Chapter II: Part 2

Freel turned and walked back to his office. He seemed nervous over the outcome of it all; but Skeeter Bill, if he was perturbed in the least, did not show it. He wondered whether any of his acquaintances outside the valley had heard of his arrest. News did not travel fast in that country.

His thoughts turned back to Mary Leeds and the town of Sunbeam. Would she ever know? Somehow he hoped she would never find out. Mary Leeds was nothing to him, he told himself. She knew him as an outlaw. Sunbeam knew him as a gun-fighting lawbreaker—even if he had been instrumental in cleaning up the place. No, she would not be at all interested in his future.

Skeeter shook his head sadly over it all. He was making a fitting finish, but there was little glory in it.

“I wonder where m’ spark is?” he mused. “I’ve got a fine chance t’ build it into a flame where I’m goin’. Yet I wonder why Mary Leeds called, ‘Skeeter Bill!’ when I rode away. Anyway I won’t need t’ worry about gittin’ a hair-cut no more, and a number ain’t no worse than a name.”

* * * * *

Sunbeam had been good to Mary Leeds. On the night that her father had been killed, several wealthy bad-men had died intestate, and Sunbeam settled their estates without recourse to law.

But the life of the border mining-town palled upon her. She did not fit in somehow. The estimable Mrs. Porter had taken her into their home and had grown rather refined in her language, due to the instructive criticism of Mary Leeds.

“My ——!” exclaimed Mrs. Porter. “Ever since Jim Porter flirted openly with a stick of dynamite I’ve had t’ do everythin’ ’cept chaw tobacco; but now I reckon I’ve got t’ curry m’ finger-nails, wear stockin’s and say, ‘Yessir’ t’ every hardheaded son-of-a-rooster that comes after his laundry.”

“But,” explained Mary, “you are a woman.”

“Tha’s so,” agreed Mrs. Porter dubiously. “I s’pose I am. I’ve got them charact’ristics. I kinda wish you’d stay here in Sunbeam. Me ’n’ you git along sweet and pretty, but after you’re gone I’ll be the only ree-fined female in this whole —— town. Mebbe I’ll forgit everythin’ you learned me, and start in swearin’ like ——.”

“I hope not,” sighed Mary. “You have been lovely to me, Mrs. Porter. I don’t know what I would have done without you and——”

Mrs. Porter lifted her homely face and looked closely at Mary, who was staring out of the half-open window. The rumble of a series of blasts shook the ground, and from over on the street came the bumping and rattling of a heavy freight wagon.

Mary Leeds was not beautiful, though not far from it. Her face was appealing in its delicate lines, and a pair of wistful, blue eyes looked out into the world from below a tangle of soft brown hair.

Mary turned and saw Mrs. Porter looking at her.

“You didn’t quite finish your statement, Mary,” said Mrs. Porter softly.

Mary’s eyes switched back to the window, but she did not reply.

“You kinda meant t’ say a man’s name, didn’t you?”

“A man?”

Mary did not turn her head.

“Yeah, a man; Skeeter Bill Sarg.”

Mary turned and looked straight at Mrs. Porter.

“Skeeter Bill? Why should I mention him?”

Mrs. Porter turned back to her washtub and thoughtfully lifted a dripping garment.

“I dunno why.”

She shook her head.

“’Course he didn’t do nothin’ for you,” she added.

Mary continued the stare out of the window.

“Funny sort of a feller, was Skeeter Bill,” mused Mrs. Porter. “I ’member that he killed Jeff Billings ’cause Jeff lied to him. And Jeff had some laundry with me which wasn’t paid for, and Skeeter paid for it. I offered it to him, but he wouldn’t take it.

“’Member how he saved you and the preacher at the Poplar Springs, after Tug Leeds and his gang had shot up the outfit to steal the horses? He brought yuh both back here, and backed the preacher t’ clean up Sunbeam.

“And Tug Leeds lied to you and the preacher about Skeeter, and made yuh think he was a awful bum. ’Member that, do you?

“And then mebbe yuh ’member how Tug Leeds framed it to have the preacher hold church in his danged honkatonk t’ disgust both of yuh, and how Skeeter Bill raised —— with the whole gang and saved yuh from bein’ stole by Leeds and his gang?

“’Member that some of that lousy outfit shot old Judge Tareyton, through the winder, and the old judge, with his dyin’ muscles, pulled the trigger that sent Tug Leeds t’ ——?

“And Judge Tareyton was your own pa, and Tug Leeds was the man who had sent him to the penitentiary and stole his name. ’Member all that, don’t yuh? Skeeter Bill was the man who engineered all that.”

Mary turned slowly and nodded dumbly.

“I know. I owe him everything, Mrs. Porter. He—he had been awful good to my old daddy, they say. He saved my life, I think. But he said he was a horse-thief and ——”

“Y’betcha he did! Honest? Whooee, that ganglin’ outlaw sure was honest. If he’d ’a’ got killed in that entertainment they’d put up a monyment to him; but as it is I suppose some of these snake-hunters would kill him on sight.

“Human nature is kinda like that, Mary. Folks that pack a sawed-off shotgun for yuh when you’re alive, will chip in t’ give yuh a fancy tombstone and shed tears over yuh when you’re dead.

“Folks cuss me for wearin’ out their shirts on a old wash-board; but I’ll betcha if I died they’d all chip in and put me up a tombstone, real finicky, with a marble angel humped over a wash-tub, lookin’ at a marble shirt, and on it they’d engrave, ‘Not worn out, but —— near it.’”

Mary Leeds laughed at Mrs. Porter’s serious expression and dejected position over the wash-board as she held the dripping shirt in both hands and gazed at the ceiling.

“’F I go to heaven,” continued Mrs. Porter, “and they tell me that angels wear shirts, I’m sure goin’ to tell ’em that I know of a lot of preachers that have got the wrong dope on things down here.”

Mrs. Porter slapped the shirt back into the sudsy water and sank down in a broken-backed chair.

“Aw, I’m sick of it all, so I am. Scrub, scrub, scrub, all the time ’cept when I’m ridin’ sign on a —— flat-iron! Miners bring in their flannel shirts so danged dirty that yuh can’t wash ’em—yuh have t’ cultivate ’em. Their socks has been worn so long that I have t’ picket ’em out, ’stead of hangin’ ’em on the line.

“Feller brought me six suits of underclothes last week, and I let ’em fall off the table. Know what they done? Three suits broke all t’ ——, and the other three was so badly cracked that he made me pay for ’em. I tell yuh I’m sick of it. How in —— can I git refined under them conditions, I ask yuh?”

Mrs. Porter gathered up her apron in both hands and buried her face within its damp folds while her shoulders shook with suppressed emotion. Mary went to her quickly and threw both arms around her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! It is too hard. Do you really have to stay here, Mrs. Porter? Couldn’t you live just as well in some other town?”

“I s’pose so.”

Mrs. Porter’s voice was muffled.

“Goodness knows there ain’t many towns where men don’t git their shirts dirty,” she added.

“I didn’t mean that,” explained Mary softly. “Perhaps you could get into something else. Suppose you go back East with me?”

Mrs. Porter lifted her head quickly and stared wide-eyed at Mary.

“Go East with you?”

“Where there are lots of folks and——”

“Lots of shirts?” supplied Mrs. Porter. “Lord bless you, child, I ain’t got but eighty dollars t’ my name.”

“I have,” said Mary; “I have enough for us both.”

Mrs. Porter shifted her eyes and looked around the room. There was nothing attractive about the rough shack interior. Outside, a mule-skinner spoke in the only language known to mules, and a heavy wagon lurched past through the dust. Mrs. Porter shoved the hair back from her face and got slowly to her feet.

She lifted up the sodden shirt and slapped it against the wash-board.

“This here shirt belongs t’ Doc Sykes, the coroner. Kinda prophetic-like, so it is, ’cause I’ve told him that he was the last person I ever expected t’ do business with. Gimme room t’ wring, young woman, ’cause I’m sure goin’t’ wind up m’ career in a big splash. You sure got somethin’ wished on to you when you issued a invite t’ me to go where men change their shirts once per week. Whooee!”

Mary Leeds laughed joyously and gave Mrs. Porter plenty of room for her last appearance as a laundress in a mining-camp.

* * * * *

While Mary Leeds and Mrs. Porter prepared to leave Sunbeam, and while Skeeter Bill Sarg smoked innumerable cigarets and waited for the sheriff to take him to the penitentiary at Red Lodge, a disgruntled crew of cowboys and paid gunmen loafed around the Lazy H ranch.

It had developed that Cleve Hart was not sole owner of the Lazy H, and that the other owners, who were Eastern capitalists, were disgruntled over their investment, and ordered an immediate sale of the property and the discharge of all employees forthwith.

Nick Kales had sold his services to Cleve Hart without any agreement from the other owners; with the result that he was forced to look forward to about two weeks’ pay at the rate of forty dollars a month, instead of the generous bonus due him as a professional gunman.

“Dutch” Van Cleve, a protegé of Nick Kales, was also a bit disgruntled over the outcome. The rest of the remaining cowpunchers, “Red” Bowen, “Swede” Sorenson, “Roper” Bates and “Boots” Orson, faced a lean year, as none of them saved more than tobacco money out of their monthly salary.

The killing of Cleve Hart and the arrest and conviction of Skeeter Bill had quieted things to some extent, but it was only an armed truce. Cowboys rode dead-lines and managed to keep the sheep within a well-defined area; but the cattlemen knew that an adverse court decision would wipe out dead-lines, and with it the cattle business.

Swede Sorenson had just ridden in from Crescent City, bringing the mail; and among it was a letter for Nick Kales, postmarked from the town of Wheeler.

Kales looked it over gloomily and put it unopened into his pocket. He exchanged a word or two with Dutch Van Cleve aside, and a little later they both approached Roper Bates, a saturnine, narrow-between-the-eyes sort of a puncher.

“Can yuh read?” queried Kales.

“Well,” grinned Roper, “I ain’t no —— professional reader, as yuh might say; but I _sabe_ some of the alphabet.”

“Yuh know how to keep your mouth shut, don’t yuh?”

“Now,” said Roper seriously, “you’re guessin’ me dead center. Shoot the piece, Kales.”

Kales took out the letter and handed it to Roper, who looked at it curiously.

“It ain’t never been opened,” he remarked.

“Me ’n’ Dutch can’t read,” explained Kales. “We’re askin’ yuh to decipher it for us; _sabe_?”

Roper took out the letter and laboriously spelled out the pencil-written message.

“It says,” began Roper:

“Dear Nick: All set for a big one on Thursday the eighteenth.
Make it look good. Number 16. Hits there about nine o’clock.
Burn this up right away.
Very truly yours,
Wheat.”

Roper finished and looked up at Kales, who was staring intently at him.

“What’sa idea?” queried Roper seriously.

Kales watched Roper’s face closely for several seconds and then took the letter from him. He touched a lighted match to one corner of the letter and envelop and watched them burn to a flimsy cinder.

“You know somethin’ now,” said Kales meaningly, “and there ain’t no use tellin’ yuh to keep your mouth shut.”

“Aw, ——!” grunted Roper. “You make me tired. If the deal’s any good I want in on it.”

Kales and Dutch exchanged glances. Dutch was long of face, crooked of nose and with a pair of round eyes which seemed to film over, instead of blinking.

“Whatcha think, Dutch?” queried Kales.

“Aw’right,” nodded Dutch. “I don’t care.”

“What about the rest—Red, Swede, Boots?” asked Kales. “This job is big enough for all.”

“All square,” declared Roper. “All square, and all broke. Put it up to ’em, Kales.”

The three men drifted down to the bunkhouse, where the other three were playing seven-up, and Kales lost no time in feeling out the other cowboys.

“What are you fellers goin’ to do?” asked Kales. “She’s a long ways to the next range.”

“That’s the —— of it,” growled Red disgustedly. “I’m broke—flat.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on me,” grunted Swede. “I don’t even own the saddle I’m ridin’.”

“What’s the answer to your question, Kales?” queried Boots Orson, who was a trifle more intelligent than the rest and felt that Kales’ question was not idle curiosity.

“A certain job,” stated Kales bluntly, “might mean a big stake or it might mean the penitentiary. Takes a lot of guts.”

“You’re talkin’,” reminded Orson softly.

“Am I?”

Kales’ eyes swept the circle of cowboys, but read only interest in their faces.

“You—show—us,” said Red slowly, spacing his words widely. “I’m game.”

“—— right!” breathed Swede. “Shoot.”

“Did yuh ever hear of Sunbeam?” asked Kales.

“Yeah,” nodded Swede. “Minin’-town, about fifty miles from Wheeler.”

“Gold-minin’ town,” said Kales as if disputing Swede. “Lot of the yaller stuff shipped out of there, but nobody knows when.”

“There ain’t a —— mind-reader among us,” grinned Red.

“That part’s all fixed,” explained Kales, nodding toward Roper. “He read the letter.”

“I read a letter,” agreed Roper, looking up from the manufacture of a cigaret. “It didn’t fix nothin’ for me.”

“Lemme tell yuh about that letter,” urged Kales. “That feller who wrote it is Pat Wheat, and an old bunkie of mine. He works for the express company as a shotgun messenger. That’s how he knows things, I reckon.

“Me and him have been workin’ for a big stake, and he knowed I was here; so he tips me off. Pat will be ridin’ shotgun on this shipment, and she’s a cinch that we’ll crack out of here with a lot of _dinero_.”

“Hold up the train?” queried Red.

“You’re —— right. Cut off the baggage-car and take it a few miles. Won’t have nobody to handle except the engine crew. Pat’ll take care of the messenger.”

“I _sabe_ the place,” grinned Roper joyously. “We can flag her down jist short of the S bridge, cut off the money-car and run down to the mouth of San Gregario Cañon. She’s a dinger of a place to make a getaway.

“Have the horses planted there, and we can ride the rocky bottom of that dry creek for a mile. Never leave a track.”

“How about the rest of the train?” queried Boots. “There’s six of us. Passengers pack money and jewelry.”

Kales nodded slowly and stared at the ceiling for a while before he said:

“Yeah, that might be a good scheme, at that. We’ll cut the telegraph wire. Won’t be a —— of a lot of passengers, but it might pay to do it. If it was a reg’lar main-line train with sleepers, I’d say it wouldn’t pay, but on a branch line like this it’s a cinch to pile out or into them old cars.”

“When do we git action?” queried Roper. “Did that letter say, ‘Thursday’?”

“It did,” nodded Kales; “and this is Tuesday. We’ll work out the details later.”

“Can’t come too soon to suit me,” yawned Red. “Since Cleve Hart got bumped off it’s been kinda slow around here.”

“Hart was a —— fool,” declared Kales.

“Any old time yuh start monkeyin’ with women, you’re a fool.”

“Do yuh think that’s why he got his?” asked Red.

“Cinch. He thought he’d run a blazer on that shepherd and take his woman, but he got his shirt filled with buckshot.”

“Where’d this Sarg person figure in on the deal anyway?” queried Boots, who was with the sheriff when they arrested Skeeter Bill.

Kales grinned, showing some very bad-shaped teeth.

“Sarg never shot Hart. I know a few things about that long _hombre_, y’betcha. He’s a pistol fighter, Sarg is; and a —— good shot. Do yuh think he’d pick up a shotgun when he had a loaded six-gun in his holster?

“Sarg pistol-whipped Sunbeam town, so they tells me, and pulled out without a scratch. I don’t _sabe_ what he’s doin’ down here, ’less he hired out his gun to the sheep outfits.”

“Do yuh reckon the woman killed Hart?” queried Roper interestedly.

“She shore did, pardner.”

Kales was emphatic.

“Hm-m-m,” mused Roper.

He had seen Mrs. Kirk, and Roper was not overloaded with scruples.

“Freel’s scared,” observed Swede. “He ain’t made no move to take Sarg to the penitentiary yet.”

“Them boys from the Tin-Cup outfit swore they’d hang Sarg if they got a chance,” stated Red, “and Freel ain’t takin’ no chances. They’re sore at the judge for not hangin’ Sarg.

“’Course the sheep are closer to the Tin-Cup than to any of the other outfits, and if the law decides in favor of sheep—blooey! They’ll swarm plumb into Tin-Cup range. ’Course the law’ll only give ’em an even break with the cattle; but the —— law don’t stop to figure that cattle can’t live on an even break with sheep.”

“After that there sermon,” stated Roper piously, “the choir will rise and sing. What in —— do we care what the sheep do to Moon Valley? We’re leavin’ here; _sabe_?”

“And with freight all paid,” added Kales, grinning. “Tomorrow we all pull out, eh? Me and Dutch’ll pull out from Crescent City after we’ve planted the fact that we’re leavin’ for good. We’ll spring it that Roper and Swede left over Table Rock Pass t’day.

“Mebbe Red and Boots better stay here at the ranch. Might look bad if we all drifted at the same time, eh?

“And suppose we all meet in San Gregario Cañon, down near the mouth of it, about dark on Thursday? Me and Dutch’ll have things framed, wires cut and all that.”

The rest of the gang nodded in agreement, except Roper, who said:

“Let Boots pull out with Swede, and I’ll stay here. I owe a few dollars in Crescent City, and I might want to come back here some day. I’ll ride down with you and Dutch and then come back here.”

“Well, that’s all right,” grunted Kales. “Fix it any old way yuh want to.”

And thus are honest men drawn into evil paths through the need of a few dollars. But the question still remains: Who is an honest man, who is broke, with easy money in sight?

* * * * *

Roper Bates had little stomach for a train-robbery, but he did have a little plan of his own. Money did not mean so much to Roper as a pretty face. He had seen Mrs. Kirk, and the memory of her caused him to calculate deeply.

Roper was not an ignorant person, but a queer kink in his mental make-up caused him to believe that it was inconsistent that this pretty woman should be the wife of a despised sheep-herder. To him it was very unreasonable; a condition to be remedied at once. He did not take the woman’s position into consideration at all.

Roper was no handsome hero; rather he was a homely cowpuncher; but his mirror, if he ever used one, only reflected Roper Bates, which was sufficient for Roper Bates. He was a top-hand, a good pistol shot and took a bath in the Summer. All of which raised him far above the level of sheep-herders.

He had no intentions of being at the mouth of San Gregario Cañon at dark; but he did not mention this fact, as it was nobody’s business except his own. He was free, white and well past twenty-one. Also, on this particular Thursday he had imbibed freely of the juice that cheers, and the world was made up of pastel shades.

He lounged past the jail and almost ran into one of the Tin Cup punchers, known as “Jimmy Longhair,” who seemed to be making an indifferent getaway from the rear of the jail. Jimmy was the long-haired puncher who had been with the sheriff at the capture of Skeeter Bill.

“_Hyah_, Hair,” greeted Roper jovially. “How’sa dandruff?”

Jimmy Longhair glared evilly from under the floppy brim of his sombrero, but made no reply. He was a trifle touchy about his hair, but did not want to get tough with Roper Bates.

“Whatcha tryin’ to do—break in the back door?” continued Roper, grinning.

“None of yore —— business!” growled Jimmy.

“Go to the head of the class,” gulped Roper. “I betcha I know what yuh was tryin’ to do. You Tin Cup snake-hunters want to lynch Sarg, and when yuh find that Freel won’t let yuh, yuh sneak around tryin’ to shoot him through the back winder.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” disgustedly. “No such a —— thing.”

Roper rocked on his heels and considered Jimmy Longhair appraisingly.

“Listenin’?”

Jimmy proceeded to roll a cigaret, which gave him an alibi to neglect an answer. Then the door of the sheriff’s office opened and shut, and Freel came past them. He barely looked at them, but neither gave him more than a passing glance.

“Listenin’,” declared Roper again. “Jist like a —— cholo. I’d be ’shamed.”

“You go to ——!” growled Jimmy.

“I betcha,” nodded Roper soberly. “I betcha m’ life.”

Whether Roper was willing to bet his life on the truth of his statement or in agreement with Jimmy Longhair’s order, made no difference to either of them. Roper turned on his heel and went after more bottled cheer, while Jimmy Longhair secured his bronco and hit the dusty road toward the Tin Cup ranch-house.

* * * * *

While the rest of the Valley of the Moon folks moved along in their own dumb way, Skeeter Bill chafed in the confines of his small cell. Old Solitaire had beaten him something over two hundred times, which also got on his nerves to a certain extent. Freel had told him that his stay was not to be much longer, which did not serve to brace his spirits to any extent.

Skeeter Bill had gone over every inch of his cell, trying to dope out a scheme to escape; but that jail was not built for any such hope. Skeeter knew that he did not have one chance in a thousand to miss the wide doors of the penitentiary.

Freel brought in his supper, but did not seem in any mood for conversation.

“Anybody’d think you was the one goin’ t’ prison,” observed Skeeter. “My gosh, yo’re gloomy, Freel.”

“Yeah? I hadn’t noticed it, Sarg.”

Freel sat and watched Skeeter eat his supper, and took away the dishes without a word. There was no question in Skeeter Bill’s mind that Freel was worried over something.

Perhaps, he thought, there was danger of a lynching. Freel had told him of the threats that had emanated from the Tin Cup ranch, and Skeeter had heard enough about the Tin Cup gang to know that they were not given to idle gossip. Their immediate range was almost in smelling distance of the sheep outfits.

The Tin Cup gang had declared openly that a prison sentence was far too lenient for a sheep-herder who had killed a cattleman, and that they were willing to go on record as saying that Skeeter Bill would never serve one day in the penitentiary for this crime.

Because of this threat Freel had delayed taking Skeeter to the penitentiary. He did not want to lose his prisoner to a mob of lynchers, and he knew that a battle might result in dire calamity for the house of Freel.

As long as Skeeter Bill was behind the strong walls of the jail he knew that the Tin Cup outfit would not try to take him. They were no fools, and knew that the jail was built to withstand a heavy assault.

Skeeter Bill had stretched out on his bunk for the night, when Freel came to the cell door without a light and spoke to him. Skeeter got up, and Freel ordered him to dress.

From without came the dull rumble of thunder, and a weak flash seemed to light up the room a trifle.

“Goin’ t’ rain?” asked Skeeter.

“Hope to —— it rips things loose,” said Freel softly. “Suits me fine. Dressed? Put this on.”

He handed Skeeter a full-length slicker coat, which he put on.

“Gimme your right hand,” whispered Freel, and Skeeter felt the circle of steel click around his wrist as Freel snapped the handcuff.

Another click showed that Freel had locked the other cuff to his own left wrist.

“Come on, easy,” ordered Freel, and they went softly to the back door, which Freel unbarred, and they passed out into the night, which was as black as the proverbial black cat.

Gusts of wind filled the air with clouds of dust, and from the western range came the thudding roll of heavy thunder. The drouth of the valley of the Moon River was about to be broken.

Freel led Skeeter Bill wide of the town, the lights of which were blotted out in the dust-clouds and dark. They stumbled across the railroad track and swung back toward the depot, where Freel led Skeeter in behind a pile of old ties.

Lightning flashed across the sky, but even its light came to them in murky flares, owing to the dust.

“I reckon that —— is about to bust,” said Freel.

“Let her bust,” grunted Skeeter. “This is the first time I never was timid about —— bustin’.”

“Couldn’t have picked a better night,” declared Freel with much satisfaction.

“That’s right,” agreed Skeeter. “I allus said it would be a wet night when I went to the penitentiary. I don’t mind sneakin’ out of the pen, but I hate like —— to have t’ sneak into one.”

“Rather be lynched?”

“Danged ’f I know. That’s kind of a foolish question, don’tcha think? I ain’t never talked with no folks after they’ve stretched hemp. It may be a —— of a lot of fun, but I wasn’t raised t’ look upon it as a pastime.”

“Train comin’,” grunted Freel as the headlight glowed far down the hazy distance and to their ears came the faint whistle of a locomotive.

Slowly the train ground to a stop at the station, and Freel led his prisoner to the front one of the two coaches. These cars were not vestibuled, but had open steps. Forty miles farther on, at the town of Cinnabar, they would connect with the main line, where the passengers might secure sleeping-car accommodations for the trip Eastward.

Through a whirl of wind and dust Freel and Skeeter Bill entered the smoking-car, where even the swinging oil lamps were dimmed by the dust, which seeped in through the window-casings and doors.

With a lurch the train started ahead again; but Freel seemed undecided about sitting down. Not over half a dozen men were in the smoker, and none of them paid any attention to Freel and Skeeter Bill.

“—— the dust!” choked Freel. “Let’s try the rear car; it can’t be any worse than this one.”

The wind fairly tore the door-knob from Freel’s hand, and they groped their way across the connecting platforms, a roaring, creaking, clattering maelstrom of wild elements and protesting wood and metal.

Into the door of the rear car they went while the door crashed shut behind them and weaved their way down the narrow aisle. A heavy lurch threw Skeeter almost into an occupied seat, and the jerk of the handcuffs swung Freel with him.

For a moment Skeeter balanced with his one free hand against the back of the seat, almost circling the neck of one of the occupants; and the face that stared up at him was the face of Mary Leeds.

* * * * *

At the approach to the S bridge, about two miles from Crescent City, four men—Kales, Bowen, Van Cleve and Orson—crouched near the track. Swede Sorenson had been left with the horses at San Gregario Cañon, and Roper Bates had never shown up.

A swirl of wind and rain caused them to hug the side of the fill, while overhead the lightning crackled wickedly. The great mass of storm-clouds seemed fairly to press against the earth, and the flashes of lightning seemed to bring only a gleam from the glistening rails.

“——’s recess!” swore Kales as he shielded a lantern inside his slicker, trying to light it.

The others crowded around him as he managed to get it lighted, and Van Cleve gave him a red handkerchief to tie around the chimney.

Kales braced himself against the wind and fought his way on to the track, where he placed the danger signal; but before he could get back to the rest, the wind hurled the lantern upside down, smashing the chimney.

“What’ll we do now?” yelled Bowen into Kale’s ear. “We can’t light it ag’in!”

“Build a fire on the track!” yelled Van Cleve.

“Try it!” replied Kales bitterly. “You’d have a —— of a sweet time. Looks like we’d have to pass it up, boys.”

“They’d never see a lantern in this storm anyway,” cried Orson.

For several moments there was silence as each man tried to figure out some scheme for stopping the train. Suddenly the figure of a man almost brushed Kales’ arm and climbed past him on to the road-bed. Several other men followed him closely—bulky, indistinct figures in the pall of rain, their footsteps drowned out in the roar of the elements. A few feet past, and they were blotted out.

“Who in —— was that?” roared Kales into Bowen’s ear.

Bowen had no more idea than Kales had, and the other two added their questions.

“Sheriff and some men, do yuh think?” asked Kales.

“Mebbe Bates got drunk and talked too much,” volunteered Van Cleve. “—— him, he never showed up!”

“I betcha he’s got a gang to double-cross us!” yelled Orson. “Roper’d do that.”

“—— ’em, they’ve got a light,” swore Kales. “Look!”

Like a tiny pin-point of red, a light glowed down nearer the end of the bridge. It flickered as the storm beat down, and at times it disappeared entirely when the heavy wind howled out of the depths of Moon River.

“Roper must ’a’ told!” declared Van Cleve.

“But the —— fool knowed we’d be here,” argued Red at the top of his voice. “Mebbe he talked too much, but didn’t tell about us goin’ after the stuff.”

That seemed more reasonable to Kales, and it began to look as if there might be a battle over the treasure.

“What’s our move, Kales?” yelled Orson. “It’s goin’ to mean a battle, and the sheriff might ask questions of wounded men.”

Kales had slid a Winchester carbine from under his slicker, and now he humped forward, resting it across the wet rail. For an instant the red light seemed to glow brighter, and the rifle report seemed weak in all that roaring world; but the red light glowed no more. It is doubtful if the report of the rifle could be heard fifty feet away.

Suddenly the elements seemed to combine in one mighty, roaring crash; and Kales and his men were flung against the bank of the fill, as if hurled and held by a mighty hand, and a solid wall of rain descended upon them.

For a moment they were stifled; but after the mighty deluge and roar there came a space of silence, as if the storm were preparing for another mighty onslaught; and in that brief space of silence, while the world seemed white from the lightning’s glow, there came the splintering grind of tearing timbers and the hiss and roar of wild waters.

“My God!”

Kale’s voice was a scream.

“The bridge! It’s goin’ out!”

“To —— with it!” yelled Bowen. “That old cloud——”

But the rest of his voice was swept away in the rush of wind, and the four men huddled low under the meager protection of the fill.

But Kales managed to grasp Bowen by the arm and yell into his ear:

“The train, you —— fool! It’ll go into the river; don’t yuh understand? Nothin’ can stop it!”

Kales sprang to his feet and staggered on to the track just as two indistinct figures appeared out of the murk, coming from toward the bridge. They had discovered their shattered lantern and had come to investigate.

One of them fired at Kales, and the report of the gun sounded like the weak pop of a toy pistol. Kales staggered back as he swung up his carbine and fired. More men were coming out of the gloom, and Kales’ men began shooting blindly.

Kales had been hit through the shoulder. After firing one shot his heel caught in the rail and he fell backward off the road-bed. Another whirl of rain blotted out the world, except for short, orange-colored flashes which seemed to dart here and there.

Kales got back to his feet, dizzy and sick, fighting to stay upright. He was a gunman, an outlaw, a man without a conscience; but the thought of that train running off the rail-ends of that ruined bridge, plunging into the swollen torrent, was as a nightmare to him.

Blindly he started down the track toward town, stumbling, weaving in the wind, which tore at his slicker with the tenacity of a bulldog. His left arm was useless, but with his right hand he clutched his six-shooter, while his lips repeated continually, as if he was afraid he might forget—

“One shot—close to trucks.”

* * * * *

It was as a dream to Skeeter Bill—this looking into the eyes of Mary Leeds; and the awakening came when Freel yanked sharply on the handcuff. It was then that Mary Leeds shifted her eyes and saw that Skeeter Bill was linked to this other man. His eyes shifted to the other occupant of the seat and looked into the face of Mrs. Porter, erstwhile washer of shirts for Sunbeam town.

“Skeeter Bill Sarg!” exploded Mrs. Porter. “Well, I’ll be everlastin’ly hornswoggled!”

“Yes’m,” said Skeeter foolishly; “me and you both.”

“Skeeter Bill,” parroted Mary, reaching out to him as if not believing her eyes.

“The same,” nodded Skeeter. “I—I——”

“C’m on,” ordered Freel, pulling on the handcuff.

Mary looked wonderingly at Freel and up at Skeeter.

“Me ’n’ him are kinda close pals,” said Skeeter with a smile. “There’s a tie that kinda binds us to each other.”

“I—I don’t understand,” faltered Mary.

“F’r ——’s sake, whatcha handcuffed for?” demanded Mrs. Porter.

“Well—” Skeeter squinted at the storm-drenched window—“well, I’m takin’ a long trip f’r murderin’ a man.”

“You never did!”

Mrs. Porter got to her feet and turned on Freel, who did not understand what it was all about.

“You never murdered nobody!”

Mrs. Porter fairly snorted her unbelief. “Yuh might ’a’ killed a man, but he had an even break with yuh, boy.”

Skeeter smiled and shook his head.

“Anyway, it’s too late t’ argue it, Mrs. Porter. How’s everybody in Sunbeam?”

Mrs. Porter did not seem interested in that question, for at that moment the shrill warning shriek of the locomotive whistle came to them, and they were all hurled into confusion, when the engineer threw his engine into reverse and opened the sand-box.

Mary Leeds and Mrs. Porter were thrown forward into the rear of the forward seat, while Skeeter Bill and Freel sprawled into each other in the aisle. There came a series of lurching jars which threatened to splinter the old coaches, and the train jerked to a standstill.

Freel and Skeeter were clawing blindly to get back on their feet when the rear door was flung open and two men came in—two masked men, carrying six-shooters. Freel lurched sidewise against the arm of a seat and whipped out a gun from his shoulder holster. One of the masked men fired at him, and the shot swung Freel back a trifle; but he fired deliberately, and the man who had shot him went down.

Another shot thudded into Freel; but he was shooting calmly, slowly; and the other man lurched back against the rear door, dropping his gun. His hat fell off, disclosing the long locks of Jimmy Longhair.

A shot was fired from the other door, and the bullet smashed into a basket of firebombs near the rear door.

“Tin Cup gang,” said Freel hoarsely. “They—got—me.”

He swayed back into Skeeter, who caught him in both arms, swung him up off the floor and lurched for the back door, which had swung open, letting in a flood of rain and wind. Jimmy Longhair swayed into him as he went past; but Skeeter Bill hurled him aside, sprang on to the platform, kicked at another man who was coming up the left-hand steps and sprang out into the darkness just as another bullet buzzed past his head.

Skeeter Bill had expected to strike solid ground within a short distance; but he seemed to be falling through great space, whirling in a pall of wind and rain.

Suddenly he shot feet first into the whirling river and seemed to go to a great depth—down—down—down until his lungs shrieked with the pain of it all; but he still kept both arms locked around the unconscious sheriff.

Then they seemed fairly to shoot out of the depths and were into the air again; out in a whirling world of floating bush, stumps, trees. It was impossible for him to see where they were or where they were going; but he realized that the train had stopped on the bridge, and that he had deliberately jumped into the Moon River.

Then something drove him sidewise, fairly hurling him through the water, and the roots of a tree whipped him across the face. Skeeter tried to grasp it with his free hand; but it eluded him, and in floundering for it his feet touched bottom and he felt a slackening of the rush of water.

“That danged tree shoved me out of the current,” he told himself. “Whatcha know about that?”

Holding the sheriff tightly to himself, he moved carefully to the left, feeling with each foot. They were still neck-deep in the flood, but there was no longer any pressure against him.

Once he went into a hole over their heads, but got out quickly and felt the willows on the bank brush against his face. The bank was fairly high; but he managed to get Freel up ahead of him, after which he crawled out and lay flat on his face for several minutes, trying to collect himself.

Bill turned Freel over on his back and felt of his heart. It was still beating, but jerky.

“Pardner, I betcha yo’re water-logged quite a lot,” gurgled Skeeter. “I know —— well that I am. But you’ve likely got enough holes in yore carcass to drain yuh pretty quick.”

Carefully he searched the sheriff’s pockets until he found the key to the handcuffs. His wrist was cut and torn, but he chuckled with joy as the cuff opened easily and he was free once more.

“Now let ’em take me,” he grunted wearily as he searched the sheriff for a gun; but there was none.

He had lost the gun in the car.

Skeeter got to his feet and tried to figure out which way to go. He was going back to see Kirk and get a gun. That was the least Kirk could do for him. He was going to win free; going to get a horse and a gun and the valley of Moon River would see him no more.

He moved slowly away into the brush, feeling his way carefully. Suddenly he stopped. The idea had just struck him that he might make folks think he was dead.

If he removed the handcuff from Freel and threw him in the river, who would know that they had ever been linked together? Mary Leeds and Mrs. Porter would in all probability never be questioned. And if they did, they would, or possibly might, tell a white lie to help him out. It was worth chancing.

He felt his way back to Freel and started to lift him up. It would be a simple matter to drop him over the bank. Freel would never suffer—never realize, because he was already unconscious, perhaps dying.

But suddenly the words of old Judge Tareyton came back to him:

“I know how yuh feel, Skeeter Bill. God put a spark of something into all of us—a spark that flares up once in a while. It will build a big flame for you—if you’ll let it.”

“That’s right, judge,” said Skeeter, staring into the darkness and rain, speaking aloud, but all unconscious of it. “Mebbe this is my spark workin’. Bein’ a murderer don’t set me free, old-timer. Yuh can’t lie to yourself and get away with it.”

Swinging the sheriff’s unconscious body up in his arms, he stumbled away through the brush, going by instinct for the higher ground, while behind him the river roared as if in anger at being cheated.

* * * * *

Kales’ men did not long dispute with the Tin Cup gang. The game was not worth the candle to them, as they did not intend to battle for a chance to hold up the train, and also they did not know who the Tin Cup gang were.

While they believed that Roper Bates had talked too much and had given away the secret of the big gold shipment, the Tin Cup gang fought to keep any one from stopping them from taking Skeeter Bill off the train. Jimmy Longhair had heard the sheriff tell Skeeter that he was to leave very soon, and, with the gang planted near the bridge, Jimmy had watched the back door of the jail and had seen Skeeter and Freel come out.

“Monk” Clark, the owner of the Tin Cup, had sworn to “get” Skeeter Bill, and Monk was no idle boaster; but he did not reckon on interference.

The train was into them and lurching back against the reversed engine before they knew just what damage they had suffered; but Monk rallied his men and swung into the train, as it stopped on the last remaining arch of the bridge, with the pilot of the engine almost hanging out over the flood.

When Monk boarded the rear car, it was only to find that Skeeter Bill and the sheriff had gone overboard and that Jimmy Longhair and Benny Harper were down and out from the sheriff’s six-shooter.

Things were looking extremely bad for the Tin Cup gang, and Monk lost no time in herding his men off the train, leaving their wounded. The train backed off the bridge and stopped, but the Tin Cup gang were already mounting and riding away. There was no question in the mind of Monk Clark that Skeeter Bill and Freel had died in the flood.

He gathered his men to him and delivered his orders:

“Boys, I don’t know how many people seen or recognized us, nor how much we’re goin’ to be blamed for this; but we might as well be hung for goats as for sheep. Let’s finish the business by wiping out every sheep-camp in the country. Make it one big night, and to —— with tomorrow.”

Without a reply his men spurred ahead with him. They were already in bad and were willing to go the limit now.

Inside the train, all was confusion. No one seemed to know just what had happened; but the engine-crew knew that a warning torpedo had exploded just in time to prevent them from going into the river.

When the train backed off the bridge and stopped, Mrs. Porter and Mary Leeds got off the rear steps. They were both dazed over the swift succession of events, and Mrs. Porter swore piously when they heard some one say that the sheriff and his prisoner had jumped into the river.

Without knowing why they did it, both of them clawed their way alongside the train, trying to get back to the bridge; and when half-way the length of the train it started backing toward Crescent City, leaving them alone in the rain.

The beams of the receding headlight faded out in the storm, leaving them in total darkness. Neither was dressed for wet weather, and the drifting rain drenched them in a few minutes.

“Oh, why did he jump?” queried Mary Leeds, staring into the distance, where the waters hissed against the piling of the bridge.

“He took a chance, child,” soothed Mrs. Porter. “When yuh look at it ca’m-like, the river ain’t no worse than livin’ out your life in the penitentiary.”

“But he couldn’t have been guilty,” insisted Mary.

“Not of murder,” agreed Mrs. Porter wearily, “but mebbe things broke so he couldn’t prove it. Skeeter Bill would shoot, y’ betcha. Prob’ly looked like murder to the law. You kinda liked Skeeter, didn’t yuh, Mary?”

“I don’t know,” said Mary wistfully. “He is only a big, rough man, who does not deny that he is a lawbreaker, but he is honest and—when he smiles——”

“I know what yuh mean,” said Mrs. Porter softly when Mary hesitated. “Bill was all right, y’betcha. Why, he never wore a shirt over a week, and he allus took off his hat t’ me. I’ve seen him take off his hat t’ honkatonk girls, too. Seems like he respected women—all of ’em—thataway.”

Together they stood in the drenching rain and thought of Skeeter Bill. Finally Mrs. Porter said:

“Well, we ain’t doin’ poor Skeeter any good out here. God rest his soul, and that’s about all I can say. I wonder how far it is back to a town.”

Mary shook her head.

“I don’t know. Somehow I have no desire to go anywhere. I feel so tired now.”

“You need a good shot of booze,” declared the practical Mrs. Porter. “We’ll both catch a dandy cold in this rain. Come on, let’s slop back to some town.”

They started slowly down the railroad track, picking their way over the ties, which seemed to rise up and catch their feet. They could only see a few feet beyond them; but the storm seemed to be breaking, and already there were rifts in the clouds, where light strips hinted at a moonlight soon to come.

They had gone only about a hundred yards when they heard the crunching of gravel ahead of them, and a huge, misshapen thing seemed to rise up out of the brush beside the track and flounder out in front of them.

The two women clutched at each other in fear until a voice came to them—

“Pardner, you’re harder t’ handle than a salamander, and yuh weigh a ton.”

“Skeeter!” called Mary wildly. “Skeeter Bill!”

“Huh!” grunted Skeeter and turned to meet Mary, who was stumbling down the track to him.

“You!” he panted. “You!”

And then wonderingly—

“Don’t we meet in the dangdest places, ma’am?”

“You’re not drowned?” asked Mary half-hysterically.

“No’m, I don’t reckon so—not yet. Howdy, Mrs. Porter.”

“Well, Bill Sarg!”

Mrs. Porter was half-crying.

“Well, you!”

“What’sa matter?” queried Skeeter. “And what are you folks doin’ out here in the wet? Where’s the train?”

“It went,” said Mrs. Porter, waving one arm down the track. “We—we went to look into the river, I guess.”

“Well,” laughed Skeeter, shifting the weight of Freel’s body, “I had all the looks I wanted. I jumped into the darned thing—me ’n’ the sheriff. I dunno how he liked it. Reckon it was all right, ’cause he slept through it all.”

“Wasn’t he shot?” asked Mrs. Porter. “Them two men was shootin’——”

“Hit him twice, I think.”

“But what was it all about?” asked Mary.

“Me,” chuckled Skeeter. “Them fellers wanted t’ take me away from the sheriff and make a tree decoration out of me.”

“Hang yuh?” exclaimed Mrs. Porter.

“Yes’m, I suppose they had that in mind. They kinda hate sheep-herders.”

“Was you herdin’ sheep, Skeeter Bill?”

“Nope. It was just a case of bein’ nice and handy to a sheep outfit, and no way t’ prove a alibi. Of course them fellers ain’t particular, Mrs. Porter. ’F they hated a laundry and caught me washin’ m’ shirt——”

“Whop!” exploded Mrs. Porter. “Don’t drag the dirty shirts into this, Skeeter Bill. Whatcha goin’ to do with the sheriff? ’F they catch yuh ag’in, won’t they send yuh to the penitentiary?”

“Yes’m—’f they don’t lynch me first; but I’ve gotta get help for the sheriff.”

“Well, yuh ain’t goin’ back to town,” declared Mrs. Porter. “You never murdered nobody, and you’re a fool to shove your neck into a handy rope. Vamoose while the travelin’ is wide open.”

“Uh-huh.”

Skeeter considered the idea thoughtfully.

“You can go to another country,” added Mary Leeds.

“Well, I’ve gotta get this sheriff— I know what I can do. By cripes, I’ll pack him to Kirk’s camp and let him haul Freel t’ Crescent City. ’F I ain’t mistaken, I can travel to the right and hit that sheep outfit dead center. You folks keep straight down the railroad, and you’ll hit Crescent City.”

“Not me!” declared Mrs. Porter. “If you’re goin’ huntin’ for a sheep-camp in the dark, I’m goin’ along.”

“I shall go too,” said Mary firmly.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” grumbled Skeeter. “Two t’ one, and I’m loaded down. It ain’t reasonable—not any; but mebbe yo’re just as well off. It’s a —— of a trip, any old way yuh take it. C’m on. We’ve gotta get out of this cut before we can start across-country.”

It was at least two hundred yards to where the cut opened into more level country. Just before they reached the end of the cut a bulky object seemed to drag itself across the rails and halted in the center of the track.

The two women hung back, not realizing that it was a man; but Skeeter Bill plodded on with his burden until he reached the prone figure stretched between the rails.

“More danged cripples around here!” exclaimed Skeeter Bill, peering down at the man. “Who are you, pardner?”

“I’m Kales,” panted the man. “Nick Kales.”

Skeeter eased his burden to the ground. “Kales, eh? I ’member you, Kales. You said that the judge didn’t have any guts, ’cause he didn’t hang me.”

But Kales had collapsed again and did not answer.

“Must ’a’ been one of the gang who tried to hold up the train,” said Skeeter. “Got plugged for his trouble.”

Skeeter dug into Kales’ pockets and secured matches, which he proceeded to light in order to examine Kales’ hurts.

“He sure got plugged,” nodded Skeeter. “I dunno how many times he got hit, but it looks like his gun busted and tore his right hand all to thunder. Hm-m-m!”

“Almost got enough to start a hospital,” observed Mrs. Porter.

Skeeter was searching Kales’ pockets again. In the outside pocket of the slicker he found a full bottle of whisky. He drew out the cork and forced some of it into the outlaw’s mouth. Kales strangled and tried to sit up.

“Here, take a drink,” urged Skeeter, and succeeded in getting a fair-sized drink down Kales’ throat.

“Feel better?”

Kales coughed and tried to get to his feet. “Hang on to yourself,” advised Skeeter. “Take it easy until yuh feel better.”

But Kales got to his feet and clung to Skeeter, talking incoherently.

“Can yuh walk?” asked Skeeter.

“Walk?” muttered Kales. “Walk?”

“Yeah—move your feet for’ard and back and carry yore body along at the same time. I betcha he can,” continued Skeeter; and then to Mrs. Porter: “Can yuh kindly help hang on to him? I reckon we’ll add him to our collection.”

“He came here to lynch you.”

Mrs. Porter was a trifle indignant at the idea of taking Kales along.

“Yeah, tha’s a fact,” admitted Skeeter Bill; “but he fell down on the job. Let’s go.”

He swung the inert Freel back across his shoulder and started off down the track, with the stumbling Kales hanging to the sleeve of his coat and being assisted to some extent by Mrs. Porter. Bringing up the rear came Mary Leeds, wanting to be of help to some one, but unable to decide just where to begin.

* * * * *

Roper Bates had consumed considerable whisky that day, but had not succeeded in getting so drunk that he forgot his plans. It was after dark when he rode away from Crescent City, heading toward Kirk’s sheep-camp.

The fact that a big storm was coming did not bother Roper Bates. His mind still carried a picture of the pretty woman at the sheep-camp, and he was sufficiently filled with liquor actually to believe that he was going to do her a real favor by taking her away from her plebeian husband.