Flames of the Storm

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Ajax for Example,” “The Range-Boomer,” etc.

It was the year of the big drouth in the valley of Moon River; a season when every blade of grass was worth its weight in gold to the cattlemen, who watched with jealous care over their unstaked portions of the range and guarded closely their almost dry water-holes.

Day after day through the long summer the merciless sun had baked the grass-roots; browning the land; burning below the surface, until a puff of wind would drift the soil, as a wind drifts dry snow. Even the sage and greasewood turned from purple to brownish-gray.

Along the river, which wound its way through this crescent-shaped valley, the leaves of willow and cottonwood hummed paper-dry in the hot winds, while the river, itself, was shrunken to half its normal Summer stage.

The range cattle were red-eyed, hollow of flank and dust-colored and when they stopped to graze their panting nostrils would send up tiny puffs of smoke-like dust. In all that valley of rolling hills, which sloped upward on both sides to the hazy heights of the Shoshone Mountains, there was no sign of green vegetation.

Riding down the slope of one of these hills, heading toward the river, came a tall, thin cowboy, unshaven and unshorn. The expression of his thin face was serious as he squinted into the hazy distance and spoke softly to his rangy bay horse—

“Bronc, ’f this ain’t the best place I ever seen t’ commit murder in, then my name ain’t ‘Skeeter Bill’ Sarg.”

The horse sniffed suspiciously at the dry grass, but did not crop at it.

“Ain’t much juice left in that kinda feed,” declared Skeeter Bill, removing his sombrero and wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. For a few minutes he surveyed the country before riding on.

Suddenly he drew rein and sniffed at the breeze. His rather long nose quivered, and he shook his head. Beyond him a cloud of dust floated over the skyline of a ridge, growing more dense. It was impossible to see what was making the dust-cloud, but whatever it was, it came over the ridge toward Skeeter Bill and dipped down into the depression beyond.

“Sheep!” snorted Skeeter Bill with the true cowman’s disgust of such animals. “We shore poked into one fine country t’ poke right out of ag’in, bronc.”

Skeeter Bill turned and rode angling along the side of the hill, going through a heavy thicket of greasewood. Suddenly his horse jerked ahead and went to its knees, and Skeeter fell head first into a thick clump of brush. As he fell he heard the whip-like snap of a rifle, and he knew that some one had shot his horse from under him.

He backed out of the tangle and investigated. His bay had crashed into some brush farther down the hill, and Skeeter could see that it was dead. He swore softly and held his gun ready.

The bullet had torn through Skeeter’s chaps, along his thigh, missing the flesh by a narrow margin, and had broken the back of the tall bay horse. Skeeter had no idea why he had been shot at, nor how many men might be ready to shoot at him again. It was a ticklish situation, but Skeeter smiled grimly and waited.

Far away he could hear the soft bawling of sheep and the tiny tinkle of a bell. A blue jay screeched harshly from down the cañon. Suddenly the brush crashed as if some one had stumbled into it. Skeeter glanced keenly in that direction, but did not move.

In a few moments the brush crashed again, and Skeeter grinned widely. He knew that some one was tossing rocks into the dry brush to try to get him to investigate. He snuggled a trifle lower and peered low through the tangle of brush above him. Whoever it was, they were moving very cautiously, for no sound of footsteps had come to his ears.

Suddenly his eyes focused on something. It might be part of the brush, and again it might be the legs of a man; a man whose body was completely screened by the heavy foliage. Skeeter considered these leg-like things very closely. Then came a dry cough—more like a wheezing chuckle; as if the man had tried to choke it and merely strangled. It came from above the legs.

“Pardner,” said Skeeter distinctly, “I’ve got yore legs in trouble. ’F yuh don’t toss yore gun over toward me, I’m shore goin’ t’ interest yuh in a pair of crutches.”

The legs remained motionless, but from their owner came another wheezing cough. In fact, the man coughed for quite a while, and the visible legs shook weakly at the finish.

“Now, throw over the gun,” ordered Skeeter, and a moment later a Winchester rifle crashed into the brush and hung up in view of Skeeter.

“C’m on out, pardner,” said Skeeter. “Walk right down past where the rifle hangs, and I’ll kinda look yuh over.”

The man was coming down through the brush before Skeeter had finished, and broke his way out into the open a moment later.

“Keep yore hands above yore waist,” ordered Skeeter meaningly, “while I look yuh over.”

The man was possibly not more than thirty years of age, yet looked much older. A stubbly beard covered the lower part of his face, and a pair of weary-looking eyes seemed to consider Skeeter closely.

The man was not evil-looking, in spite of his unkempt appearance. His torn shirt was clean, as were the worn overalls. He coughed softly again, and a flush crept across his thin cheeks.

“Shucks!” muttered Skeeter softly. “Whatcha tryin’ t’ kill me for, pardner?”

The man shook his head slowly, wearily.

“What’s the use of arguing about it? I’m willing to take what’s coming to me. I got tired of being shot at, that’s all.”

“Well,” grinned Skeeter, “that’s a-plenty, ’f yuh stop t’ ask me. C’m here and set down.”

The man obeyed wonderingly.

“Yuh got a bad cough,” observed Skeeter.

“Go ahead,” said the man bitterly. “It’s my cough—not yours.”

“Aw, ——!” grunted Skeeter. “I beg yore pardon. I’m always sayin’ the wrong thing.”

He studied the man for several moments, and then:

“Mind tellin’ me somethin’? Honest t’ goodness, I don’t know a danged thing about this here country. I just rode in. When a feller gets his bronc shot out from under him he kinda wants t’ know why.”

The man’s eyes expressed his unbelief. Skeeter laid his six-shooter across his lap and rolled a cigaret while he waited for the man to explain.

“Well,” began the man slowly, “you’ve got me dead to rights; so it don’t make much difference now. If you’re one of the cattlemen I’ll likely get lynched for killing the horse.”

“Likely,” nodded Skeeter dryly. “’F yuh don’t get lynched, you’ll figger out that I’ve told yuh the truth.”

Skeeter leaned a little closer and tapped the man on the knee with his finger.

“Pardner, ’f there’s anythin’ yuh don’t want t’ tell me the truth about—don’t tell anythin’. Sabe what I mean?”

“Afraid I’ll lie to you?”

“Tellin’ yuh not to. I don’t care who yuh are, nor what yuh are, pardner. I reckon the killin’ of my bronc was a mistake, but that’s all past. I don’t lie, and I won’t stand for no man lyin’ t’ me.”

The man looked curiously at him wondering if this lanky cowboy was joking or not. No, he decided that Skeeter Bill was not joking. A man who would not lie and would not stand for a liar was a novelty in the range-land. The man decided against prevarication.

“My name is Kirk,” he stated; “Jim Kirk.”

“Mine’s Sarg,” grinned Skeeter. “Mostly always, folks calls me Skeeter Bill.”

“I’m a sheepherder,” stated Kirk.

“I’m not!” snapped Skeeter. “I hate the —— things.”

Kirk nodded and dug into the hard soil with the heel of his boot.

“I don’t love ’em,” he admitted softly, shaking his head. “Nobody does, I guess. Still—” Kirk lifted his head and gazed off across the tangle of brush—“still, they have made it possible for me to live out here.”

“Oh,” softly.

“If it wasn’t for the sheep I would probably have to live in a city.”

Skeeter cleared his throat softly.

“Well, under them circumstances sheep ain’t so danged bad, I reckon. Feller does feel better, livin’ out here in the old hills. Mebbe I’d herd sheep, too.”

“Yes, you’d do anything to keep living.”

“I come danged near shufflin’ off a while ago,” reminded Skeeter seriously. “That bronc was worth a lot t’ me.”

The cough came again and occupied Kirk’s attention for a period.

“I’m awful sorry about the horse,” he panted hoarsely. “I thought you might be gunning for me, and I wanted to beat you to it.”

“You shore had the proper idea,” grinned Skeeter.

“The idea was all right,” admitted Kirk, “and, as I said before, I got tired of being shot at.”

“Cows and sheep kinda warrin’ round?” queried Skeeter Bill.

Kirk nodded slowly.

“Yes. In a way I don’t blame the cowmen. This range has belonged to them ever since the first cow came in over the hill. The sheep will ruin it for anything but sheep, but the law says that sheep and cows have equal rights.”

Skeeter Bill snorted. The law had never meant much to him.

“And so the cow-men takes things in their own hands, eh?”

“It seems that way,” smiled Kirk.

“You own the sheep?” queried Skeeter.

“Me?”

Kirk shook his head.

“Nope,” he denied. “I’m just a hired sheepherder.”

“Thasso?”

Skeeter considered Kirk’s humped figure for a space of time, and then—

“You ain’t no hired killer, Kirk; so why take a chance on killin’ or gittin’ killed?”

Kirk coughed softly and got to his feet. The sun was yet an hour high, but the cañons were already blocky with purple shadows. From farther down the hill came the bleating of sheep; the everlasting, meaningless “baa, baa, baa, baa” from hundreds of throats.

Kirk turned and looked at Skeeter.

“No, I am not a killer. I never shot at a man before.”

He pointed down across the brush toward the sheep.

“Do you think I love those things? Sarg, I am not physically fit to do a man’s work, and I can’t live inside a house. Out here in the hills I have a fighting chance to live, and there is nothing I can get to do, that I can do, except herd sheep.”

“Well,” drawled Skeeter, “I reckon we better give three cheers for the sheep. But I’m still a li’l hazy as t’ why yuh tried t’ bump me off, pardner.”

“Self-defense. I thought you was one of the gang that left the warning at my camp yesterday. They ordered me to pack up and get out—my wife and me.”

“Oh!” grunted Skeeter softly. “You’ve got a wife with yuh?”

Kirk nodded, and a deep crease appeared between his eyes as he frowned over his own thoughts. Suddenly he shook his head and looked down toward the sheep.

“It’s time to take them back, I guess,” he remarked. “You might come down to camp with me and have something to eat.”

Skeeter nodded.

“I’ll take yuh up on that, pardner; but I’ll get m’ saddle first.”

It was only a few moments’ work to strip the saddle from the dead horse and to remove the bridle. Skeeter made no more comments about the dead horse. The tall bay had served him well; but Skeeter in his time had ridden many horses, and this was not the first one to perish under him.

Carrying the heavy saddle, he helped Kirk round up the herd of sheep and head them in the direction of the bed-ground. Through a filmy cloud of dust they followed the bleating herd along the side of the cañon, until of their own accord the sheep headed down on to a flat, where Skeeter could see an old tumbledown shack and part of an old pole-corral.

Smoke was issuing from the crooked old chimney, and as they drew nearer a woman came to the open doorway and looked at them. She was dressed in faded calico and coarse shoes, but Skeeter thought he had never seen a more beautiful face.

After a searching glance at him the woman darted from the doorway and ran to Kirk, as if partly for protection and partly to find out if he was all right. Kirk put an arm around her shoulders and turned to Skeeter.

“Sarg, that is my wife.”

“Glad t’ meetcha,” muttered Skeeter as he placed the saddle on the ground and held out his hand.

The woman glanced at Kirk before she shook hands with Skeeter Bill.

“I killed his horse,” said Kirk slowly. “I thought he was one of the cowboys.”

“Tha’s all right,” grinned Skeeter. “Mistakes’ll happen in the best of families. I’ve been mistaken f’r the same thing before.”

“Then you’re not a cowboy?” queried Mrs. Kirk.

“I dunno.” Skeeter Bill shook his head. “I’ve been a lot of things, ma’am, and I dunno which one took the most. I’m just kinda pesticatin’ around, yuh see. I poked into this here country, and unless I’m misreadin’ the signs I’m goin’ t’ poke right out again.”

“You’ll have to get another horse,” reminded Kirk.

“Uh-huh. But that’s a cinch in a cow-country. I’ve got a rope left.”

Mrs. Kirk turned to the doorway, as she said—

“Supper is almost ready, Jim, and I know you must be starved—you and Mr. Sarg.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Skeeter seriously. “I sure could fold up quite a parcel of food right now, thank yuh kindly.”

Skeeter and Kirk washed at the little spring, where a little fence had been built to block out the sheep.

“Does yore wife like this kind of a life?” queried Skeeter.

Kirk shook his head as he squatted on his heels at the side of the spring.

“I don’t think so, Sarg, but she is willing to do it for my sake.”

Skeeter rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a while and shook his head.

“I dunno much about women, Kirk—the right kind. You ain’t much t’ look at. She’s mighty pretty and sweet; but she’s willin’ t’ live out here, alongside of a bunch of blattin’ woollies, just cause it’s goin’ t’ help you.”

“That’s love, Sarg.”

Skeeter Bill squinted closely at Kirk’s face and looked back toward the cabin door.

“Love—eh? Heat and dirt and the smell of sheep! Old rickety cabin, canned food and swappin’ lead with the cattlemen. No other women; lonesome as ——!”

Skeeter looked down at Kirk and nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I reckon it must be love, pardner,” he went on. “I ain’t never seen it in that kind of a package before, so I didn’t sabe it on sight.”

“She’s my pal—my bunkie,” said Kirk slowly. “She’s willing to go fifty-fifty with me in everything.”

“Thasso? About bein’ a pal—I didn’t know that a woman could be thataway. Women, t’ me, have always been kinda—mebbe I didn’t look at ’em right, Kirk. I kinda like that bunkie idea, y’betcha.”

“She’s the best in the world,” said Kirk softly as they neared the house.

“I s’pose,” nodded Skeeter. “I s’pose that’s right.”

The supper was meager in variety as well as in quantity, but it was well cooked.

“I’ve got to go to town tomorrow,” stated Kirk. “We are out of food. I’ve been putting it off for several days, but it has become an absolute necessity.”

“I hate to have you go to town, Jim,” said Mrs. Kirk. “Under the circumstances it is hard to tell what might happen.”

“Don’t you worry, honey.”

Kirk leaned across the table and patted her on the shoulder.

“I’ll hitch up the old horse to the old wagon in the morning,” he continued, “and be back here in two hours with a load of food.”

“I’ve got a better scheme than that,” grinned Skeeter. “I’ll go after yore grub for yuh.”

Kirk shook his head.

“No, I can’t let you get into any trouble on our account. They would recognize that horse and wagon, and you can’t tell what would happen.”

“I’d shore like t’ see what would happen,” said Skeeter slowly, rolling a cigaret. “I’m willin’, ’f the town is, and I ain’t got nobody waitin’ f’r me t’ come back all in one chunk.”

“But why should you do this for us?” asked Kirk. “I killed your horse and nearly killed you.”

“I dunno why,” said Skeeter honestly. “’F I stopped’t ask m’self, ‘Why?’ all the time, I’d never do anythin’. Tell me somethin’ about this sheep and cattle trouble.”

“We are from Chicago,” said Kirk. “I was a telegraph operator in a brokerage office until a specialist told me that I must live in the hills or quit living entirely. Then we came West with no place in mind and very little money to start with.

“Somehow we came to Wheeler City and met the man who offered me this job. He was sending in a lot of sheep, which were to be driven in through Table Rock Pass and then broken up into several bands.

“We didn’t have a dollar left when this offer came to us, and we accepted it quickly. It was a mighty hard trip for us, because neither of us had ever roughed it before. On this side of the pass the herd was split into four parts and a man led us to this spot.

“Nothing was said to us about trouble with the cattlemen. We were given a rifle and a shotgun and plenty of ammunition. The shotgun is over there in the corner. I have never fired it.”

“How long have yuh been in here?” asked Skeeter.

“Two weeks. Three men were killed in the next camp to us on the first day—two sheep-men and one cowboy. The man who brought us in was arrested, although he had nothing to do with the shooting. The judge turned him loose and notified the cattlemen that the sheep-men were not to be molested until it could be fought out in the courts. The cattlemen know that it will take months to get a decision, and in the meantime the sheep are wearing out the range.”

“Who owns the sheep?”

Kirk shook his head.

“I don’t know. The man who hired me is named McClelland. He did not admit ownership in court, but stated that he was responsible for the sheep.”

“You been shot at?”

“Five times,” said Kirk. “Anyway I think they shot at me. Perhaps they merely tried to frighten me. At least a dozen of my sheep have been killed at long range.”

“Yuh spoke about a warnin’,” reminded Skeeter.

Kirk got up and took a piece of paper from a shelf above the table. It was crudely printed with a lead pencil, and read:

GIT OUT AND KEEP GOING.
WE DON’T LIKE SHEEP BUT
WE DO LIKE PURTY WIMIN.
THE LAW AIN’T GOING TO
HELP YOU NONE IN THIS
CASE. YOU BETTER HEED.

There was no name signed to this missive, but its meaning was very plain. Skeeter squinted up at Kirk and handed him the paper.

“You ain’t goin’ t’ heed?”

“They wouldn’t dare harm my wife, Sarg.”

Skeeter looked at Mrs. Kirk and back to Kirk.

“Pardner, yo’re a long, long ways from Chicago. Folks say that men are big-minded, big-hearted in the West, but it takes all kinds of folks t’ make up the West, just like it does the East. Some of these cattlemen hate a sheepherder, and ’f that sheepherder had a danged purty wife— Still, they was honest enough t’ give yuh a warnin’.”

“Would you heed it?” demanded Kirk.

Skeeter rubbed his chin and glanced at Mrs. Kirk, who was watching him intently.

“If you were sick and needed the work, and your wife was willing to stay with you?” added Kirk softly.

“No, by ——!” exploded Skeeter Bill. “Not as long as I had a shell left f’r m’ gun, or one arm able t’ throw rocks.”

“That’s how I feel,” said Kirk.

“But what protection has your wife got? You have t’ leave her here alone, don’tcha?”

“Not all the time,” said Mrs. Kirk. “I go out with him quite a lot, and when I am here I have the shotgun, you see.”

Skeeter Bill crossed the room and picked up the shotgun. It was a sawed-off Winchester, with a magazine full of buckshot-loaded shells. Skeeter grinned at Mrs. Kirk.

“Didja ever shoot this, ma’am?”

“No, I never have; but I know I could.”

“Hm-m-m!”

Skeeter placed the gun back in the corner.

“Perhaps we ought to try it,” said Kirk. “I don’t know how it shoots.”

“Oh, it’ll shoot,” said Skeeter. “Don’tcha worry about that; but it ain’t nothin’ t’ practise with. When the right time comes, just squeeze the trigger.”

“I hope I shall never have to use it,” said Mrs. Kirk.

“I hope not,” agreed Skeeter; “but ’f yuh ever do have to—don’t hesitate, ma’am.”

“I do not think I shall.”

Mrs. Kirk shook her head.

“Jim and I came out here to stay, you know,” she added.

“That’s shore the way t’ look at it, ma’am.”

“Do you intend to locate in this country?” asked Kirk.

“Me?”

Skeeter grinned widely.

“No-o-o,” he said, “I can’t say I am. I ain’t much of a locator, Kirk. I’m jist kinda driftin’ along—mostly. I ain’t got nobody t’ care where I wind up m’ li’l ball of yarn. M’ pardner got killed in Sunbeam, and since then I’ve kinda moseyed along.”

“We heard of Sunbeam,” said Mrs. Kirk. “A new mining-country, isn’t it? We thought perhaps we might go there, but there is no railroad and they told us that it was a long desert trip.”

“I guess it’s a tough place,” added Kirk.

“It was,” agreed Skeeter thoughtfully. “But there ain’t an outlaw left in the town now.”

“What became of them?” asked Kirk.

“Well—” Skeeter rubbed his chin slowly—“well, he rode away.”

“He rode away? Was there only one?”

“Uh-huh—only one left. The rest cashed in one night. I dunno who’s moved in since he left.”

“You don’t mean to say that you——”

Kirk stopped.

Skeeter got slowly to his feet and hitched up his belt.

“’F you folks don’t mind I’ll spread m’ blankets out by the li’l corral,” he said.

“There’s room in here,” said Mrs. Kirk.

Skeeter shook his head and went out to his saddle, where he untied his blanket-roll and took it up by the little tumble-down corral.

Moonlight silvered the hills, and the moon itself was stereoscopic, hanging like a huge ball in the sky, instead of showing as a flat plane. From the bed-ground came the soft bleating of sheep, while farther back in the hills a coyote barked snappily for a moment and wailed out his dismal howl.

Skeeter wrapped up in his blanket and puffed slowly on a cigaret. He was thinking of Sunbeam and of Mary Leeds, who had come seeking her father. Skeeter had ridden away the night he had been instrumental in cleaning up the outlaws of Sunbeam, the night that Mary Leeds’ father had been killed.

Skeeter’s partner, Judge Tareyton, was Mary’s father, but no one knew it until after the judge had died, and Skeeter, broken-hearted over the death of his old partner, had ridden away in the night; ridden away, so that with his going, Sunbeam might be entirely rid of outlaws.

He wondered what had become of Mary Leeds. He knew that the good people would take care of her. He could still hear her voice calling, “Skeeter Bill” to him, as he rode away in the night, and for the first time since that night he wondered why she called to him.

He found himself comparing her to Mrs. Kirk. No, she was not as pretty as Mrs. Kirk, but they were alike in some ways. Finally he snuggled deeper in his blankets and threw away his cigaret. The words of old Judge Tareyton come back to him—

“Keep smilin’, son, and don’t forget that God put a spark in you—a spark that will flare up and build a big flame for you—if you’ll let it.”

Skeeter smiled seriously at the memory picture of his old drunken lawyer partner and eased himself to a comfortable sleeping position.

Crescent City was the county seat of Moon River County, and a typical cattle town. The branch line of the N. W. Railroad came in out of the desert, dropped down through a winding pass, traversed nearly the entire length of the valley and wound its way eastward through the Southern Pass.

Just now Crescent City was the seat of much agitation, due to the invasion of sheep. Bearded cattle owners and hard-faced cowboys thronged the town, arguing, prophesying, swearing at the law, which gave a sheep the same rights as a cow. The saloons were doing a big business, as were the gambling-halls, and fights were plentiful and easy to start.

Judge Grayson, following his decision in the matter, had remained religiously at home. He was a married man, small of physique, and abhorred violence. Several reckless cowboys had openly sworn to scalp the judge and tie the scalp on a bald-headed sheep.

Ben Freel, the sheriff, was another object of wrath with the cattlemen. None of them considered the duty of a sheriff in this case. Freel was a gunman, cold as ice, and heartless in matters concerning his sworn duty, and he remained unmoved under the vitriolic criticism hurled at his back.

With the cattlemen it was a case of ousting the sheep or quitting the cattle business. It was true that only a small part of the range was being sheeped out; but if the sheep once gained a foot-hold in the valley of Moon River it would only be a question of a short time until more sheep would come pouring in through Table Rock Pass.

Cleve Hart owned the Lazy H outfit, which was the largest in the Moon River range, with the home ranch within two miles of Crescent City. It was a combined horse and cow outfit and employed many cowboys.

And in all that range land there was no man more bitter toward sheep than Cleve Hart. He was a big man, hard of face, hard-riding, hard-drinking, and a hard fighter. And he hated Ben Freel.

As far as that was concerned, there was no love lost between them, for Freel hated Cleve Hart with all his soul. Hart also hated Judge Grayson—not because he was a judge, but because he was a friend to Ben Freel.

It was Hart’s cowboys who killed off the two sheep-herders, losing one of their number at the same time; and it was Hart who declared openly to wipe out all the sheep and sheep-herders, but was stopped by Ben Freel and later restrained by the law.

It was fairly early in the morning when Skeeter Bill drove down the main street of Crescent City; but the hitch-racks were already well filled with saddle-horses, and a large number of cowboys were in evidence.

Skeeter’s equipage was fairly noticeable. The horse was an ancient gray, uncurried, patchy of hair and moth-eaten of mane and tail. The wagon was even more ancient than the horse, with wheels which did not track and threatened at any time to wrench loose from the hubs.

The seat springs were broken down on one side, causing Skeeter to sit sidewise with his feet braced against the opposite side of the wagon-box, where he looked entirely out of proportion to the rest of the outfit.

Several cowboys stopped at the edge of the board sidewalk to size him up as he drove up in front of a general merchandise store. There was no doubt in their minds but that this was a sheep-wagon, and the news spread rapidly.

Skeeter appeared oblivious of all this. He rolled and lighted a cigaret before dismounting, which gave the cowboys plenty of time to make closer observations. Several of them went past him and into the store, while others gathered around him and seemed to marvel greatly at his equipage.

“Ba-a-a-a?” queried a skinny cowboy seriously, looking up at Skeeter.

“Yea-a-a-a-ah,” said Skeeter just as seriously.

The skinny one colored slightly under his tan, as his lips quivered in another question.

“Maa-a-a-a-a?”

“Naa-a-a-a-a-a-a,” bleated Skeeter seriously.

One of the cowboys laughed nervously, but the bleating one’s eyes did not waver from Skeeter’s face.

“You think you’re—smart, don’t yuh?” he asked.

“Smart enough t’ talk yore language,” said Skeeter.

The cowboy’s hand jerked nervously along his thigh, but Skeeter did not move. His eyes narrowed, slightly, and he nodded slowly.

“Hop to it, pardner. I don’t know who yuh are, but I ain’t lookin’ for no cinch.”

The cowboy relaxed slightly and seemed undecided. He had not expected this from a sheep-herder, and he wanted to back out gracefully.

“You jist toddle along,” smiled Skeeter. “You don’t need t’ be afraid t’ turn yore back t’ me.”

“You can’t run no blazer on me!” snapped the cowboy, as if trying to bolster up his courage with the sound of his own voice.

“I betcha yo’re right,” agreed Skeeter. “I ain’t never goin’ t’ try it, pardner. When I talk t’ you, I mean every —— word I say.”

The cowboy growled something under his breath and turned back across the street toward a saloon. The rest of the cowboys sauntered on, talking softly among themselves and glancing back toward the saloon. Skeeter made a bet with himself that this loud-talking cowboy had disrated himself in their minds. He climbed down, tied his horse and went into the store.

Some of the cowboys were sitting on a counter when Skeeter came in, but paid no attention to him. The storekeeper, who was behind a counter arranging some goods, also paid no attention to Skeeter as he leaned negligently against the counter and whistled unmusically between his teeth.

The cowboys had ceased their conversation, and the place was quiet except for Skeeter’s tuneless whistle. Finally the storekeeper turned and looked at Skeeter, who slid a penciled list of the necessary groceries across the counter to him.

The storekeeper glanced down at the sizable list for a moment and then at Skeeter.

“Sheep outfit?” he asked.

Skeeter nodded, and the man shoved the list back to Skeeter.

“I’m out of all them articles,” he stated and turned back to his work.

Skeeter Bill turned slowly and looked around. One of the largest articles on the list was flour, and on a central counter were at least ten sacks. His eyes turned to shelving behind the storekeeper, where there were canned goods, baking-powder, salt. On the counter beside him were several strips of bacon.

Skeeter Bill considered his list carefully, checking off the goods in sight. He knew that the store had declared an embargo on the sheep-men. It was a mean move and might be very effective, as Crescent City was the nearest supply point by at least thirty miles.

The storekeeper turned his head and favored Skeeter Bill with an ugly look.

“I told you once that I’m all out of them goods,” he repeated heatedly.

“I heard yuh,” grinned Skeeter, “but I thought I’d kinda hang around until yuh got a new supply.”

“Then you’ll have a ——long time, feller.”

“Oh!” grunted Skeeter. “I’ve got a mind not t’ trade with you a-tall. You look somethin’ like a storekeeper I knowed in Oklahoma, but I know you ain’t the same one, cause he got hung f’r givin’ short weight to a widder woman. I’ll leave the list with yuh, and I’m goin’t’ weigh everythin’ before I pay yuh for it.”

Skeeter turned on his heel and walked out of the door, while the irate storekeeper sprawled across the counter and tried to swear. The cowboys, who had suggested the embargo, went out slowly, solemnly, choking back their unholy glee at the discomfiture of the storekeeper.

Skeeter soon found that emissaries of the cattlemen had preceded him to every store, and in each place he was given to understand that they were out of all staple and fancy groceries. It was the first time that the cattle interests had thought of such a move, and they were jubilant over its success.

No one made any move to interfere with Skeeter Bill. He did not look like a sheep-herder. His faded clothes, high-crowned hat and high-heeled boots proclaimed the cowpuncher. The hang of his well-filled cartridge belt and the angle of his heavy, black-handled Colt were readable signs to the cattlemen.

Skeeter loafed along the street, cogitating deeply over just what to do, when a man rode into town and headed for the sheriff’s office, in front of which Skeeter was standing.

The man was Ben Freel, the sheriff. One side of his head was a welter of gore. Several cowboys crowded around him, as he dismounted heavily and leaned wearily against the short hitch-rack.

“Wha’sa matter, Ben?” asked a cowboy. “Didja get bushwhacked?”

Freel nodded.

“Shepherd?” queried another cowboy anxiously.

“How in —— do I know?” snapped Freel. “Somebody bushed me, that’s a cinch, and I want to say right now that this bush warfare has got to quit.”

Freel went into his office, slamming the door behind him. Skeeter decided that Freel was decidedly more mad than injured. The cowboys showed little sympathy for Freel, but it gave them another talking point. Skeeter walked away from the group and went back toward the first store he had entered.

The storekeeper was alone this time. He seemed greatly peeved at the sight of Skeeter Bill.

“Yore stock of goods arrived yet?” queried Skeeter.

“No, by ——!” yelped the grocer. “You git out of here and stay out!”

He snatched Skeeter’s list off the counter and shoved it under Skeeter’s nose.

“You take your —— list and vamoose!”

Skeeter took the list and looked it over carefully, after which he picked up a sack of flour in his left hand and again looked at his list.

“Leggo that flour!” howled the storekeeper. “Leggo——”

He grabbed the flour in one hand and took a long swing at Skeeter’s chin with the other. The fist described an arc, met no resistance and swung its owner half-around, causing him to let loose of the sack.

Skeeter swung up the sack in both hands and brought it down upon the unprotected head of the staggering storekeeper, knocking him to the floor in a smother of flour from the burst sack.

On the floor near him was a great coil of new, half-inch Manila rope. As the storekeeper struggled to his feet Skeeter back-heeled him neatly and broke all records for hog-tying a human being.

The storekeeper let out a yelp for assistance, but Skeeter shook the rest of the flour out of the sack and used the sack to gag his victim. Then Skeeter proceeded to stack up his list of necessities, working swiftly.

Estimating at a top figure, he placed the money on the counter and began carrying his purchases out to the wagon. Luckily no one was paying any attention to him, as most of the inquisitive ones were down at the sheriff’s office trying to find out just what had happened to him.

The ancient gray looked upon Skeeter with disapproving eyes as it noted the amount of weight which was to be drawn back to the sheep-camp; but Skeeter’s one big idea was to get out of Crescent City as fast as possible.

He climbed to the rickety seat, almost upset the wagon on a short turn, and rattled out of town. Several cowboys had come out of the saloon across the street and watched him drive away.

Skeeter caught a glimpse of one of these cowboys waving his arms wildly as he started across toward the store, and Skeeter knew that the cowboy had seen the half-loaded wagon and was going to find out what had happened to the storekeeper.

It was nearly three miles to the sheep-camp—three miles of crooked, rutty road; and it was like riding a bucking broncho to stay on that wagon-seat. Skeeter lashed the old gray into a gallop—or rather what resembled a gallop—and urged it to further speed with whip and voice.

As they topped the crest of a hill Skeeter looked back, but the pursuit had not started yet; so he yelled threateningly at the old gray, and they lurched off down the grade in a cloud of alkali dust.

Skeeter knew that the cowboys would probably follow him and try to recover the supplies, but he also knew that they would not get them without a fight. He had promised the Kirks that he would bring back the supplies, and Skeeter Bill meant to keep his word.

The old gray looked like an advertisement for a popular soap-suds powder when they skidded, slewed and lurched down on to the sheep-ranch flat and stopped at the door of the little cabin. Skeeter yelped loudly, but no one answered his hail; so he fell off the rickety seat and began gathering up packages from the rear of the wagon, while the ancient gray spread its legs wide apart and heaved like a bellows.

“Maud S,” said Skeeter, “you ain’t —— for speed, but yuh shore can lather a-plenty. ’F I had a razor I’d give yuh a shave.”

He started for the half-open door with his arms full of plunder, when he happened to look down at the ground near the low step, where the pump shotgun was leaning against the house, with its muzzle in the dirt.

Skeeter kicked the door open, placed the food inside and came back to the gun. He looked it over and pumped out an empty shell. The gun had been fired recently, and a grin overspread Skeeter’s face as he visualized Mrs. Kirk shooting at a target to try the gun.

“Kicked her so danged hard that she dropped it and busted off across country for fear it might go off ag’in,” mused Skeeter; but as his eyes searched for a possible target he stared at the fringe of the old dry-wash, about fifty feet away.

Taking a deep breath, he walked straight out there and looked down at the body of a man. Skeeter did not know him. He was a big man with a deeply lined face, and his hair was slightly gray. He wore a faded blue shirt, nondescript vest, overalls and bat-winged chaps. One of his arms was doubled under him, and that hand evidently held a six-shooter, the barrel of which protruded out past his hip.

Skeeter turned him over and felt of his heart. The man had evidently received the whole charge of buckshot between his waist and shoulders, and there was no question but that he was dead.

Skeeter squatted down beside the dead man with the shotgun across his lap. There was no question in his mind but that either Kirk or his wife had fired the fatal shot. Which one, it did not matter. They had only been protecting their rights; but would the law look at it in the right way?

Skeeter had become so engrossed in the problem that he forgot his wild ride from town. He knew that he must dispose of this body at once—wipe out all evidence of this tragedy—anything to get it away from the sheep-camp and out of the light of day.

The brushy bottom of the old dry-wash suggested the handiest spot, and without a moment’s delay he swung the body around, climbed partly down the bank and hoisted the body to his shoulder. The loose dirt gave way with him, and he almost fell to his knees at the bottom, but managed to right himself. As he plunged ahead into the brush he seemed to be surrounded by horsemen, some of them almost crashing into him.

He swung the body aside into a bush and reached for his gun, but looked up into the muzzles of four guns, and one of them was in the hand of Ben Freel, the sheriff. Two other cowboys came riding through the brush and stopped near them.

Freel spurred his horse ahead and looked down at the dead man.

“By ——!” he grunted. “Cleve Hart!”

Skeeter did not look up. The name meant nothing to him; he was thinking rapidly. He still had his gun. It was true that at least three six-shooters were leveled at him, but he might last long enough to make them sorry they had followed him.

“Take his gun, Slim,” ordered the sheriff, and one of the cowboys swung down and deftly yanked Skeeter’s gun from its holster.

Skeeter glanced up at Freel and smiled wearily.

“I’m glad your man took my gun, sheriff. I feel better now.”

“Yeah?”

Freel took the gun from the cowboy and dropped it into his pocket as he turned to Skeeter.

“Mind tellin’ us about it?”

Skeeter glanced at the dead man and around at the circle of cowboys.

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon I will, sheriff.”

“What did yuh shoot him for?”

This from one of the cowboys, who was riding a Lazy H horse.

Skeeter shut his lips tight and shook his head. Freel dismounted and examined the body carefully.

“Buckshot,” he said finally. “Riddled him.”

“The gun’s up there on the bank,” said Skeeter, jerking his head in that direction. “The empty shell is over in front of the shack.”

“You’re a —— of a cool customer,” declared the one called Slim.

“Ancestors was Eskimos,” said Skeeter seriously.

“If yuh ask me, I’d say he’s as crazy as a loon,” said another cowboy, who wore long hair and a chin-strap. “They say that’s what happens to sheep-herders.”

Freel sent two of the cowboys to get the shotgun and empty cartridge shell, to be used as evidence, while he dismounted and slipped a pair of handcuffs on Skeeter Bill and ordered him to mount one of the horses.

“Mind doin’ me a li’l favor, sheriff?” asked Skeeter.

“Mebbe not,” growled Freel. “Whatcha want?”