Skeeter shook his head slowly. “I don’t, Fuzzy. This deal goes back a couple years, I believe. Somebody don’t want Skeeter Bill Sarg in circulation.” “Hu-u-uh? You mean--they’re gunnin’ for you Skeet?” “They knew I was watchin’ that water-hole, Fuzzy, and they believed I was dumb enough to set on that post-pile. My hunch is that the water ain’t got a thing to do with it.” Fuzzy Davis’ eyes held a strained, nervous expression, as he tried to get the situation straight in his own mind. It was difficult to puzzle out anyone’s reasons for wanting to kill Skeeter Bill. Finally he said: “I don’t sabe the deal, Skeet. You ain’t had no trouble with anybody around here. Shucks, you jist got here.” “Take a look at that old hat,” said Skeeter soberly, “and don’t forget they thought my head was inside it.” * * * * * Skeeter Bill wanted to go to town, so Fuzzy went with him. They tied their horses to the rail in front of the general store where Skeeter wanted to buy more tobacco. Emory Van Ness, the old merchant, shook hands warmly with Skeeter Bill, and sold him the tobacco. “I heard you was in town, Skeeter,” he said. “Going to stay with us for a while, I hope.” “Yuh can’t never tell about me,” replied Skeeter Bill. “I’m a tumble-weed, Emory.” Skeeter’s eyes swept over the supply of rifle and revolver ammunition on a shelf behind him, but did not see the brand of rifle cartridges he had found at the water-hole. “Do yuh need some shells?” asked Fuzzy. “I’ve got plenty for my six-shooter,” replied Skeeter. “Have you got a thirty-thirty, Fuzzy?” “Yeah, I’ve got one, but the firin’-pin is busted. Been layin’-off to get it fixed, but there ain’t no gunsmith around here.” Skeeter mentioned the brand of the shells he had found at the water-hole, but Van Ness shook his head slowly. “We ain’t had none of them for a couple months. Got some ordered. Sam Keenan bought the last box I had. Them others are the same thing. In fact, I have more calls for them.” They left the store, and Skeeter Bill drifted down to the New York Chop House to say hello to Margie Edwards but she was not in evidence. Another woman was waiting on the tables. Shorty Hale, the owner, came out from the kitchen, his face just a bit sheepish. Skeeter Bill asked about Margie. Shorty said, “She quit the job last night.” “Yea-a-ah? Did she get a better job, Shorty?” “She--she didn’t say. Just left.” Skeeter went down to the little house and found Mrs. Edwards laboring over a wash-tub. “Shorty told me you’d quit the restaurant, Margie,” Skeeter said. “Shorty must be getting polite,” she said. “He fired me.” Skeeter looked sharply at her. “What for, Margie?” “I don’t know. We didn’t have any trouble. Everything was going along all right but when my shift was finished, he told me that I didn’t need to come back.” She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I don’t know what I am going to do now.”