The Spark of Skeeter Bill (1922) by W. C. Tuttle by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Format: epub
Published: 2023-05-09T00:00:00+00:00

The Law of the Range

CHAPTER I

IT WAS the year of the big drought 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 someone 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.

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