“Yeah, I reckon we’d all like that, Bill. Well, I guess I’ll kind of drift back and see who I can talk to. Yuh never know who is glad to see yuh back. I’ll see yuh some more, folks.” “You are welcome to stay here with us, Skeeter,” said Mrs. Edwards quickly. “Our home is your home.” “That’s shore sweet of yuh, Margie,” he said soberly. “No, I couldn’t do that. But I’ll be around.” Skeeter Bill picked up his big hat and went slowly up the dirt street. Young Bill said, “Mom, he’s an awful lot like Dad.” * * * * * Margie nodded thoughtfully and went into the house. Nellie said, “Gee, Bill, is that the man you was named after?” “That’s right, Sis. I hope I grow up with long legs and big hands like he’s got. They say he can take a mean steer and stand him right on his head.” “Why?” asked Nellie. “Aw, you’re just a girl--you wouldn’t understand. Let’s go in and help Mom get supper.” Skeeter Bill wandered up to the Seven-Up Saloon. Few people were in the place, and Slim Lacey was sitting at a card-table, reading a newspaper. He nodded to Skeeter, who went over and sat down with Slim. “How does the old place look to yuh?” asked Slim, folding the paper and tossing it aside. “Same as ever. Slim, I want to ask yuh a few questions. I heard about Hooty Edwards in Temple Rock. On that night, how many drinks did Hooty take in here?” Slim smiled shortly. “Skeeter, I can’t swear to it but I think he took about three. Mebbe it was four. But no more.” “Whisky?” “Yeah. I don’t believe he ever drank anythin’ else.” “Any special kind of whisky, Slim?” “No. Just bar-whisky, out of a barrel. What’s this all about?” Skeeter looked thoughtfully at Slim for several moments. “Slim,” he said confidentially, “I’m goin’ to prove that Hooty never robbed that bank.” “How?” asked Slim blankly. “A lot of other folks would like to know, too, Slim. Keep this under yore hat, will yuh? I don’t want to be interrupted in my job. You’ll know later, but keep it dark, Slim. See yuh later.” Skeeter went over to the general store, where he bought a package of tobacco and cigarette papers. Then he sat down on the shaded porch to enjoy a smoke and commune with his own soul. “Bill Sarg,” he told himself, “yuh’re crazy, but it’s pleasant. If I can make enough people believe that I know somethin’, I might find out more’n I know now. Anyway, one more lie won’t hurt my immortal soul, I reckon.” He was sitting there when a lone rider came into town, started to draw up at the Seven-Up Saloon, but swung around and came over to the hotel hitchrack. Skeeter Bill grinned slowly. The rider was Fuzzy Davis, owner of the Bar D spread, and one of the most explosive characters Skeeter had ever known. Fuzzy was only a few inches over five feet tall, and in wet weather he might weigh a hundred pounds but that hundred pounds was all fighting man. He wore a five, triple A boot, but his .45 was as big as anybody carried on their hip.