Skeeter Bill walked out and looked at his dummy. One bullet had hit the hat, gone through the thin piece of fence post, mushroomed badly, and blown a hole five inches across at the front of the old hat. Another bullet had struck about a foot lower on the post, and had split it into two pieces. The bullet-hole was a foot below the top of the collar. The third bullet had missed. “Mighty good shootin’ in that light,” said Skeeter Bill, his face grim. “Either of those bullets would have blasted the life out of a man.” Skeeter Bill took the coat, hat and overalls. He threw them on his blankets before starting up the slope. He was careful, as he went up through the brush. The killer might not be quite satisfied with his own convictions, and come back to verify them. Bill worked his way slowly, watching the ground. He had gone about a hundred yards when he found where a boot-heel had cut into the dirt. Then he found where a horse had been tied, and more boot-prints. It was not difficult for Skeeter Bill to backtrack those high-heel tracks, because the man had made no attempt to disguise his trail. Finally he found the spot where the man had rested, waiting for daylight, and here he discovered three empty brass hulls where the man’s rifle had flung them. They were of thirty-thirty caliber and of a well-known brand. Skeeter looked them over carefully and put them in his pocket. Then he got down on his hands and knees, examining every inch of the dirt around where the man had waited. He rolled and smoked a cigarette before going back to his blankets, which he rolled up, with the bullet-marked clothes, and went to his horse. Breakfast was almost ready at the ranchhouse as Skeeter dismounted and carried his bundle up to the house. Fuzzy greeted him at the door. Skeeter Bill merely unrolled the bundle, handed the hat to Fuzzy for examination, and held up the coat for him to look through. Fuzzy squinted at Skeeter, his jaw sagging a little. “I made up a dummy,” said Skeeter, “and that’s what they done to it. Three shots--two of ’em dead-center.” Aunt Emma and the two cowboys came in to look at the remains, and they all stood around, solemn-faced. Fuzzy said, “That kind of ruins my appetite for breakfast, Skeet.” “Dead-center--twice!” breathed Len Riggs. “How far, Skeet?” “At least a hundred yards--and in awful bad light, too.” “Breakfast is ready,” said Aunt Emma soberly. There was little conversation at breakfast. For once in her life, Aunt Emma had no suggestions. This was a serious business. When they had finished Skeeter and Fuzzy stood outside together. Fuzzy said, “Skeet, you must have been lookin’ for somethin’ like this, or yuh wouldn’t have made up that dummy.” Skeeter Bill smiled slowly. “Just a hunch, Fuzzy--a hunch that worked out.” “I’m still fightin’ my hat,” said Fuzzy. “Yuh mean to say that they want water so bad that they’re willin’ to murder to keep that spring unfenced?”