Flames of the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man shook his head slowly, wearily.

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

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

The man obeyed wonderingly.

“Yuh got a bad cough,” observed Skeeter.

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

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

He studied the man for several moments, and then:

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

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

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

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

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

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