“Name’s Kales,” said a bystander. “Hired gunman.”
Kales stirred and opened his eyes, looking curiously up at the circle of faces.
“Did it stop?” he whispered weakly. “The train?”
“It stopped in time,” said the judge.
“Dropped—my—gun.”
Kales spaced his words widely, and frowned heavily as if in deep thought.
“I knowed that it took one torpedo to stop the train.”
He stopped and took a deep breath.
“Women and children—men—the—bridge—gone. No—gun—so—I——”
Kales tried to smile but only succeeded in contorting his homely face.
“The wind was too strong—blew—the—cartridge—off—the—rail—so—I——”
He licked his lips and tried to lift his injured hand, but the effort was too great. “I—I held it on the rail.”
“God!” cried the engineer wonderingly. “He lost his hand from holding a cartridge on the track.”
“A hired gunman,” said Skeeter Bill softly. “A paid killer.”
“Where did Roper Bates come in on this?” demanded a bearded cow-man.
Roper Bates was trying to sit up, and one of the crowd assisted him while another gave him a drink of liquor.
More men were coming into the door, clumping heavily in their wet boots. They shoved to the front—the Tin Cup outfit, with Monk Clark at their head. He looked at Skeeter Bill and blinked his eyes rapidly. It was like looking at a ghost. His eyes switched to the three men on the floor, and Roper Bates was looking up at him.
Clark’s men had halted behind him. One of them pointed at Skeeter and said:
“There’s the —— murderin’ sheeperder, Monk! He didn’t drown.”
Mary Leeds moved in closer to Skeeter, and he put an arm around her.
“Murderin’ ——!” gasped Roper Bates. “He only killed a man, Monk. You and your gang tried to kill a woman. If I hadn’t been there you’d ’a’ done it, too.”
The man who had given Roper Bates the drink was forcing a drink between Freel’s lips, and Freel choked over the fiery liquor. The man lifted Freel’s head a little higher, and Freel’s eyes slowly opened.
For a full minute he studied the crowd, and his eyes shifted to Skeeter Bill.
“What—happened?” he muttered. “They—shot——”
“I jumped into the river with yuh,” smiled Skeeter, “and then I packed yuh plumb over to the sheep-herder’s shack and then brought yuh here.”
Freel digested this as he studied Skeeter closely.
“You unlocked the handcuffs—when?”
“After I got yuh out of the river.”
“And—you—stayed?”
Skeeter’s mind flashed back to the bank of the river, in the drenching storm and darkness, when he started to toss the sheriff back into the flood.
“Yeah,” said Skeeter slowly. “I stayed.”
“You—had—your—chance,” said Freel painfully.
“I know I did.”
Skeeter’s voice held no regrets.
“I could ’a’ got away, Freel.” he went on. “But you wasn’t to blame for what was bein’ done t’ me. You was only doin’ your duty.”
Freel motioned for another drink, and the man gave him a generous portion.
“Duty!”
Freel’s voice was so low that the crowd shifted in closer to hear what he was saying.
“I was doin’ my duty, Sarg? No, I wasn’t. I was glad the judge gave you life, instead of the rope. I’ll tell you why.”
Freel’s eyes shifted around the crowd, and he nodded.
“Remember the day Cleve Hart was killed? I got shot that day—just a scratch. I was in that sheep-herder’s cabin when Cleve Hart came. He—they told me he had said things about the woman who lived there.
“I picked up the shotgun and came out. Maybe he didn’t recognize me, but he shot. I killed him and rode away.”
“You killed him!” exclaimed the judge. “You?”
“Me,” admitted the sheriff. “I—got—scared—afterwards. I’m—a—coward, judge.”
Men looked at each other in amazement, and many of them looked at Skeeter Bill, who had his arms around Mary Leeds and was staring into space.
“Judge,” called Freel softly. “Listen to me, judge. Will you find McClelland? I think he’s in Cinnibar now. Tell him I said to take these —— sheep out of the valley of Moon River right away.”
“Why, how can you order them out?” asked the judge.
“They—belong—to—me, judge. I—I—didn’t—know—they’d—start—so—much—trouble.”
Skeeter Bill moved slowly toward the door with his arm around Mary Leeds, and the Tin Cup gang, yet to pay for their misdeeds, removed their hats as the lanky cowpuncher and the girl went past, paying no heed to any one.
Outside, they climbed on to the rickety seat, turned the old gray horse around and started back toward the sheep-camp. The old wagon creaked in every joint, protesting against such continuous service; and the old gray horse shuffled along over the wet, misty road, taking its own gait, while two figures sat very close together on the lop-sided seat—two pals who found each other in the storm.
THE END
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 30, 1922 issue ofAdventuremagazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 30, 1922 issue ofAdventuremagazine.