Chapter V: Part 5

Ertle whirled on his heel and went up the street, carrying his hat in his hand. He was thoroughly mad. But he did not go to see Judge Grayson. Instead he went to the Half-Moon and announced that Curley Adams was at the sheriff’s office.

But his announcement did not cause much excitement.

“That’s all right,” assured Searles. “We can be sure of him bein’ at the inquest.”

“That part is all right,” complained Ertle. “But Adams ain’t in no cell. They’re sayin’ he killed Clark. Frisco Larkin never done anythin’, and he’s in a cell. What do yuh think of that?”

“I reckon we’ll leave that to the sheriff,” said Searles.

* * * * *

As Ertle turned away from the bar Skeeter Bill came in. Searles spoke to him, but Ertle did not. Skeeter leaned across the bar and spoke to the bartender.

“I want yuh to think real hard,” said Skeeter. “A little over a month ago a man came in here. He was a strange cowpuncher.”

The bartender squinted thoughtfully at the ceiling.

Skeeter had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and he looked past the bartender into the back-bar mirror, wherein he could see many of those behind him. Moran, who was near a poker table, looked up quickly.

Ertle had stepped away from the bar as Skeeter spoke, but now he stopped and slowly turned his head, looking intently at Skeeter who was missing none of this. Ertle’s eyes blinked and he turned away, shooting a quick glance around the room.

“A little over a month ago? Lemme see. No-o-o, I can’t just remember it, Sheriff. What did he want?”

“I think he wanted to know which road to take to get to the Tin Cup ranch.”

“O-o-o-oh, yea-a-ah. Say, I remember him now. I’m darned if I can remember what he looked like, but—lemme see. It was about noon, and I was washin’ the back-bar mirror. He came in and asked me how to get to the Tin Cup. I told him to go north and take the right-hand road. Afterwards I wondered if he kept on the right-hand road and went to the old Box X.”

“Much obliged,” said Skeeter.

He turned and invited Searles to have a drink. Moran was standing near a poker table, but did not look up, and Ertle had drifted toward the rear of the room.

“Who was the feller?” asked the bartender, accepting of Skeeter’s hospitality and pouring himself a drink.

“I dunno.”

“Yuh don’t? Then how do yuh know he asked me that question?”

“Guessed it,” grinned Skeeter. “I knew that a stranger was headin’ for that part of the range. If he was a stranger, he wouldn’t know the way, and the bartender is the first person a strange puncher would question.”

“That’s guessin’,” laughed Searles. “I haven’t seen a stranger at the Tin Cup for longer than that, sheriff.”

“I reckon that’s right, Searles.”

Skeeter turned to the door and Searles walked outside with him. They stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and Searles moved in close to Skeeter, speaking softly—

“He didn’t find the Tin Cup, eh?”

“Nope. And he never will. Well, I’ve got to go back to the office. We’re goin’ to hold the inquest at ten-thirty at the courtroom, and I’ve got quite a lot of folks to take care of.”

“Curley Adams showed up, eh?” Searles went on.

“Sure. He was here when you fellers went huntin’ him last night.”

“The —— he was!” Searles smiled sourly. “Well, I’m glad. Ertle is awful sore about you keepin’ Frisco in jail.”

“He’ll just have to keep on bein’ sore.”

Skeeter went back to the office, where he found Curley and Kaintuck playing seven-up, and Joy talking with her father. His story had been a shock to her, but she knew he was innocent of an intentional killing.

“What became of Calamity?” asked Gregory.

Skeeter did not know. It was nearing time for the inquest. He sat down beside Curley, motioning for Kaintuck to put away the cards.

“Curley, was there any stranger—a strange cowpuncher—came out to the Tin Cup ranch in the last month or two?”

“I never seen any, Sheriff. Frank Moran was the only one to hire out, or come out there after I went to work.”

“Uh-huh. Was you there when Moran came the first time?”

“The first time? Yeah, I was sick in bed when he came to work.”

“Are yuh sure of that, Curley?”

“Dead sure. There was a lot of work to do at that time, and the Tin Cup was short-handed, through me bein’ sick. I know that Monk Clark inquired around, lookin’ for an extra man.

“Moran came out there in the forenoon. Monk was gone, if I remember rightly. Moran came down to the bunk-house. I was pretty darned sick, but I remember hearin’ him tell Asher who he was, and Asher said that Monk Clark was away.

“Asher had been stayin’ pretty close with me, I reckon, and he asked Moran to stay with me for a few minutes. I heard him say he’d do it, and I think he was there for half an hour. Then he pulled out. It was the next day that he got a job with the Tin Cup, and he’s been there since.”

“You didn’t talk with him, did yuh, Curley?”

“No. I was pretty sick and I didn’t want to talk to anybody. But I remembered the voice, and he told me afterwards that he had stayed with me while Asher went out.”

“Curley, did you know that Frank Moran was a Government detective?”

“Gosh, no! Is he?”

“Yeah. Monk Clark knew it.”

“Is that so? No, I didn’t know it.”

“He worked for Ertle a while. Ertle knows it.”

“Well, I’ll be darned! And what is he detectin’, sheriff?”

“If you mean—what has he detected—not much.”

“And I punched him in the jaw,” said Curley seriously.

“That didn’t mean much to a detective like him,” grinned Skeeter. “I reckon we better get ready for the inquest, folks.”

* * * * *

Calamity got a few drinks under his belt and threatened to become a menace to society. Instead of the liquor acting as an uplift agent, it acted the opposite. Calamity became morose, vengeful. He wanted to kill somebody.

Fortunately he did not want to kill just anybody. His objective was to make sorry the six men who had stolen Hank Gregory away from his home. He was perfectly willing to include Rugg, the mine superintendent. Rugg had rubbed his nose.

Rugg had also purchased a six-shooter. Calamity knew this, and chuckled with unholy glee. Sol Asher, Van Cleve and Charley Ames had heard Calamity’s declaration of war, and wanted none of him.

There would be no satisfaction, no glory, in killing an old man. And what was more to the point, they knew that Calamity was an old gunman, as dangerous as a rattler.

“I’ve got the Injun sign on ’em,” declared Calamity, his back against the Half-Moon bar, his hat pulled rakishly over one ear. “I can whip any one of ’em on a sheep-skin.”

“Don’t cover too much territory,” advised Ertle disgustedly.

“Oh, my!” Calamity eyed Ertle speculatively.

It had suddenly occurred to Calamity that Ertle was one of the six men he was gunning for. He shifted his feet just a trifle and rubbed the palm of his right hand against the top of his cartridge-belt.

Ertle tried to appear indifferent and move toward the door.

“Too much territory, eh?” Calamity’s nose twitched. “How’d you like to choose me, feller? Tell me what you’d rather fight with, and that’s my fav’rite weapon. I’d fight you with anythin’ from a darnin’-needle to a double-bitted ax. Ertle, I’ll let you—”

But Ertle had reached the doorway, making a swift, if undignified exit, and Calamity started after him. But Calamity slipped, struck his shoulder against the doorway and rebounded along the wall.

No one in the Half-Moon laughed. Calamity straightened his hat, adjusted his belt, and came slowly back to the bar.

“Too much territory, ——!” he snorted. “They don’t breed ’em tough enough for me in this day and age. Back in 1866 they made ’em whale-bone warp and bull-hide fillin’. And when yuh found a heel mark in the sand, it was made by a _man_.”

No one disputed Calamity. A cowboy came in and announced that some of the folks were already going to the courtroom, and this information caused the several gambling games to cease operations. Calamity listened scornfully to the opinions of several men, and swaggered out of the place.

“They better keep him out of the courtroom,” said Moran.

No one disputed him.

“I’d like to know what the sheriff has under his hat,” said the bartender.

“Prob’ly an empty head,” laughed a gambler.

“Maybe. Don’t anybody play him for a sucker though.”

The crowd began to dribble out of the saloon, heading across the street to a room over the general merchandise store, where Moon River County held its court sessions.

Skeeter met Moran near the stairway, which led to the courtroom.

Moran had been drinking, but was not drunk by any means. He removed his sombrero and ran his fingers through his matted black hair, his brown eyes coldly calculating, as he looked at Skeeter.

“What do yuh know?” he asked bruskly.

His voice was not at all pleasant now. Skeeter looked at his flat nose, the deep-set eyes and prominent cheek-bones, wondering if Moran did not have a goodly percentage of Indian blood in his veins. Skeeter hesitated so long that Moran said—

“What about the inquest?”

“We’ll prob’ly have to put you on the stand, Moran,” said Skeeter. “It kinda looks like you won’t be able to keep yore identity a secret any longer, ’cause it’ll come out about that fireplace and the pieces of silver.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Moran seriously.

“Can’t be helped, I guess. This killin’ is of more interest to Moon River County than counterfeitin’.”

“I suppose. Say, you better take charge of old Calamity. He thinks he can run everybody.”

“Oh, he won’t hurt anybody.”

“Won’t he? All right. You’ll have another killin’ on yore hands the first thing yuh know.”

“I expect to have several before I run out of ice.”

“Yuh do, eh?”

This sounded interesting to Moran. But Skeeter did not stop to explain. Moran scowled at the back of Skeeter, who was heading back toward the office.

Ertle and Van Cleve came out of the store and looked cautiously around. They were taking no chances on old Calamity. Moran grinned, and it angered Ertle.

“Where is that —— old fool?” asked Ertle.

Moran shook his head.

“Probably up in the courtroom.”

“Is, eh? Well, I’m through foolin’ with him. If he makes one more break at me, I’m goin’ to shoot him.”

“Sam Rugg got him a gun,” offered Van Cleve.

“I spoke to the sheriff about Calamity,” said Moran. “He don’t think Calamity is dangerous.”

“The —— he don’t!”

“And I’m goin’ to be called as a witness.”

“Tha’sso?” Ertle frowned heavily. “You didn’t see it.”

“No, I didn’t. But the sheriff is tryin’ to hook this killin’ up with the bad money idea.”

“Yeah?” Ertle stared at Moran. “What’s he got to work on?”

“Nothin’. He’s just a smart sort of a jigger and wants to make a showin’, tha’sall.”

“Uh-huh,” Ertle scowled down the street.

Skeeter, Kaintuck, Gregory, Joy and Curley were coming from the sheriff’s office.

Ertle, Van Cleve and Moran moved back to the entrance of the store, while Skeeter and his crowd went into the doorway and climbed the stairs.

* * * * *

“It wouldn’t take much for me to smash in that jail and turn Frisco loose,” said Ertle. “I’d like to know why he’s keepin’ Frisco in jail.”

“Could we smash in and git him?” asked Van Cleve.

Sam Rugg was crossing the street from the Half-Moon, walking unsteadily, but with caution. He grinned at the three men, as he joined them.

But Sam Rugg’s smile was not one of gladness nor mirth; it was a grimace. He slouched up to them, his hands in his pockets, rather unsteady in his gait. He looked gross—grimy, with his crop of greasy black whiskers, his face flushed with liquor, and the red welt still showed on his head, where Calamity’s revolver barrel had struck.

“Where is that old terrier?” he asked, meaning Calamity.

“Probably got drunk and fell down—” thus Moran.

“They’ve gone upstairs to start that inquest,” said Ertle, speaking to Rugg. “If we don’t show up they’ll think something is wrong; _sabe_? They’ve got Frisco still in jail, Rugg. If you had a pick, I think yuh can bust in and let him out.”

“Bust in the jail?” The idea seemed rather novel to Rugg.

“Sure,” nodded Ertle. “Knock the lock off the back door; go in and pry off the cell door. That old jail is about as strong as a bird-cage.”

“And then,” said Moran, “the sheriff will probably kill somebody.”

“Let him try it. I want Frisco out of the jail. He ain’t got any too much brains, and he might think I’ve turned him down.”

“I’ll bust in the jail, if you say so.” Rugg was willing to please.

“Go ahead,” said Ertle. “We’ll go up and listen to the inquest. Take yore time, Rugg. Tell Frisco to high-tail it out of town.”

Moran, Ertle and Van Cleve climbed the stairs, leading to the courtroom, which already buzzed with conversation.

It was not a big room, and many of the spectators were obliged to stand along the walls. Old Judge Grayson, who acted as a justice of the peace, presided. Gregory, Joy and Curley sat at a table in front of the judge’s desk.

A jury of six men had been drawn, and they all looked ill at ease. The doctor had managed to draw a jury of men who were in no way connected with either the Tin Cup or the Lazy H.

Skeeter signaled to Moran, offering him a seat near the front, which was accepted. A number of the audience were still under the influence of liquor, and it was only with difficulty that the judge was able to quiet the room.

Kaintuck Kennedy stood near the door, and his position was the topic of a whispered conversation in several parts of the room.

Kaintuck was too short to see over the heads of the crowd; so he hammered on the wall with his fist and signaled frantically for several cowboys to sit down. His mustache bobbed convulsively, and he swore loud enough for those close to him to hear. He stood on his toes against the wall and tried to be satisfied. A cowboy offered to hold him on his lap, but the invitation was not accepted.

* * * * *

Then the judge began speaking. “We are not here to determine the guilt or innocence of any one, but to try and determine just how Monk Clark came to his death, why he was killed, and who is most likely to have killed him. The jury will abide by such evidence as may be brought out at this inquest. I will call Doctor Skeen, the coroner, to the stand.”

Doctor Skeen’s testimony was only relative to the fact that Monk Clark had been killed by a bullet wound. He described the course of both bullets, but was unable to state whether the shots had been fired at close or long range.

Skeeter Bill was next called upon to relate what he knew about the killing, and he told exactly how he and Kaintuck had found things at the Box X ranch. The torn-up fireplace and the finding of the attempt at making a dollar caused the audience to sit up and show interest.

Skeeter did not seek to defend Gregory when the judge asked him if, in his opinion, Gregory could have fired the shots which killed Monk Clark.

“Did you look at Gregory’s gun?” asked one of the jury.

“I didn’t,” said Skeeter.

“Then you don’t know whether he had fired his gun recently or not?”

Skeeter was forced to admit that he had neglected to inspect Gregory’s gun. Several of the audience laughed derisively, and the judge rapped for order.

“Put Gregory on the stand,” said Ertle. “Let’s get some action.”

“You better keep quiet in this court, or you’ll get action.” Thus Kaintuck, loud enough for every one to hear. Ertle subsided.

The crowd laughed. Even the judge smothered a smile. Kaintuck blushed and his mustache jiggled nervously, as he craned his neck to give Ertle a menacing glance. Skeeter nodded approvingly at Kaintuck, who interpreted the nod correctly. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

“You danged right,” he said. “I’m the greatest little shutter-up yuh ever seen.”

Ertle growled something, but Kaintuck could not hear it.

“That’s all, Sheriff,” said the judge. “Henry Gregory, take the stand.”

Gregory walked slowly to the witness chair and looked out at the crowd. There was no question that they were hostile to him. Speaking carefully he told of his suspicions that Monk Clark had tried to incriminate Curley Adams, and that he had, on the spur of the moment, started out with the intentions of killing Monk Clark.

He did not try to evade any phase of the incident.

“I could have killed him,” he said slowly. “I reckon I had time to do it. I dunno how long it was before Joy came. It was a jolt to find him dead. She thought I had killed him.

“Then the sheriff and his deputy came along. I dunno what they thought. We looked through the house, like he has told yuh—and that’s all.”

“Ask him about that letter yuh found on Monk Clark,” suggested Sol Asher. “That shows why he might kill Monk.”

Doctor Skeen produced the letter, but the judge waved it aside.

“That case has nothing to do with the one at hand. Gregory admits that he had reasons for going out to kill Clark. It seems to me that the other crime, if it was a crime, was committed ten years ago.”

The judge looked down at Gregory. They had been friends for several years, and the old judge was very human. He smiled at Joy and looked at the audience.

“You must remember,” he said softly, “that we are not examining into any motive actuated by a crime supposed to have been committed ten years ago. We do not actually know that any crime had been committed by Henry Gregory at that time. As far as that letter is concerned, it has no place at this hearing, as long as Henry Gregory admits that he had what he considered good and sufficient reasons for wanting to kill Monk Clark.”

“Clark was afraid of Gregory,” said Jim Searles.

“Where was Curley Adams when this was goin’ on?” asked Ertle. “It seems to me—”

“If you want to be examined as a witness, c’mon up and set in this chair,” said Skeeter quickly.

“I only want to get at the bottom of this, Sheriff.”

“You will.”

“Do any of the jury wish to question the witness?” asked the doctor.

“How long was you at the Box X ranch before yore daughter showed up?” asked old Mike Gower, who was one of the jurors.

“Long enough to have killed Monk Clark,” replied Gregory.

“By golly, that’s an honest answer,” said old Mike.

“You shoot a .45?”—thus another juror.

“I do.”

“So do I.” Old Mike delivered this information and sank back in his seat. A ripple of laughter followed.

Gregory was dismissed and Joy was called to the stand. Skeeter assisted her to the chair and stood beside her while she told her story. She did not conceal the fact that she had ridden from home, hoping to overtake her father and to try and prevent him from attempting to kill Monk Clark.

“And when you found him, did you think he had killed him?” asked the judge.

Joy nodded slowly.

“Until I talked with him. Then I knew he was innocent.”

“Did Monk Clark ever make love to you?” asked the doctor.

Joy shook her head quickly.

“He did not. Such a question is ridiculous.”

The judge asked the jury if they desired to ask any questions, but none of them did; so Joy was dismissed and Curley was asked to take the stand. The crowd sat up straight when the Box X cowboy lifted his hand and was sworn.

“Where were you when Monk Clark was found dead in the yard of the Box X ranch?” asked the judge.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where you were?”

“No, sir.”

The crowd sat forward. This was more promising.

“Have you and Monk Clark ever had trouble?”

“No, sir.”

“You have heard that Monk Clark was blamed for misbranding a Lazy H yearling and running on your brand.”

“I have heard it—yes.”

“Did you meet Monk Clark after you had heard this?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember. What kind of a revolver do you use?”

* * * * *

Curley still wore his gun. He drew it out and placed it on the judge’s desk. Skeeter and the doctor leaned forward to examine it.

“A .45 Colt,” said the judge.

“Mike, you better go home and get yours,” whispered one of the jurors loudly. “Kinda make it unanimous.”

Skeeter knew that this was not Curley’s gun. It was an old one which Curley had substituted for his forty-one, and Skeeter recognized it as being a gun he had inherited with his office. It was evident to him that Curley believed Gregory guilty, and Curley was trying to throw the evidence against himself.

“Since when did you start usin’ a forty-five?” asked Gregory.

Curley did not reply.

“Take a look at the shells in his belt,” suggested Ames.

Curley was stumped. Skeeter slipped a cartridge from one of Curley’s belt loops and placed it on the judge’s desk. It was a forty-one.

The judge squinted severely at Curley.

“Have you any story to tell, Adams?”

“None at all.” Curley shook his head.

The judge nodded and Curley went back to the table. Gregory looked keenly at him, but Curley did not look in his direction.

“It seems that this is our last witness,” observed the judge. “The jury will retire and try to arrive at a——”

“Just a moment, judge,” said Skeeter. “I don’t reckon the evidence is all in yet.”

Skeeter glanced at his watch, smiled softly, and looked back at the judge.

“I am goin’ to ask Frank Moran to take the stand.”

“I don’t know what good this will do,” protested Moran. “As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter, but it looks as though it will merely take up valuable time.”

“In just what way is Mr. Moran concerned?” asked the judge.

“Not in any way,” said Moran. He wiped some perspiration from his chin and tried to appear indifferent. “I don’t see why valuable time should be wasted in examining me. I did not see any of this, your honor.”

The judge turned and looked at Skeeter, wondering why the sheriff should insist on examining a man who knew nothing to testify.

“If Mr. Moran will take the stand—please.” Skeeter smiled exasperatingly at Moran, who grunted half-angrily, but took the witness chair.

“Why don’tcha call Calamity?” laughed a cowboy.

“Calamity is busy, watchin’ the jail,” grinned Skeeter.

Ertle started to get up, but sat down quickly. If Calamity was watching the jail—and Rugg was down there—Ertle swallowed thickly and kicked Van Cleve on the ankle.

“Mr. Moran,” said Skeeter slowly, “is a Government detective. Am I right, Mr. Moran?”

“Go ahead.” Moran tried to grin, when the crowd shifted and buzzed with whispers.

This was something interesting to them—but not to Moran. He shifted uneasily and looked at Ertle, whose face was drawn in a scowl of apprehension. He wanted to know what was going on down at the jail. If Calamity was watching the jail, things might not be so good for Sam Rugg.

And Moran was just as anxious as Ertle. Van Cleve’s mouth sagged half open as he clasped and unclasped his fingers, realizing that any old place would suit him better than that courtroom. Ertle shot a glance toward the doorway, as though estimating his chances to get out, but he caught a glimpse of Kaintuck Kennedy, and decided to stick it out.

Skeeter turned to the jury.

“Mr. Moran was sent here by the Government to investigate counterfeitin’. Maybe some of yuh don’t know it, but you’ve been spendin’ a lot of bad money lately. Moran came here to stop it.”

Skeeter paused to let this information sink in thoroughly before he continued.

“Mr. Moran has had quite a hard time around here. Monk Clark and Sam Ertle knew who he was. He had to let ’em know who he was. Then he came to get me to help him. That silver robbery was done by the counterfeiters, I think.

“Somewhere between one and two months ago, a strange cowpuncher came to this town. I’m not sure, but I think he went to the Lazy H, lookin’ for a job. He didn’t get one. Then he came here and asked the Half-Moon bartender which way to the Tin Cup.

“The bartender told him. This stranger rode away.” Skeeter looked around the room. “I wonder if any of yuh remember seein’ him.”

“What did he look like?” asked Mike Gower.

“I dunno. When I seen him he didn’t have no meat on his bones. Between here and the Box X he’s hangin’ in a tree, grinnin’ wide. I wonder what he sees that’s so funny.”

The crowd was so silent that a single fly, buzzing on a window-pane, sounded painfully loud.

Moran shifted uneasily, a scowl drew his brows down until his eyes were concealed, and his elbows lifted to rest on the arms of the chair. Skeeter turned his head and looked at Ertle, but the thin-faced cattleman refused to look at him. Some one cleared his throat raspingly, and Moran tensed noticeably.

“I hung him up there,” said Skeeter sadly. “The coyotes and magpies had their feed. He’s got a wonderful grin. He’s laughin’ at somebody—who ain’t laughin’ back at him.”

* * * * *

Only the uneasy scraping of feet followed this statement.

“What bearing does this have on this inquest?” asked the judge softly, leaning forward in his chair.

“Somethin’, Judge. This man was murdered—shot dead. And the queer part of it is—he was killed with a silver bullet.”

“Silver bullet!” It was repeated twenty times, as the crowd leaned forward, questioning, until the judge rapped for order.

“Why was he shot with a silver bullet?” asked the judge.

Skeeter smiled softly and shook his head.

“Judge, it was fate, I think. The man who fired that shot did not know he was shootin’ silver.”

No one questioned Skeeter now. He took plenty of time as he scanned the crowd. The jurymen were sitting on the edge of their seats now, leaning across the rail in front of them.

Skeeter smiled down at Curley, who was staring blankly at him. For the first time, he knew what had become of his silver bullet. Joy reached over and put her hand on Curley’s sleeve, as she smiled up at Skeeter. Gregory looked dumbly at Skeeter, hardly understanding just what was being said.

But the crowd knew that something was coming off soon. They did not know just what it was going to be. The jury looked at each other and back at Skeeter, whose thin face was set in a determined cast. He knew that they were waiting—waiting for him to make his next play.

But Skeeter was too clever a gambler to work fast now. He had made them listen to him—made them want more.

“It was a forty-one bullet, made of silver,” said Skeeter, taking it from his pocket and holding it up. “It was made from a silver dollar. I know the man who made it. He shoots a forty-one six-gun.”

Skeeter toyed with the bullet, while the crowd shifted anxiously. But Skeeter was in no hurry. He put the bullet in his pocket and glanced at his watch.

“This counterfeitin’ is queer stuff,” he said. “The Silver Bell mine was a handy place for them to get material. They had to have a certain amount of silver, yuh know.”

Skeeter hesitated and appeared thoughtful. Jim Searles leaned forward.

“Keep talkin’,” he said. “Dog-gone it, tell us about it.”

“All right, Jim. This stranger wasn’t wanted here, it seems. It looks to me as though somebody at the Lazy H saw this man. They recognized him, yuh understand. He went huntin’ for the Tin Cup, and this feller who recognized him, follered him. The stranger got on the Box X road by mistake.

“The man who follered him from the Lazy H went to the Tin Cup and found that the stranger hadn’t got there yet; so he stole a sick man’s gun, went out and met the stranger—and shot him with that stolen gun.

“The stolen gun held a ca’tridge, loaded with a silver bullet. The man who killed him thought that the coyotes and magpies would soon destroy that body—and they did—but there was the bones, the skull that’s still grinnin’—and the silver bullet.”

“Who molded that bullet?” asked the judge.

Skeeter smiled and pointed at Curley Adams.

“He admits it, judge.”

Curley nodded quickly. “I did.”

“Who fired the shot?” demanded Jim Searles.

Skeeter turned slowly and motioned to Kaintuck, who came up to him. Skeeter’s whisper was so soft that none heard what he said. Kaintuck’s lips shut tightly and he moved aside, his eyes on the crowd, which shifted uneasily.

This was something they did not understand. They watched Kaintuck moving back toward the door, and they noticed that Kaintuck’s right hand was swinging near the butt of his gun, his lips shut tight, eyes flashing from one part of the crowd to another.

Moran started to get to his feet, but sat back again, when Skeeter looked around at him. Except for the creaking of Kaintuck’s boots, the room was quiet. Skeeter drew out his watch and glanced at it. From force of habit the judge took out his watch and noted the time. There was an old clock on the wall, long since stopped from neglect, and several men squinted at it. A spur jingled, as its wearer shifted his feet. They were all waiting anxiously—for what?

Somewhere down the street a revolver shot brought them all to attention. Two more followed in quick succession. Several of the men sprang to their feet, among them were Ertle and Searles.

“What’s goin’ on down there?” demanded Ertle.

Skeeter’s lips shut tightly and he threw up one hand.

“Set down, boys! One thing at a time. I think it’s Calamity.”

“But what in —— is he doin’?” demanded Ertle.

Skeeter ignored the question.

“The man who killed the stranger was the same man who misbranded that Lazy H yearlin’; the same man who went to the Box X, tryin’ to get the tools that he and his outfit had left under the fireplace where they had made bad money before Curley Adams bought the Box X.

“Monk Clark follered him, wonderin’ what he was doin’. Yuh see, Monk had a hunch that this was the man who had branded that yearlin’, and he was curious to see what he was tryin’ to do. Monk was there at the porch when this man came out with his stuff. Monk Clark had the deadwood on him; so he killed Monk.”

Skeeter stopped suddenly, lifting his head to listen. From half a mile away came the long-drawn wail of a locomotive whistle. The passenger train was coming in on time.

“But who was the man who killed Monk Clark?” demanded the judge.

He was nervous and his voice struck a falsetto note. Out in the audience a man laughed hoarsely.

Skeeter did not reply just then. He had lifted his head and was listening closely. They could hear the dull roar of the train as it ground to a stop at the station.

“Who killed Monk Clark?” repeated the judge.

“The man who had to kill him to save his own hide,” said Skeeter. He laughed softly, joyfully. “I’ve got him, Judge!”

Skeeter turned quickly to Frank Moran, while his hand dug deeply in his pocket. He drew out a yellow slip of paper, which he handed to Moran.

“It came yesterday,” said Skeeter, as Moran took the telegram. “I plumb forgot it.”

Moran’s eyes flashed across the words—

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

* * * * *

Moran did not look up, as he slowly folded the telegram. Then he half-lifted himself from his chair, as though to put the telegram in his pocket. Skeeter was watching him closely, and Skeeter’s hand was streaking for the butt of his holstered gun when the telegram fell from Moran’s hand, which suddenly jerked back to his holster.

Moran was a gunman _par excellence_, and in spite of the fact that Skeeter was anticipating Moran’s move, Moran’s gun was out of the holster and coming to a level, when Skeeter fired.

It was all done so quickly that many of those in the little courtroom did not see them draw their guns. Moran was knocked back in his chair, his right hand helpless, the gun falling between his knees.

But he was game. As quick as a flash he grasped the gun in his left hand, falling from the chair, as he tried to pull the trigger. But Skeeter’s next bullet knocked all the fight out of him.

The room was in an uproar. Men were milling around, trying to get outside. From near the door came the crashing report of Kaintuck’s gun, a yell of pain. And above the other noises came Kaintuck’s yell.

“Stop Ertle! Don’t let him go to that winder!”

Kaintuck’s gun crashed again and his bullet smashed the window over Ertle’s head, just as Ertle flung himself across the sill and dropped outside. The crowd had unwittingly interfered with Kaintuck’s aim, and as he tore his way through the crowd, a revolver shot sounded down in the street.

Kaintuck ran to the window and leaned out. For a moment he stood there, turned and came back, with several men crowding him, questioning, sneezing from the powder smoke.

Skeeter was backed against the judge’s desk, a serious grin on his lips, while those capable of speech demanded that he tell them what it was all about.

Part of the crowd were at the door, but now they parted to let in Frisco Larkin and old Calamity, who had Larkin by the arm and was forcing him along at the point of a gun. They were both dusty and torn. Calamity was grinning, but his teeth were shut tightly.

Calamity marched him straight down to Skeeter and sat him down in a chair. The noise subsided, when Calamity began talking.

“I was in the office,” he told Skeeter. “Rugg smashed in the back door—and I let him smash. He came in and started to bust in Frisco’s cell door. Then I heard Frisco tell him, ‘My, I’m glad yuh came, Rugg! They’ve got the goods on us, I tell yuh. Just before the sheriff and his outfit pulled out of here a minute ago, I heard him tell ’em about findin’ my boot-heel mark in that trail where we stole the silver.’

“Then Rugg says, ‘How much more do they know, Frisco?’

“And Frisco says, ‘That’s enough to cinch me. Let’s git out of here, beat it to the Lazy H and grab up what money we can git. We’ve got time, if yuh don’t stand there with yore mouth open.’

“Then Rugg smashed in Frisco’s cell door, and I stepped out. Rugg tried to draw his gun—and he’s still there.

“Frisco and me had a race out through the back door. Mebbe I’d ’a’ had to kill him, too, but he fell over the busted door and I pistol-whipped him until he said he’d be good.”

Calamity stopped, panting from the exertion.

“And yuh got Ertle, too, didn’t yuh, Calamity?” asked Kaintuck.

Calamity nodded quickly.

“I per-sume I did. I seen him do his dive out of the winder, and I says to myself, ‘Whenever a man leaves a courtroom by an upper winder, he ain’t jist right morally,’ so I whopped one shot at him f’r luck—and it tuck.”

Old Calamity panted wearily and wiped some blood from his lips. But he braced his feet and grinned widely at everybody. Frisco slumped weakly in the chair and tried to feel of his swollen head.

“—— old wild-cat!” he blubbered. “Keep him away from me, will yuh? My ——, I know when I’ve got enough.”

“I’m through with yuh,” panted Calamity. “I know when I’ve hammered ’em down to my size, y’betcha. Thought yuh could outrun the old man, eh? Better be —— glad I didn’t have to catch yuh with a hot hunk of lead.”

Jim Searles shoved his way down to Skeeter.

“I don’t _sabe_ it, Sheriff. Was this Moran a Government detective?”

“Said he was, Jim. But I had a hunch he wasn’t. He was one of them slick crooks who said ‘yes’ once too often.”

“Tell us about it. Ertle and Van Cleve and Frisco! What a —— of a mess!”

“I got Van Cleve,” said Kaintuck. “He came at me, clawin’ for his gun, and I folded him up like a jack-knife. Skeeter told me to watch the two of ’em—him and Ertle.”

A stranger had elbowed his way into the room, and was standing on his toes, looking around. He was a big man, his gray hair showing beneath the brim of his Stetson. Suddenly he caught sight of Skeeter.

“Hello, Sarg!” he called.

“Hello, Long!” yelled Skeeter. “C’mere and lemme shake yore hand. Give him room, boys. That’s Mr. Long, the United States marshal. Greetings, old timer.”

They shook hands violently.

“What in the world has been going on here?” demanded the officer. “It seems that I ran into a shooting match.”

Skeeter pointed at Moran, who was lying on his back, his arms flung wide. The officer stooped and studied his features closely for several moments.

“Didja ever see him before, Long?” asked Skeeter.

“Yes, and I know who he is. His name is Moran, and he’s about the slickest counterfeiter you ever heard about. What in the world has he been doing up here in this country? Was he one of the—” Long hesitated. He did not want to say too much.

“Yeah, he’s one of ’em,” said Skeeter. “In fact, he was the head of the gang. This one prisoner is all we saved out of the set. Didn’t you have a man workin’ on this case?”

“I still have.”

“No, you ain’t. This Moran killed him over a month ago.”

“Killed him? Why I’ve got wires—”

“From this feller. He impersonated yore man. Was yore man named Moran?”

“Yes, that’s the name he was using. I think the other man’s real name was Moran, but he has had many aliases. My operative knew him, but I doubt if he knew he was in this country.”

“Yore man probably told Ertle what his name was when he asked for a job on the Lazy H,” said Skeeter. “It sure gave the other Moran a fine chance to fill his shoes.”

“That must have been it,” nodded Long. “But how in the world did you ever find all this out? What made you suspect a perfectly, or I might say, apparently good detective?”

Skeeter smiled widely.

“Did anybody ever call you ‘Shorty’?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did you ever herd sheep down on Sundance Flats?”

“I never herded sheep in my life, Sarg.”

“There yuh are. I called yuh Shorty, and he called yuh Shorty. I asked him if he ever heard yuh tell about the time yuh herded sheep in the Sundance Flat country, and he said he hadn’t never heard you tell about it, but that one of the men in yore office started to tell him about it one day. That’s what I had to work on.

“So I knew he was a liar. It simmered down to this Moran. I knew that some one at the Silver Bell had tipped ’em off about that shipment of silver, and Rugg looked like he might be the one.

“I kinda figured out that Monk Clark was in on the gang, but when he got killed I thought he had run into some of the gang who were moving their stuff from the Box X. That left the Tin Cup out of it.

“I had to find the feller who wore that certain kind of a boot-heel, and I accidentally found it when I knocked Frisco over a chair.” He turned to Frisco, who was holding his head in his hands, watched closely by Calamity.

“How about it, Frisco? You might as well talk.”

* * * * *

Frisco lifted his head wearily. “I dunno what in —— there is to talk about. It kinda looks to me like you knew it all. Moran branded that yearlin’. I found it out afterward. It was jist luck that Clark found it. Moran wanted to git even with Curley for that wallop he got.”

“How long have you been with ’em?” asked Skeeter.

“I dunno. Moran was a friend of Rugg. He came here to steal silver—high-grade. It was too slow. Moran knew how to make counterfeit. Rugg knew Ertle pretty well; so they got together and framed up this deal.

“There was five of us in on the proposition, but only four of us held up the wagon and took the silver, ’cause Rugg had to stay at the mine. It was me an’ Van and Ertle and Moran who stuck up that wagon and took the silver. Rugg tipped us off. We had a —— of a time gettin’ the stuff out to the Lazy H. Moran was the one who held the three men from the Silver Bell while I drove the team away.

“Moran had a horse tied down the hill, and he got down to where we were goin’ to unload before I did. Moran sure was a bad actor. He killed the detective and he killed Monk Clark. He was beginnin’ to get scared of you, and told Ertle he was goin’ to kill you the first break yuh made. I reckon that’s all.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s all,” nodded Skeeter.

Gregory, Joy and Curley were grouped together listening to Frisco’s story, and Skeeter turned to them with a smile.

“I reckon you folks can go home now.”

Gregory shook his head sadly.

“Have you forgotten about that other deal, Sheriff?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully and turned to the Government officer.

“Long, can yuh tell me who was sheriff of Badger County ten years ago?”

Long smiled reminiscently.

“I should think I could, Sarg. Ten years ago I was wearing the star of that county.”

“I kinda thought yuh was. Yuh served two terms, didn’t yuh?”

“Yes, I was elected twelve years ago last November.”

“Of Badger County?” Gregory stared at him blankly.

“Long, I want yuh to meet Mr. Gregory,” said Skeeter. “This lady is his daughter.”

The three of them shook hands solemnly.

“Yuh see,” said Skeeter slowly, “Mr. Gregory is supposed to have killed the sheriff of Badger about ten years ago. That was what Monk Clark told him.”

“Is that so? Monk Clark? Why, I knew Monk Clark down in Badger County, Sarg. That’s right, he did move up here.”

“He—he kept me in a cellar for almost two weeks,” faltered Gregory. “I was with two horse-thieves. I didn’t know they were horse-thieves. Your—the sheriff’s posse opened fire on us. I got away, and Monk Clark kept me under cover. He said I—I had killed the sheriff.”

Long laughed softly and shook his head.

“I guess he exaggerated it, Gregory. I remember the incident. We got the two men. They said you were innocent; so we didn’t bother about looking for you.”

“For ——’s sake!” Gregory tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace. “Didn’t I see one of your men fall?”

“None of them got hit,” said Long. “We got both—oh, yes, I do remember, Gregory. Jimmy Lewis’ horse stepped in a badger hole and laid Jimmy up with a busted rib,” Long laughed at the memory. “I don’t know why Clark ever told you such a thing, unless he wanted something on you; so he could use you later on. Clark was politically inclined, if I remember rightly.”

The doctor was busy, and several men were assisting him in taking care of the casualties; so the courtroom gradually cleared.

“We can’t thank you,” said Joy to Skeeter. “Sometimes there are things we can’t even begin to say.”

“Tha’sall right,” smiled Skeeter. “You folks run along and don’t mind about thankin’ anybody. If yuh want to thank anybody—thank Calamity—he wasn’t bein’ paid to do the job.”

“No,” said Calamity quickly, “I don’t want no thanks. This has shore been a holiday for me, but I’ll be —— if I’m goin’ to stand here all day and poke a gun into Frisco Larkin’s ribs. If I knowed he was goin’ to run, it’d be a different thing.”

“I ain’t goin’ to run,” Frisco shook his head sadly. “Next time I’ll buy new boots.” He looked up at Skeeter. “It sure don’t pay to repair yore own heels—nor think a sheriff is a —— fool, just because he never was sheriff before.”

* * * * *

“That’s right,” said Calamity quickly. “He reminds me of a sheriff I knowed in 1866—and in them days they shore had sheriffs that was sheriffs.”

Which was probably the greatest compliment ever paid to any man in Moon River Valley—and the only one ever voiced by Calamity. Then he led the way back to the HG ranch, riding in the lead, his two guns hanging from the saddle-horn; while Skeeter Bill, Kaintuck and Long rode toward the Lazy H to confiscate the tools of a felonious trade.

Or, as Kaintuck expressed it—

“Give Uncle Sam a chance to use some of his money around here, eh? He sure lost trade in this country for a while.”

“I was scared,” said Skeeter. “I thought that train wasn’t never goin’ to come. I wasn’t sure of a darned thing except Frisco’s heel. I wanted to shock Moran just at the right time, dontcha see? If he made a break for his gun, I’d know my dope was right. Honest to gosh, it was seven hours from the time I handed him that telegram until he went for his gun.

“If he had stood pat I was stuck. I played for the one thing—breakin’ Moran’s nerve. He didn’t dare to meet yuh, Long. He was cornered.”

“I’d say it was a clever bit of detective work,” said Long appreciatively.

“Just lucky,” Skeeter smiled. “Lucky that I knew yore name wasn’t Shorty—and Moran didn’t.”

“And yuh ought to give Skeeter ——,” said Kaintuck solemnly. “He said yuh used to herd sheep. He used yore name in vain.”

“I think he used it to advantage,” laughed Long, and they rode down the long slope to the Lazy H, where no man lived—now. And over in a little swale near the Box X a skull grinned from the forks of a stunted tree, while four people rode along the dusty highway to the HG ranch; four people upon whom a great peace had descended. And for once in his life, Calamity was able to compare the present with the past—and not find any great fault.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, November 30, 1925. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]