Skeeter Bill comes to town

“I wouldn’t joke on a thing like that. He’s been gone quite a while, they told me. He wrecked the bank in Yellow Butte. Never did have another one.”

“I’m a sea-serpent’s sister!” whispered Skeeter. “Tell me what yuh know about it, will yuh?”

The bartender told him that “Hooty” Edwards had forced the banker and his wife from their home to the bank. There he had compelled the banker to open the vault. Then he tied them both up and took his own time in looting the vault. It was close to morning, and the sheriff, coming from an all-night poker game, looked into the bank window and saw moonlight shining through the open doorway at the rear of the room.

He ran around to the rear of the building, just as the robber was riding away. They exchanged shots, and the sheriff said he scored a hit, but the man got away.

Later in the day they found Hooty Edwards sprawled beside a trail near his own ranchhouse, his white horse tangled up in the brush near him. The bandit had ridden a white horse. Edwards still had the black mask around his neck. The doctor said he had been shot and would have eventually bled to death, if they hadn’t found him.

Skeeter listened to the whole tale, his face a mask of his feelings.

“Yuh see,” remarked the bartender, “he wasn’t able to prove no alibi. His wife said he left home after supper, comin’ to Yellow Butte. Hooty said he didn’t know what happened. He had a few drinks in Yellow Butte, but everythin’ is a blank after that, except that he remembers gettin’ on his horse. They gave him twenty years--but they didn’t get the money back. They say he cached it, but he swore he didn’t remember what he done.”

“He was married,” said Skeeter slowly, “and had two kids.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em; a boy and a girl.”

“The boy,” said Skeeter huskily, “is named William S. Edwards. They named him after me, Bill Sarg. He’ll be twelve years of age in a few days, and I was aimin’ to help him celebrate his birthday. Came all the way from Texas to do that. Yuh see, he’s the only kid that ever was named after me.”

“That’s hard luck, Sarg. So you’re Skeeter Bill Sarg. I’ve heard of you. They say you can drop a dollar with yore right hand from yore hip, draw yore gun and hit the dollar before it hits the ground.”

“I have,” nodded Skeeter soberly, “and I’m also shy the little toe on my right foot. They used to say that I had more brains in my right hand than I have in my head, too. Mebbe it’s ’cause I use it more. I wonder what Mrs. Edwards is doin’ to support her family.”

“Worked in a restaurant, when I was there, slingin’ hash. She’s a pretty woman, I’ll say that.”

“She’s awful nice, too,” said Skeeter. “I wouldn’t like to hear anybody say she ain’t. And that kid was named after me, too. Well, I reckon I’ll be movin’ on. See yuh later.”

“Are you goin’ down to see the kid, Sarg?”

Skeeter nodded. “After all,” he replied, “no matter what happened, he’ll have his twelfth birthday in a few days.”

“Tell him hello for me,” said the bartender. “Jist say that Fatty, the bartender, said Happy Birthday.”

“We both appreciate that,” said Skeeter, smiling faintly. “I’ll tell him.”

A pall of dust hung over the town of Yellow Butte as Skeeter Bill rode in. They were loading cattle at the big corrals down at the railroad tracks. Yellow Butte was the shipping point for all of Road-Runner Valley. There was nothing beautiful about Yellow Butte, with its crooked, narrow streets, sandblasted signs and false-fronted buildings.

Lazily Skeeter Bill dismounted and tied his horse at a hitchrack which was mercifully in the shade of the Seven-Up Saloon. On the other side of the street Skeeter could see the faded and scarred gold lettering on a large window, BANK OF YELLOW BUTTE. It was used now as a store-room for the general merchandise store.