. Skeeter grinned and considered Frisco. It was an interesting sight.

Gregory was questioning Skeeter, trying to find out what had happened. The bars of his cell door were facing another cell, and he could only hear what was going on.

“Nothin’ much,” laughed Skeeter. “I tripped Ertle and hit Frisco Larkin.”

Frisco was showing signs of returning consciousness; so Skeeter took his gun, dragged him into a cell and locked the door.

“I’ll keep him for disturbin’ the peace,” grinned Skeeter. “There is a law of that kind, Gregory, but it ain’t never been used in this country.”

Kaintuck came in, all out of breath. The three men had gone to the Half-Moon and told their experience.

“Gosh dang it!” wailed Kaintuck. “I missed all the fun. Where is Frisco?”

“In a cell.”

“Gosh! What for?”

“Disturbin’ my peace. I’m goin’ to keep him a while, too.”

“Can yuh do that, Skeeter?”

“I reckon I can. You go back and keep yore ears open. Curley has gone out to the Gregory ranch to tell Joy and Calamity what has happened.”

Kaintuck hurried out, and Skeeter locked the door. He was glad that Curley had gone to the ranch, because it was hard to tell what might have happened if he had been there when the four men came in.

Skeeter sat down at his desk and rolled a smoke, a half grin on his lips. Things were working out for him—giving him an advantage he had not expected. If he could keep Curley safe until the big play was made, that would be the rub. There was grave danger if the whisky-drinking element caught Curley.

He could hear them over in the Half-Moon—laughter, talking, bursts of raucous song. Kaintuck was over there, keeping his finger on the pulse of the situation. Skeeter knew that Joy and Calamity would come back with Curley, and he wondered how Joy would take the bad news.

“That poor kid sure is gettin’ a lot of jolts,” he decided. “The crowd ain’t decided yet which one is guilty—Curley or Hank—and they’d be willin’ to hang ’em both so as to be sure.”

He got to his feet and walked the length of the office. He wanted action. There were certain things to be tried out, and he did not want to wait. His lips twisted in an anxious smile, as he stopped near the door, his eyes half-closed, speculating. Then he laughed softly and shook his head.

“Hang on to yoreself,” he muttered. “The pot is on the table and you’ve got ’em beat in sight. Bluff, you son-of-a-gun! Get out on a limb. If they don’t saw it off between you and the tree, yo’re settin’ easy.”

Frisco was swearing in his cell and demanding that he be released. Skeeter went to the door and looked in at him.

“What in —— am I in here for?” asked Frisco.

“For disturbin’ the peace.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!”

“Well, we’ll keep yuh in there anyway. Now what do yuh think of that, Frisco?”

“I think you’ll be —— sorry when I get out.”

“And I think you’ll be —— glad,” said Skeeter, walking away.

“Hey! Whatcha mean by that?” demanded Frisco.

But Skeeter did not say. He had flung himself down on a cot and was building himself a cigaret, a grin on his lips.

It was a hectic night in Crescent City. Several fights were started in the Half-Moon and whisky flowed freely. But the cold gray dawn, which was not cold at all, but very hot, came creeping along to find a lot of tired, sleepy-eyed folks, whose stomachs were totally unfit for food, voices hoarse and heads heavy.

The majority of them did not care a whoop who got hanged for murder. In fact several of them had forgotten everything about it. They growled at each other, spat disgustedly and had more drinks. Sam Rugg went about like a soreheaded grizzly, looking for trouble.

And he found it in the person of old Calamity, who was also looking for trouble. Joy and Calamity had ridden back to town with Curley, just ahead of daybreak. Joy had stayed at the sheriff’s office with her father and Curley, but old Calamity wanted action.

He had listened to Gregory’s confession to Joy, the story of which had already been told by Curley, and swore that Hank Gregory was a —— liar. Old Calamity was on the war-path. He wore two guns and a new pair of boots. The boots hurt his feet.

Skeeter advised Calamity to stay with them, and his advice was echoed by Gregory and Joy, but Calamity swore under his breath and said he was of age and would do as he pleased.

So he went out on the street, limping slightly, and looked for what he might devour. Several of the cowboys looked old Calamity over and decided that they did not want any of his medicine.

Not so Sam Rugg. He was still strangling over a drink of raw liquor, as he lurched out of the Half-Moon and almost fell over Calamity. Liquor had ruined Rugg’s perspective. He looked upon the old man as legitimate prey.

“C’mere!” he snorted as he grasped old Calamity by the arm and whirled him around, pinning him against the saloon wall.

“Unpaw me!” snapped Calamity. “Who do yuh think yo’re tryin’ to maul, yuh big polecat?”

Rugg slapped a big hand over Calamity’s mouth, rubbing heavily on Calamity’s nose. That was the last straw. One of the new boots snapped up in a short kick and connected with Rugg’s knee-cap.

Rugg immediately forgot everything, except the sharp pain in his knee. He dropped both hands to the injured spot, bumping against Calamity, who whipped out a gun, swung it sidewise and rapped Rugg sharply on the head.

Rugg forgot about his knee and went down in a limp heap. Calamity stepped over him, felt tenderly of his sore nose, and looked around for more worlds to conquer. Several men had crowded out of the saloon door, goggling at Calamity.

“Pistol-whipped him,” said Calamity. “Yeah, and I’ll pistol-whip some more of yuh if yuh monkey with me. I ain’t no dad-durned bluffer. I was killin’ men when you fellers was wearin’ didies—and I ain’t forgot how.”

“Nobody goin’ to bother yuh, Calamity,” assured Asher.

“That’s what I ’lowed when I driv up. I ain’t safe. In my state of mind I’m liable to be plumb ignorant of humanity. I crave to meet the men who came out and took Hank Gregory. I ain’t very big and I’m gettin’ old, but by the mighty, muddy Missouri, I can whip any one, or all six, of the men who came out there last night.”

“Tha’sall right, old-timer,” said another half-drunk cowboy. “You jist go ahead and have a good time. Nobody is goin’ to choose you. But I’d advise yuh to look out for Sam Rugg.”

“This half-witted bug-hunter?” Calamity pointed at Rugg, who was resting on one elbow, rubbing his head. “Huh!” Calamity snorted his disdain. “If he monkeys with me I’ll squirsh him.”

No one seemed to disagree with Calamity; so he crossed the street, while some of the men assisted Rugg to his feet and took him back in the saloon, where they explained what had happened.

Rugg drank several more glasses of liquor to try and deaden the pain in his knee and head. It was humiliating, to say the least.

“Better leave him alone,” advised Moran, who had drunk but little during the night.

“The —— I had!” Rugg shook his head angrily.

“All right,” Moran shrugged his shoulders. “Calamity will shoot next time.”

“I’ll get me a gun.”

“You better get yuh an army. That old jigger has forgotten more about gun fighting than you’ll ever learn—and he hasn’t forgotten the part that beats the other feller to the first shot.”

Ertle joined in the argument, trying to convince Rugg that his best course was to forget old Calamity. Then Ertle drew Moran aside.

“Say, do you know that Frisco is still in jail?”

“I wondered where he was,” laughed Moran.

“What’s so funny about it? That —— sheriff knocked Frisco out and drove us all outside. I’ve been tryin’ to find out why he locked Frisco up.”

“Didja ask the sheriff?”

“No. I thought mebbe some of you fellers had heard.”

“It’s the first time I heard about it, Ertle. Mebbe he had an idea that Frisco needed soberin’ up.”

“Aw, he wasn’t that drunk. I’m goin’ to look into this, I’ll tell yuh that. He ain’t got no right to lock a man in jail for bein’ drunk.”

“Not unless he gets too bad,” amended Moran. “He’ll probably let him loose pretty soon. I’d sure like to know what became of Curley Adams.”

“Well, he wasn’t in the jail last night, that’s a cinch.”

Ertle left Moran and came down to the jail. Skeeter stepped outside the office to talk with Ertle, not wishing to have him come inside, but Ertle caught a glimpse of the interior and of Curley Adams.

“I wanted to ask yuh about Frisco,” said Ertle.

“Well, he’s doin’ as well as can be expected,” said Skeeter seriously. “Of course he’s still runnin’ off at the vocal cords a little.”

“He is, eh?” Ertle spat angrily. “Just what in —— are you keepin’ him in jail for?”

“’Cause he’s a bad boy, Ertle. If he was loose I’d have to kill him sooner or later.”

“The —— yuh would! Just because he talked back to yuh, eh?”

“Mebbe.”

“Then yuh won’t turn him loose, eh?”

“Nope.”

“Yo’re takin’ a lot on yourself, Sheriff. I’ll see that yuh do turn him loose. By ——, I’ll go to Judge Grayson and see if you’ve got any right to keep one of my men in jail, when he ain’t done anythin’.”

“Tell the judge hello for me, will yuh, Ertle?”

“You go to ——!”

Ertle whirled on his heel and went up the street, carrying his hat in his hand. He was thoroughly mad. But he did not go to see Judge Grayson. Instead he went to the Half-Moon and announced that Curley Adams was at the sheriff’s office.

But his announcement did not cause much excitement.

“That’s all right,” assured Searles. “We can be sure of him bein’ at the inquest.”

“That part is all right,” complained Ertle. “But Adams ain’t in no cell. They’re sayin’ he killed Clark. Frisco Larkin never done anythin’, and he’s in a cell. What do yuh think of that?”

“I reckon we’ll leave that to the sheriff,” said Searles.

As Ertle turned away from the bar Skeeter Bill came in. Searles spoke to him, but Ertle did not. Skeeter leaned across the bar and spoke to the bartender.

“I want yuh to think real hard,” said Skeeter. “A little over a month ago a man came in here. He was a strange cowpuncher.”

The bartender squinted thoughtfully at the ceiling.

Skeeter had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and he looked past the bartender into the back-bar mirror, wherein he could see many of those behind him. Moran, who was near a poker table, looked up quickly.

Ertle had stepped away from the bar as Skeeter spoke, but now he stopped and slowly turned his head, looking intently at Skeeter who was missing none of this. Ertle’s eyes blinked and he turned away, shooting a quick glance around the room.

“A little over a month ago? Lemme see. No-o-o, I can’t just remember it, Sheriff. What did he want?”

“I think he wanted to know which road to take to get to the Tin Cup ranch.”

“O-o-o-oh, yea-a-ah. Say, I remember him now. I’m darned if I can remember what he looked like, but—lemme see. It was about noon, and I was washin’ the back-bar mirror. He came in and asked me how to get to the Tin Cup. I told him to go north and take the right-hand road. Afterwards I wondered if he kept on the right-hand road and went to the old Box X.”

“Much obliged,” said Skeeter.

He turned and invited Searles to have a drink. Moran was standing near a poker table, but did not look up, and Ertle had drifted toward the rear of the room.

“Who was the feller?” asked the bartender, accepting of Skeeter’s hospitality and pouring himself a drink.

“I dunno.”

“Yuh don’t? Then how do yuh know he asked me that question?”

“Guessed it,” grinned Skeeter. “I knew that a stranger was headin’ for that part of the range. If he was a stranger, he wouldn’t know the way, and the bartender is the first person a strange puncher would question.”

“That’s guessin’,” laughed Searles. “I haven’t seen a stranger at the Tin Cup for longer than that, sheriff.”

“I reckon that’s right, Searles.”

Skeeter turned to the door and Searles walked outside with him. They stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and Searles moved in close to Skeeter, speaking softly—

“He didn’t find the Tin Cup, eh?”

“Nope. And he never will. Well, I’ve got to go back to the office. We’re goin’ to hold the inquest at ten-thirty at the courtroom, and I’ve got quite a lot of folks to take care of.”

“Curley Adams showed up, eh?” Searles went on.

“Sure. He was here when you fellers went huntin’ him last night.”

“The —— he was!” Searles smiled sourly. “Well, I’m glad. Ertle is awful sore about you keepin’ Frisco in jail.”

“He’ll just have to keep on bein’ sore.”

Skeeter went back to the office, where he found Curley and Kaintuck playing seven-up, and Joy talking with her father. His story had been a shock to her, but she knew he was innocent of an intentional killing.

“What became of Calamity?” asked Gregory.

Skeeter did not know. It was nearing time for the inquest. He sat down beside Curley, motioning for Kaintuck to put away the cards.

“Curley, was there any stranger—a strange cowpuncher—came out to the Tin Cup ranch in the last month or two?”

“I never seen any, Sheriff. Frank Moran was the only one to hire out, or come out there after I went to work.”

“Uh-huh. Was you there when Moran came the first time?”

“The first time? Yeah, I was sick in bed when he came to work.”

“Are yuh sure of that, Curley?”

“Dead sure. There was a lot of work to do at that time, and the Tin Cup was short-handed, through me bein’ sick. I know that Monk Clark inquired around, lookin’ for an extra man.

“Moran came out there in the forenoon. Monk was gone, if I remember rightly. Moran came down to the bunk-house. I was pretty darned sick, but I remember hearin’ him tell Asher who he was, and Asher said that Monk Clark was away.

“Asher had been stayin’ pretty close with me, I reckon, and he asked Moran to stay with me for a few minutes. I heard him say he’d do it, and I think he was there for half an hour. Then he pulled out. It was the next day that he got a job with the Tin Cup, and he’s been there since.”

“You didn’t talk with him, did yuh, Curley?”

“No. I was pretty sick and I didn’t want to talk to anybody. But I remembered the voice, and he told me afterwards that he had stayed with me while Asher went out.”

“Curley, did you know that Frank Moran was a Government detective?”

“Gosh, no! Is he?”

“Yeah. Monk Clark knew it.”

“Is that so? No, I didn’t know it.”

“He worked for Ertle a while. Ertle knows it.”

“Well, I’ll be darned! And what is he detectin’, sheriff?”

“If you mean—what has he detected—not much.”

“And I punched him in the jaw,” said Curley seriously.

“That didn’t mean much to a detective like him,” grinned Skeeter. “I reckon we better get ready for the inquest, folks.”

Calamity got a few drinks under his belt and threatened to become a menace to society. Instead of the liquor acting as an uplift agent, it acted the opposite. Calamity became morose, vengeful. He wanted to kill somebody.

Fortunately he did not want to kill just anybody. His objective was to make sorry the six men who had stolen Hank Gregory away from his home. He was perfectly willing to include Rugg, the mine superintendent. Rugg had rubbed his nose.

Rugg had also purchased a six-shooter. Calamity knew this, and chuckled with unholy glee. Sol Asher, Van Cleve and Charley Ames had heard Calamity’s declaration of war, and wanted none of him.

There would be no satisfaction, no glory, in killing an old man. And what was more to the point, they knew that Calamity was an old gunman, as dangerous as a rattler.

“I’ve got the Injun sign on ’em,” declared Calamity, his back against the Half-Moon bar, his hat pulled rakishly over one ear. “I can whip any one of ’em on a sheep-skin.”

“Don’t cover too much territory,” advised Ertle disgustedly.

“Oh, my!” Calamity eyed Ertle speculatively.

It had suddenly occurred to Calamity that Ertle was one of the six men he was gunning for. He shifted his feet just a trifle and rubbed the palm of his right hand against the top of his cartridge-belt.

Ertle tried to appear indifferent and move toward the door.

“Too much territory, eh?” Calamity’s nose twitched. “How’d you like to choose me, feller? Tell me what you’d rather fight with, and that’s my fav’rite weapon. I’d fight you with anythin’ from a darnin’-needle to a double-bitted ax. Ertle, I’ll let you—”

But Ertle had reached the doorway, making a swift, if undignified exit, and Calamity started after him. But Calamity slipped, struck his shoulder against the doorway and rebounded along the wall.

No one in the Half-Moon laughed. Calamity straightened his hat, adjusted his belt, and came slowly back to the bar.

“Too much territory, ——!” he snorted. “They don’t breed ’em tough enough for me in this day and age. Back in 1866 they made ’em whale-bone warp and bull-hide fillin’. And when yuh found a heel mark in the sand, it was made by a man.”

No one disputed Calamity. A cowboy came in and announced that some of the folks were already going to the courtroom, and this information caused the several gambling games to cease operations. Calamity listened scornfully to the opinions of several men, and swaggered out of the place.

“They better keep him out of the courtroom,” said Moran.

No one disputed him.

“I’d like to know what the sheriff has under his hat,” said the bartender.

“Prob’ly an empty head,” laughed a gambler.

“Maybe. Don’t anybody play him for a sucker though.”

The crowd began to dribble out of the saloon, heading across the street to a room over the general merchandise store, where Moon River County held its court sessions.

Skeeter met Moran near the stairway, which led to the courtroom.

Moran had been drinking, but was not drunk by any means. He removed his sombrero and ran his fingers through his matted black hair, his brown eyes coldly calculating, as he looked at Skeeter.

“What do yuh know?” he asked bruskly.

His voice was not at all pleasant now. Skeeter looked at his flat nose, the deep-set eyes and prominent cheek-bones, wondering if Moran did not have a goodly percentage of Indian blood in his veins. Skeeter hesitated so long that Moran said—

“What about the inquest?”

“We’ll prob’ly have to put you on the stand, Moran,” said Skeeter. “It kinda looks like you won’t be able to keep yore identity a secret any longer, ’cause it’ll come out about that fireplace and the pieces of silver.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Moran seriously.

“Can’t be helped, I guess. This killin’ is of more interest to Moon River County than counterfeitin’.”

“I suppose. Say, you better take charge of old Calamity. He thinks he can run everybody.”

“Oh, he won’t hurt anybody.”

“Won’t he? All right. You’ll have another killin’ on yore hands the first thing yuh know.”

“I expect to have several before I run out of ice.”

“Yuh do, eh?”

This sounded interesting to Moran. But Skeeter did not stop to explain. Moran scowled at the back of Skeeter, who was heading back toward the office.

Ertle and Van Cleve came out of the store and looked cautiously around. They were taking no chances on old Calamity. Moran grinned, and it angered Ertle.

“Where is that —— old fool?” asked Ertle.

Moran shook his head.

“Probably up in the courtroom.”

“Is, eh? Well, I’m through foolin’ with him. If he makes one more break at me, I’m goin’ to shoot him.”

“Sam Rugg got him a gun,” offered Van Cleve.

“I spoke to the sheriff about Calamity,” said Moran. “He don’t think Calamity is dangerous.”

“The —— he don’t!”

“And I’m goin’ to be called as a witness.”

“Tha’sso?” Ertle frowned heavily. “You didn’t see it.”

“No, I didn’t. But the sheriff is tryin’ to hook this killin’ up with the bad money idea.”

“Yeah?” Ertle stared at Moran. “What’s he got to work on?”

“Nothin’. He’s just a smart sort of a jigger and wants to make a showin’, tha’sall.”

“Uh-huh,” Ertle scowled down the street.

Skeeter, Kaintuck, Gregory, Joy and Curley were coming from the sheriff’s office.

Ertle, Van Cleve and Moran moved back to the entrance of the store, while Skeeter and his crowd went into the doorway and climbed the stairs.

“It wouldn’t take much for me to smash in that jail and turn Frisco loose,” said Ertle. “I’d like to know why he’s keepin’ Frisco in jail.”

“Could we smash in and git him?” asked Van Cleve.

Sam Rugg was crossing the street from the Half-Moon, walking unsteadily, but with caution. He grinned at the three men, as he joined them.

But Sam Rugg’s smile was not one of gladness nor mirth; it was a grimace. He slouched up to them, his hands in his pockets, rather unsteady in his gait. He looked gross—grimy, with his crop of greasy black whiskers, his face flushed with liquor, and the red welt still showed on his head, where Calamity’s revolver barrel had struck.

“Where is that old terrier?” he asked, meaning Calamity.

“Probably got drunk and fell down—” thus Moran.

“They’ve gone upstairs to start that inquest,” said Ertle, speaking to Rugg. “If we don’t show up they’ll think something is wrong; sabe? They’ve got Frisco still in jail, Rugg. If you had a pick, I think yuh can bust in and let him out.”

“Bust in the jail?” The idea seemed rather novel to Rugg.

“Sure,” nodded Ertle. “Knock the lock off the back door; go in and pry off the cell door. That old jail is about as strong as a bird-cage.”

“And then,” said Moran, “the sheriff will probably kill somebody.”

“Let him try it. I want Frisco out of the jail. He ain’t got any too much brains, and he might think I’ve turned him down.”

“I’ll bust in the jail, if you say so.” Rugg was willing to please.

“Go ahead,” said Ertle. “We’ll go up and listen to the inquest. Take yore time, Rugg. Tell Frisco to high-tail it out of town.”

Moran, Ertle and Van Cleve climbed the stairs, leading to the courtroom, which already buzzed with conversation.

It was not a big room, and many of the spectators were obliged to stand along the walls. Old Judge Grayson, who acted as a justice of the peace, presided. Gregory, Joy and Curley sat at a table in front of the judge’s desk.

A jury of six men had been drawn, and they all looked ill at ease. The doctor had managed to draw a jury of men who were in no way connected with either the Tin Cup or the Lazy H.

Skeeter signaled to Moran, offering him a seat near the front, which was accepted. A number of the audience were still under the influence of liquor, and it was only with difficulty that the judge was able to quiet the room.

Kaintuck Kennedy stood near the door, and his position was the topic of a whispered conversation in several parts of the room.

Kaintuck was too short to see over the heads of the crowd; so he hammered on the wall with his fist and signaled frantically for several cowboys to sit down. His mustache bobbed convulsively, and he swore loud enough for those close to him to hear. He stood on his toes against the wall and tried to be satisfied. A cowboy offered to hold him on his lap, but the invitation was not accepted.

Then the judge began speaking. “We are not here to determine the guilt or innocence of any one, but to try and determine just how Monk Clark came to his death, why he was killed, and who is most likely to have killed him. The jury will abide by such evidence as may be brought out at this inquest. I will call Doctor Skeen, the coroner, to the stand.”

Doctor Skeen’s testimony was only relative to the fact that Monk Clark had been killed by a bullet wound. He described the course of both bullets, but was unable to state whether the shots had been fired at close or long range.

Skeeter Bill was next called upon to relate what he knew about the killing, and he told exactly how he and Kaintuck had found things at the Box X ranch. The torn-up fireplace and the finding of the attempt at making a dollar caused the audience to sit up and show interest.

Skeeter did not seek to defend Gregory when the judge asked him if, in his opinion, Gregory could have fired the shots which killed Monk Clark.

“Did you look at Gregory’s gun?” asked one of the jury.

“I didn’t,” said Skeeter.

“Then you don’t know whether he had fired his gun recently or not?”

Skeeter was forced to admit that he had neglected to inspect Gregory’s gun. Several of the audience laughed derisively, and the judge rapped for order.

“Put Gregory on the stand,” said Ertle. “Let’s get some action.”

“You better keep quiet in this court, or you’ll get action.” Thus Kaintuck, loud enough for every one to hear. Ertle subsided.

The crowd laughed. Even the judge smothered a smile. Kaintuck blushed and his mustache jiggled nervously, as he craned his neck to give Ertle a menacing glance. Skeeter nodded approvingly at Kaintuck, who interpreted the nod correctly. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

“You danged right,” he said. “I’m the greatest little shutter-up yuh ever seen.”

Ertle growled something, but Kaintuck could not hear it.

“That’s all, Sheriff,” said the judge. “Henry Gregory, take the stand.”

Gregory walked slowly to the witness chair and looked out at the crowd. There was no question that they were hostile to him. Speaking carefully he told of his suspicions that Monk Clark had tried to incriminate Curley Adams, and that he had, on the spur of the moment, started out with the intentions of killing Monk Clark.

He did not try to evade any phase of the incident.

“I could have killed him,” he said slowly. “I reckon I had time to do it. I dunno how long it was before Joy came. It was a jolt to find him dead. She thought I had killed him.

“Then the sheriff and his deputy came along. I dunno what they thought. We looked through the house, like he has told yuh—and that’s all.”

“Ask him about that letter yuh found on Monk Clark,” suggested Sol Asher. “That shows why he might kill Monk.”

Doctor Skeen produced the letter, but the judge waved it aside.

“That case has nothing to do with the one at hand. Gregory admits that he had reasons for going out to kill Clark. It seems to me that the other crime, if it was a crime, was committed ten years ago.”

The judge looked down at Gregory. They had been friends for several years, and the old judge was very human. He smiled at Joy and looked at the audience.

“You must remember,” he said softly, “that we are not examining into any motive actuated by a crime supposed to have been committed ten years ago. We do not actually know that any crime had been committed by Henry Gregory at that time. As far as that letter is concerned, it has no place at this hearing, as long as Henry Gregory admits that he had what he considered good and sufficient reasons for wanting to kill Monk Clark.”

“Clark was afraid of Gregory,” said Jim Searles.

“Where was Curley Adams when this was goin’ on?” asked Ertle. “It seems to me—”

“If you want to be examined as a witness, c’mon up and set in this chair,” said Skeeter quickly.

“I only want to get at the bottom of this, Sheriff.”

“You will.”

“Do any of the jury wish to question the witness?” asked the doctor.

“How long was you at the Box X ranch before yore daughter showed up?” asked old Mike Gower, who was one of the jurors.

“Long enough to have killed Monk Clark,” replied Gregory.

“By golly, that’s an honest answer,” said old Mike.

“You shoot a .45?”—thus another juror.

“I do.”

“So do I.” Old Mike delivered this information and sank back in his seat. A ripple of laughter followed.

Gregory was dismissed and Joy was called to the stand. Skeeter assisted her to the chair and stood beside her while she told her story. She did not conceal the fact that she had ridden from home, hoping to overtake her father and to try and prevent him from attempting to kill Monk Clark.

“And when you found him, did you think he had killed him?” asked the judge.

Joy nodded slowly.

“Until I talked with him. Then I knew he was innocent.”

“Did Monk Clark ever make love to you?” asked the doctor.

Joy shook her head quickly.

“He did not. Such a question is ridiculous.”

The judge asked the jury if they desired to ask any questions, but none of them did; so Joy was dismissed and Curley was asked to take the stand. The crowd sat up straight when the Box X cowboy lifted his hand and was sworn.

“Where were you when Monk Clark was found dead in the yard of the Box X ranch?” asked the judge.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where you were?”

“No, sir.”

The crowd sat forward. This was more promising.

“Have you and Monk Clark ever had trouble?”

“No, sir.”

“You have heard that Monk Clark was blamed for misbranding a Lazy H yearling and running on your brand.”

“I have heard it—yes.”

“Did you meet Monk Clark after you had heard this?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember. What kind of a revolver do you use?”

Curley still wore his gun. He drew it out and placed it on the judge’s desk. Skeeter and the doctor leaned forward to examine it.

“A .45 Colt,” said the judge.

“Mike, you better go home and get yours,” whispered one of the jurors loudly. “Kinda make it unanimous.”

Skeeter knew that this was not Curley’s gun. It was an old one which Curley had substituted for his forty-one, and Skeeter recognized it as being a gun he had inherited with his office. It was evident to him that Curley believed Gregory guilty, and Curley was trying to throw the evidence against himself.

“Since when did you start usin’ a forty-five?” asked Gregory.

Curley did not reply.

“Take a look at the shells in his belt,” suggested Ames.

Curley was stumped. Skeeter slipped a cartridge from one of Curley’s belt loops and placed it on the judge’s desk. It was a forty-one.

The judge squinted severely at Curley.

“Have you any story to tell, Adams?”

“None at all.” Curley shook his head.

The judge nodded and Curley went back to the table. Gregory looked keenly at him, but Curley did not look in his direction.

“It seems that this is our last witness,” observed the judge. “The jury will retire and try to arrive at a——”

“Just a moment, judge,” said Skeeter. “I don’t reckon the evidence is all in yet.”

Skeeter glanced at his watch, smiled softly, and looked back at the judge.

“I am goin’ to ask Frank Moran to take the stand.”

“I don’t know what good this will do,” protested Moran. “As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter, but it looks as though it will merely take up valuable time.”

“In just what way is Mr. Moran concerned?” asked the judge.

“Not in any way,” said Moran. He wiped some perspiration from his chin and tried to appear indifferent. “I don’t see why valuable time should be wasted in examining me. I did not see any of this, your honor.”

The judge turned and looked at Skeeter, wondering why the sheriff should insist on examining a man who knew nothing to testify.

“If Mr. Moran will take the stand—please.” Skeeter smiled exasperatingly at Moran, who grunted half-angrily, but took the witness chair.

“Why don’tcha call Calamity?” laughed a cowboy.

“Calamity is busy, watchin’ the jail,” grinned Skeeter.

Ertle started to get up, but sat down quickly. If Calamity was watching the jail—and Rugg was down there—Ertle swallowed thickly and kicked Van Cleve on the ankle.

“Mr. Moran,” said Skeeter slowly, “is a Government detective. Am I right, Mr. Moran?”

“Go ahead.” Moran tried to grin, when the crowd shifted and buzzed with whispers.

This was something interesting to them—but not to Moran. He shifted uneasily and looked at Ertle, whose face was drawn in a scowl of apprehension. He wanted to know what was going on down at the jail. If Calamity was watching the jail, things might not be so good for Sam Rugg.

And Moran was just as anxious as Ertle. Van Cleve’s mouth sagged half open as he clasped and unclasped his fingers, realizing that any old place would suit him better than that courtroom. Ertle shot a glance toward the doorway, as though estimating his chances to get out, but he caught a glimpse of Kaintuck Kennedy, and decided to stick it out.

Skeeter turned to the jury.

“Mr. Moran was sent here by the Government to investigate counterfeitin’. Maybe some of yuh don’t know it, but you’ve been spendin’ a lot of bad money lately. Moran came here to stop it.”

Skeeter paused to let this information sink in thoroughly before he continued.

“Mr. Moran has had quite a hard time around here. Monk Clark and Sam Ertle knew who he was. He had to let ’em know who he was. Then he came to get me to help him. That silver robbery was done by the counterfeiters, I think.

“Somewhere between one and two months ago, a strange cowpuncher came to this town. I’m not sure, but I think he went to the Lazy H, lookin’ for a job. He didn’t get one. Then he came here and asked the Half-Moon bartender which way to the Tin Cup.

“The bartender told him. This stranger rode away.” Skeeter looked around the room. “I wonder if any of yuh remember seein’ him.”

“What did he look like?” asked Mike Gower.

“I dunno. When I seen him he didn’t have no meat on his bones. Between here and the Box X he’s hangin’ in a tree, grinnin’ wide. I wonder what he sees that’s so funny.”

The crowd was so silent that a single fly, buzzing on a window-pane, sounded painfully loud.

Moran shifted uneasily, a scowl drew his brows down until his eyes were concealed, and his elbows lifted to rest on the arms of the chair. Skeeter turned his head and looked at Ertle, but the thin-faced cattleman refused to look at him. Some one cleared his throat raspingly, and Moran tensed noticeably.

“I hung him up there,” said Skeeter sadly. “The coyotes and magpies had their feed. He’s got a wonderful grin. He’s laughin’ at somebody—who ain’t laughin’ back at him.”

Only the uneasy scraping of feet followed this statement.

“What bearing does this have on this inquest?” asked the judge softly, leaning forward in his chair.

“Somethin’, Judge. This man was murdered—shot dead. And the queer part of it is—he was killed with a silver bullet.”

“Silver bullet!” It was repeated twenty times, as the crowd leaned forward, questioning, until the judge rapped for order.

“Why was he shot with a silver bullet?” asked the judge.

Skeeter smiled softly and shook his head.

“Judge, it was fate, I think. The man who fired that shot did not know he was shootin’ silver.”

No one questioned Skeeter now. He took plenty of time as he scanned the crowd. The jurymen were sitting on the edge of their seats now, leaning across the rail in front of them.

Skeeter smiled down at Curley, who was staring blankly at him. For the first time, he knew what had become of his silver bullet. Joy reached over and put her hand on Curley’s sleeve, as she smiled up at Skeeter. Gregory looked dumbly at Skeeter, hardly understanding just what was being said.

But the crowd knew that something was coming off soon. They did not know just what it was going to be. The jury looked at each other and back at Skeeter, whose thin face was set in a determined cast. He knew that they were waiting—waiting for him to make his next play.

But Skeeter was too clever a gambler to work fast now. He had made them listen to him—made them want more.

“It was a forty-one bullet, made of silver,” said Skeeter, taking it from his pocket and holding it up. “It was made from a silver dollar. I know the man who made it. He shoots a forty-one six-gun.”

Skeeter toyed with the bullet, while the crowd shifted anxiously. But Skeeter was in no hurry. He put the bullet in his pocket and glanced at his watch.

“This counterfeitin’ is queer stuff,” he said. “The Silver Bell mine was a handy place for them to get material. They had to have a certain amount of silver, yuh know.”

Skeeter hesitated and appeared thoughtful. Jim Searles leaned forward.

“Keep talkin’,” he said. “Dog-gone it, tell us about it.”

“All right, Jim. This stranger wasn’t wanted here, it seems. It looks to me as though somebody at the Lazy H saw this man. They recognized him, yuh understand. He went huntin’ for the Tin Cup, and this feller who recognized him, follered him. The stranger got on the Box X road by mistake.

“The man who follered him from the Lazy H went to the Tin Cup and found that the stranger hadn’t got there yet; so he stole a sick man’s gun, went out and met the stranger—and shot him with that stolen gun.

“The stolen gun held a ca’tridge, loaded with a silver bullet. The man who killed him thought that the coyotes and magpies would soon destroy that body—and they did—but there was the bones, the skull that’s still grinnin’—and the silver bullet.”

“Who molded that bullet?” asked the judge.

Skeeter smiled and pointed at Curley Adams.

“He admits it, judge.”

Curley nodded quickly. “I did.”

“Who fired the shot?” demanded Jim Searles.

Skeeter turned slowly and motioned to Kaintuck, who came up to him. Skeeter’s whisper was so soft that none heard what he said. Kaintuck’s lips shut tightly and he moved aside, his eyes on the crowd, which shifted uneasily.

This was something they did not understand. They watched Kaintuck moving back toward the door, and they noticed that Kaintuck’s right hand was swinging near the butt of his gun, his lips shut tight, eyes flashing from one part of the crowd to another.

Moran started to get to his feet, but sat back again, when Skeeter looked around at him. Except for the creaking of Kaintuck’s boots, the room was quiet. Skeeter drew out his watch and glanced at it. From force of habit the judge took out his watch and noted the time. There was an old clock on the wall, long since stopped from neglect, and several men squinted at it. A spur jingled, as its wearer shifted his feet. They were all waiting anxiously—for what?

Somewhere down the street a revolver shot brought them all to attention. Two more followed in quick succession. Several of the men sprang to their feet, among them were Ertle and Searles.

“What’s goin’ on down there?” demanded Ertle.

Skeeter’s lips shut tightly and he threw up one hand.

“Set down, boys! One thing at a time. I think it’s Calamity.”

“But what in —— is he doin’?” demanded Ertle.

Skeeter ignored the question.

“The man who killed the stranger was the same man who misbranded that Lazy H yearlin’; the same man who went to the Box X, tryin’ to get the tools that he and his outfit had left under the fireplace where they had made bad money before Curley Adams bought the Box X.

“Monk Clark follered him, wonderin’ what he was doin’. Yuh see, Monk had a hunch that this was the man who had branded that yearlin’, and he was curious to see what he was tryin’ to do. Monk was there at the porch when this man came out with his stuff. Monk Clark had the deadwood on him; so he killed Monk.”

Skeeter stopped suddenly, lifting his head to listen. From half a mile away came the long-drawn wail of a locomotive whistle. The passenger train was coming in on time.

“But who was the man who killed Monk Clark?” demanded the judge.

He was nervous and his voice struck a falsetto note. Out in the audience a man laughed hoarsely.

Skeeter did not reply just then. He had lifted his head and was listening closely. They could hear the dull roar of the train as it ground to a stop at the station.

“Who killed Monk Clark?” repeated the judge.

“The man who had to kill him to save his own hide,” said Skeeter. He laughed softly, joyfully. “I’ve got him, Judge!”

Skeeter turned quickly to Frank Moran, while his hand dug deeply in his pocket. He drew out a yellow slip of paper, which he handed to Moran.

“It came yesterday,” said Skeeter, as Moran took the telegram. “I plumb forgot it.”

Moran’s eyes flashed across the words—

WILL ARRIVE CRESCENT CITY TOMORROW TO TAKE CHARGE OF INVESTIGATION. (Signed) Long.

Moran did not look up, as he slowly folded the telegram. Then he half-lifted himself from his chair, as though to put the telegram in his pocket. Skeeter was watching him closely, and Skeeter’s hand was streaking for the butt of his holstered gun when the telegram fell from Moran’s hand, which suddenly jerked back to his holster.

Moran was a gunman par excellence, and in spite of the fact that Skeeter was anticipating Moran’s move, Moran’s gun was out of the holster and coming to a level, when Skeeter fired.

It was all done so quickly that many of those in the little courtroom did not see them draw their guns. Moran was knocked back in his chair, his right hand helpless, the gun falling between his knees.

But he was game. As quick as a flash he grasped the gun in his left hand, falling from the chair, as he tried to pull the trigger. But Skeeter’s next bullet knocked all the fight out of him.

The room was in an uproar. Men were milling around, trying to get outside. From near the door came the crashing report of Kaintuck’s gun, a yell of pain. And above the other noises came Kaintuck’s yell.

“Stop Ertle! Don’t let him go to that winder!”

Kaintuck’s gun crashed again and his bullet smashed the window over Ertle’s head, just as Ertle flung himself across the sill and dropped outside. The crowd had unwittingly interfered with Kaintuck’s aim, and as he tore his way through the crowd, a revolver shot sounded down in the street.

Kaintuck ran to the window and leaned out. For a moment he stood there, turned and came back, with several men crowding him, questioning, sneezing from the powder smoke.

Skeeter was backed against the judge’s desk, a serious grin on his lips, while those capable of speech demanded that he tell them what it was all about.

Part of the crowd were at the door, but now they parted to let in Frisco Larkin and old Calamity, who had Larkin by the arm and was forcing him along at the point of a gun. They were both dusty and torn. Calamity was grinning, but his teeth were shut tightly.

Calamity marched him straight down to Skeeter and sat him down in a chair. The noise subsided, when Calamity began talking.

“I was in the office,” he told Skeeter. “Rugg smashed in the back door—and I let him smash. He came in and started to bust in Frisco’s cell door. Then I heard Frisco tell him, ‘My, I’m glad yuh came, Rugg! They’ve got the goods on us, I tell yuh. Just before the sheriff and his outfit pulled out of here a minute ago, I heard him tell ’em about findin’ my boot-heel mark in that trail where we stole the silver.’

“Then Rugg says, ‘How much more do they know, Frisco?’

“And Frisco says, ‘That’s enough to cinch me. Let’s git out of here, beat it to the Lazy H and grab up what money we can git. We’ve got time, if yuh don’t stand there with yore mouth open.’

“Then Rugg smashed in Frisco’s cell door, and I stepped out. Rugg tried to draw his gun—and he’s still there.

“Frisco and me had a race out through the back door. Mebbe I’d ’a’ had to kill him, too, but he fell over the busted door and I pistol-whipped him until he said he’d be good.”

Calamity stopped, panting from the exertion.

“And yuh got Ertle, too, didn’t yuh, Calamity?” asked Kaintuck.

Calamity nodded quickly.

“I per-sume I did. I seen him do his dive out of the winder, and I says to myself, ‘Whenever a man leaves a courtroom by an upper winder, he ain’t jist right morally,’ so I whopped one shot at him f’r luck—and it tuck.”

Old Calamity panted wearily and wiped some blood from his lips. But he braced his feet and grinned widely at everybody. Frisco slumped weakly in the chair and tried to feel of his swollen head.

“—— old wild-cat!” he blubbered. “Keep him away from me, will yuh? My ——, I know when I’ve got enough.”

“I’m through with yuh,” panted Calamity. “I know when I’ve hammered ’em down to my size, y’betcha. Thought yuh could outrun the old man, eh? Better be —— glad I didn’t have to catch yuh with a hot hunk of lead.”

Jim Searles shoved his way down to Skeeter.

“I don’t sabe it, Sheriff. Was this Moran a Government detective?”

“Said he was, Jim. But I had a hunch he wasn’t. He was one of them slick crooks who said ‘yes’ once too often.”

“Tell us about it. Ertle and Van Cleve and Frisco! What a —— of a mess!”

“I got Van Cleve,” said Kaintuck. “He came at me, clawin’ for his gun, and I folded him up like a jack-knife. Skeeter told me to watch the two of ’em—him and Ertle.”

A stranger had elbowed his way into the room, and was standing on his toes, looking around. He was a big man, his gray hair showing beneath the brim of his Stetson. Suddenly he caught sight of Skeeter.

“Hello, Sarg!” he called.

“Hello, Long!” yelled Skeeter. “C’mere and lemme shake yore hand. Give him room, boys. That’s Mr. Long, the United States marshal. Greetings, old timer.”

They shook hands violently.

“What in the world has been going on here?” demanded the officer. “It seems that I ran into a shooting match.”

Skeeter pointed at Moran, who was lying on his back, his arms flung wide. The officer stooped and studied his features closely for several moments.

“Didja ever see him before, Long?” asked Skeeter.

“Yes, and I know who he is. His name is Moran, and he’s about the slickest counterfeiter you ever heard about. What in the world has he been doing up here in this country? Was he one of the—” Long hesitated. He did not want to say too much.

“Yeah, he’s one of ’em,” said Skeeter. “In fact, he was the head of the gang. This one prisoner is all we saved out of the set. Didn’t you have a man workin’ on this case?”

“I still have.”

“No, you ain’t. This Moran killed him over a month ago.”

“Killed him? Why I’ve got wires—”

“From this feller. He impersonated yore man. Was yore man named Moran?”

“Yes, that’s the name he was using. I think the other man’s real name was Moran, but he has had many aliases. My operative knew him, but I doubt if he knew he was in this country.”

“Yore man probably told Ertle what his name was when he asked for a job on the Lazy H,” said Skeeter. “It sure gave the other Moran a fine chance to fill his shoes.”

“That must have been it,” nodded Long. “But how in the world did you ever find all this out? What made you suspect a perfectly, or I might say, apparently good detective?”

Skeeter smiled widely.

“Did anybody ever call you ‘Shorty’?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did you ever herd sheep down on Sundance Flats?”

“I never herded sheep in my life, Sarg.”

“There yuh are. I called yuh Shorty, and he called yuh Shorty. I asked him if he ever heard yuh tell about the time yuh herded sheep in the Sundance Flat country, and he said he hadn’t never heard you tell about it, but that one of the men in yore office started to tell him about it one day. That’s what I had to work on.

“So I knew he was a liar. It simmered down to this Moran. I knew that some one at the Silver Bell had tipped ’em off about that shipment of silver, and Rugg looked like he might be the one.

“I kinda figured out that Monk Clark was in on the gang, but when he got killed I thought he had run into some of the gang who were moving their stuff from the Box X. That left the Tin Cup out of it.

“I had to find the feller who wore that certain kind of a boot-heel, and I accidentally found it when I knocked Frisco over a chair.” He turned to Frisco, who was holding his head in his hands, watched closely by Calamity.

“How about it, Frisco? You might as well talk.”

Frisco lifted his head wearily. “I dunno what in —— there is to talk about. It kinda looks to me like you knew it all. Moran branded that yearlin’. I found it out afterward. It was jist luck that Clark found it. Moran wanted to git even with Curley for that wallop he got.”

“How long have you been with ’em?” asked Skeeter.

“I dunno. Moran was a friend of Rugg. He came here to steal silver—high-grade. It was too slow. Moran knew how to make counterfeit. Rugg knew Ertle pretty well; so they got together and framed up this deal.

“There was five of us in on the proposition, but only four of us held up the wagon and took the silver, ’cause Rugg had to stay at the mine. It was me an’ Van and Ertle and Moran who stuck up that wagon and took the silver. Rugg tipped us off. We had a —— of a time gettin’ the stuff out to the Lazy H. Moran was the one who held the three men from the Silver Bell while I drove the team away.

“Moran had a horse tied down the hill, and he got down to where we were goin’ to unload before I did. Moran sure was a bad actor. He killed the detective and he killed Monk Clark. He was beginnin’ to get scared of you, and told Ertle he was goin’ to kill you the first break yuh made. I reckon that’s all.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s all,” nodded Skeeter.

Gregory, Joy and Curley were grouped together listening to Frisco’s story, and Skeeter turned to them with a smile.

“I reckon you folks can go home now.”

Gregory shook his head sadly.

“Have you forgotten about that other deal, Sheriff?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully and turned to the Government officer.

“Long, can yuh tell me who was sheriff of Badger County ten years ago?”

Long smiled reminiscently.

“I should think I could, Sarg. Ten years ago I was wearing the star of that county.”

“I kinda thought yuh was. Yuh served two terms, didn’t yuh?”

“Yes, I was elected twelve years ago last November.”

“Of Badger County?” Gregory stared at him blankly.

“Long, I want yuh to meet Mr. Gregory,” said Skeeter. “This lady is his daughter.”

The three of them shook hands solemnly.

“Yuh see,” said Skeeter slowly, “Mr. Gregory is supposed to have killed the sheriff of Badger about ten years ago. That was what Monk Clark told him.”

“Is that so? Monk Clark? Why, I knew Monk Clark down in Badger County, Sarg. That’s right, he did move up here.”

“He—he kept me in a cellar for almost two weeks,” faltered Gregory. “I was with two horse-thieves. I didn’t know they were horse-thieves. Your—the sheriff’s posse opened fire on us. I got away, and Monk Clark kept me under cover. He said I—I had killed the sheriff.”

Long laughed softly and shook his head.

“I guess he exaggerated it, Gregory. I remember the incident. We got the two men. They said you were innocent; so we didn’t bother about looking for you.”

“For ——’s sake!” Gregory tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace. “Didn’t I see one of your men fall?”

“None of them got hit,” said Long. “We got both—oh, yes, I do remember, Gregory. Jimmy Lewis’ horse stepped in a badger hole and laid Jimmy up with a busted rib,” Long laughed at the memory. “I don’t know why Clark ever told you such a thing, unless he wanted something on you; so he could use you later on. Clark was politically inclined, if I remember rightly.”

The doctor was busy, and several men were assisting him in taking care of the casualties; so the courtroom gradually cleared.

“We can’t thank you,” said Joy to Skeeter. “Sometimes there are things we can’t even begin to say.”

“Tha’sall right,” smiled Skeeter. “You folks run along and don’t mind about thankin’ anybody. If yuh want to thank anybody—thank Calamity—he wasn’t bein’ paid to do the job.”

“No,” said Calamity quickly, “I don’t want no thanks. This has shore been a holiday for me, but I’ll be —— if I’m goin’ to stand here all day and poke a gun into Frisco Larkin’s ribs. If I knowed he was goin’ to run, it’d be a different thing.”

“I ain’t goin’ to run,” Frisco shook his head sadly. “Next time I’ll buy new boots.” He looked up at Skeeter. “It sure don’t pay to repair yore own heels—nor think a sheriff is a —— fool, just because he never was sheriff before.”

“That’s right,” said Calamity quickly. “He reminds me of a sheriff I knowed in 1866—and in them days they shore had sheriffs that was sheriffs.”

Which was probably the greatest compliment ever paid to any man in Moon River Valley—and the only one ever voiced by Calamity. Then he led the way back to the HG ranch, riding in the lead, his two guns hanging from the saddle-horn; while Skeeter Bill, Kaintuck and Long rode toward the Lazy H to confiscate the tools of a felonious trade.

Or, as Kaintuck expressed it—

“Give Uncle Sam a chance to use some of his money around here, eh? He sure lost trade in this country for a while.”

“I was scared,” said Skeeter. “I thought that train wasn’t never goin’ to come. I wasn’t sure of a darned thing except Frisco’s heel. I wanted to shock Moran just at the right time, dontcha see? If he made a break for his gun, I’d know my dope was right. Honest to gosh, it was seven hours from the time I handed him that telegram until he went for his gun.

“If he had stood pat I was stuck. I played for the one thing—breakin’ Moran’s nerve. He didn’t dare to meet yuh, Long. He was cornered.”

“I’d say it was a clever bit of detective work,” said Long appreciatively.

“Just lucky,” Skeeter smiled. “Lucky that I knew yore name wasn’t Shorty—and Moran didn’t.”

“And yuh ought to give Skeeter ——,” said Kaintuck solemnly. “He said yuh used to herd sheep. He used yore name in vain.”

“I think he used it to advantage,” laughed Long, and they rode down the long slope to the Lazy H, where no man lived—now. And over in a little swale near the Box X a skull grinned from the forks of a stunted tree, while four people rode along the dusty highway to the HG ranch; four people upon whom a great peace had descended. And for once in his life, Calamity was able to compare the present with the past—and not find any great fault.

Transcriber’s Note

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, November 30, 1925. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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, November 30, 1925

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).