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. Skeeter Bill was familiar with all of Yellow Butte, even those places of business whose signs had long since faded out. He went into the Seven-Up Saloon. It was quite a large establishment, with gambling layouts along one side, and a long bar on the other. It smelled of stale beer and spilled liquor, but it was cool in there. Several men were at the long bar, and Skeeter recognized them at a glance--Sam Keenan, owner of the Tumbling K, Al Creedon, the big sheriff, Muddy Poole, his deputy and Slim Lacey who the bartender at Temple Rock had said was the new owner of the Seven-Up Saloon. Muddy Poole was the first to recognize Skeeter Bill in the subdued light of the room, and he emitted a yip of delight. “If it ain’t Old Skeet!” he exclaimed. “Welcome back among us!” “Hyah, Muddy,” grinned Skeeter Bill. “Gents, howdy.” They all shook hands with Skeeter, but not all were as enthusiastic as Muddy Poole, who said: “Where on earth did you drop from, Skeet?” “Oh, I just drifted in, Muddy. Thought I’d see what the old place looked like again. How’s everybody?” “Finer’n frawg-hair--mostly.” Skeeter looked curiously at Slim Lacey. When Skeeter Bill left Yellow Butte, Slim Lacey was a down-at-the-heel swamper in a little saloon at the other end of town, and without a decent shirt to his back, but now he was wearing white silk shirts, broadcloth pants and patent-leather shoes. Slim’s smile was always sickly, and it hadn’t changed much. Skeeter Bill said, “How yuh comin’, Slim?” “Fine, Skeet. Yuh’re lookin’ good. Glad to see yuh back. Have a drink?” “You never knowed Skeet to take a drink,” reminded Muddy. “Thank yuh,” smiled Skeeter Bill. “You’ve got a memory, Muddy.” “It ain’t hard to remember them what don’t drink, Skeet.” “Well, I’ve got to go back to the corral,” said Keenan, placing his glass on the bar. “We’re shippin’ today, Skeet.” “Yeah, I saw the dust in the air, Sam. How’s the market?” “Just fair. It’s always down when I’ve got stuff to ship.” Muddy Poole walked outside with Skeeter Bill. Muddy knew of the friendship between Skeeter Bill and Hooty Edwards. “Do yuh know about Hooty?” asked the deputy quietly.