Flames of the Storm
It was the year of the big drouth in the valley of Moon River; aseason when every blade of grass was worth its weight in gold to thecattlemen, who watched with jealous care over their unstaked portionsof the range and guarded closely their almost dry water-holes.
Day after day through the long summer the merciless sun had baked thegrass-roots; browning the land; burning below the surface, until a puffof wind would drift the soil, as a wind drifts dry snow. Even the sageand greasewood turned from purple to brownish-gray.
Along the river, which wound its way through this crescent-shapedvalley, the leaves of willow and cottonwood hummed paper-dry in the hotwinds, while the river, itself, was shrunken to half its normal Summerstage.
The range cattle were red-eyed, hollow of flank and dust-colored andwhen they stopped to graze their panting nostrils would send up tinypuffs of smoke-like dust. In all that valley of rolling hills, whichsloped upward on both sides to the hazy heights of the ShoshoneMountains, there was no sign of green vegetation.
Riding down the slope of one of these hills, heading toward theriver, came a tall, thin cowboy, unshaven and unshorn. The expression ofhis thin face was serious as he squinted into the hazy distance andspoke softly to his rangy bay horse—
“Bronc, ’f this ain’t the best place I ever seen t’ commit murder in,then my name ain’t ‘Skeeter Bill’ Sarg.”
The horse sniffed suspiciously at the dry grass, but did not crop atit.
“Ain’t much juice left in that kinda feed,” declared Skeeter Bill,removing his sombrero and wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.For a few minutes he surveyed the country before riding on.
Suddenly he drew rein and sniffed at the breeze. His rather long nosequivered, and he shook his head. Beyond him a cloud of dust floated overthe skyline of a ridge, growing more dense. It was impossible to seewhat was making the dust-cloud, but whatever it was, it came over theridge toward Skeeter Bill and dipped down into the depressionbeyond.
“Sheep!” snorted Skeeter Bill with the true cowman’s disgust of suchanimals. “We shore poked into one fine country t’ poke right out ofag’in, bronc.”
Skeeter Bill turned and rode angling along the side of the hill,going through a heavy thicket of greasewood. Suddenly his horse jerkedahead and went to its knees, and Skeeter fell head first into a thickclump of brush. As he fell he heard the whip-like snap of a rifle, andhe knew that some one had shot his horse from under him.
He backed out of the tangle and investigated. His bay had crashed intosome brush farther down the hill, and Skeeter could see that it wasdead. He swore softly and held his gun ready.
The bullet had torn through Skeeter’s chaps, along his thigh, missingthe flesh by a narrow margin, and had broken the back of the tall bayhorse. Skeeter had no idea why he had been shot at, nor how many menmight be ready to shoot at him again. It was a ticklish situation, butSkeeter smiled grimly and waited.
Far away he could hear the soft bawling of sheep and the tiny tinkleof a bell. A blue jay screeched harshly from down the cañon. Suddenlythe brush crashed as if some one had stumbled into it. Skeeter glancedkeenly in that direction, but did not move.
In a few moments the brush crashed again, and Skeeter grinned widely.He knew th