Front matter (continued 3)

It was almost midnight when they came back. Ertle and Jim Searles strode into the Half-Moon and went straight to the bar, where Kaintuck and Skeeter were trying to out-guess a nickel-in-the-slot machine.

Jim Searles, foreman of the Tin Cup, was ordinarily a big, good-natured cowboy, with a ready smile, but just now the smiling good-nature was missing. He strode up to the bar, his spurs rasping harshly, while behind him came Ertle, his thin face set in a thoughtful frown.

Skeeter turned and spoke to the two men.

“Did yuh find yore man?” asked one of the players at the faro layout anxiously, looking from Ertle to the sheriff.

“We got a man all right,” growled Ertle, and then to Skeeter, “We’ve got Hank Gregory out there, Sheriff.”

“Hank Gregory? What have yuh got him for?” asked Skeeter.

“Tha’sall right,” growled Searles. “Lot of things you don’t know.”

Skeeter was trying to puzzle out why they should bring Hank Gregory back with them, when Doctor Skeen came in again. He had an envelope in his hand, but hesitated, realizing that he had interrupted a debate.

“Pardon me,” he said quickly. “In Monk Clark’s pocket I found this letter, which he had evidently intended to post. It is addressed to Henry Gregory.”

“To Gregory?” blurted Searles. “Lemme see it.”

“It’s sealed,” said Skeeter, making a guess that such was the case. “You open that letter—”

But Searles had already taken it from the doctor and ripped off the envelope, while Ertle and Van Cleve stepped in front of Skeeter, blocking him from interference.

Searles laughed harshly as he scanned the letter, and turned to the crowd.

“Listen to this, boys,” he lowered the letter for a moment.

“I’ve worked for Monk Clark a long time, and the other day he said somethin’ about bein’ afraid of Hank Gregory. It seemed funny for Monk to be afraid of anybody; so I asked him about it. He didn’t want to tell me much about it, but he did say that he had the goods on Gregory for a killin’ ten years ago.

“Gregory knew that Clark had this deadwood on him, and Clark was afraid that Gregory might—well, you know how it would feel to have somethin’ like that hangin’ over yuh. So, when this death came up, I remembered what Monk said, and tonight we decided that Gregory knew more about this deal than he was willin’ to tell.

“Now here’s what this letter says:

“Dear Hank:

“Just to let you know that I had nothing to do with the misbranding of that Lazy H heifer. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t care a ——. I want you to understand that I won’t stoop to petty larceny to make you see things the way I want you to see them, even if I could send you up for killing the Badger County sheriff ten years ago. I am writing this to explain things, because I refuse to make a fool of myself by coming to your ranch again.

“Respectfully,

“(Signed) Monk Clark.”

Searles finished reading and scanned the crowd, which were already buzzing with amazement. Skeeter was shocked. Perhaps Gregory was the one who killed Clark, he thought. Gregory was the one who had discovered the body.

If he had met Clark at the Box X and killed him, the first thing he would do would be to hide the body. And he admitted that he started out to kill Clark. Skeeter squinted at Searles and Ertle, but made no comment.

“I reckon the sheriff can see why we brought him in now,” smiled Searles. “This letter cinches a reason for the killin’.”

Skeeter nodded quickly.

“Looks thataway, boys. I’ll lock him up.”

One of the cowboys laughed softly. “Lock him up, eh? That’s real kind of yuh.”

Skeeter did not turn his head, but spoke directly to Searles.

“You didn’t have any idea, except to lock him up, did yuh?”

Searles hesitated. He was known among the cowboys as a square-shooter, sober and industrious; not one whose judgment might be easily warped. Then he shook his head.

“You can have him, Sheriff. If he killed Monk Clark, he will get a square trial. This evidence looks pretty strong to us, but the law might tear —— out of it in a courtroom. We all liked Monk, I reckon. He had his faults, just like we all have. If he was murdered I want to see the murderer punished—but I don’t want to see an innocent man hanged.”

It was rather a long speech for Searles to make, but it was spoken so sincerely that it silenced those who were for immediate action. Skeeter walked outside, where he found the rest of the crowd with Gregory.

“Let the sheriff have him,” ordered Searles. “We’ll see that Gregory has a fair trial.”

“What was it about that letter?” asked Van Cleve.

Searles told him what Monk Clark had written.

“And you turn him over to the law, after that?” fleered Van Cleve. “Yo’re sure gettin’ easy, Jim.”

“That’ll be about all from you,” said Searles coldly.

Skeeter touched Gregory on the arm and they walked to the office together. Gregory had nothing to say. It seemed as if the ghost of Monk Clark had risen from the grave to point an accusing finger at him and tell the world of that mistake of ten years ago.

Curley unlocked the door for them and listened with amazement while Skeeter told him what had happened.

“But where is Joy?” asked Curley anxiously.

“Home,” said Gregory wearily. “She doesn’t even know about it. She had gone to bed when they came. I heard a noise in the yard, and when I went out they stuck a gun in my face and made me come with them. Calamity doesn’t know it, either.”

“Well, this sure is a mess,” declared Curley. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No, I didn’t, Curley.”

“How much truth was in that letter, Gregory?” asked Skeeter.

“It was all true, Sheriff,” said Gregory, and told Skeeter all about the incident.

“And Monk Clark held this over yuh, eh?”

“Not until a short time ago. He wanted Joy. Up to that time he never mentioned the killin’. Maybe he thought he could force me to stop the marriage between Joy and Curley. I told him enough for him to know that I wouldn’t be blackmailed.

“And when I found out about that misbranded yearlin’, I was sure that it was Clark’s first move to get rid of Curley, and I wanted a showdown with him. Yeah, I was goin’ to kill him, and I won’t deny it.”

“But Joy is of age,” said Curley. “You couldn’t do anythin’.”

“I told him that, Curley.”

“Well, I dunno just what to do,” said Skeeter. “I’ve got to put yuh in a cell, I reckon. I don’t want to do it, but I told ’em I’d take charge of yuh. Mebbe you’d be safer there than runnin’ loose. And then I better send Kaintuck out to tell Joy and Calamity, ’cause they might worry.”

“Why not let me go?” asked Curley. “I can make a sneak out of here and come back without any one knowing it.”

“Well, all right,” said Skeeter. “You’ll sure have to be careful. The town is full of folks, lookin’ for excitement.”

Curley lost no time in making his sneak. He went carefully out to the stable, mounted his horse and rode away. Skeeter kept a close watch until Curley was well on his way. He could hear the noise from the Half-Moon, and knew that the crowd would stay in anticipation of the inquest. It was not often that Crescent City furnished as interesting a subject as it now had.

Skeeter went back in the office and barred the rear door. The jail was part of the office, and Skeeter wondered how long it would take a mob to tear it all apart. Moon River sheriffs had always depended more upon Winchester rifles and sawed-off shotguns for defense than thickness of wall.

“Did he get away all right?” asked Gregory, looking out between the bars of his cell door.

“Started all right,” replied Skeeter.

“That’s good. Sheriff, I’m sure up against a bad deal. Even if I could prove that I didn’t kill Monk Clark, there’s that Badger County deal to look forward to.”

“Yeah, that’s true, Gregory. But yuh might be able to prove yore story on that. I believe yuh, and when I believe anythin’ it must sound like the truth. Just set easy, pardner, and stick to yore story. Mebbe somethin’ will bust pretty soon.”

Skeeter walked to the front of the office and was greeted with a sharp rap on the door. There was nothing for him to conceal now, so he opened the door to see Ertle, Frisco, Sol Asher and Charley Ames.

Frisco and Ames were in front, both of them covering Skeeter with their six-shooters.

Skeeter did not put up his hands, nor did they ask him to do so. Frisco Larkin leered at Skeeter, and Skeeter had a sudden great desire to hit him square in the front teeth, which bulged out badly, causing Frisco to appear continually trying to close his lips.

Ertle was grinning with his mouth, but his keen eyes were watching every movement of the sheriff, and it seemed to Skeeter that Ertle would like to have him try to draw his gun. Skeeter did not pay any attention to Sol Asher and Charley Ames, who seemed nervous.

“We’re comin’ in,” stated Ames.

They had all been drinking and were odorous with liquor.

“Come in,” invited Skeeter, stepping aside. Ames kept him covered, while the others searched the place.

“You had Curley Adams here,” stated Ertle disgustedly.

“Did I?” Skeeter smiled. “That’s sure remarkable, Ertle. Yuh can see for yourself, can’tcha?”

“He ain’t here now,” declared Asher angrily.

“Yore eyesight is plumb remarkable,” said Skeeter admiringly.

“What I don’t sabe is this: You’ve got Gregory behind the bars for killin’ Clark, and now yuh want Curley. How many men does it take to kill one?”

“Difference of opinion is what makes horse races,” replied Ertle. “Some of us don’t think Gregory done the job, and we don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“Why don’tcha arrest everybody in the county? You whip-poor-wills make me tired. If yo’re through searchin’ my place, yuh might move out.”

Ames had holstered his gun, as had the others. It was evident that they had been misinformed.

“You might apologize for this intrusion,” said Skeeter. “A sheriff don’t appreciate havin’ a gun stuck in his face, while a bunch of drunks search his office and jail.”

“Well, for ——’s sake!” sneered Frisco. “When I apologize to you, they’ll be skatin’ in ——!”

Ertle was between Skeeter and Frisco, but before he could shift his position Skeeter had back-heeled him, sending him reeling toward the door. Frisco reached for his gun, leaving Skeeter a wide-open chance to drive his left fist straight into Frisco’s jaw.

It was what was known in ring parlance as a “haymaker.” Skeeter’s fist started from behind his hip, described part of an arc and met its object just as Frisco’s hand lifted the gun from its holster.

It was all done quickly. Ertle was still clawing for balance when Frisco was falling backwards across a chair, where he went to sleep with his boots in the air.

Skeeter whirled with his back to the wall, his six-shooter jammed against his hip, as he waited for the next move. Ertle had fallen to his knees, but now he got up and swore softly.

“Vamoose,” said Skeeter softly. “And next time yuh feel like gettin’ tough with me—hop to it.”

But none of them accepted the challenge. Ertle rubbed his knees and swore bitterly, his eyes fixed on Skeeter’s gun. But Asher and Ames were only too glad to call it quits and get out of there. Asher slowly slid his gun back in its holster, cleared his throat softly.

“Well, I—I reckon that’s all,” he said foolishly. “Curley sure ain’t nowhere around here, gents.”

The three men filed silently out, leaving Frisco still in slumberland, with his boot-heels pointing toward the ceiling. Skeeter grinned and considered Frisco. It was an interesting sight.

Gregory was questioning Skeeter, trying to find out what had happened. The bars of his cell door were facing another cell, and he could only hear what was going on.

“Nothin’ much,” laughed Skeeter. “I tripped Ertle and hit Frisco Larkin.”

Frisco was showing signs of returning consciousness; so Skeeter took his gun, dragged him into a cell and locked the door.

“I’ll keep him for disturbin’ the peace,” grinned Skeeter. “There is a law of that kind, Gregory, but it ain’t never been used in this country.”

Kaintuck came in, all out of breath. The three men had gone to the Half-Moon and told their experience.

“Gosh dang it!” wailed Kaintuck. “I missed all the fun. Where is Frisco?”

“In a cell.”

“Gosh! What for?”

“Disturbin’ my peace. I’m goin’ to keep him a while, too.”

“Can yuh do that, Skeeter?”

“I reckon I can. You go back and keep yore ears open. Curley has gone out to the Gregory ranch to tell Joy and Calamity what has happened.”

Kaintuck hurried out, and Skeeter locked the door. He was glad that Curley had gone to the ranch, because it was hard to tell what might have happened if he had been there when the four men came in.

Skeeter sat down at his desk and rolled a smoke, a half grin on his lips. Things were working out for him—giving him an advantage he had not expected. If he could keep Curley safe until the big play was made, that would be the rub. There was grave danger if the whisky-drinking element caught Curley.

He could hear them over in the Half-Moon—laughter, talking, bursts of raucous song. Kaintuck was over there, keeping his finger on the pulse of the situation. Skeeter knew that Joy and Calamity would come back with Curley, and he wondered how Joy would take the bad news.

“That poor kid sure is gettin’ a lot of jolts,” he decided. “The crowd ain’t decided yet which one is guilty—Curley or Hank—and they’d be willin’ to hang ’em both so as to be sure.”

He got to his feet and walked the length of the office. He wanted action. There were certain things to be tried out, and he did not want to wait. His lips twisted in an anxious smile, as he stopped near the door, his eyes half-closed, speculating. Then he laughed softly and shook his head.

“Hang on to yoreself,” he muttered. “The pot is on the table and you’ve got ’em beat in sight. Bluff, you son-of-a-gun! Get out on a limb. If they don’t saw it off between you and the tree, yo’re settin’ easy.”

Frisco was swearing in his cell and demanding that he be released. Skeeter went to the door and looked in at him.

“What in —— am I in here for?” asked Frisco.

“For disturbin’ the peace.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!”

“Well, we’ll keep yuh in there anyway. Now what do yuh think of that, Frisco?”

“I think you’ll be —— sorry when I get out.”

“And I think you’ll be —— glad,” said Skeeter, walking away.

“Hey! Whatcha mean by that?” demanded Frisco.

But Skeeter did not say. He had flung himself down on a cot and was building himself a cigaret, a grin on his lips.

It was a hectic night in Crescent City. Several fights were started in the Half-Moon and whisky flowed freely. But the cold gray dawn, which was not cold at all, but very hot, came creeping along to find a lot of tired, sleepy-eyed folks, whose stomachs were totally unfit for food, voices hoarse and heads heavy.

The majority of them did not care a whoop who got hanged for murder. In fact several of them had forgotten everything about it. They growled at each other, spat disgustedly and had more drinks. Sam Rugg went about like a soreheaded grizzly, looking for trouble.

And he found it in the person of old Calamity, who was also looking for trouble. Joy and Calamity had ridden back to town with Curley, just ahead of daybreak. Joy had stayed at the sheriff’s office with her father and Curley, but old Calamity wanted action.

He had listened to Gregory’s confession to Joy, the story of which had already been told by Curley, and swore that Hank Gregory was a —— liar. Old Calamity was on the war-path. He wore two guns and a new pair of boots. The boots hurt his feet.

Skeeter advised Calamity to stay with them, and his advice was echoed by Gregory and Joy, but Calamity swore under his breath and said he was of age and would do as he pleased.

So he went out on the street, limping slightly, and looked for what he might devour. Several of the cowboys looked old Calamity over and decided that they did not want any of his medicine.

Not so Sam Rugg. He was still strangling over a drink of raw liquor, as he lurched out of the Half-Moon and almost fell over Calamity. Liquor had ruined Rugg’s perspective. He looked upon the old man as legitimate prey.

“C’mere!” he snorted as he grasped old Calamity by the arm and whirled him around, pinning him against the saloon wall.

“Unpaw me!” snapped Calamity. “Who do yuh think yo’re tryin’ to maul, yuh big polecat?”

Rugg slapped a big hand over Calamity’s mouth, rubbing heavily on Calamity’s nose. That was the last straw. One of the new boots snapped up in a short kick and connected with Rugg’s knee-cap.

Rugg immediately forgot everything, except the sharp pain in his knee. He dropped both hands to the injured spot, bumping against Calamity, who whipped out a gun, swung it sidewise and rapped Rugg sharply on the head.

Rugg forgot about his knee and went down in a limp heap. Calamity stepped over him, felt tenderly of his sore nose, and looked around for more worlds to conquer. Several men had crowded out of the saloon door, goggling at Calamity.

“Pistol-whipped him,” said Calamity. “Yeah, and I’ll pistol-whip some more of yuh if yuh monkey with me. I ain’t no dad-durned bluffer. I was killin’ men when you fellers was wearin’ didies—and I ain’t forgot how.”

“Nobody goin’ to bother yuh, Calamity,” assured Asher.

“That’s what I ’lowed when I driv up. I ain’t safe. In my state of mind I’m liable to be plumb ignorant of humanity. I crave to meet the men who came out and took Hank Gregory. I ain’t very big and I’m gettin’ old, but by the mighty, muddy Missouri, I can whip any one, or all six, of the men who came out there last night.”

“Tha’sall right, old-timer,” said another half-drunk cowboy. “You jist go ahead and have a good time. Nobody is goin’ to choose you. But I’d advise yuh to look out for Sam Rugg.”

“This half-witted bug-hunter?” Calamity pointed at Rugg, who was resting on one elbow, rubbing his head. “Huh!” Calamity snorted his disdain. “If he monkeys with me I’ll squirsh him.”

No one seemed to disagree with Calamity; so he crossed the street, while some of the men assisted Rugg to his feet and took him back in the saloon, where they explained what had happened.

Rugg drank several more glasses of liquor to try and deaden the pain in his knee and head. It was humiliating, to say the least.

“Better leave him alone,” advised Moran, who had drunk but little during the night.

“The —— I had!” Rugg shook his head angrily.

“All right,” Moran shrugged his shoulders. “Calamity will shoot next time.”

“I’ll get me a gun.”

“You better get yuh an army. That old jigger has forgotten more about gun fighting than you’ll ever learn—and he hasn’t forgotten the part that beats the other feller to the first shot.”

Ertle joined in the argument, trying to convince Rugg that his best course was to forget old Calamity. Then Ertle drew Moran aside.

“Say, do you know that Frisco is still in jail?”

“I wondered where he was,” laughed Moran.

“What’s so funny about it? That —— sheriff knocked Frisco out and drove us all outside. I’ve been tryin’ to find out why he locked Frisco up.”

“Didja ask the sheriff?”

“No. I thought mebbe some of you fellers had heard.”

“It’s the first time I heard about it, Ertle. Mebbe he had an idea that Frisco needed soberin’ up.”

“Aw, he wasn’t that drunk. I’m goin’ to look into this, I’ll tell yuh that. He ain’t got no right to lock a man in jail for bein’ drunk.”

“Not unless he gets too bad,” amended Moran. “He’ll probably let him loose pretty soon. I’d sure like to know what became of Curley Adams.”

“Well, he wasn’t in the jail last night, that’s a cinch.”

Ertle left Moran and came down to the jail. Skeeter stepped outside the office to talk with Ertle, not wishing to have him come inside, but Ertle caught a glimpse of the interior and of Curley Adams.

“I wanted to ask yuh about Frisco,” said Ertle.

“Well, he’s doin’ as well as can be expected,” said Skeeter seriously. “Of course he’s still runnin’ off at the vocal cords a little.”

“He is, eh?” Ertle spat angrily. “Just what in —— are you keepin’ him in jail for?”

“’Cause he’s a bad boy, Ertle. If he was loose I’d have to kill him sooner or later.”

“The —— yuh would! Just because he talked back to yuh, eh?”

“Mebbe.”

“Then yuh won’t turn him loose, eh?”

“Nope.”

“Yo’re takin’ a lot on yourself, Sheriff. I’ll see that yuh do turn him loose. By ——, I’ll go to Judge Grayson and see if you’ve got any right to keep one of my men in jail, when he ain’t done anythin’.”

“Tell the judge hello for me, will yuh, Ertle?”

“You go to ——!”

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

But his announcement did not cause much excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

The bartender squinted thoughtfully at the ceiling.

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

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

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

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

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

“Much obliged,” said Skeeter.

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

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

“I dunno.”

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

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

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

“I reckon that’s right, Searles.”

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

“He didn’t find the Tin Cup, eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What became of Calamity?” asked Gregory.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are yuh sure of that, Curley?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gosh, no! Is he?”

“Yeah. Monk Clark knew it.”

“Is that so? No, I didn’t know it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my!” Calamity eyed Ertle speculatively.

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

Ertle tried to appear indifferent and move toward the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one disputed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do yuh know?” he asked bruskly.

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

“What about the inquest?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, he won’t hurt anybody.”

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

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

“Yuh do, eh?”

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

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

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

Moran shook his head.

“Probably up in the courtroom.”

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

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

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

“The —— he don’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t,” said Skeeter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ertle growled something, but Kaintuck could not hear it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

Joy nodded slowly.

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

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

Joy shook her head quickly.

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where you were?”

“No, sir.”

The crowd sat forward. This was more promising.

“Have you and Monk Clark ever had trouble?”

“No, sir.”

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

“I have heard it—yes.”

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

“I don’t remember.”

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

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

“A .45 Colt,” said the judge.

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

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

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

Curley did not reply.

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

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

The judge squinted severely at Curley.

“Have you any story to tell, Adams?”

“None at all.” Curley shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skeeter turned to the jury.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only the uneasy scraping of feet followed this statement.

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

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

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

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

Skeeter smiled softly and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skeeter hesitated and appeared thoughtful. Jim Searles leaned forward.

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

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

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

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

“Who molded that bullet?” asked the judge.

Skeeter smiled and pointed at Curley Adams.

“He admits it, judge.”

Curley nodded quickly. “I did.”

“Who fired the shot?” demanded Jim Searles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skeeter ignored the question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who killed Monk Clark?” repeated the judge.

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

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

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

Moran’s eyes flashed across the words—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calamity stopped, panting from the exertion.

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

Calamity nodded quickly.

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

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

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

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

Jim Searles shoved his way down to Skeeter.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Sarg!” he called.

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

They shook hands violently.

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

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

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

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

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

“I still have.”

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

“Killed him? Why I’ve got wires—”

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

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

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

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

Skeeter smiled widely.

“Did anybody ever call you ‘Shorty’?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I reckon you folks can go home now.”

Gregory shook his head sadly.

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

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

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

Long smiled reminiscently.

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

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

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

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

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

The three of them shook hands solemnly.

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

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

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

Long laughed softly and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, as Kaintuck expressed it—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transcriber’s Note

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