Chapter I: Part 1

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.