Chapter VI

Judge Tareyton awoke from his debauch. To him there was no “morning after” because of the fact that his drunks corresponded to the average man’s daily doings. The jug was empty, which also corresponded to the empty cupboard to the average man. The judge did not hunger, but he thirsted a-plenty.

As he placed the jug back on the chair, some one rapped loudly on the door. To have said, “Come in” would have been a very great effort for the judge’s dry throat; so he got shakily out of bed and answered the knock in person. It was a miner, bearded to the eyes and with the muck of the creek upon him. The judge shoved his frowsy face through the door and waited for the other to speak.

“Feller named Sarg live here?”

The judge took this under advisement, but finally admitted it with a curt nod.

“Here now?” asked the miner.

The judge considered this question, but gave a negative shake of his head. The man turned as if to leave, when the judge decided to take a chance on his vocal cords.

“What did you require of him?”

The man stopped and looked at the judge, as though undecided whether to disclose his mission or not. He stepped in closer and in a confidential tone inquired:

“Do yuh know if he heard about the vigilance committee or not?”

Judge Tareyton’s face twitched, but he cleared his aching throat and shook his head.

“We’re goin’ to make these thieves around here danged hard to catch.”

The judge swallowed with great difficulty, and watched the man walk away. He shut the door, stumbled back to his bunk and sank down.

“Vigilance committee!” he gasped aloud, and then added, “Lookin’ for Skeeter Bill.”

He picked up the empty jug, hoping against hope that it contained something beside an odor, but cast it aside, after holding it unsteadily over a tin cup. He looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Where was Skeeter Bill? Maybe the vigilantes had already found him. The judge groaned aloud at his inability to do anything, when prompt action was needed.

He lifted his wadded pillow and disclosed two big Colt pistols. At least he could help a little, he thought. His hand trembled with the weight of one of them, the barrel describing irregular circles. He laid the gun on the bed and shook his head.

“I’m a menace to myself,” he said aloud. “Not even able to hold a gun. As God is my judge, if I ever get over this--I’ll very likely do it all over again. I’ll----”

He stopped talking aloud to himself and stared at the floor. Again he looked at his watch.

“Five hours!” he grunted hoarsely. “Five hours they gave us to get out. Where is Skeeter Bill? Have they killed him?”

The judge almost squeaked that last question, but the bare walls of the shack did not even echo a reply. He got to his feet, found the remains of an old derby hat, an old Prince Albert coat, faded and torn. Fully attired he looked at himself in a broken mirror. For a moment he stared at the reflection, and with a sweep of his hand sent the glass crashing to the floor. His hand went to his eyes and he stumbled toward the door, where he stopped and looked back.

“Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursel’s as ithers see us,” he quoted bitterly. “Seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror. Judge Tareyton, you’re a disreputable old reprobate! By gad, sir, you are not fit to wear a steel bill and pick food in a barnyard with the chickens. I repeat, sir; you disgrace me. I wish----”

Came the sound of footsteps on the hard ground outside. For a moment the judge hesitated. There was not the slightest doubt but what this was either the vigilantes or some of Leeds’ men, he thought. He settled his battered derby at a more secure angle, squared his stubbled jaw and opened the door. There stood Skeeter Bill, a girl and an old man.

* * * * *

Judge Tareyton rubbed a hand across his eyes and stared at them. The girl was smiling at him, and the judge wondered if it was for him or at him. Skeeter turned to the minister and the girl.

“Folks, I wants to make yuh used to Judge Tareyton.” Then he turned to the judge. “This here is a preacher named Weston, and the lady is his daughter.”

The judge removed his battered hat and bowed low. It was an almost disastrous bow, for the judge was not at all steady in the knees, and his recovery was just a bit wabbly.

“Sir and ma’am, I am honored. Welcome to our humble village. There is not much for a visitor to see, that is true, but you must remember that the place is still in its swaddling clothes. Did I understand that you are a minister of the gospel?”

“Correctly,” nodded the minister. “I am here to bring a message to the dim places. Perhaps it is just a trifle strange for a man of my age to take up missionary work, but I felt called to do this and--I am here.”

“No doubt of that,” nodded the judge absently. “Not a scintilla of doubt.”

The judge shifted his bleared eyes and swept the visible part of the town.

“Sir, I have often groped for a word which would describe Sunbeam, but until now it has evaded me. Dim. Yes, that is the word. By gad, sir, this most surely is one of the dim places, and I hope your light never flickers.”

“God willing, it never will, sir.”

“I’m backin’ his play, judge,” stated Skeeter Bill.

Judge Tareyton stared at Skeeter, as if not believing his own ears. He stared at Skeeter until Skeeter shifted uneasily under that steady gaze.

“Perhaps we had better go to the hotel,” said Mary Leeds.

“There ain’t none,” replied Skeeter slowly. “I just been thinkin’ that mebbe Mrs. Porter would take yuh both in. Don’t yuh reckon that’s the best idea, judge?”

The judge nodded slowly and cleared his throat.

“A very, very good idea, Skeeter Bill. I have no doubt but what the good soul would welcome them.”

Skeeter Bill turned as if to go on, but the judge stopped him.

“Skeeter Bill, have you four-bits? The oil has all burned out of the old lamp.”

Skeeter grinned and handed him a silver dollar.

“Come on, folks, we’ll visit Mrs. Porter. _Adios_, judge.”

The judge nearly fell trying to execute his bow and move swiftly toward the street at the same time. His whole being shrieked for liquor and he forgot Leeds’ warning or the danger of a vigilance committee. His right hand gripped that silver dollar until it fairly cut into the palm of his hand.

“Dim places,” he muttered as he stumbled into the street. “By gad, the old lamp is badly in need of oil.”

Blindly he entered the Panhandle and leaned on the bar. The dollar clattered on the painted wood, the clink of bottle-neck on thin glass--the old lamp flickered up again.

Mrs. Porter had been made a widow by virtue of a stick of dynamite, which did not live up to its scientific principles of only exploding when detonated. She had found herself alone in Sunbeam, in dire necessity of making a living; so she turned to the business of laundress.

History of the old West does not record that outlaws ever stooped to dealing with such plebeian things as a bundle of laundry, but it is a fact that many of them had human desires for clean clothes. Skeeter Bill and the judge had little knowledge of laundry--hence the acquaintance of Mrs. Porter and her flat-irons.

Mrs. Porter was busily engaged in her chosen profession when Skeeter Bill arrived with his charges.

“Would you believe it?” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, after the introductions. “A preacher and his girl! Well, now ain’t it too bad you didn’t show up a month ago? Jim Porter didn’t have no preacher to speak over him. Jim was pretty good--good as husbands go--and it was hard to plant him without any respectable prayers.”

“Can yuh put ’em up for a while, ma’am?” asked Skeeter Bill.

“I can, Mr. Sarg. I have a cot for the lady; and the preacher--” Mrs. Porter sized up the old minister, much to his embarrassment-- “I think he ain’t too long for the lounge. Jim hung over at both ends, when he layed down on it, but you’re kinda runty. Sure, I can put you up. When do you start preachin’?”

“Is there a church?”

“A church?” Mrs. Porter wiped a soapy hand on her apron and looked appealingly at Skeeter. “Church in Sunbeam? Now would you listen to the innocent man, Mr. Sarg?”

“I reckon they don’t understand Sunbeam, ma’am,” said Skeeter, and added, “But I reckon they’ll learn.”

“I dunno.” Mrs. Porter shook her head sadly. “I dunno. Jim Porter ’lowed he knowed dynamite from A to Izzard. ’Course, nobody knows what Jim done, but it’s almost a cinch he got flip with a stick of it. Say, Jeff Billings had some laundry here, which is a total loss to me, as you might say.”

Skeeter Bill rubbed his chin for a moment, but reached in his pocket and took out some money.

“Dollar cover it, ma’am?”

“Plenty,” nodded Mrs. Porter, accepting the silver. “Might as well take the stuff and wear it.”

Skeeter opened his mouth several times, as if unable to frame a reply, but finally shook his head violently. Skeeter Bill was hard-boiled, but he could hardly think of wearing the clothes of the man he had killed.

“Go right in the house,” urged Mrs. Porter, and Mary Leeds and the minister started in.

“Ain’t you comin’ in, Mr. Sarg?” asked Mrs. Porter.

“Nope,” Skeeter shook his head. “I--I’ve gotta job to do. See yuh later, folks.”

“Thank you so much,” said Mary Leeds, holding out her hand.

Skeeter reached for the hand, but missed and grasped her elbow, much to his confusion, but he shook her arm solemnly and hurried away without looking back.

“Gee cripes!” he muttered to himself. “Clumsy danged hippy-pot-a-must! Can’t even shake hands. That drunken old pardner of mine makes me ashamed that I never learned how to bow. Now, I reckon I’ve got to turn reg’lar killer to make good with the sky-pilot.”

He swung into the street and headed for the Panhandle.