Chapter IV: Part 4

“I don’t know, Calamity. Curley wasn’t there. The sheriff and his deputy showed up just after Joy got there. They took the body back to town.”

“They did, eh? Well, I’ll be darned! I remember a case back in 1866, when a feller shot—”

“You didn’t see Curley since we left, did yuh?”

“Nope.”

“I wish I knew where he is. If he can’t prove where he was, he’s up against a bad deal. Monk was killed right at a corner of the front porch; probably shot by somebody who was inside the house.”

“My gosh! Do yuh reckon Curley done it, and then high-tailed it out of the country? Darn fool kid wouldn’t stop to think that he could beat the case. I remember a feller back in—”

But Hank Gregory did not care to hear of something which had happened in 1866, and was going toward the house. Calamity grunted and followed in his wake.

Calamity said nothing, but went to work preparing supper, while Joy and her father sat on the porch and tried to cheer each other up. About an hour later Calamity announced supper.

“’Sall ready,” he said. “I don’t reckon there’s much appetite around here though.”

As they went back to the dining-room, Curley Adams rode up and dismounted. They were grouped together, staring at the front doorway, when he came in, rattling his spurs and whistling.

“Hello, everybody,” he called. “Am I in time for supper? By golly, I sure am—” He hesitated and looked at them curiously. “Say, what’s the matter with you folks, anyway?”

Joy went close to him and put her hands on his arms.

“Curley, where have you been today?” she asked softly.

“Where have I been?” Curley laughed foolishly. “Why, I’ve been over to San Gregario cañon. Why the question?”

“Over to San Gregario?”

“Sure. I went over to the old saw-mill to see if they had any lumber. I’ve got to have some pretty quick.”

“Did they have any?”—hopeful that he had seen some one over there.

“I reckon not, honey. There wasn’t a soul over there.”

“Not a soul?” Joy shook her head hopelessly. “You didn’t see anybody over there, Curley?”

“Nope. Say, what’s all the fuss about? What have I—”

“What time did you leave the ranch today?” asked Gregory.

“Time? About noon, I reckon.”

“Have you met any one since?”

“No. Say, what the thunder is the matter with you folks?”

“Let me tell him, will you, Dad?” asked Joy.

“I’d sure be glad if yuh did, Joy,” replied Gregory.

Joy led Curley out to the porch, where she told him what had happened at the Box X. And she could tell by the expression of his face that it was all news to him. He did not interrupt, except to ask a repeat on some of the happenings.

“And I’ve got to prove an alibi, eh?” he said slowly. “Well, I can’t do it, Joy. I had intended coming here before I went to San Gregario cañon, but I didn’t. There wasn’t a soul at the old saw-mill, and I didn’t meet any one on the way back. From the looks of things there hasn’t been any one at the old mill for weeks. They’ve moved everything away, except the lumber and machinery.”

“Then what will you do, Curley?” Joy was terrified at the prospect.

Curley laughed shortly.

“I dunno, Joy. I can’t run away, yuh know. I suppose the best thing I can do is to go right to the sheriff and tell my story. He probably won’t believe it.”

“I think he will. Honest, I do. He has kind of a grin on his face all the time, and he seems to think a lot. Anyway, he was awful nice to us. I expected him to arrest Dad right away, but he seemed to believe our story. You know him, don’t you?”

“Not very well, Joy. I’ve known Kennedy quite a while—and he’s on the square.”

They walked back to the dining-room and sat down.

“Well, what do yuh think of it?” asked Gregory anxiously.

“I can’t even think,” admitted Curley. “It’s a mystery to me. I’m goin’ to have a bite to eat and then ride to town. It looks as though I was up against it, Gregory. There isn’t a chance for me to prove an alibi—nothin’ but my word.”

“Lemme tell yuh about a case I knowed about back in—”

“1866?” laughed Curley. “Calamity, you ought to write a book about 1866.”

“It sure was a busy old year,” grinned Calamity.

Curley realized what he was up against. There was no way in the world for him to prove that he had been to San Gregario cañon. He could not imagine who would be in his house in broad daylight and kill Monk Clark.

It did not seem reasonable, but still there seemed to be plenty of proof that such a thing had happened. As far as the fireplace was concerned, he did not give it a thought.

Joy told him about the misbranded heifer, and she knew from the expression on his face that it was all news to him.

“Didn’t you run on that Tin Cup brand?” asked Calamity.

“Certainly not,” declared Curley. “In the first place, would I be fool enough to vent a Lazy H and run on the Box X? I’m no fool, Calamity.”

“Certainly he never did it,” said Joy warmly.

“Then who in —— did? Ex-cuse my Spanish, Joy. None of us done it, Curley. Must be a crazy person runnin’ in these hills. Dang it all, no sane person would do that. Monk Clark found the heifer with yore brand on it; so he penned it up in the Deer Creek corral and went after Ertle. When he came back there was three vents and the Tin Cup. By golly, I’ll pass.”

“I’ll pass, too,” smiled Curley. “But we can’t pass the fact that Monk Clark was killed at my ranch, and that I’m suspected of killin’ him. What was Monk Clark doin’ at the Box X? Was he comin’ after me?”

Gregory shook his head sadly.

“Monk Clark is too dead to answer, Curley.”

“Sure. And only the man who killed him can answer it. I can see where a man named Adams is going to have a lot of difficulty in provin’ anything.”

“Well,” Gregory coughed softly, “you could make a getaway right now.”

Curley shook his head.

“Nope. I can’t afford to run. They may hang me, but they won’t chase me.”

“Oh, Curley, don’t say things like that,” begged Joy. “There must be a way out.”

“Sure thing,” smiled Curley. “Don’t worry, Joy. Gosh, this will all come out in the wash.”

“I’ll go down with yuh,” said Gregory slowly. “Somehow I’ve got quite a lot of faith in that sheriff. They said he didn’t have any sense, but I think they’re wrong.”

“I’m going along, too,” declared Joy. “I’ve got as much faith as any one else.”

“I’ve got faith, too,” said Calamity dryly. “I’ve also got a hunch—that I’ll have to wash and wipe the dishes.”

* * * * *

“I thought this shootin’ was a mystery,” said Kaintuck, after he and Skeeter had turned the body over to the local coroner, told their story, and escaped to their office.

“Ain’t it?” asked Skeeter, relaxing indolently in an old chair, the back of which wailed a protest.

“It ain’t. At least a dozen men offered to bet me that Curley killed him. Some of ’em offered big odds; so I reckon poor Curley is the favorite for the hangman stakes.”

“When a prominent man is killed,” said Skeeter slowly, “the crop of detectives is enormous. They all seem to think that Curley killed him because of that brandin’ deal. And they’re plumb willin’ to believe that Curley tried to steal a Lazy H animal.

“Why, the darn fools are already makin’ bets as to whether he gets a life sentence or gets hanged. You’d think that he had confessed, to hear some of ’em talkin’.”

“Mebbe he did kill Monk Clark,” said Kaintuck.

“Mebbe. There wouldn’t be anything wonderful about it, if he did. As far back as history goes, men have killed each other, and they’ll prob’ly keep on doin’ it, Kaintuck. If Curley did kill him, I’ll back him in a plea of self-defense.

“Monk Clark had no business in sneakin’ up on the Box X. He died with a cocked gun in his hand. But there’s somethin’ else to this deal, pardner. Behind it is that counterfeitin’ layout.”

“Skeeter, do you think that Monk Clark was mixed up in it?”

“Hm-m-m. That’s hard to say. I told Moran to come down here as soon as he could sneak away from the crowd.”

A few minutes later Frank Moran came in and sat down with them.

“They’re still millin’ around the Half-Moon,” stated Moran. “I don’t know what will happen when the Tin Cup outfit hear that their boss is dead. What was it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”

Skeeter told him about the fireplace at the Box X and showed him the partly-made dollar.

“Clumsy job,” declared Moran. “Looks like they had tried to make one in a plaster mold. Was there anything else in the fireplace?”

“Nope.”

“I wonder,” said Moran thoughtfully, “if Curley Adams is one of the gang?”

“You’ve been at the Tin Cup for quite a while, and you haven’t found out anythin’.”

“That’s true, I’ll admit that I’m stuck.”

“Moran, did Monk Clark know that you was a detective?”

Moran nodded.

“Yeah, I told him. I had to do it, in order to have a chance to do my work.”

“Ertle, too?”

“Yeah.”

Skeeter smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t _sabe_ you fellers, Moran. Why in —— didn’t yuh carry a banner?”

“What else could I do?” Moran almost lost his temper. “I had somethin’ to do besides punchin’ cows. Ranch owners don’t pay cowpunchers to pesticate around the country, lookin’ for clues.”

“I beg yore pardon,” said Skeeter seriously. “How long have you been with the Tin Cup outfit?”

“About a month.”

“You was with the Lazy H quite a while, wasn’t yuh?”

“Several months. What difference does it make how long I’ve been here? These cases sometimes take a year to settle up.”

“Hadn’t ought to, Moran.”

“No?” Moran got to his feet. “Well, if you’re so —— smart, go ahead and settle it. If you was any kind of a sheriff you’d have Curley Adams behind the bars right now.”

Moran walked across the room, turning his back on the sheriff, and began scanning a number of reward notices which had been pasted on the wall in lieu of wall-paper. There was no doubt that Moran was angry. Kaintuck squinted at Skeeter, his ill-fitting mustaches jerking with mirth.

Skeeter drummed on the table with his fingers and silently contemplated Moran’s back. He had deliberately angered the detective, and it amused him. Moran shifted and began reading another notice, when Skeeter spoke apologetically—

“Aw-w-w-w-w, yuh don’t need to get sore.”

“No? Well, I’m tired of havin’ you tryin’ to tell me what to do all the time; _sabe_? I’ll run my end of this, Sheriff.”

Moran turned and stalked out of the office, while Skeeter grinned at Kaintuck.

“He got mad at yuh,” said Kaintuck.

“Yeah, he did. Li’l son-of-a-gun. I go ahead and find all kinds of clues for him—and he gets mad at me. Ho-o-o, hum! It seems like yuh can’t please everybody.”

Kaintuck went to the Half-Moon, to see what the sentiment might be, while Skeeter smoked innumerable cigarets and made queer figures on a piece of paper with a stubby pencil.

Finally he nodded to himself and wrote a telegram, which read—

MORAN NEEDS YOU. COME AS FAST AS YOU CAN.

He signed it—

SARG, sheriff of Moon River.

Skeeter walked out of the office and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, debating just what to do. He had always followed what gamblers called a hunch, and just now he had a big hunch.

The yellow lights from the windows and open door of the Half-Moon saloon flooded half of the street, and from within the place came the dull hum of conversation. The glow illuminated a part of the hitch-rack, high-lighting the string of saddle horses.

A wagon came creaking up the street and drew up in front of a store, where the driver dismounted from the wagon and was greeted by several men who had been sitting on the edge of the board sidewalk. Somewhere a guitar novice essayed the “Spanish Fandango,” but without success.

Skeeter leaned against a porch-post, his mind far away from the sights and sounds of Crescent City. He was seeing a pale-faced girl, with frightened eyes, who clung to the arm of a man, whose face was twisted with apprehension. And on the ground was the body of Monk Clark, staring up at the sky.

Skeeter tried to segregate the facts as he had seen them. Some one had been in that house when Monk Clark approached, and Clark had known that this man was there. That much, Skeeter Bill felt must be true. Else why would Clark tie his horse far from the house and approach it on foot?

“What was he lookin’ for?” muttered Skeeter to himself. “Was he sneakin’ up on Curley Adams? Did Curley kill him, try to dispose of the body, and get frightened at the approach of Hank Gregory?”

It looked reasonable. Skeeter shook his head, as his mind flashed back to the skeleton hanging in the tree; the fleshless skull which grinned blankly at the hills.

Where was the connection, he wondered? But try as he might, he could not connect Curley Adams with the killing. For some unknown reason it was impossible—as impossible as to think that Curley Adams, a normal thinking person, would deliberately vent the Lazy H brand, knowing that the Lazy H was the only outfit to brand that particular spot, and run on his own iron.

“I’ve got to find the answer for myself,” he decided. “I may not be a good detective, but I’ve got the nerve to play out the only hand they’ll deal me.”

* * * * *

He shoved away from the post and walked slowly to the depot, two blocks away. The agent greeted him pleasantly, as Skeeter produced the telegram he had written. The agent scanned it quickly and looked up at Skeeter.

“United States Marshal, eh? Say, I’ve got a telegram for Moran from Long. Just came in. Maybe this will cover your wire.”

He handed Skeeter the telegram, sent to Frank Moran, which read—

WILL ARRIVE CRESCENT CITY TOMORROW TO TAKE CHARGE OF
INVESTIGATION. (Signed) Long.

“That’s fine,” nodded Skeeter. “Cancel my wire. I’ll give this to Moran, if yuh want me to.”

“Is he in town?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, it will save me the trouble. Thanks.”

Skeeter pocketed the telegram and walked outside. Far down the tracks sounded the eerie whistle of a locomotive, as a freight train rumbled its way toward Crescent City. Skeeter paused. The rails were humming now and the beams from the locomotive headlight illuminated the rails down the tracks.

But Skeeter Bill was not seeing this. A sudden inspiration seemed to strike him, and he made a queer little noise with his lips, a sucking whistle. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the door of the depot, meeting the agent, who was coming out, carrying a lantern.

“What time is the passenger due through here?” he asked.

“Eleven o’clock.”

“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Is it always on time?”

The agent laughed and shifted his lantern.

“Not always, Sheriff. In fact, it is seldom on time, but not very late.”

“Thanks.”

The freight roared in, as Skeeter walked from the platform and headed back toward the office, deep in thought.

“If it works I’m a dinger—if it don’t I’m a sucker,” he decided.

He looked up as he neared the office door. Joy, Curley and Hank Gregory were standing there, waiting for him. He came up, opened the door silently and let them in, after which he locked the door and smiled at Curley.

“Well,” said Curley, “what’s the verdict, Sheriff?”

Skeeter grinned softly and shook his head. “I dunno, pardner. The jury is over in the Half-Moon, and Kaintuck is feelin’ their pulse right now. Set down, folks.”

He placed some chairs for them and sat down on his desk.

“I haven’t any alibi,” said Curley. “While this was goin’ on I was over at San Gregario cañon tryin’ to buy lumber.”

“Tha’sso? Didja buy any?”

“Wasn’t anybody there to buy it from.”

Skeeter hugged one knee and squinted at the floor, while Joy watched him anxiously.

“How did the town take the news?” Thus Gregory nervously.

“The sober ones—calmly; drunken ones—as usual. Whisky sure puts a rope in a man’s hand. The Tin Cup outfit don’t know it yet, except Frank Moran.”

“I suppose he’d like to hang me,” smiled Curley. “Yuh remember I hit him a short time ago.”

Skeeter nodded quickly. “Yeah, I remember. Still, I hope he wouldn’t want to hang yuh for that.”

“They’ll probably say that I killed Monk Clark over that brandin’ deal,” said Curley. “But the fact of the matter is, I never knew a darned thing about it until the folks told me about it a while ago.

“I haven’t been to town for a couple of days, and no one has been at the ranch to tell me how close I came to being sent up for rustlin’.”

“I know,” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Me and Kaintuck was goin’ over to have a talk with yuh, when we ran into this deal.”

“But who balled up the deal for Monk Clark?” wondered Curley. “Somebody sure saved my bacon, and I don’t know who would do a thing like that for me.”

“A feller never knows who his friends are,” said Skeeter. “Me and Kaintuck showed up at the corral just after Ertle had pulled out, and we sure had some fun with Clark.”

Joy got to her feet and went close to Skeeter.

She stepped in front of him, looking at him intently, but he shifted his eyes, deliberately avoiding her. Curley looked at her, wondering what she was trying to do. Skeeter shifted around to Curley, but she stepped between them, facing Skeeter.

“Aw-w-w gosh!” grunted Skeeter uncomfortably.

“Look me in the eyes,” she dared him.

Skeeter tried to do it, but one eye shut tightly and he grinned foolishly.

“Wasn’t that a queer thing for a sheriff to do?” Softly.

“What?” asked Skeeter. “Look at a girl with one eye?”

“No—to ruin evidence.”

“Well,” Skeeter avoided her eyes, “yuh see, the county only allows us thirty-five cents a day to feed prisoners, and we just can’t do it on that money.”

Skeeter did not look up at her. He finished his statement, reached in his pocket for his tobacco and papers and began rolling a cigaret. Joy turned her head and looked at Curley, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Don’t you understand, Curley,” she whispered. “He was the one who—”

“Joy, do you mean that the sheriff vented those brands?” Curley got out of his chair and came to Skeeter, but before he could speak again, the door opened and Kaintuck came in. He was breathing heavily, and did not seem surprized to see Curley and the Gregory family.

“The Tin Cup and the Lazy H outfits are both here now,” he said. “I got all the dope I could before I left. They’re goin’ to the Box X first, and if Curley ain’t there they’ll go to the HG. Them —— fools won’t even wait for a trial.”

“They’ll see that black horse of mine at the hitch-rack!” exclaimed Curley. “Everybody knows that black horse.”

“A black, roan and a gray?” asked Kaintuck.

“Yes. Joy rode the roan and—”

“That’s what I thought,” grinned Kaintuck. “I’ve got all three of ’em tied behind the office, where nobody will see ’em.”

“Oh, that is wonderful!” Joy almost hugged Kaintuck, much to his embarrassment.

“But it don’t end yet,” said Skeeter. “We’ll put Adams’ horse in our stable, and Gregory and Miss Joy better fog for home. Be there when the posse of lynchers show up. They won’t hurt any of you folks. You don’t know where Curley is, and the last place they’d ever look is right here.”

“But you’re not going to put him in jail, are you?” Thus Joy fearfully.

“He’ll have to sleep in a cell,” grinned Skeeter. “The doggoned cots are fastened to the wall. But I’ll promise to not lock the door.”

“We’ll be traveling, Joy,” urged her father. “As soon as the men ride toward the Box X, we’ll go home. Good-by, Curley.”

Skeeter urged Kaintuck and Gregory toward the rear door, while Joy told Curley good-by, and in a moment she joined them. They mounted their horses, circled the town and rode back toward home. There was no moon as yet; so there was little danger of them being seen by the men who were heading for the Box X.

The three men went back in the office. Skeeter was careful to lock the doors and pull down the blinds. Crescent City might prove a dangerous place for Curley Adams, and Skeeter knew that the jail was none too capable of withstanding an assault.

“It kinda looks as though I was up against it,” observed Curley. “I’d hate to be hung for somethin’ I didn’t do—but I can’t prove I didn’t. Everybody probably knows that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ belongin’ to the Lazy H, with my brand on its shoulder; and they’d accept that as a reason for me to kill him.”

“Reasons don’t make much difference to a mob,” said Skeeter. “I want you to answer a few questions, Adams. It’s yore own business, and yuh don’t have to answer, yuh know.”

“I’ll answer ’em if I can, Sheriff. I’m not forgettin’ that you saved me from a rustlin’ charge.”

“Well, you ain’t obligated to answer these questions. What kind of a six-gun do you use?”

* * * * *

Curley drew out his gun and handed it to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41, single-action. Skeeter glanced at it and handed it back. “Didja ever reload any shells, Adams?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a reloadin’ set out at the ranch. It costs a lot to buy shells, and I like to experiment.”

“Uh-huh. What didja find out with yore experiments?”

Curley smiled softly.

“I found out that my loads were not as good as the factory-loaded article.”

“Yeah? Adams, did you ever mold a silver bullet and load it in a shell?”

“I did,” Curley answered quickly, making no effort to evade the question. “I was moldin’ some bullets one night and wondered how silver would shoot; so I melted a dollar and made me one.”

“How did it shoot?”

“I don’t know. It sure made a pretty bullet. I loaded it in my gun, but never got a chance to shoot it. The next day I was taken sick. Yuh see, I was in bed for a week or so, and when I got back on my feet I plumb forgot that bullet. Later on I missed it, and I thought that some of the boys had swiped it.”

“Thought some of the boys had swiped it, eh?”

Curley squinted at the floor, pondering the question. He was a good, clean-looking sort of a fellow; not at all the sort of a person who would shoot from ambush. Skeeter eyed him closely. Finally Curley lifted his head.

“What I don’t understand is how you found out about that bullet, Sheriff. I made it quite a while ago, and I’d forgotten about it. What’s this all about—what are you trying to find out about that silver bullet for?”

“Who knew you had molded it?”

Curley scratched his head thoughtfully.

“I dunno. Mebbe I never did tell anybody about it. Come to think of it, I didn’t tell any of the boys. That’s kinda funny, too. I remember of puttin’ it in one chamber of my gun, but I don’t remember of takin’ it out.”

“Where was yore gun when you were sick?”

“Hangin’ up in the bunk-house. Say, how did you know about that silver bullet?”

“I’m a mind reader,” grinned Skeeter. “How long ago was it that you was sick?”

“About a month ago.”

“Did Gregory tell yuh about what we found in yore ranch-house today?”

“He told me about the fireplace bein’ dug up, and that yuh found where somebody had tried to make a dollar.”

“What do yuh think of it?”

“No idea. It sure wasn’t that way when I left home.”

“I reckon the questions are ended,” smiled Skeeter.

“Did I answer ’em to yore satisfaction, Sheriff?”

Skeeter nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon so. Don’t mention that bullet to anybody.”

“Do you know what became of it?”

Skeeter took the bullet from his pocket and handed it to Curley, who looked it over carefully.

“It’s been shot,” he said wonderingly. “Was—was that one of the bullets in Monk Clark?”

“Nope.”

“Where did you find it, Sheriff?”

“I’ll let yuh know some day.” Skeeter took the bullet and dropped it in his pocket. “Me and Kaintuck are goin’ over to the Half-Moon to listen to things, Adams. You lock the door and keep out of sight.”

“Anythin’ you say, Sheriff. Yo’re sure treatin’ me white.”

“Well, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong, have yuh? C’mon, Kaintuck.”

Curley locked the door behind them and they crossed to the Half-Moon. The killing of Monk Clark had made good business in the Half-Moon, and whisky-feeling ran high. Men who had no use for Monk Clark when he was alive clamored for a chance to pull a rope on the man who killed him.

They were all waiting anxiously for the return of the six men who had ridden to the Box X, Jim Searles, Clark’s foreman, Charley Ames and Sol Asher, of the Tin Cup, Sam Ertle, Frisco Larkin and Van Cleve, of the Lazy H.

There had evidently been plenty of criticism against the sheriff’s office, as the conversation lulled at the entrance of Skeeter and Kaintuck. Moran was at the bar, drinking with several men, and Skeeter noticed that Belden and Stanfield, the owners of the Silver Bell mine, were also there.

Several roughly-dressed men were at the bar or playing the games, and Skeeter decided that they were men from the mines. Moran joined Skeeter a little later and told him that the Silver Bell had closed down.

“That’s Rugg, the superintendent, over there playin’ poker,” said Moran, pointing at a big man, slouched in a chair. Rugg was not a pleasant looking person. His heavy cheeks were covered with a week’s growth of stiff, black whiskers, and a heavy mustache partly covered his thick lips.

“I’ll bet that jigger never drank milk when he was a baby,” said Kaintuck. “If a rattlesnake ever bit him the snake would get py-o-ree.”

Moran laughed and turned the subject to Monk Clark.

* * * * *

“You knew that some of the boys have gone out to find Curley Adams, didn’t yuh?” asked Moran.

“Nobody told me.” Skeeter shook his head. “What do yuh reckon they aim to do with him?”

It was such a foolish question that Moran wondered if the sheriff could be joking.

“They think Curley killed Clark,” said Moran.

“Tha’sso? Don’t any of ’em _know_ he did, do they?”

“I don’t suppose they do. But—”

“There yuh are. Nothin’ to prove he did it. Don’tcha think they’re a little previous?”

Moran laughed shortly. He could not understand Skeeter Bill. It was rather unusual for a sheriff to remain inactive, while a posse of men were going out with deliberate intent to hang a man.

“Bein’ previous won’t help Adams, if they find him,” said Moran meaningly.

“Prob’ly not.” Skeeter nodded slowly. “Who’s leadin’ the bunch?”

“Jim Searles.”

“Good man, I reckon. I don’t know him very well, but he looks like a man who would have a little judgment.”

“Charley Ames and Sol Asher went along,” offered Moran. “Ertle, Frisco Larkin and Van Cleve made up the rest of the party. Only six of ’em all together.”

“Ought to be enough,” smiled Skeeter. “Three from the Tin Cup and three from the Lazy H.”

“You don’t seem much interested, Sheriff.”

“It’s none of my business, if six —— fools want to run their own horses ragged in the dark, is it?”

“Oh, I see—” Moran nodded understandingly.

It had suddenly occurred to him that Skeeter was indifferent because he knew that these men would not find Curley Adams.

Moran drifted over to a roulette game, and Skeeter met Belden at the bar.

“I just heard that the Silver Bell mine had closed down,” said Skeeter, by way of starting conversation. Belden nodded quickly and invited Skeeter to partake of his hospitality.

“Yes, we decided to close down, at least temporarily. Silver is pretty low just now, and so we will cease production for a while. You see, we have been hit pretty hard lately.”

“Yuh sure have,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “We never got much of a chance to trail that cargo of silver. They muffled their pack-horses’ hoofs, follered that old game-trail to where it spread out, and then we didn’t have a ghost of a chance to trail ’em.”

“I was afraid of it, Sheriff. Of course it will be impossible for them to move any great quantity of silver from this valley. Every exit is being watched, of course, but they may lie low and tire us out.”

Skeeter made no comment. He felt that the men who had taken the silver would never attempt to move it, except as silver coin. While Skeeter and Belden discussed the stolen silver, Doctor Skeen, the coroner, came in.

Skeen was a small, gray-haired, spectacled man, retiring and soft-spoken. He excused himself to Belden and drew Skeeter aside to give him two badly-battered bullets. “These were from Monk Clark’s body,” he explained. “I had an idea that you might care to look them over.”

They were unmistakably of .45 caliber. Skeeter examined them closely, but they told him nothing.

“I put a pair of calipers on the butt of that least battered one, and it seems to measure the same as a .45,” stated the doctor. “I can weigh them, if you wish.”

“No need of it, Doc. They’re forty-fives. How about holdin’ the inquest tomorrow?”

“I was going to suggest it, Sheriff. Will you get in touch with Gregory and his daughter? We will need their testimony.”

“I’ll get ’em.”

Doctor Skeen thanked him and went away. Skeeter showed Kaintuck the bullets.

“It sure is a good thing for Curley that these ain’t .41’s,” said Kaintuck. “But it makes things tough for us. Most everybody shoots a .45, except Curley and Frisco Larkin—and I’ve still got Frisco’s gun.”

The presence of Skeeter and Kaintuck had served to still the conversation regarding Monk Clark’s death, and every one seemed to be anxiously awaiting the return of the six riders.

* * * * *

It was almost midnight when they came back. Ertle and Jim Searles strode into the Half-Moon and went straight to the bar, where Kaintuck and Skeeter were trying to out-guess a nickel-in-the-slot machine.

Jim Searles, foreman of the Tin Cup, was ordinarily a big, good-natured cowboy, with a ready smile, but just now the smiling good-nature was missing. He strode up to the bar, his spurs rasping harshly, while behind him came Ertle, his thin face set in a thoughtful frown.

Skeeter turned and spoke to the two men.

“Did yuh find yore man?” asked one of the players at the faro layout anxiously, looking from Ertle to the sheriff.

“We got a man all right,” growled Ertle, and then to Skeeter, “We’ve got Hank Gregory out there, Sheriff.”

“Hank Gregory? What have yuh got him for?” asked Skeeter.

“Tha’sall right,” growled Searles. “Lot of things you don’t know.”

Skeeter was trying to puzzle out why they should bring Hank Gregory back with them, when Doctor Skeen came in again. He had an envelope in his hand, but hesitated, realizing that he had interrupted a debate.

“Pardon me,” he said quickly. “In Monk Clark’s pocket I found this letter, which he had evidently intended to post. It is addressed to Henry Gregory.”

“To Gregory?” blurted Searles. “Lemme see it.”

“It’s sealed,” said Skeeter, making a guess that such was the case. “You open that letter—”

But Searles had already taken it from the doctor and ripped off the envelope, while Ertle and Van Cleve stepped in front of Skeeter, blocking him from interference.

Searles laughed harshly as he scanned the letter, and turned to the crowd.

“Listen to this, boys,” he lowered the letter for a moment.

“I’ve worked for Monk Clark a long time, and the other day he said somethin’ about bein’ afraid of Hank Gregory. It seemed funny for Monk to be afraid of anybody; so I asked him about it. He didn’t want to tell me much about it, but he did say that he had the goods on Gregory for a killin’ ten years ago.

“Gregory knew that Clark had this deadwood on him, and Clark was afraid that Gregory might—well, you know how it would feel to have somethin’ like that hangin’ over yuh. So, when this death came up, I remembered what Monk said, and tonight we decided that Gregory knew more about this deal than he was willin’ to tell.

“Now here’s what this letter says:

“Dear Hank:

“Just to let you know that I had nothing to do with the misbranding
of that Lazy H heifer. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t care
a ——. I want you to understand that I won’t stoop to petty larceny
to make you see things the way I want you to see them, even if I
could send you up for killing the Badger County sheriff ten years
ago. I am writing this to explain things, because I refuse to make
a fool of myself by coming to your ranch again.

“Respectfully,
“(Signed) Monk Clark.”

Searles finished reading and scanned the crowd, which were already buzzing with amazement. Skeeter was shocked. Perhaps Gregory was the one who killed Clark, he thought. Gregory was the one who had discovered the body.

If he had met Clark at the Box X and killed him, the first thing he would do would be to hide the body. And he admitted that he started out to kill Clark. Skeeter squinted at Searles and Ertle, but made no comment.

“I reckon the sheriff can see why we brought him in now,” smiled Searles. “This letter cinches a reason for the killin’.”

Skeeter nodded quickly.

“Looks thataway, boys. I’ll lock him up.”

One of the cowboys laughed softly. “Lock him up, eh? That’s real kind of yuh.”

Skeeter did not turn his head, but spoke directly to Searles.

“You didn’t have any idea, except to lock him up, did yuh?”

Searles hesitated. He was known among the cowboys as a square-shooter, sober and industrious; not one whose judgment might be easily warped. Then he shook his head.

“You can have him, Sheriff. If he killed Monk Clark, he will get a square trial. This evidence looks pretty strong to us, but the law might tear —— out of it in a courtroom. We all liked Monk, I reckon. He had his faults, just like we all have. If he was murdered I want to see the murderer punished—but I don’t want to see an innocent man hanged.”

It was rather a long speech for Searles to make, but it was spoken so sincerely that it silenced those who were for immediate action. Skeeter walked outside, where he found the rest of the crowd with Gregory.

“Let the sheriff have him,” ordered Searles. “We’ll see that Gregory has a fair trial.”

“What was it about that letter?” asked Van Cleve.

Searles told him what Monk Clark had written.

“And you turn him over to the law, after that?” fleered Van Cleve. “Yo’re sure gettin’ easy, Jim.”

“That’ll be about all from you,” said Searles coldly.

Skeeter touched Gregory on the arm and they walked to the office together. Gregory had nothing to say. It seemed as if the ghost of Monk Clark had risen from the grave to point an accusing finger at him and tell the world of that mistake of ten years ago.

Curley unlocked the door for them and listened with amazement while Skeeter told him what had happened.

“But where is Joy?” asked Curley anxiously.

“Home,” said Gregory wearily. “She doesn’t even know about it. She had gone to bed when they came. I heard a noise in the yard, and when I went out they stuck a gun in my face and made me come with them. Calamity doesn’t know it, either.”

“Well, this sure is a mess,” declared Curley. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No, I didn’t, Curley.”

“How much truth was in that letter, Gregory?” asked Skeeter.

“It was all true, Sheriff,” said Gregory, and told Skeeter all about the incident.

“And Monk Clark held this over yuh, eh?”

“Not until a short time ago. He wanted Joy. Up to that time he never mentioned the killin’. Maybe he thought he could force me to stop the marriage between Joy and Curley. I told him enough for him to know that I wouldn’t be blackmailed.

“And when I found out about that misbranded yearlin’, I was sure that it was Clark’s first move to get rid of Curley, and I wanted a showdown with him. Yeah, I was goin’ to kill him, and I won’t deny it.”

“But Joy is of age,” said Curley. “You couldn’t do anythin’.”

“I told him that, Curley.”

“Well, I dunno just what to do,” said Skeeter. “I’ve got to put yuh in a cell, I reckon. I don’t want to do it, but I told ’em I’d take charge of yuh. Mebbe you’d be safer there than runnin’ loose. And then I better send Kaintuck out to tell Joy and Calamity, ’cause they might worry.”

“Why not let me go?” asked Curley. “I can make a sneak out of here and come back without any one knowing it.”

“Well, all right,” said Skeeter. “You’ll sure have to be careful. The town is full of folks, lookin’ for excitement.”

Curley lost no time in making his sneak. He went carefully out to the stable, mounted his horse and rode away. Skeeter kept a close watch until Curley was well on his way. He could hear the noise from the Half-Moon, and knew that the crowd would stay in anticipation of the inquest. It was not often that Crescent City furnished as interesting a subject as it now had.

Skeeter went back in the office and barred the rear door. The jail was part of the office, and Skeeter wondered how long it would take a mob to tear it all apart. Moon River sheriffs had always depended more upon Winchester rifles and sawed-off shotguns for defense than thickness of wall.

“Did he get away all right?” asked Gregory, looking out between the bars of his cell door.

“Started all right,” replied Skeeter.

“That’s good. Sheriff, I’m sure up against a bad deal. Even if I could prove that I didn’t kill Monk Clark, there’s that Badger County deal to look forward to.”

“Yeah, that’s true, Gregory. But yuh might be able to prove yore story on that. I believe yuh, and when I believe anythin’ it must sound like the truth. Just set easy, pardner, and stick to yore story. Mebbe somethin’ will bust pretty soon.”

Skeeter walked to the front of the office and was greeted with a sharp rap on the door. There was nothing for him to conceal now, so he opened the door to see Ertle, Frisco, Sol Asher and Charley Ames.

Frisco and Ames were in front, both of them covering Skeeter with their six-shooters.

Skeeter did not put up his hands, nor did they ask him to do so. Frisco Larkin leered at Skeeter, and Skeeter had a sudden great desire to hit him square in the front teeth, which bulged out badly, causing Frisco to appear continually trying to close his lips.

Ertle was grinning with his mouth, but his keen eyes were watching every movement of the sheriff, and it seemed to Skeeter that Ertle would like to have him try to draw his gun. Skeeter did not pay any attention to Sol Asher and Charley Ames, who seemed nervous.

“We’re comin’ in,” stated Ames.

They had all been drinking and were odorous with liquor.

“Come in,” invited Skeeter, stepping aside. Ames kept him covered, while the others searched the place.

“You had Curley Adams here,” stated Ertle disgustedly.

“Did I?” Skeeter smiled. “That’s sure remarkable, Ertle. Yuh can see for yourself, can’tcha?”

“He ain’t here now,” declared Asher angrily.

“Yore eyesight is plumb remarkable,” said Skeeter admiringly.

“What I don’t _sabe_ is this: You’ve got Gregory behind the bars for killin’ Clark, and now yuh want Curley. How many men does it take to kill one?”

“Difference of opinion is what makes horse races,” replied Ertle. “Some of us don’t think Gregory done the job, and we don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“Why don’tcha arrest everybody in the county? You whip-poor-wills make me tired. If yo’re through searchin’ my place, yuh might move out.”

Ames had holstered his gun, as had the others. It was evident that they had been misinformed.

“You might apologize for this intrusion,” said Skeeter. “A sheriff don’t appreciate havin’ a gun stuck in his face, while a bunch of drunks search his office and jail.”

“Well, for ——’s sake!” sneered Frisco. “When I apologize to you, they’ll be skatin’ in ——!”

Ertle was between Skeeter and Frisco, but before he could shift his position Skeeter had back-heeled him, sending him reeling toward the door. Frisco reached for his gun, leaving Skeeter a wide-open chance to drive his left fist straight into Frisco’s jaw.

It was what was known in ring parlance as a “haymaker.” Skeeter’s fist started from behind his hip, described part of an arc and met its object just as Frisco’s hand lifted the gun from its holster.

It was all done quickly. Ertle was still clawing for balance when Frisco was falling backwards across a chair, where he went to sleep with his boots in the air.

Skeeter whirled with his back to the wall, his six-shooter jammed against his hip, as he waited for the next move. Ertle had fallen to his knees, but now he got up and swore softly.

“Vamoose,” said Skeeter softly. “And next time yuh feel like gettin’ tough with me—hop to it.”

But none of them accepted the challenge. Ertle rubbed his knees and swore bitterly, his eyes fixed on Skeeter’s gun. But Asher and Ames were only too glad to call it quits and get out of there. Asher slowly slid his gun back in its holster, cleared his throat softly.

“Well, I—I reckon that’s all,” he said foolishly. “Curley sure ain’t nowhere around here, gents.”

The three men filed silently out, leaving Frisco still in slumberland, with his boot-heels pointing toward the ceiling. Skeeter grinned and considered Frisco. It was an interesting sight.

Gregory was questioning Skeeter, trying to find out what had happened. The bars of his cell door were facing another cell, and he could only hear what was going on.

“Nothin’ much,” laughed Skeeter. “I tripped Ertle and hit Frisco Larkin.”

Frisco was showing signs of returning consciousness; so Skeeter took his gun, dragged him into a cell and locked the door.

“I’ll keep him for disturbin’ the peace,” grinned Skeeter. “There is a law of that kind, Gregory, but it ain’t never been used in this country.”

* * * * *

Kaintuck came in, all out of breath. The three men had gone to the Half-Moon and told their experience.

“Gosh dang it!” wailed Kaintuck. “I missed all the fun. Where is Frisco?”

“In a cell.”

“Gosh! What for?”

“Disturbin’ my peace. I’m goin’ to keep him a while, too.”

“Can yuh do that, Skeeter?”

“I reckon I can. You go back and keep yore ears open. Curley has gone out to the Gregory ranch to tell Joy and Calamity what has happened.”

Kaintuck hurried out, and Skeeter locked the door. He was glad that Curley had gone to the ranch, because it was hard to tell what might have happened if he had been there when the four men came in.

Skeeter sat down at his desk and rolled a smoke, a half grin on his lips. Things were working out for him—giving him an advantage he had not expected. If he could keep Curley safe until the big play was made, that would be the rub. There was grave danger if the whisky-drinking element caught Curley.

He could hear them over in the Half-Moon—laughter, talking, bursts of raucous song. Kaintuck was over there, keeping his finger on the pulse of the situation. Skeeter knew that Joy and Calamity would come back with Curley, and he wondered how Joy would take the bad news.

“That poor kid sure is gettin’ a lot of jolts,” he decided. “The crowd ain’t decided yet which one is guilty—Curley or Hank—and they’d be willin’ to hang ’em both so as to be sure.”

He got to his feet and walked the length of the office. He wanted action. There were certain things to be tried out, and he did not want to wait. His lips twisted in an anxious smile, as he stopped near the door, his eyes half-closed, speculating. Then he laughed softly and shook his head.

“Hang on to yoreself,” he muttered. “The pot is on the table and you’ve got ’em beat in sight. Bluff, you son-of-a-gun! Get out on a limb. If they don’t saw it off between you and the tree, yo’re settin’ easy.”

Frisco was swearing in his cell and demanding that he be released. Skeeter went to the door and looked in at him.

“What in —— am I in here for?” asked Frisco.

“For disturbin’ the peace.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!”

“Well, we’ll keep yuh in there anyway. Now what do yuh think of that, Frisco?”

“I think you’ll be —— sorry when I get out.”

“And I think you’ll be —— glad,” said Skeeter, walking away.

“Hey! Whatcha mean by that?” demanded Frisco.

But Skeeter did not say. He had flung himself down on a cot and was building himself a cigaret, a grin on his lips.

* * * * *

It was a hectic night in Crescent City. Several fights were started in the Half-Moon and whisky flowed freely. But the cold gray dawn, which was not cold at all, but very hot, came creeping along to find a lot of tired, sleepy-eyed folks, whose stomachs were totally unfit for food, voices hoarse and heads heavy.

The majority of them did not care a whoop who got hanged for murder. In fact several of them had forgotten everything about it. They growled at each other, spat disgustedly and had more drinks. Sam Rugg went about like a soreheaded grizzly, looking for trouble.

And he found it in the person of old Calamity, who was also looking for trouble. Joy and Calamity had ridden back to town with Curley, just ahead of daybreak. Joy had stayed at the sheriff’s office with her father and Curley, but old Calamity wanted action.

He had listened to Gregory’s confession to Joy, the story of which had already been told by Curley, and swore that Hank Gregory was a —— liar. Old Calamity was on the war-path. He wore two guns and a new pair of boots. The boots hurt his feet.

Skeeter advised Calamity to stay with them, and his advice was echoed by Gregory and Joy, but Calamity swore under his breath and said he was of age and would do as he pleased.

So he went out on the street, limping slightly, and looked for what he might devour. Several of the cowboys looked old Calamity over and decided that they did not want any of his medicine.

Not so Sam Rugg. He was still strangling over a drink of raw liquor, as he lurched out of the Half-Moon and almost fell over Calamity. Liquor had ruined Rugg’s perspective. He looked upon the old man as legitimate prey.

“C’mere!” he snorted as he grasped old Calamity by the arm and whirled him around, pinning him against the saloon wall.

“Unpaw me!” snapped Calamity. “Who do yuh think yo’re tryin’ to maul, yuh big polecat?”

Rugg slapped a big hand over Calamity’s mouth, rubbing heavily on Calamity’s nose. That was the last straw. One of the new boots snapped up in a short kick and connected with Rugg’s knee-cap.

Rugg immediately forgot everything, except the sharp pain in his knee. He dropped both hands to the injured spot, bumping against Calamity, who whipped out a gun, swung it sidewise and rapped Rugg sharply on the head.

Rugg forgot about his knee and went down in a limp heap. Calamity stepped over him, felt tenderly of his sore nose, and looked around for more worlds to conquer. Several men had crowded out of the saloon door, goggling at Calamity.

“Pistol-whipped him,” said Calamity. “Yeah, and I’ll pistol-whip some more of yuh if yuh monkey with me. I ain’t no dad-durned bluffer. I was killin’ men when you fellers was wearin’ didies—and I ain’t forgot how.”

“Nobody goin’ to bother yuh, Calamity,” assured Asher.

“That’s what I ’lowed when I driv up. I ain’t safe. In my state of mind I’m liable to be plumb ignorant of humanity. I crave to meet the men who came out and took Hank Gregory. I ain’t very big and I’m gettin’ old, but by the mighty, muddy Missouri, I can whip any one, or all six, of the men who came out there last night.”

“Tha’sall right, old-timer,” said another half-drunk cowboy. “You jist go ahead and have a good time. Nobody is goin’ to choose you. But I’d advise yuh to look out for Sam Rugg.”

“This half-witted bug-hunter?” Calamity pointed at Rugg, who was resting on one elbow, rubbing his head. “Huh!” Calamity snorted his disdain. “If he monkeys with me I’ll squirsh him.”

No one seemed to disagree with Calamity; so he crossed the street, while some of the men assisted Rugg to his feet and took him back in the saloon, where they explained what had happened.

Rugg drank several more glasses of liquor to try and deaden the pain in his knee and head. It was humiliating, to say the least.

“Better leave him alone,” advised Moran, who had drunk but little during the night.

“The —— I had!” Rugg shook his head angrily.

“All right,” Moran shrugged his shoulders. “Calamity will shoot next time.”

“I’ll get me a gun.”

“You better get yuh an army. That old jigger has forgotten more about gun fighting than you’ll ever learn—and he hasn’t forgotten the part that beats the other feller to the first shot.”

Ertle joined in the argument, trying to convince Rugg that his best course was to forget old Calamity. Then Ertle drew Moran aside.

“Say, do you know that Frisco is still in jail?”

“I wondered where he was,” laughed Moran.

“What’s so funny about it? That —— sheriff knocked Frisco out and drove us all outside. I’ve been tryin’ to find out why he locked Frisco up.”

“Didja ask the sheriff?”

“No. I thought mebbe some of you fellers had heard.”

“It’s the first time I heard about it, Ertle. Mebbe he had an idea that Frisco needed soberin’ up.”

“Aw, he wasn’t that drunk. I’m goin’ to look into this, I’ll tell yuh that. He ain’t got no right to lock a man in jail for bein’ drunk.”

“Not unless he gets too bad,” amended Moran. “He’ll probably let him loose pretty soon. I’d sure like to know what became of Curley Adams.”

“Well, he wasn’t in the jail last night, that’s a cinch.”

Ertle left Moran and came down to the jail. Skeeter stepped outside the office to talk with Ertle, not wishing to have him come inside, but Ertle caught a glimpse of the interior and of Curley Adams.

“I wanted to ask yuh about Frisco,” said Ertle.

“Well, he’s doin’ as well as can be expected,” said Skeeter seriously. “Of course he’s still runnin’ off at the vocal cords a little.”

“He is, eh?” Ertle spat angrily. “Just what in —— are you keepin’ him in jail for?”

“’Cause he’s a bad boy, Ertle. If he was loose I’d have to kill him sooner or later.”

“The —— yuh would! Just because he talked back to yuh, eh?”

“Mebbe.”

“Then yuh won’t turn him loose, eh?”

“Nope.”

“Yo’re takin’ a lot on yourself, Sheriff. I’ll see that yuh do turn him loose. By ——, I’ll go to Judge Grayson and see if you’ve got any right to keep one of my men in jail, when he ain’t done anythin’.”

“Tell the judge hello for me, will yuh, Ertle?”

“You go to ——!”