Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maa-a-a-a-a?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sheep outfit?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Freel nodded.

“Shepherd?” queried another cowboy anxiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You take your —— list and vamoose!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“By ——!” he grunted. “Cleve Hart!”

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

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

Skeeter glanced up at Freel and smiled wearily.

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

“Yeah?”

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

“Mind tellin’ us about it?”

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

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

“What did yuh shoot him for?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ancestors was Eskimos,” said Skeeter seriously.

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

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

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

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

“Ask the boys t’ leave that bunch of grub alone. Yuh came out here t’ take it away from me, but yuh landed bigger game than tryin’t’ starve a shepherd.”

“No, by ——!” interrupted the one called Slim. “We aim to bust up this —— sheep business, and starvation is better than bullets.”

“There’s a woman t’ starve,” Skeeter Bill reminded him.

Slim hesitated and shrugged his shoulders.

“We’ll let the grub alone,” nodded Freel. “A few days more or less won’t ruin the cow-business, I reckon.”

Slim favored Freel with a black look, but at this moment the two cowboys came back with the evidence and gave it to Freel.

“My bronc will pack double, Andy,” said Freel to one of the cowpunchers. “You ride behind me, and the prisoner will ride your horse.”

“Awright.”

Andy did not relish this arrangement, but swung up behind the sheriff, and the cavalcade moved back toward town.

Skeeter glanced back toward the shack, where the ancient gray was still standing wearily before the open door, waiting for some one to unhitch him.

* * * * *

Crescent City was deeply stirred over the killing of Cleve Hart, who, although not exactly popular, was the biggest cattle owner in the valley. The guilt of Skeeter Bill was unquestioned, as he had been caught with the goods. Unluckily for him the sheriff and posse had lingered a few minutes before giving chase to recover the sheep-herder’s grub-stake, and this lapse of time had been sufficient for Skeeter to have killed Cleve Hart.

There was much talk of a lynching, headed by the boys from the Lazy H, but wiser counsel had pointed out the fact that the law would make no mistake in this case, and that Skeeter Bill would pay the supreme penalty.

Skeeter Bill himself seemed indifferent. He refused to talk to the lawyer who had been appointed by the court to defend him, and the lawyer did not argue the point to any great extent. He was the son of a cattleman, and to save the life of a sheep-herder would not react to his credit. Therefore he became counsel with the defense, rather than for it.

It was a week from the time of Skeeter Bill’s arrest until the day of his trial, and he had had plenty of time to think over his predicament. Of Kirk and his wife he had seen nothing; which was not strange, because Crescent City was no place for sheep-herders to visit. Only a voluntary confession from them would exonerate him, for it would do Skeeter no good to try to pass the guilt to them—even if he had been so inclined.

Crescent City was crowded on the opening day of the trial, and the little courtroom was filled to suffocation. Never was a trial jury selected with less argument. The counsel with the defense used no challenges, and the prosecuting attorney passed each juror with few questions. Skeeter Bill smiled softly, as he studied the faces of the twelve men. They were all cattlemen.

“I’ve got about as much chance as a snowball in ——,” he told his lawyer in an undertone.

“It’s your own fault,” the lawyer reminded him sourly. “You wouldn’t talk to me about the case.”

“Well, everybody else did, I reckon—and they likely told the truth, as far as they could see.”

The evidence was overwhelming. Every cowboy who had been with the sheriff on the day of the arrest took the stand and swore to the same story. There was no cause for any delay in presenting the case to the jury, and the prosecutor, supreme in his knowledge that the prisoner was already convicted, opened his vials of righteous wrath and hinted that Skeeter Bill was guilty of every known crime against humanity.

At the height of his vituperative oratory he suddenly crashed to earth when Skeeter Bill, handcuffed, threw the sheriff aside, grasped the prosecutor with both hands, kicked his feet from under him, and hurled him over the railing into the front row of sight-seeing humanity.

In an instant the courtroom was in an uproar, but Skeeter Bill backed up against the judge’s desk and made no further move. The prosecutor crawled back to his seat, torn of raiment and dazed of mind.

“All I ask for is a square deal,” stated Skeeter to the court. “That lawyer is a —— liar, tha’s all.”

“You’ll get a square deal,” declared the judge nervously, rapping on his desk. “Sit down, Sarg.”

“Where and when do I get this here square deal?” queried Skeeter Bill. “With all the witnesses ag’in’ me and a jury of cowpunchers, where do I get off? You’ve got me cinched f’r murder, judge—why let that ganglin’, horse-faced lawyer add t’ my crimes?”

The prosecutor got quickly to his feet and wailed an objection, but the judge ordered him to sit down.

“I do not think there is any use of reviling the prisoner,” declared the judge. “The evidence is plain enough, I think.”

Skeeter Bill got to his feet and faced the court.

“Just a moment, judge. I reckon yuh got me cinched f’r this killin’, but I’d like t’ ask a question before that jury decides t’ hang me, ’f I can.”

“I think you have that right, Sarg,” admitted the judge.

Skeeter turned to Freel.

“Mind swearin’t’ tell the truth, sheriff?”

Freel walked to the witness chair, while his deputy edged in beside Skeeter Bill.

“Sheriff,” said Skeeter Bill slowly, “Cleve Hart had a six-gun in his hand when he died. Did you see that gun?”

“Yes.”

“Had it been fired?”

“Once,” nodded Freel. “There was one empty shell.”

“Tha’s all,” said Skeeter, and turned to the judge. “Yuh can only hang a man f’r murder, judge; and it ain’t exactly murder when the other feller shoots too. Ain’t it sort of a question as t’ who shot first?”

The prosecutor jumped to his feet and objected at the top of his voice, but the judge turned a deaf ear to him as he instructed the jury.

Skeeter Bill expected little from those twelve hard-faced cattlemen as they filed out into the jury room to decide his fate. The judge had explained the difference between first and second degree murder, and had dwelt upon the possibility of self-defense, but Skeeter felt that the jury were in no mood to argue among themselves.

Fifteen minutes later they returned their verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree. For several moments there was intense silence in the courtroom; broken only by the voice of Judge Grayson—

“William Sarg, stand up.”

Skeeter got to his feet and faced the judge, who said:

“You have been found guilty of murder in the first degree. Is there any reason why the sentence of the court should not be passed upon you?”

Skeeter shook his head slowly. The jury had taken no cognizance of the fact that Cleve Hart might have shot first—had given him no benefit of any doubt.

“Go ahead, judge,” said Skeeter softly. “There ain’t nothin’ else yuh can do.”

Judge Grayson’s eyes searched the courtroom, passed over the stony-faced jury and came back to Skeeter Bill.

“William Sarg, I sentence you to life imprisonment at Red Lodge.”

Life imprisonment! Skeeter took a deep breath. He had expected a death sentence. The courtroom buzzed with excitement, and one of the jurymen swore openly. Skeeter felt a pressure on his arm and turned to find Freel looking him square in the eyes and saying—

“Sarg, I’m —— glad.”

Skeeter smiled at the irony of it all. Congratulating him on a life sentence! The judge was leaving the bench, and the jury had been discharged. The room still buzzed with conversation, and Skeeter heard one man say:

“—— such a judge! He ain’t got guts enough to hang a sheep-herder!”

Skeeter turned and looked at this man. He was a small, thin-faced, almost chinless person with close-set eyes and a broken nose. His eyes dropped under Skeeter’s stare, and he turned away, walking with arms bent stiffly at the elbow and with a peculiar swaying motion.

“That’s Kales,” said Freel as Skeeter turned back. “He’s a gunman. I think he is working for some of the cattle outfits.”

Skeeter nodded.

“I’ve heard of him. Feller told me that Kales never missed his man. He will—some day. They all do.”

Freel took Skeeter back to his cell and locked him in.

“When do we make the trip?” asked Skeeter.

“I dunno.”

Freel shook his head.

“Soon, I reckon,” he added.