Chapter III

Skeeter Bill read the storm signs and knew that the open desert would be no place to face it; so when the whirl of wind, sand and rain arrived, he was safely ensconced in a sheltered spot. The deluge of rain cascaded past him, swishing angrily from the protecting cliff.

He had no idea that Leeds’ men had visited the Poplar Springs camp. Skeeter had barely left the Panhandle Saloon, when five of the men had ridden into town. Mears, the one-eyed outlaw, sent them to Leeds, and the six of them had ridden out just ahead of Skeeter.

Leeds had also issued an order against Skeeter Bill and Judge Tareyton, but the outlaws thought more of gain than of settling Leeds’ personal quarrels; so they proceeded to relegate the Skeeter Bill business to some future date.

Skeeter Bill watched the storm volley down across the desert and then rode away from the cliff and back to the road. The deep ruts were gone--wiped out by the whirling sands, and nothing was left of the road to mark the highway to Sunbeam.

Velvet blackness followed the storm, but the clouds soon broke and a pale, early moon shed a ghostly light over the desert. The Dancin’ Jaspers, the gargoyles of the desert, weird in the blue haze, danced their ghostly measures, beckoning with their gnarled, agonized-like branches, throwing out long shadows, which advanced and retreated, giving one the illusion that the moon also danced.

But Skeeter Bill paid no attention to the illusions of nature as he rode steadily toward the Poplar Springs.

He planned nothing in advance, trusting to circumstances and swift action to complete his business. Perhaps he could worm his way to the horses, cut them loose and stampede them into the open, where he could round them up and drive them miles away to a little pole corral.

Perhaps the wagon-train would be well guarded and drive him away, but Skeeter knew that, in case he was defeated in his purpose, it would put the train on its guard, which would also prevent Leeds’ men from surprising them.

Skeeter had made up his mind that in case he was discovered he would merely retreat. He had no desire to take the horses by force. He was a dead shot, but knew that one man, no matter how deadly with a gun, was no match for half a dozen men, who were on their guard.

Then Skeeter saw the wagons. There was no flicker of camp-fires, but Skeeter attributed this to the storm. Perhaps, he thought, they had made supper before the storm came. He secured his horse to a mesquite and went on cautiously on foot. He found the rope link between two of the wagons, and cut it. He listened closely, but could hear no voices.

“That’s danged queer,” he muttered aloud as he peered across the enclosure, trying to see the horses.

He walked cautiously across to the other side and halted near a wagon, the cover of which was missing. Suddenly he turned his head and glanced down at the ground. A beam of moonlight struck across the body of Rance Williams, lighting up his face and glinting from the pistol in his hand. Skeeter Bill stared at him. He knew Rance.

A sudden noise caused him to whirl around and his heart skipped a beat. Within a foot of his face was the face of a girl, peering at him from over the edge of the wagon-box. The girl’s face showed white in the moonlight, a white face with wide, frightened eyes, surrounded with a mass of wind-blown brown hair.

For several moments they stared at each other. The girl’s hand came up and pushed back her hair, and the action seemed to bring Skeeter Bill from his trance.

“Excuse me all to ----, ma’am,” he muttered inanely.

“Wh-what happened?” she whispered.

Skeeter Bill’s gaze traveled around, taking in the body of Rance Williams. From under the wagon came a half-suppressed groan and the figure of Dr. Weston crawled out into the moonlight. He got painfully to his feet and leaned against the wagon. Skeeter Bill watched him for a moment and turned to the girl.

“When things git through happenin’, mebbe I can answer your question, miss.”

The old minister slowly drew a hand across his forehead and looked at Skeeter.

“I--I do not exactly understand,” he murmured.

“Is that you, Dr. Weston?” asked the girl.

“I think--I--I am almost positive that I am,” replied the old minister haltingly.

He moved painfully up to Skeeter and stared at him.

“I do not think I know you, sir.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on me, pardner,” said Skeeter. “Do yuh know just what happened?”

“No.” Dr. Weston shook his head. “I remember that some riders came. A shot or two was fired, I think, but something seemed to strike me and I--I think that was all.”

“I was in this wagon,” said the girl wearily. “I think I came to get something, and the men began shooting. Then the storm--it was terrible.”

Skeeter Bill walked across the enclosure and looked down at the crumpled figure of a man. It was Mears, the one-eyed outlaw. Near him lay the body of a saddled horse. Skeeter turned and went back to the wagon.

“How many folks in your party?” he asked.

“Six of us,” said the girl. “There were four drivers, Dr. Weston and myself.”

She climbed down from the wagon. Her clothes were drenched and the moonlight shone on her wet hair. Skeeter watched her go to the old man and take him by the arm.

“Your daddy must ’a’ got bumped,” observed Skeeter. “Better fix a place and let him lay down.”

He helped her lead the old man back to where the fires had been, where they let him sit down on a wagon-seat, while Skeeter rebuilt the fire. Just beyond the fire lay another man. Skeeter picked him up and carried him inside the enclosure, where he placed him beside Mears. It was Jack Brent, a young outlaw.

The girl was sitting beside the old man, moodily staring into the fire, when Skeeter returned. He asked where he could find food and cooked supper in a short time. Dr. Weston’s appetite had suffered considerable shock, and the girl, still dazed from the events, did not touch the food. After a long period of silence she turned to Skeeter.

“Do you know a man named Leeds?”

Skeeter slopped a cup of hot coffee on his knees, staring at her, open-mouthed.

“Leeds?” he asked wonderingly.

“Yes. A man in Pickett told me that he had heard some one from Sunbeam speak of a man named Leeds.”

“Leeds,” mused Skeeter aloud, recovering his composure. “Ma’am, I ain’t so awful well acquainted in Sunbeam.”

Skeeter refilled his cup and stared into the fire, his brow wrinkled as if in deep thought.

“Know him when yuh see him, ma’am?”

The girl shook her head.

“I do not think so. It has been fourteen years since I saw him, and I was only four years of age. I have been trying for a long time to find him.”

“What did he ever do to you?” asked Skeeter.

The girl smiled.

“Nothing, except to be my father.”

This time the cup of coffee missed Skeeter’s knees and fell hissing into the fire.

“For ----’s sake,” gasped Skeeter wide-eyed, and then quickly recovered and added, “That’s the second cup I’ve spilled. ‘Paw-Paw’ Jim says that coffee’s bad for nerves.”

He raised the cup from the coals and wiped it on his sleeve. Dr. Weston rubbed his left shoulder and spoke to the girl.

“I am feeling much better, my dear. I seemed dazed for a while, but that has left me. You were speaking of your father, were you not--I pray we shall find him for you. It is luck for us that the Good Samaritan came along, otherwise I am afraid we would suffer in our ignorance.”

“Good Samaritan?” said Skeeter Bill. “Meanin’ what?”

“You are a Samaritan, my friend,” said the old man.

“Me?” Skeeter looked blankly at him, “I’ve been called a lot of names, old pardner, but that’s plumb fresh. What does she mean?”

“You have never heard the story of the Good Samaritan, my son?”

“Never heard of none,” admitted Skeeter.

The old minister quoted the entire parable, while Skeeter sat on his heels beside the fire, listening. At the conclusion of the tale he said:

“What do yuh reckon that there Samaritan feller was doin’ along that trail? Was he--uh--say, what do yuh reckon would ’a’ happened if that wounded _hombre_ had been all right when he met him. Yuh got to remember that this feller didn’t have nothin’ left for this here Samaritan to steal; so, mebbe--I dunno.”

“I do not understand your question,” said the minister.

“Tha’s all right,” grinned Skeeter. “I do.”

Skeeter got to his feet and procured a pick and a shovel from one of the wagons.

“Got to dig quite a hole, I reckon,” he stated. “I ain’t never buried ’em in bunches before.”

The girl shuddered. It was a ghastly business. The old minister protested. It was wrong to do this. There should be the usual formalities to be observed, notification of the relatives, death certificates. Skeeter listened to their combined views on the subject.

“Yuh never took the buzzards into your figurin’. Mebbe that’s the way they handles things like this back in your country, but you’re here--not there, folks. Kinda wish we had a sky-pilot, though. Don’t seem right to be plantin’ folks without a preacher--not a lot of folks to oncet.”

“I am a minister,” said Dr. Weston simply.

“----” grunted Skeeter Bill, “I thought you was a medicine-man. She called yuh doctor, yuh know. ’Pears to me that them snake-hunters all died at the right place. Ain’t often that a horse-thief dies handy to a preacher. I’ll do the diggin’ and you do the preachin’, and we’ll give ’em a proper start. I’ll kinda look around and see how many I can collect, while you figures out what yuh can say about ’em. I dunno your outfit, except Williams. He’s worth sayin’ a few words about, but if you can say anythin’ good about Mears or Brent it’s ’cause yuh never knowed ’em.”

* * * * *

Skeeter Bill toiled as he never toiled before. It was a man-sized job and Skeeter Bill was no horny-handed toiler, but the work must be done. Mary Leeds surprised him by coming to the open grave and standing with bowed head, while the old minister read the burial service.

It was a queer funeral service. The large open grave, with its row of bodies; the old white-haired minister, bowed over his book, while Mary Leeds knelt on the sands near him. Across the grave from them stood Skeeter Bill, a tall, gaunt figure, leaning on a shovel-handle. A tall Dancin’ Jasper, shaped like a leaning cross, cast its long shadow across the pile of sand, while others seemed to dance a requiem to the souls of desert men.

Mary Leeds and the old minister turned away toward the wagons, while Skeeter Bill filled in the grave, whistling softly through his teeth. Then he tossed the shovel aside and sat down to smoke and think of Tug Leeds’ daughter. It was almost unthinkable, that this girl could be the daughter of Tug Leeds, outlaw leader, murderer. Skeeter knew that Tug Leeds was a man without any morals. He handled only crooked gamblers to run his games, and his honkatonk girls were of the most vicious breeds. No, there were no redeeming features about the man. And this was his daughter.

Skeeter Bill laughed to himself, wondering what Tug would think when his daughter appeared in Sunbeam. Should he tell her who her father was? Skeeter thought it over, but decided to let her find out for herself. The old preacher--what of him?

Then Skeeter remembered that his five hours were long past. Sunbeam would be a dangerous spot for him now. Leeds had beat him to the horses, and now, if he went back to Sunbeam he would have to fight. Would he go back?

Skeeter stopped the rolling of a cigaret and stared at the ground. Hadn’t Leeds said that Sunbeam belonged to him? Yes, perhaps Leeds did control the town. Then Skeeter Bill crumpled the cigaret paper between his fingers, threw up his head and laughed, laughed foolishly, but joyously.

“Dance, you crooked Jaspers!” he chuckled at the Joshua palms. “Shake yourselves! I’m goin’ to make Sunbeam dance, too.”

He walked swiftly back to the campfire, where Mary Leeds and the old minister were sitting. In the old man’s hands was a Bible, and his soft voice came droning--

“‘And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also.’”

He stopped as Skeeter Bill came up. Skeeter humped over by the fire and began rolling another cigaret.

“Do yuh believe that, parson?” asked Skeeter.

“I do believe it, my son. It is the right way.”

“But do yuh foller them teachin’s, parson? If somebody stole your pants, would yuh yelp for him to come back and take your coat, too?”

“I--I have never--uh--had my pants stolen.”

“Wait till yuh do,” smiled Skeeter Bill. “No, yuh wouldn’t do it, parson, and if yuh did yuh’d be loco as a shepherd. Rustlin’ and robbin’ wouldn’t be no occupation a-tall, if them was the conditions, ’cause everybody would be takin’ your pants--and I’m thinkin’ you’d be kinda pant-huntin’ yourself.”

Mary Leeds laughed. It was ridiculous to think of the Reverend Josiah Weston stealing any one’s clothes, but there was crude wisdom in Skeeter Bill’s argument. The old minister smiled at Skeeter Bill, and finally they all laughed.

“I have been warned that Sunbeam may be hostile to me,” said the old minister, “but I am going to Sunbeam and open a church.”

“You’re ---- right you are,” agreed Skeeter warmly if profanely. “I’m backin’ your play plumb across the board. Me and you are goin’ to peddle gospel in Sunbeam as long as you can talk and I can shoot. Them coyotes are goin’ to church; _sabe?_ Sunbeam is headed for ----, and she’s up to us to crack in ahead of the stampede and turn ’em back, parson. There’s a lot of ring-tails in that cavvy, but me and you are goin’ to run ’em till the kinks come out.”

Mary Leeds and the Rev. Josiah Weston stared at him. They were unable to decipher all of his meaning, but there was no doubt of his enthusiasm.

“My son,” said the old minister, “I am glad to hear you promise assistance to the cause. Have you ever been converted to any faith?”

“No,” said Skeeter Bill slowly. “No, I don’t reckon I have, parson, but I’m goin’ to get more fun out of this than yuh could shake a stick at. Whoo-ee! If yuh get a bell, will yuh let me ring it?”

Skeeter Bill laughed and got to his feet.

“I reckon you folks can find dry beddin’ in one of the wagons, can’t yuh? Go to sleep and don’t be scared, cause nobody is goin’ to bother yuh tonight.”

Skeeter turned and walked back to where he had tied his horse, and led the animal back to the fire. He took off the saddle and bridle and tied the animal to a wagon-wheel. From one of the wagons came Mary Leeds’ voice--

“Good-night, tall man.”

“Skeeter Bill,” he called back at her laughingly.

“Good-night, my son,” came the call from another wagon.

“Snore easy, parson,” he replied.