“If Hooty pulled that job, why wouldn’t he be bitter?” asked Skeeter. “He didn’t!” declared Margie flatly. “I don’t care what the law says. Everybody was against him, because the breaking of the bank just about broke everybody in the valley. They took the ranch and all the stock, trying to get something out of it.” “Did Hooty need money, Margie?” The woman nodded. “He did, but only to expand. Hooty wanted to raise better cattle, and breeding stock is expensive. The bank wouldn’t help him. They said he had hare-brained ideas.” Skeeter sighed and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “I can’t figure out why Hooty didn’t know what happened.” “He couldn’t either, Skeeter. He says he only took three drinks in the Seven-Up Saloon that night, but he barely remembers getting on his horse. After that, it was a blank, he says.” “At the trial,” said Skeeter, “did any testimony show that Hooty had only three drinks?” Mrs. Edwards nodded. “Yes, it did. Slim Lacey was tending bar at that time, and he said Hooty didn’t drink enough to be drunk. He didn’t think he had more than three drinks.” “Slim Lacey must have done pretty darn well,” remarked Skeeter. “He was broke when I left here.” Mrs. Edwards nodded. “I guess he was. I never speak to him. One day he got fresh with me, and Hooty knocked out his front teeth. If you look close, he has a bridge for two front teeth.” “I’d like to have seen that!” Skeeter Bill smiled. Mrs. Edwards admitted that she wasn’t making much money and that Shorty Hale wasn’t the best boss on earth. She said, “He was all ready to explode over the broken dishes, when he saw you, Skeeter. He’d have probably fired me on the spot.” “Yeah, I reckon so.” Skeeter grinned. “Sometimes I believe I have a calmin’ influence on folks, Margie.” They sat there and talked, until the two children came home. Nellie was nine, a slip of a girl, with big, blue eyes, looking very much like her mother, but Bill was husky, redheaded, and had eyes like his father. Nellie was shy of this tall stranger, but Bill let out a whoop. He remembered Skeeter Bill, and shook hands with him. “Gee!” he said, “It’s kind of like home, Mom. Where have you been, Mr. Sarg?” “Down in Texas, Bill, followin’ dogies. Yuh’re sure growin’ up fast. How old are yuh, Bill?” “I’ll be twelve next Saturday.” “Yeah, that’s right. Twelve years old. Bill, I was the first outsider to poke a finger at yuh, don’tcha know it?” “Mom told me you was. We were talkin’ about you a while ago, kind of wonderin’ where you were. And now you’re here.” “Talkin’ about me?” marveled Skeeter Bill. “Well, I do know! Bill, what would yuh like to have for yore birthday?” Young Bill thought it over soberly. Finally he said, “If I could have just what I want, I’d take--my dad.” Skeeter looked at Bill’s mother, and there were tears in her eyes. No one had any comments, until Skeeter said quietly: