Front matter (continued 2)

“That happened almost ten years ago, Monk.”

“I know it. Almost long enough for us to forget, eh? But not quite, Hank.”

“Uh-huh,” Gregory laughed bitterly. “Almost like somethin’ yuh read about, Monk. You know enough about me to send me to the penitentiary, and yo’re willin’ to use that knowledge to make me do what yuh want me to do, eh?”

“I don’t think yo’re a —— fool, Hank,” coldly.

“No? Well, I am —— in some things, Monk.”

Gregory shoved himself away from the stable wall and came closer to Clark.

“There are some things in which I don’t show a lick of sense. When yo’re playin’ yore cards, Monk—remember this.”

Clark scowled heavily. He had not counted on this.

“Just what things do yuh mean, Hank?” he asked.

“Anythin’ affectin’ Joy and Curley.”

“Oh. Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, Hank. If you want that girl to starve to death with a rattle-headed cowpuncher, it’s yore business, I reckon.”

Monk Clark picked up his reins and climbed into his saddle.

“Yuh can tell the sheriff that I’m here when he wants me,” said Gregory.

Clark laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t be a fool. I’ve been yore friend a long time, Hank. I didn’t think you’d turn me down. But if I happen to feel like it, I’ll tell the sheriff.”

He turned his horse and rode away. Joy and Calamity stopped their labors long enough to watch him ride down the road. They were laughing as they resumed their planting. Gregory leaned against the stable wall, his mind going back to a day, almost ten years before.

It happened in a little county in a far corner of the State. Gregory was riding through, and joined with two congenial fellows, who were well mounted. Almost without warning they were fired upon by several mounted men.

Without any inkling that he was with two horse-thieves, Gregory returned their fire. The battle did not last long. Both of the thieves were shot from their saddles. Gregory saw one of the posse fall.

It was only through the speed of his horse that Gregory had been able to escape the posse. Monk Clark, who had been one of the posse, recognized Gregory’s horse when Gregory came to his ranch that night.

Believing that honesty was the best policy, Gregory told his story to Clark, who seemed to accept Gregory’s explanation. It was then that Clark told him that the sheriff had been killed and that his story would not save him if the authorities knew where he was.

The two horse-thieves were dead; so their testimony would not be available. Clark explained that the sheriff was well liked in that country; so well liked, in fact, that he—Gregory—would probably not be accorded a fair trial.

For over a week, he remained in hiding, until the excitement had died down, before leaving the ranch. Clark had kept him posted, and Gregory knew that they were looking for him for the killing of the sheriff.

Gregory had made his way back to the Moon River country, and later Monk Clark had acquired the Tin Cup outfit. But in all this time, Clark had never—until today—mentioned the incident.

It had been the natural thing for Gregory to assist Clark in any way possible, and Gregory had thought that Clark believed his story at the time of his escape. But guilty or innocent, Gregory knew that he could never prove it to a jury.

He wondered if Clark would use his knowledge. Gregory had never told it to any one else. Joy’s mother had died before this happened, and Joy was living with her mother’s sister in another State.

Gregory knew now that Monk Clark wanted Joy, and that he would do everything possible to prevent Joy from marrying Curley Adams. Gregory knew that Joy disliked Monk Clark and would be greatly amused at even a hint of her marrying him.

But Gregory was not worried about Monk doing anything to Joy. What he could and might do to Curley was a different matter. He knew Monk Clark for a determined man, and it seemed that Monk’s conscience was fairly flexible.

He wanted to tell Curley to be on his guard, but it would be a difficult thing to explain without telling more than he cared to tell. It was nearly supper time when Curley rode in and announced that he was tired of his own cooking.

He exhibited some bruised fingernails as evidence that he had been working.

“Sawed my knee-cap three times today,” he declared. “I’ve heard of architects puttin’ their souls into their work; but I’m puttin’ my flesh and blood in mine. Every darned nail I’ve got is hinged in the middle. What I need is a wide-faced hammer and some tacks.”

“Joy cooked some apple pie,” announced Calamity. “When we git through with the crusts I’m goin’ to sew ’em together and make a cover for my old saddle. Rawhide! Whooee! I knowed a cook back in 1866 that made a pie and—”

“You was in the penitentiary in 1866,” retorted Joy.

“Shore I was. This feller was the penitentiary cook, Joy. This cook says to me, ‘Calamity, I’m——’”

“The penitentiary cooks don’t speak to common prisoners.”

“Is that so? Huh! He wasn’t any better than I was. We was both in for the same crime—killin’ a man.”

“The same man?” grinned Curley.

“Yessir. By golly, it shore was a queer deal. Happened in a saloon. Me and this here cook are facin’ the bar, when a jigger walks in on the other side of me. Him and this cook has had trouble, and the cook is layin’ for him.

“I seen this cook pull his gun, and the other feller backs away from the bar. Well, sir, I steps in between ’em and tries to block the cook from shootin’, but it wasn’t no use. This danged cook shot me through the arm and the bullet killed this jigger as dead as a petrified fish. We both got sent to the penitentiary for it.”

“Calamity, yo’re an awful liar,” said Curley. “Why should they send you to the penitentiary for what the cook did?”

“Well, sir,” grinned Calamity, “the jury said that it was through me that this feller got killed, so I—ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Calamity did a jig-step into the kitchen, slapping himself on the leg.

“That is like most of Calamity’s stories of 1866,” laughed Joy. “He will chuckle over it to himself for a week.”

“And swear at everything and everybody the rest of the time,” grinned Curley.

“That’s true, Curley. But Calamity is awful human. Get him alone and he’s different. He doesn’t really hate any one.”

Gregory came in and shook hands with Curley. Joy went to the kitchen to help Calamity with the supper, and Gregory took Curley out on the front porch.

“Curley, I want to warn yuh to look out,” said Gregory.

He had spoken so abruptly that Curley looked at him in amazement.

“What about, Gregory?”

“I can’t tell yuh any more, Curley. Mebbe I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree— mebbe not. But you know how easy it is to frame a crime on to a man. Keep yore eyes peeled, son.”

“This ain’t another 1866 joke is it?” asked Curley.

“I wish it was a joke.”

Curley scratched his nose and looked thoughtfully at the man who was soon to become his father-in-law. Gregory was not joking, Curley knew. He glanced back toward the door.

“Nothin’ concernin’ Joy, is it?”

“If anythin’ happened to you, it would affect her, don’t yuh think?”

“Well—yes. Can’t yuh give me any more information?”

“No. It may only be a suspicion, son. I hope it is. But I had to tell yuh.”

“But why would any one want to frame a crime on me?”

“Yo’re figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, ain’t yuh?”

“You bet!”

“Uh-huh. Never stopped to think that there might be other men who would like to do the same thing, have yuh?”

“Oh!”

Curley’s eyes widened momentarily and he started to say a name, but shut his lips tightly. He knew what Gregory meant, now. And Gregory knew that there was no need to mention any names.

“I’m much obliged,” said Curley slowly. “I’ll kinda keep my eye peeled—thank yuh.”

Calamity was yelling for them to “come and get it!” so they changed the conversation and went to the dining-room.

“I heard that yuh busted a feller in the jaw the other day, Curley,” said Calamity. “That new feller on the Tin Cup.”

“Moran,” said Gregory.

“It wasn’t anythin’,” smiled Curley. “He got fresh.”

“Yeah, I heard he did. Worked for the Lazy H a while. I seen him ridin’ with Sam Ertle. Know anythin’ about him?”

“Not much, Calamity. He was with the Tin Cup while I was there, but we didn’t have much to do with each other. He came to work while I was sick in bed.”

“You had quite a time, didn’t yuh?” observed Gregory. “Monk Clark thought yuh was goin’ to have pneumonia.”

“I guess I did almost have it. They kept me in bed for over a week.”

“And I came very near coming home,” said Joy. “I didn’t get a letter from you for over two weeks.”

“Well, I couldn’t help it, Joy. By golly, I sure was helpless. That Crescent City doctor didn’t know what to do. The boys took turns settin’ up with me. It was mighty fine of ’em.”

“How’s the ranch comin’?” asked Calamity.

“Kinda slow. Gee, I never knew there was as many things to be repaired. It’s worse than building a new place. But I’ve got one room rain-tight, I think. It’s fun though.”

“That’s what love does to yuh,” said Calamity. “I remember a feller that fell in love back in 1866—”

But that was as far as he got, because Curley reached for the coffee-pot, and Calamity subsided with a chuckle.

Curley did not tell Joy what her father had told him. He knew that Gregory had meant Monk Clark, and he wondered just what Monk would be able to do. They had always been friendly enough—as friendly as Monk usually was with any of his cowboys.

Curley had urged Joy to marry him at once, but she told him to wait until he had fixed up the old ranch. Calamity nearly floored them all by offering to come down and help Curley with his carpenter work.

“Well, that’s sure fine,” said Curley. “But do you know anything about carpentering, Calamity?”

“Do I? Huh! Say, I knowed a carpenter in 1866—”

All of which was sufficient proof that Calamity knew all about the building trade.

That same afternoon Skeeter Bill sat on a counter in Mike Gower’s store, playing with a three-legged gray cat whose name was Shy. Old Mike lounged on the counter and puffed at his old pipe, which sizzled like a frying egg.

“Curley Adams might make a go of the old ranch,” said Mike thoughtfully. “He’s a good sort of a kid, yuh know. The old place ain’t worth much, and it didn’t cost him much.”

“Looks kinda tumble-down,” nodded Skeeter. “Still, I like to see a young feller try to make a start. Yuh might hand me down a box of forty-fives, Gower.”

The old storekeeper lifted a box of cartridges off a shelf and slid them over to Skeeter, who examined the label of the box.

“You carry quite a stock of cartridges, don’t yuh?” observed Skeeter.

“I have to. Of course, there’s certain sizes that I never have any call for. Nobody shoots anythin’ smaller than a .38. Mostly .44’s and .45’s.”

“Ever have any calls for .41’s?”

“Not very much. Curley Adams has a .41. He’s one of them fellers that likes to experiment; so he has me buy a reloadin’ set for him. He tries different kinds of powder and all that. I dunno what he finally decides to do. One of the boys at the Tin Cup said that Curley had ruined every tin-can on the ranch.”

“Loadin’ his own shells, eh?”

“I s’pose so. Anyway, he ain’t asked me to stock any .41’s since I got him that outfit.”

Skeeter opened his box and filled the loops in his belt. The fact that Curley Adams owned a reloading set for a .41 revolver, and used a .41, made it interesting knowledge.

“Don’t any one else use a .41 around here?” asked Skeeter.

“Not that I know of. Mostly everybody buys their shells from me. I can get yuh some if yuh—”

“No, I didn’t want any. I never used one.”

He patted the gray cat, adjusted his belt and walked back to the office, where he found Kaintuck playing solitaire.

“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.

“I found out that Curley Adams owns a .41, and also owns a reloading outfit.”

Kaintuck whistled softly, as he gathered up his cards.

“Anybody else around here own a .41, Skeeter?”

“I reckon not.”

“It means that we’ll have to investigate Mr. Adams, eh?”

“I dunno, Kaintuck. Mebbe somebody else owns a .41. We’ll keep this under our hats and see what else we can find out.”

A little later they went to the Half-Moon Saloon, where they met Sam Ertle, owner of the Lazy H, and “Frisco” Larkin, one of Ertle’s cowpunchers. Frisco was a tall, saturnine sort of person, with buck-teeth and a bald head.

Ertle was not a congenial sort of cowman. He was not inclined to conversation and seemed to mind his own business fairly well. Some one had told him about the silver robbery, and it was the topic of conversation when Skeeter and Kaintuck came in.

“Jist how in —— could yuh steal a thousand pounds of silver?” Frisco wanted to know, but no one seemed able to enlighten him.

“And if yuh got it, what would yuh do with it?” asked Frisco.

“You might ask the sheriff,” smiled the bartender.

Frisco squinted at Skeeter Bill closely. He had imbibed a few drinks and desired an argument.

“All right; I ask him,” said Frisco. “From what I’ve heard about him, he don’t know a —— of a lot; so I don’t expect him to answer my question.”

“Then I’m not goin’ to disappoint yuh,” smiled Skeeter.

Frisco laughed and pounded on the bar. “Name yore weapons, gents. I’ve found a sheriff that ain’t afraid to admit he’s ignorant. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ain’t goin’ to disappoint me, eh?”

Frisco fairly leered at Skeeter, who kept his temper admirably, much to the disgust of Kaintuck.

“I never like to disappoint anybody,” said Skeeter evenly.

“Sure yuh don’t,” fleered Frisco. “Everybody says that about yuh. They don’t expect anythin’ from yuh—and they don’t get anythin’. Yuh sure are some sheriff, I’d tell a man.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” admitted Skeeter slowly.

“Well, for ——’s sake!” exploded Kaintuck disgustedly.

Frisco squinted at Kaintuck closely, blinking his eyes as though the deputy was of some strange species. He ignored Skeeter now, concentrating entirely on Kaintuck.

“Now, whatcha s’pose this is?” he queried.

Kaintuck’s left hand went slowly up to the brim of his wide sombrero, crumpled the edge of it slightly, as though about to wipe off his brow with the back of his hand.

Then, as quick as a flash, he whipped the hat off his head and slashed Frisco across the face with it. It was done so quickly and took Frisco so utterly by surprize that he staggered back against the bar, throwing both hands up to his eyes.

As Kaintuck’s left hand swept aside and as Frisco’s hands went up to protect his eyes, Kaintuck took a half step forward and drove his right fist into Frisco’s anatomy, just below the arch of his breast-bone.

It was a terrific punch. Frisco’s hands dropped limply, his eyes rolled, and he slumped down between the rail and the bar, knocked completely out. Kaintuck stepped back, put on his hat and leaned one elbow against the bar, looking down curiously at Frisco, who had not moved again.

“Nobody but a —— fool ever starts trouble and ain’t set to meet it,” said Kaintuck dryly.

“There’s a lot of truth in that,” said the bartender.

Ertle did not say a word, but managed to drag Frisco away from the bar and stretch him out in the middle of the room.

“You sure sung him to sleep,” stated the bartender, as he walked around the bar, carrying a glass of water, which he threw in Frisco’s face.

The shock of the cold water partly revived Frisco, who was able to sit up and groan hollowly and clutch at his stomach.

“He won’t give a —— what the cook puts on the table tonight,” said Kaintuck.

Ertle gave Kaintuck a side glance, but kept his lips shut.

After another minute Frisco was able to get to his feet and slump back into a chair. He was still a mighty sick man.

“How’r yuh comin’, Frisco?” asked Ertle.

Frisco shook his head, his lips compressed painfully. Then he got to his feet and went outside with Ertle, where he leaned on the hitch-rack until his breathing apparatus began to function normally again.

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t hit him, Skeeter,” complained Kaintuck. “Are you gettin’ meek, cowboy?”

“I’m the sheriff,” grinned Skeeter. “I ain’t got no right to fight everybody that disagrees with me.”

“Uh-huh? Say, that don’t affect me, does it?”

“It didn’t seem to. But yuh don’t need to feel contrite over it. That pelican was cravin’ trouble.”

“He was.” The bartender was emphatic.

“Well, his cravin’ ought to be satisfied,” grinned Kaintuck. “Unless the man is a reg’lar hog for punishment, he ought to be plumb pleased over his success.”

“He didn’t show good sense”—thus the bartender, polishing the top of the bar industriously—“wanted trouble and didn’t look for it. He’s mostly always like that when he’s drinkin’.”

Kaintuck walked to the door and looked toward the hitch-rack, where Ertle and Frisco were having a heated argument. Ertle had hold of Frisco’s arm and was trying to dissuade him from doing something.

“Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, then!” snorted Ertle.

Frisco yanked away from him and started back toward the saloon door. It was evident to Kaintuck that Frisco was coming back to wipe out the disgrace.

He stepped aside, flattened himself against the wall, and the maddened Frisco walked past him, squinting at the bar, where Skeeter and the bartender were standing, wondering what it was all about. Kaintuck saw that Frisco had drawn his gun and was carrying it behind him.

For a moment Frisco stared at the two men, and in that moment Kaintuck’s revolver barrel rapped him sharply across the knuckles of his right hand, causing him to drop the gun. He whirled quickly and found himself looking into the muzzle of Kaintuck’s .45.

Kaintuck kicked Frisco’s gun aside and motioned for Frisco to get out of the saloon.

“You must be one of them fellers who never know when they’re whipped, ain’t yuh?” queried Kaintuck. “I ought to pistol-whip yuh right here and give the doctor somethin’ to sew up, you bat-eared ant-eater. Git on yore bronc and go home.”

Kaintuck followed Frisco to the hitch-rack. Ertle had come back to the saloon door, but preceded Frisco and Kaintuck to the rack. They mounted their horses and rode out of town, with never a backward glance, while Skeeter and the bartender stood in the doorway and grinned at each other.

“You’ve got a real capable deputy,” observed the bartender.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Skeeter. “Don’t let him hear it. The first thing he knows he’ll be thinkin’ he is somebody.”

Kaintuck swaggered back to the saloon and picked up Frisco’s gun.

“Give it to the bartender,” said Skeeter. “He can give it to Frisco the first time he shows up.”

Kaintuck was examining the gun intently, but did not give it to the bartender. Moran and Monk Clark came in. They nodded to Skeeter and Kaintuck, who took advantage of their coming to leave the saloon.

Back in their office Kaintuck took the gun from his pocket and handed it to Skeeter. It was a Colt .41.

“That’s why I didn’t give it to the bartender,” said Kaintuck. “And I don’t want yuh to forget that that is my clue.”

“It sure is,” grinned Skeeter. “And you earned it, cowboy. That makes two .41’s in evidence. If we get any more, we’re up against it. You better look out for Frisco. He came back there to kill yuh, that’s a cinch.”

“He sure did. I’d like to know why he tried to pick trouble with you, Skeeter. We’ve never done anythin’ to him.”

“Mebbe he ain’t killed no sheriff yet,” grinned Skeeter. “He strikes me as bein’ one of them fellers that won’t be satisfied until they’ve killed a sheriff. He’s a bad boy.”

“He ain’t so bad as he used to was,” grinned Kaintuck. “If he wants his gun back he’s got to say ‘please, Mister Kennedy’—which he won’t do; so I’ll keep the gun.”

It was about fifteen minutes later that Clark and Moran rode past the office, going south. Moran gave them a friendly wave, but Clark did not turn his head. They had disappeared when Kaintuck saw the bartender standing in the door of the Half-Moon, waving at him.

Curiosity impelled them both to go back to the saloon.

“Clark didn’t stop at your place, eh?” said the dispenser of drinks.

“Why should he?” asked Skeeter.

“Well, from what they said I thought sure he would. They’re on the way to the Lazy H to see Sam Ertle. It seems that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ heifer today, which had a vented brand on its right hip, and a fresh Box X on its left shoulder.”

“Yeah?” Skeeter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Uh-huh. Meanin’ that—” He hesitated for a moment. “On the right hip, eh? Who brands on the right hip?”

“The Lazy H.”

“Anybody else around here?”

“No. The Tin Cup brand on the right shoulder, HG on the left hip—and the Box X on the left shoulder.”

“Then they must ’a’ vented a Lazy H, eh?”

“Looks like it. I heard Monk and Moran talkin’ about it. It seems that Monk had started for the Gregory ranch, but run into this heifer. He said the new brand made him suspicious; so he roped the animal and put it in an old corral on Deer Creek, between here and the Box X. He cut back to the road and run into Moran who was comin’ to town.”

“It’s kinda funny he didn’t come to me,” mused Skeeter. “Bein’ the sheriff, I’m interested in cattle stealin’.”

“Yuh ought to be,” smiled the bartender.

Skeeter paid for a round of drinks and led the way back to the office, going straight through the place and out to the little stable at the rear. Kaintuck looked at him curiously, but saddled his horse without comment.

Frisco Larkin was in a vile frame of mind when he got back to the Lazy H ranch. It was the first time he had ever been completely knocked out—the first time he had ever lost his six-shooter. To a man like him nothing could have been more humiliating.

Frisco was not endowed with an overabundance of imagination, but he had a certain amount of pride, and it galled him deeply to think that he had been whipped. As he rode along through the dust he removed his hat and wiped his bald head with a flirting motion of his hand.

His stomach was still fluttering, and there was a great vacancy beneath his breast-bone. He shifted painfully in his saddle, spat between his front teeth and spurred his horse savagely. He wanted revenge on something. Then he yanked cruelly on the reins, almost throwing his horse off the road.

He roweled the animal savagely and raced it all the way to the Tin Cup ranch, where he dismounted and sat down in the shade of the stable, trying to ease his cramping insides.

Van Cleve, Ertle’s other cowboy, a stolid-faced person, with scraggly, yellow mustaches and a crooked mouth came down from the ranch-house, wondering what was the matter with Frisco. His teeth were like aged tombstones in a badly-kept cemetery—sadly out of line.

“You got a stummick-ache?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Et somethin’ yuh hadn’t ort to, eh?”

“Na-a-aw! Deputy sheriff hit me in the belly.”

Van Cleve filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and sat down with Frisco, who told his story in meager detail.

“I’m prob’ly goin’ to kill him for that,” declared Frisco, after his story was finished.

Van Cleve had little to say. He gave Frisco another gun and a box of cartridges, closing the incident, as far as he was concerned. But it was not closed as far as Frisco was concerned.

“And when yuh went back to kill him, he took yore gun?” asked Van Cleve.

It seemed marvelous to Van Cleve; so marvelous that he picked his teeth thoughtfully with the blade of his pocket-knife.

“Bad hombre,” he said, after careful consideration.

“Hit me when I wasn’t lookin’,” said Frisco.

“What was yuh lookin’ at?”

“Oh, ——!” Frisco felt too badly to explain. “Did yuh ever get hit real hard right here?” He indicated his solar plexus.

Van Cleve shook his head.

“Never got hit anywhere, except in the back.”

“Somebody sneak up on yuh, Van?”

“Na-a-a-aw, ——! They outrun me.”

“You think this is funny, don’tcha?”—indignantly.

“’F I do, it’s because I can’t help m’self, Frisco. You poked yore beak into the molasses and got it stuck, tha’sall.”

“Yeah, and I’ll poke it some more, if I want to.”

“Tha’sso? Frisco, you’ve got intestinal trouble, ain’tcha?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Yo’re overbalanced.”

“Meanin’ what?”

“Too much guts and too few brains. I dunno how in —— he ever knocked yuh down.”

“That will be about all,” said Ertle warningly. “There’s been enough fighting.”

As Ertle turned toward the house, Monk Clark and Frank Moran came in sight. Ertle stopped and waited for them to ride up. Clark and Ertle exchanged nods of greeting, and Clark came right to the point.

“I’ve got a heifer in the old corral on Deer Creek, waitin’ for you to look it over, Sam. There’s a fresh brand vent on the right hip, and a new Box X on the left shoulder. Kinda thought yuh might be interested.”

Ertle scowled heavily.

“Tha’sso?” He turned to Frisco and Van Cleve. “Saddle up the horses.”

Ertle walked to the house and came back carrying a rifle in a scabbard, which he fastened to his saddle, when Frisco came with the horse.

“Old Deer Creek corral, eh?” he asked Monk Clark.

“Yeah. We’ll ride over with yuh, Sam.”

“The more the merrier. Did yuh tell the sheriff?”

“I did not.”

“Suits me. Let’s go.”

The five men rode away from the Lazy H, heading straight for the bridge across Moon River, after which they swung to the northeast, passing between Crescent City and the Gregory ranch.

It was only about eight miles, but they were unable to make much speed across the hills. There was little conversation. They struck Deer Creek about a quarter of a mile below the old corral, but rode along the ridges to a point above the small flat where the old corral was located.

Even at a distance they could see the spotted yearling, moving about the dusty old enclosure. They went down the hill, crossed the little creek and drew up at the corral fence. Clark and Ertle dismounted and climbed over the fence, while the yearling circled wildly. The process of branding an animal does not serve to make it gentle in any way.

The two men stopped near the center of the corral. Ertle was carrying a coiled lariat, which he shook out and roped the animal on the first throw. It bawled and protested, but he drew it up to an old snubbing-post in the center of the corral, while they looked it over.

Ertle walked around it, his eyes half closed, and came back to Monk Clark whose face registered extreme wonder.

But Clark did not speak. He looked at Ertle, as though wondering what thoughts might lie behind the keen eyes of the wiry little cattleman. And Clark knew he was treading on thin ice.

Ertle stepped away from him, circled the animal and came back to face Clark. He pointed at the yearling.

“Does this happen to be the one yuh mentioned, Clark?” Ertle’s voice was pitched low.

“Well, by ——, it looks like it! But—”

The other cowboys had climbed the fence and were gazing at the animal. On its two hips were burned splotches, where brands had been eliminated, as also was a burned area on its left shoulder. But on the right shoulder, clumsily drawn but unmistakable, was the outline of the Tin Cup brand.

“I don’t understand—” began Clark, his face black with wrath. He choked raspingly. “When I left here that yearlin’—”

Ertle’s sarcastic laugh interrupted him.

“Somebody was just as smart as you was, Monk. It looks like the deadwood was on the Tin Cup, and not on the Box X.”

“You don’t think I’d slap my brand on a Lazy H, and then call yore attention to it, do yuh?” demanded Monk belligerently.

“Nobody has proved it to be a Lazy H. With three vented brands on it, yuh can call it what yuh like. It looks to me as though it was a Tin Cup right now. If I was in yore place, I’d herd that —— critter home and make veal out of it before anybody else finds out what you’ve done.”

Ertle turned on his heel, climbed the fence and went back to his horse, followed by Frisco and Van Cleve. They mounted and rode away, while Clark leaned against the snubbing-post and swore roundly, much to the amusement of Frank Moran, who perched on the top pole of the corral and smoked a cigaret.

Monk Clark walked over to the corral fence and watched Ertle and his two men ride away. He looked back at the calf and swore witheringly. He knew positively that some one had found this calf and had branded it again, wiping out all trace of the brand which would incriminate Curley Adams.

Clark walked back and examined the brands closely, while the calf bawled some more and kicked up dust. Satisfied that there was no trace left of any original brand, Clark turned to Moran.

“That —— pup of an Adams saw me corral that heifer,” complained Clark. “He sneaked in and balled up everythin’.”

“What would yuh expect him to do?” grinned Moran. “If I was in yore place, I’d drop the whole thing, Clark. You haven’t any proof that Curley Adams did the job, and if Adams hears about it you might get in trouble.”

Clark cursed witheringly, as he took Ertle’s rope off the animal, threw the rope aside and let down the bars.

“Goin’ to take Ertle’s advice?” asked Moran, as they mounted their horses.

“What in —— else can I do? Be a —— of a fine thing for somebody to find a heifer with three vented brands on it—and my brand put on with a runnin’-iron.”

Monk Clark rode into the corral to chase the yearling out, when Moran whistled warningly. Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck had ridden out of the brush just above the corral, and were coming toward them.

Monk Clark spat out a curse against all sheriffs and other meddling fools, and tried to make the yearling break for freedom. But with the perversity of its species, the yearling ignored the opening and ran around behind Clark.

Clark stopped, shifted his gun and wiped the perspiration from his face, while the calf came close to him, nosing out toward the man who would have given many dollars to have been miles away at this time. Clark looked appealingly at Moran, but that worthy was watching the officers approach, a half grin on his thin lips.

Skeeter and Kaintuck rode up to the corral opening, nodding pleasantly to both men. Clark glowered heavily, but Moran wore an amused smile. It was nothing to him.

“You prob’ly didn’t know we were in town when yuh went out to the Lazy H,” said Skeeter slowly, eyeing the heifer. “We heard that somethin’ was wrong out here; so we came out.”

“Oh, the —— you did!” snorted Clark.

Skeeter and Kaintuck were looking closely at the vented brands, and now they looked at each other.

“That darned bartender never got it right,” observed Kaintuck. “He said that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. Shucks, there’s been three brands vented and the Tin Cup run on.”

Skeeter dismounted and came inside the corral. Clark eyed him narrowly, wondering just what this lean-faced, inquisitive-looking sheriff might do in a case of this kind. He watched anxiously as Skeeter circled the animal, looking closely at the burned spots.

Skeeter seemed seriously amused, as he straightened up, hitched up his belt and looked knowingly at Kaintuck, who had ridden his horse up close to the fence and was rolling a cigaret. Clark coughed slightly, apologetically.

Skeeter looked at Monk Clark curiously.

“We had a hard time findin’ this old corral, Clark.”

“Yuh did, eh?”

“Yeah. I sure wish you’d tell us about them vented brands.”

Clark shut his lips tightly and there was a strained expression around his eyes. He realized that he was in bad. Skeeter turned to Moran.

“What do you know about it, Moran?”

“Not a thing, Sheriff. He told me that a Lazy H had been vented and a Box X run on. We got Sam Ertle to come over—and this is what we found.”

“By ——, I’d like to know who done it!” exploded Clark.

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter nodded thoughtfully. “I dunno who would steal cattle for you, Clark—do you?”

Clark bristled angrily.

“Look here, Sheriff! Don’t you—”

“I’m not doin’ anythin’,” protested Skeeter angrily. “It looks to me as though the heifer belongs to you.”

“It does not!”

“All right. I’ll take it back to town with me.”

“Back to town? What in —— do yuh want to take it to town for?”

“See if I can find out who owns the darned thing.”

Clark swallowed heavily and scowled at the offending animal. It put him in a ridiculous position, and he realized that every one in the Moon River country would hear about it.

It looked as if he had made a clumsy attempt to steal a heifer. Of course it would be impossible to tell who had been the original owner, but that would not lessen the fact that the animal did not belong to him. He squinted at the right shoulder of the animal, a painful scowl on his face. The outline of a tin cup was too plainly drawn for any one to mistake it.

“Well,” he said slowly, “can’t we arrange this, Sheriff? You can see where it puts me.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” smiled Skeeter. “If I was doin’ my duty I’d arrest you, Clark. If I was you, I’d herd that heifer home, make meat of it and burn the hide.”

“Is that all right with you?”

“I’ll make it all right, I reckon.” Skeeter turned his horse and motioned to Kaintuck, who followed him. Skeeter looked back at Clark and said:

“It’s all right this time, Clark; but I don’t want to see any more vented brands around this country. You caught me when I was feelin’ awful good-natured.”

Skeeter and Kaintuck crossed the creek and rode over the ridge, where they looked back to see Clark and Moran going in the opposite direction, herding a frightened heifer. Kaintuck looked at Skeeter and they both doubled over their saddle-horns, choking with unholy mirth.

“Mamma, pin a rose on me!” howled Kaintuck. “Caught yuh when yuh was feelin’ awful good-natured! Haw, haw, haw, haw!”

Kaintuck grew incoherent at sight of the tears running down Skeeter’s face. The tall cowboy was unable to talk.

“We had him foul,” choked Kaintuck. “My ——, it’s too bad we wasn’t there when Sam Ertle seen the critter.”

Skeeter managed to clear his throat.

“I like t’ died all the time, Kaintuck. The expression on Clark’s face was the funniest thing I ever seen.”

“And we didn’t finish any too danged quick either,” said Kaintuck. “I never drawed a picture of a tin cup with a hot cinch-ring before in my life. Haw, haw, haw, haw! It sure was a shame to burn places where there wasn’t any brand.”

“We had to make it a puzzle,” said Skeeter laughing. “I’m not sure that Monk Clark tried to hang a crime on to Curley Adams, but somebody did. That kid is too smart to do a thing like that.

“Curley hit Moran that night, and that would make Moran hate Curley. Mebbe Moran did the job to put Curley in bad, and Monk Clark happened to find the animal.”

“That would be a —— of a thing for a Government detective to do, wouldn’t it, Skeeter?”

“Sure it would. But yuh never can tell anythin’ about a detective, because they’re just human bein’s, Kaintuck.”

“That’s right, I s’pose. And I’ve an idea that Monk Clark ain’t goin’ to like us so awful well after this.”

“Tha’sall right. We’re goin’ to be disliked a lot before this deal is all finished. Shake up that goat yo’re ridin’, or we’ll be late for supper.”

But there was little mirth in the heart of Monk Clark as he herded the misbranded heifer toward the Tin Cup ranch, assisted by Moran, who had offered no sympathy nor advice.

“That sheriff is all right,” offered Moran.

Clark spurred around the animal, cutting it off from going down the side of a coulée, and rode back beside Moran.

“Yuh think he’s all right, do yuh?”

“He let you off easy.”

Clark shut his jaws savagely, but was forced to admit that Moran was right.

“Yuh just played in hard luck, Clark. Adams saw yuh corral the critter, came over and saw what yuh had done, and proceeded to ruin things.”

“If I thought—if I knew that for a fact, I’d kill that —— puncher,” said Clark evenly. “But I don’t know. Mebbe it was Gregory or Calamity. Either one of ’em would do it for Curley.”

“I suppose,” nodded Moran.

They drove the heifer down through a brushy swale, and Clark spurred in close to it, forcing it against a barrier of greasewood, where it tried to turn back past him. Shooting from his hip he dropped the animal the first shot. His horse swerved aside, whirling completely around, but he curbed it and dismounted.

With a few flicks of his knife he stripped the Tin Cup brand from its shoulder and flung it far off across the brush, where it hung, dangling from a limb for a moment and dropped into a thick bush.

“Give the coyotes a feed,” he said as he mounted, and they rode on toward the Tin Cup in silence.

Hank Gregory had been doing a lot of thinking about his conversation with Monk Clark. He wondered if it might not be a good thing to explain everything to Curley. He felt that Curley would keep the secret. Still, he did not want to share it with any one.

Old Calamity had ridden to Crescent City to get the mail and a few groceries, and Joy was still cleaning house. Calamity was glad to get away from the ranch, where Joy had drafted him into the army of cleanliness.

Hank Gregory sat humped in a rocking-chair on the shady porch and chewed on the stem of his pipe, his soul troubled greatly. He had resolved to kill Monk Clark if Clark tried to interfere with the wedding. That much was settled in his mind.

Calamity came back and stabled his horse. Gregory could see that Calamity carried news by the way he hurried up from the stable. He tossed a mail-order catalogue on the porch, handed Gregory a newspaper and squinted through the front door.

He thought he heard Joy working in the kitchen, but she was on her knees behind a living-room chair, fixing the carpet. He stepped back to Gregory.

“Hank, there’s a funny deal been pulled off,” he said.

Joy straightened up and came closer to the doorway, as Calamity continued—

“Frisco Larkin was in town this mornin’. Got drunk and told everybody in sight that Monk Clark found a yearlin’ with the Lazy H vented and the Box X run on.”

Gregory stared at Calamity, his mind working fast.

“Monk and this Moran person went to get Ertle to look at the heifer, which was in the old Deer Creek corral, and when they got there somebody had vented the Box X and put on the Tin Cup. Ertle got mad and went home.”

“Frisco told this?” wondered Gregory. “Meanin’ that Curley Adams tried to steal a Lazy H yearlin’, Calamity?”

“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hank. But somebody ruined it, don’t yuh see. The laugh was on Monk Clark.”

“The laugh, eh?” Gregory surged out of his chair. “Curley never done that, Calamity.”

“He’d be an awful fool to do it,” amended Calamity. “The Lazy H is the only one to brand on the right hip. A vented brand on the right hip means that it was a Lazy H.”

“Monk Clark did it,” said Gregory slowly. “—— him! He wants to marry Joy, and he did this to jail Curley Adams.”

“How do yuh know?” blurted Calamity.

“Never mind how I know.” Gregory walked down the steps and went toward the stable.

Calamity sat down in the rocking-chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Joy had heard all of it.

It seemed ridiculous to think that Monk Clark wanted to marry her badly enough to try to fasten a crime to Curley. She shook her head wonderingly. Why, she had not spoken a dozen words to Monk Clark since she had come home. It must be that her father was wrong, she thought.

She peeked out at Calamity, who was still deep in thought, and walked to the window. Her father was saddling a horse at the corral, and she wondered whether he was going to town. He mounted and rode away through the big gate, but did not go toward town. He was going toward the Box X.

She walked back to the doorway. Calamity looked at her and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Wasn’t much mail, Joy,” he said. “How’s the cleanin’?”

“I heard what you told Dad,” she said.

“Yeah? Well,” Calamity simulated a yawn, and rubbed his stubbly cheek, “I don’t reckon it was any secret.”

“Where has Dad gone, Calamity?”

“He didn’t say, Joy.”

“Haven’t you any idea?”

“Well, yuh can’t hardly call it an idea, Joy. He had a rifle under his knee, and I kinda think he went to kill Monk Clark.”

Calamity spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though a killing was nothing to speak about.

“You’re joking, Calamity.”

“I hope so, Joy. I’ve knowed yore father a long time, and I can kinda read him. Mebbe I’m wrong. If Monk Clark misbranded a critter to send Curley to the penitentiary, he shore needs killin’.”

“But, Calamity, don’t you realize what it would mean? They would hang him for murder. Oh, why didn’t you stop him—make him listen to reason?”

“I dunno. It’s a free country, Joy—and I don’t like Monk Clark.”

“But it is such a foolish idea, Calamity! Monk Clark doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Don’t he?”

“Certainly not!”

“Shows —— bad taste then.”

Joy knew that she could get no satisfaction out of talking with Calamity; so she resolved to do the only thing possible to avert a tragedy.

She ran through the kitchen and down to the stable, where she saddled her own horse, a hammer-headed roan that had little brains but plenty of speed. Calamity stood at a corner of the porch and watched her ride after her father.

He did not offer to assist nor interfere. Calamity was absolutely neutral. Nobody could ever accuse him of stopping a fight, and if one man wanted to kill another, it was no affair of Calamity’s.

The hammer-headed roan was not the best riding horse in the country, and Joy was having difficulty in convincing it that she was its master. A liberal application of the quirt showed the roan that its ways were not liked, and after that it decided to do better.

She knew that her father would waste no time, but there was a possibility that he might stop at the Box X; so she swung further down the slopes, where it was possible to make better time.

Joy was a good rider—a good hill rider, which is some different than riding on the flat. She knew all the tricks of helping a horse over tough going, and as a result she was able to make time where an inexperienced rider would have hunted for an easier way around.

And never before did she have such an incentive for speed. She felt sure that she could convince her father of the folly of his intentions. Even if Monk Clark was guilty of an attempt to send Curley to the penitentiary, he had failed, she reasoned.

And it was Curley’s battle, not her father’s. She could not understand her father’s sudden animosity toward Monk Clark, because they had always been friendly, as far as she knew. And while she commended her father’s attitude in defense of the man she was to marry, she did not agree that he should commit murder for something which had not injured Curley.

She sent the roan scrambling over a ridge and galloped him straight down the brushy hill, where a slip might send horse and rider pin-wheeling to the rocky bottom. They hit the bottom in a cloud of dust and a shower of stones, but the roan gamely kept its feet and lurched into a gallop down the slope to Deer Creek.

She crossed Deer Creek near the old corral and continued straight north, intending to strike the Tin Cup road about two miles from the ranch, but when she reached the old road, which led east to the Box X, she hesitated. Something seemed to tell her to take this road.

“He might have stopped at the old ranch,” she told herself, and turned in that direction. There was plenty of run left in the roan and it did not take her long to cover the mile to the Box X.

She could see a man near the ranch-house and a saddled horse stood between the house and the old stable. A closer inspection convinced her that the horse was the one her father had ridden from home.

She rode up beside the house and dismounted. Her father was standing just in front of the house, looking at something on the ground. He had seen her coming, but did not look up as she walked up to him.

Lying in front of him, half-hidden in the rank growth of foxtail grass, was Monk Clark, his sightless eyes staring at the sky. His right elbow was bent, and in his right hand was a cocked six-shooter. He had drawn the gun, cocked it, but died before he could pull the trigger.

Joy’s face blanched at sight of him and she drew back, staring at her father.

She knew now that she had come too late. He had ridden faster than she had anticipated, and had met Monk Clark at the Box X. She looked down at him, a big hunk of lifeless clay, his jaw sagging. It seemed as though he might be yelling a battle cry, his gun lifted for a shot. She could not realize that Clark was dead.

She looked at her father, hardly able to tear her eyes away from the face of the dead man, and found him staring into space. His shoulders were bowed, as though bearing a great weight, and he seemed to have aged years in an hour.

A wild canary swung from a stunted bush near them and began singing. Joy turned and looked at the little yellow bird, wondering that anything could be happy now. She looked at Monk Clark and shuddered sickeningly. Her father spoke—

“How did yuh happen to follow me?” he asked softly.

“To try and stop you, Dad,” she said hoarsely. “I heard what Calamity told you, and I—I knew why you came.”

“I heard shots,” he said wearily. “They sounded like they were fired over here. But I didn’t see anybody. You can see him from the front porch.”

“Didn’t you kill him, Dad?”

Gregory shook his head.

“I didn’t have a chance, Joy. Somebody beat me to it.”

Somebody beat him to it? wondered Joy. Somebody? Who was the somebody who would shoot Monk Clark? She looked at her father and found him looking at her, his eyes filled with sorrow. They were thinking the same thing, and both knew it. Gregory compressed his lips, turned his head and looked at Monk Clark.

Joy’s lips felt like leather when she tried to moisten them with a dry tongue, and there was a tightness about her throat, an aching tightness that hurt her to breathe. Her voice sounded far away, thin, vibrant, as she said—

“Who? Oh, Dad, you don’t suppose Curley—”

“Hush! We don’t know.”

“Well, he can’t hear me. There is only us, Dad. You don’t suppose—oh, here comes somebody!”

Joy grasped her father’s arm and pointed at the two riders who were coming toward the ranch.

“We can’t prove anything, don’t you see?” she panted. “Oh, what will we do?”

“Keep yore nerve,” he cautioned her, as the riders drew closer. “I didn’t kill him, and we don’t know who did.”

It was Skeeter Bill and Kaintuck. Both of them had met Gregory, but not Joy. They dismounted and came across the yard.

“Howdy,” greeted Skeeter. “Nice day, folks.”

Gregory nodded, but his answer to the greeting was to indicate the body of Monk Clark. Skeeter moved in closer, flanked by Kaintuck, who whistled softly through his teeth. Skeeter dropped on his knees and examined the body closely.

Skeeter did not hurry. He slowly unbuttoned Clark’s shirt and examined the bullet holes. He sat back on his heels, looking the body over, and his eyes roamed back to the house, as though estimating where the person had been who fired the shot. He took hold of the gun in Clark’s hand, and found it clutched in a death grip.

Kaintuck leaned down, still whistling through his teeth, and looked at the bared chest of the dead man. Joy had taken her father by the arm, her eyes squinted with pain, thinking what it was going to mean for all of them. Skeeter turned to them.

“Shot twice,” he said. “Second one must ’a’ cut him off quick. First one went through his left shoulder.”

Skeeter got to his feet and brushed the dust off his knees, as he looked questioningly at Gregory.

“I don’t know who killed him,” said Gregory. “I stopped here to see Curley Adams, and from the porch I could see the body lying out here.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted thoughtfully. “Didja hear any shots?”

“Yeah, I did. That’s why I came.”

Skeeter turned and looked at Joy.

“It kinda seems as though nobody is goin’ to introduce us, ma’am. I know yo’re Miss Gregory. I’m Sarg, the sheriff. I want yuh to meet Kennedy, my deputy.”

Joy’s hand trembled as she shook hands with the two officers, but their grins were reassuring.

“You came in kind of a hurry, didn’t yuh?” asked Skeeter.

“Why, I—I—what makes you think I did?” stammered Joy.

“Well, for one thing, yuh forgot to put a saddle-blanket on yore horse, and yo’re still wearin’ an apron.”

For the first time Joy realized that she was wearing her old cleaning apron, no hat, and an old pair of shoes. And she remembered that she had forgotten to put a saddle-blanket on her horse.

“She came after me,” said Gregory. “She had an idea I was goin’ to the Tin Cup ranch to kill Monk Clark. She had just got here when you showed up.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Skeeter. He knew that Gregory was telling the truth. “She thought you was goin’ to the Tin Cup to kill Monk Clark, eh?”

Gregory nodded.

“And that’s where I was goin’, Sheriff.”

The admission was a decided shock to Joy, but did not seem of any great moment to Skeeter Bill.

“Mind tellin’ us why yuh wanted to kill Clark, Gregory?”

“Not at all. Clark wanted to marry my daughter, who is goin’ to marry Curley Adams. I heard that Clark found a yearlin’, on which the Lazy H had been vented and the Box X run on. So I knew that Monk Clark had tried to send Curley to the penitentiary.”

Skeeter and Kaintuck exchanged quick glances. They knew all about that part of it.

Skeeter nodded and walked back to the porch, where he looked back toward them. He could see the body plainly from there. He sat down on the steps and they came up to him.

“What do yuh make of it?” asked Kaintuck.

“I dunno. There’s one thing sure—Monk Clark is dead. And the worst of it is, he was killed here. Dang it, I’m sorry!”

“Will it incriminate Curley?” asked Joy quickly.

“Unless he can prove where he was at the time.”

“Oh, I know he didn’t do it,” said Joy tearfully.

“I sure hope yo’re right,” Skeeter got up and moved over to a lower corner of the steps, where he examined the ground.

“Kinda funny,” he muttered, squinting back toward the body.

After another examination of the ground he walked back and squatted beside the body again, while the three people on the porch watched and wondered what he had discovered.

Kaintuck stepped down and looked at the ground, which had seemed of interest to Skeeter. On the sandy soil was a dark colored spot, still damp, covering a space about a foot square.

Skeeter got to his feet and walked back to the porch.

“It kinda looks to me like Monk Clark was shot right here beside the porch,” he stated. “There’s a big spot of blood at the corner of the porch, and hardly any out at the body. His gun is gripped awful tight in his hand, which might happen when a man is killed so quickly, and I find where his heels scraped along the ground, as he was carried out there.”

“But what does that signify?” asked Joy.

“I dunno, ma’am. It kinda looks as though he came up to the porch and got killed. Mebbe the man who killed him wanted to get rid of the body and started out to hide it, but seen yore dad coming and made his getaway.”

“That sounds reasonable,” nodded Gregory. “It wasn’t so long after the shots were fired that I came. Possibly ten minutes.”

“Have you been in the house?” asked Skeeter.

“No. I came on the porch and called Curley’s name. There was no answer, and when I looked around I saw the body. I was out there lookin’ at it when Joy rode up. You came a few minutes later.”

“Might be worth while to look around a little,” suggested Skeeter.

The front door was partly open; so they went in. The living-room of the old ranch-house was about sixteen by twenty-four feet in size, with a large stone fireplace in the front, right-hand corner.

There were no furnishings, and the wall-paper, discolored by age, was nearly all peeled from the rough board walls. The boards of the floor were broken and warped, and the windows had been patched with cardboard, newspapers and other opaque materials, until little light filtered in.

Skeeter walked directly to the fireplace, where a number of scattered, fire-blackened bricks were lying, and found that the bottom of the fireplace had been recently torn out, disclosing a cavity about three feet long, two feet wide and two feet deep.

“Looks like Curley had been rebuildin’ his fireplace,” observed Kaintuck.

Skeeter made no comment. He had picked up a piece of metal, which greatly resembled silver; a splattery-looking piece, which looked as though it had been spilled while melted. Down in the cavity he found another piece, which appeared to be a silver dollar on one side, but a blank on the other. The imprint of the coin was not well done.

“What in the world is that?” asked Joy.

Skeeter handed her the piece of metal and continued his search, but there was nothing more to be found, except a fragment of white substance, which might have been plaster-of-paris.

“It looks as though somebody had tried to make a dollar,” said Gregory.

“Yeah, it does,” agreed Skeeter thoughtfully. “We better look around a little more.”

At the rear of the living-room were two doors, one of which opened to a bedroom, the room which Curley had been repairing, and the other to the kitchen and dining-room, which were still in need of repairs.

The bedroom contained Curley’s personal effects, and on a shelf Skeeter discovered the reloading outfit, a small can of powder and a bullet mold. But there was nothing to indicate tragedy.

Further search disclosed the fact that Curley’s horse and saddle were not at the stable. While Kaintuck, Joy and Gregory argued over what might have happened, Skeeter mounted his horse and rode back over the route taken by Gregory on his way to the ranch.

He came back in a few minutes and went to the west side of the house, searching the ground closely.

“What did yuh find out?” asked Kaintuck.

“Not very much,” said Skeeter. “A man had his horse here on this side of the house. He was in the house when Clark came up to the steps, and he shot Clark.

“He wanted to hide the body, I reckon, but he saw Gregory on the skyline of that hill back there; so he dropped the body, ran back to his horse and rode south-west. The house would mask him from Gregory until he was able to cut down through the brush and into that gully. Clark’s horse is down in the brush, tied to an old snag. He probably sneaked up here on foot.”

“Well, I’d say yuh found out quite a lot,” said Kaintuck.

“But why would Monk Clark sneak up here?” asked Joy.

Skeeter squinted at Clark’s body.

“Didn’t you say that Clark tried to put Curley Adams in bad because he wanted to marry this young lady?”

“He did,” Gregory was very positive.

“Uh-huh. Do yuh reckon Clark would go so far as to try and shoot Curley?”

“Meanin’ that Clark sneaked up here to shoot Curley, and got beat at his game?”

“Not meanin’—just wonderin’, Gregory.”

“I don’t know what Clark would do, Sheriff. But I don’t think that Curley would kill him and run. He ain’t that kind.”

Skeeter rolled a cigaret, shaping it carefully. It gave him a chance to do a little silent wondering for himself.

“I don’t understand about that imprint of a dollar,” said Gregory.

“Experimentin’, I reckon,” said Skeeter. “I wish Curley would show up.”

“You don’t think he did it, do you?” asked Joy hopefully.

Skeeter smiled softly.

“I hope he didn’t, Miss Joy. Yuh see, I’m doin’ my darndest to think of somebody else that did do it. Whoever killed Monk Clark was here at the house, I think.

“Everythin’ points to the fact that Monk Clark sneaked up here and somebody shot him through the shoulder. Monk draws his six-shooter, pulled back the hammer— and got a bullet right through his heart. I dunno what Monk Clark was doin’ here. His horse is down there in the brush, two hundred yards away, which makes it look like Monk sneaked up here, lookin’ for trouble.”

“And he got it!” said Kaintuck emphatically.

“Yeah, he did. You go down and get Clark’s horse, Kaintuck. We’ve got to pack the body to town.”

“Want us to go with yuh?” asked Gregory.

“No-o-o-o, I don’t think so. You folks ain’t goin’ to run away.”

Kaintuck brought the horse, and the three men draped the body of Monk Clark across his own saddle, roping it securely.

“If you see Curley before I do, tell him to come down to see me right away,” said Skeeter. “And don’t talk to anybody about this. It sure looks awful bad right now, but there ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks.”

The two officers shook hands with Joy and Gregory.

“I’m awful glad you look at it in the right way,” said Joy. “I certainly went weak all over when I saw you coming.”

“I’ll bet yuh did. You knew yore father was goin’ out to kill Monk Clark; so yuh went out to stop him, eh? I don’t blame yuh for feelin’ weak in the knees. Well, be good.”

They rode away, leading the loaded horse, while Joy and her father mounted and headed for home.

“This shore is a funny deal,” declared Kaintuck. “What’s yore theory, Skeeter?”

“I’d hate to say. Here’s how it looks. The Box X ranch-house has been used by them counterfeiters. They melted their stuff in the fireplace, and kept their tools under the bricks, in the hole.

“For some reason Monk Clark made a sneak over here and caught this feller removin’ some of the stuff, or the tools. It looks as though this feller, knowin’ that he’s caught with the goods, starts shootin’. That’s how it looks to me.”

“But who was the feller?”

“My ——, you don’t want to know much, do you?” exploded Skeeter.

“If it wasn’t Curley Adams, what was Monk after him for?”

“How do I know?”

“You think that the counterfeiters had been usin’ the old ranch-house as a place to make their bad money, and they wanted to get their stuff out before Curley discovered it?”

“That wouldn’t be very hard to think, would it?”

“Nope. I’ll bet this killin’ will sure cause a lot of talk, Skeeter. Why, Monk Clark was our most prominent citizen.”

“’S a funny old world, Kaintuck. Almost any jury would hang Hank Gregory for this. He started out to kill Monk Clark, yuh know. Admits it. Prob’ly sorry he didn’t get a chance. If Curley killed him, I don’t blame Curley.”

“But yuh don’t think he did, Skeeter?”

“I’m tryin’ not to, yuh know. I sure hope Curley has been where folks can prove he wasn’t at home at the time of the killin’.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Then I’m scared we’ll have to put Curley in jail.”

Gregory and Joy were worried over the same thing as they rode back home. Neither of them believed that Curley had killed Clark; but could he prove it, they wondered?

Calamity met them at the stable, interested to know what had happened. Joy left her horse for Calamity to unsaddle and went to the house.

“Didja find Monk Clark, Hank?” queried Calamity.

Gregory hung up his saddle and turned to Calamity.

“Monk Clark is dead,” he said shortly.

Calamity’s mouth opened widely, but he did not speak. His eyes followed Gregory, who got some grain for the horses and threw in fresh straw for bedding. Calamity leaned against the wall and absently tested the teeth of a curry-comb on his chin.

“Did he put up much of a fight, Hank?” he asked softly.

“Didn’t have much chance,” said Gregory seriously. “One bullet hit him in the left shoulder and the other bored straight through his heart.”

This was such a cold-blooded statement of facts that Calamity scratched his chin with the curry-comb. Then—

“Well, I hope yuh had a witness, Hank.”

“Joy came just after I found him.”

“After yuh—whatcha talkin’ about?”

“He had already been killed, Calamity. Somebody shot him at the Box X just before I got there.”

“The —— they did! Hank, you—”

Gregory shook his head.

“No, I didn’t shoot him.”

“Curley?”

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Over to San Gregario?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Time? About noon, I reckon.”

“Have you met any one since?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curley laughed shortly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gregory shook his head sadly.

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

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

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

Curley shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

Moran nodded.

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

“Ertle, too?”

“Yeah.”

Skeeter smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

“About a month.”

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

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

“Hadn’t ought to, Moran.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He got mad at yuh,” said Kaintuck.

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

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

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

MORAN NEEDS YOU. COME AS FAST AS YOU CAN.

He signed it—

Sarg, sheriff of Moon River.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he in town?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Eleven o’clock.”

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

The agent laughed and shifted his lantern.

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

“Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tha’sso? Didja buy any?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joy got to her feet and went close to Skeeter.

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

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

“Look me in the eyes,” she dared him.

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

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

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

“No—to ruin evidence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Joy rode the roan and—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curley smiled softly.

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

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

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

“How did it shoot?”

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

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

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

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

“Who knew you had molded it?”

Curley scratched his head thoughtfully.

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

“Where was yore gun when you were sick?”

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

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

“About a month ago.”

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

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

“What do yuh think of it?”

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

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

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

Skeeter nodded.

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

“Do you know what became of it?”

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

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

“Nope.”

“Where did you find it, Sheriff?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moran laughed and turned the subject to Monk Clark.

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

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

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

“They think Curley killed Clark,” said Moran.

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

“I don’t suppose they do. But—”

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

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

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

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

“Jim Searles.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I see—” Moran nodded understandingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll get ’em.”

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

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

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