The Battle At Three-Cross (10 page)

After leaving the sheriff's office Lance strode east along Main Street, unconscious of the fact that both Lockwood and Oscar were trailing him in the rear. Morning sun beat down on the dusty roadway. It was still a bit early for all the shops and stores to be open. Here and there a storekeeper could be seen sweeping out. A few pedestrians passed. There weren't many ponies or wagons at the hitch racks along the way. A man standing in the open doorway of a bootmaker's shop noticed Lance's deputy badge and said, “Good mawnin'.”

Lance nodded pleasantly and passed on. He was considering now the best place to find Kilby. “Probably,” he mused, “I'd better try the Pozo Verde Saloon first. That seems to be a sort of hangout for Herrick and his crowd. If he's not there I'll have to make the round of the other saloons. Next the restaurants. Maybe he's not out of bed yet. I wonder where he sleeps. Probably at one of the lodging houses in town.”

He strode on. A couple of more men spoke and wondered who the new deputy was. Lance said to himself, “Of course, there might be some trouble taking
him if he's with Herrick or some more of the gang. I don't reckon so though. That crew hasn't displayed much taste for open defiance of the law. Far as I actually can
prove
right now, they haven't broken any laws. That's why I've got to make Kilby do some talking. I hope he won't put up a fight. I'd hate to have to shoot him. It isn't always easy to just wound a man—particularly if he's fast on the draw.” A smile crossed his features. “Maybe I should have accepted Oscar's offer to help. I might have my hands full.”

He walked steadily on, arms swinging at his sides. It was sure hot this morning. Seemed like Old Sol was doing double duty. A hard rain would feel good. Lance's eyes swept the turquoise sky. Not a fleck of cloud in sight. Just that great golden ball up there blazing down on Main Street. Golden! Yellow! Yellow hair! He wondered what Katherine Gregory was doing. Probably not out of bed yet. This afternoon. Going riding with Professor Jones. Lance smiled. Cactus hunting. That was a joke. “I'll have to make my excuses for that date, I reckon,” Lance muttered. “Probably be busy with Kilby. He might break down fast though. Sometimes they do.” He strode on.

He was nearing the corner of Laredo Street now. On the northeast corner stood the San Antonio Hotel. On the southeast was located the Pozo Verde Saloon. From this distance Lance could see the swinging doors of the Pozo Verde swing apart as George Kilby stepped into view and started north along Main. At that moment Kilby's eyes ranged down the street and spied Lance. Abruptly, he turned and started across the street to avoid meeting him.

“Just a minute, Kilby,” Lance called. “I want to talk to you.”

“Ain't got no time now, Tolliver.” Kilby was increasing his gait. “I got some important business to 'tend——”

“You'd better make time pronto,” Lance snapped coldly.

Kilby was half across the street by this time, but something in Lance's voice brought him to a slower pace. He stopped in front of the San Antonio Hotel and leaned against the hitch rack, with the sidewalk at his back. “Make it snappy, then,” he growled in surly tones.

“We won't waste too much time,” Lance said easily. He stepped to the sidewalk and came around to the other side of the hitch rack. Kilby turned to face him.

At that moment Kilby caught sight of the deputy sheriff badge pinned to Lance's open vest. “Jeez!” His face hardened. “When did you join the forces of law and order?”

“ 'Long about the time I decided to have a talk with you.”

“Well, get on with your habla, Tolliver. I'm in a hurry.”

Lance said, “Let me see your gun—and move easy.”

“What for?” Kilby demanded belligerently.

“Let me see your gun!”

Reluctantly Kilby drew the six-shooter from its holster and passed it across the tie rail, Lance watching him narrowly as he moved. Diagonally across the street Oscar Perkins stood peering around the corner of the Lone Star Livery entrance. Two doors farther west Lockwood stood watching from a doorway. Both breathed easier as they saw the gun surrendered without trouble.

Lance was examining the six-shooter. He flipped
open the loading gate of the weapon, closed it, spun the cylinder while Kilby eyed him uneasily. “Hmmm,” Lance commented. “You use a forty-four, eh?”

“Any law ag'in' it?” Kilby growled.

“Never heard of one,” Lance replied quietly. “Sometimes I wonder why more people don't tote 'em. They make a nice pard for the .44-40 Winchester.”

“That's my idea in carrying it. Same ca'tridges for both.”

“Oh, so you're a rifle shot too?”

“I'm pretty good, if you want to know,” Kilby boasted.

“I'm glad you've still got a rifle.” Lance smiled thinly. “I'd sure hate to deprive you of all your weapons.” He stuck Kilby's fortyfour into the waistband of his overalls.

“Hey, gimme that gun,” Kilby protested.

“Maybe you'll get it, and maybe you won't. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't try anything rash. Now we can have our talk peacefully——”

“What in hell's got into you, Tolliver?” Kilby rasped. “I ain't done nothing.”

“I was just thinking,” Lance said smoothly, “about the weight of a forty-four slug. You know, there's only about fifty grains difference in the weights of a forty-four and a forty-five. Course, when Doc Drummond first probed that slug out of Frank Bowman everybody took it for granted it was a forty-five——”

“Hey, what you talking about?” A lot of the color had suddenly departed from Kilby's face. “You mean they've weighed that slug and found out——? Oh hell! Suppose that slug did turn out to be a fortyfour? Lots of hombres use 'em. You can't pin Bowman's killing on me just because——”

“Why, Kilby”—Lance assumed a look of surprise—“I never said anything about weighing slugs. You just jumped to conclusions.”

Kilby clutched at his swiftly vanishing courage. He looked uneasily about. Across the street Chiricahua Herrick and Luke Ordway had appeared on the porch of the Pozo Verde Saloon and stood looking curiously at Lance and Kilby. They couldn't hear what was being said but they saw that Kilby had surrendered his gun, so there didn't seem any possibility of immediate gun slinging.

“Speaking of Bowman,” Lance was saying easily, “reminds me I wanted a look at your shirt.”

“My shirt?” Kilby looked blank. “What in hell's got into you, Tolliver?”

“Turn around—slowly,” Lance ordered.

Kilby obeyed. As he faced the Pozo Verde Saloon he saw Herrick and Ordway and commenced to feel better. At least his friends were near. He made a complete turn and again faced Lance. “C'mon, cut it out,” he said cockily. “I ain't no time for foolishness. Gimme my six-shooter, and I'll be on my way.”

“Uh-huh,” Lance murmured, his eyes intent on Kilby's right shirt sleeve where a couple of torn spots showed. Lance considered. A spur could have caught in one of those spots, especially where the material was worn thin. “Just a moment, Kilby. Don't get impatient. I want to show you something.” He took out his notebook and from between the pages produced a few twisted threads of dark wool. These he held against the sleeve of Kilby's shirt, then nodded with satisfaction. “Looks like the same material to me, Kilby. What do you think?”

“I think you're cuckoo in the head,” Kilby snarled, losing his temper. “If you think you got something
on me quit beating around the bush and come out with it. Otherwise, I'm leaving right now. I've wasted enough time.”

“I'll come to the point then.” Lance replaced the woolen threads in his notebook and put it away. “Those threads were found caught on Bowman's spur, Kilby. What do you know about it?”

Kilby looked startled. “Why—why, I don't know nothin' about it. You can't prove them threads come from my shirt.” He backed away a step and stood ner vous ly scuffling one booted toe in the dust of the roadway. “Cripes, Tolliver! I don't know nothin' about that killing——”

“Or about creosote either, I suppose.” Lance's voice had suddenly gone hard.

“Creosote! Creosote?” Kilby's face was the color of ashes now.

“Yes, you know that stuff that was spilled at the station platform when Bowman went down. Remember? It spilled all over his hand, and when you lifted him to his horse you got some smeared on your overalls——”

“My Gawd! What are you talking about? I don't know—know—anythin'—about——” Kilby's tones sounded choked. He backed another step. “Hot—hot sun—here. Let's get across in the shade.” He was still backing away, moving faster with every step.

“Stop, Kilby!” Lance snapped. “We got your old overalls from Ike Dreben. I'm arresting you for the murder of Frank Bowman. Stop, or I'll have to shoot!”

Reluctant to draw, Lance vaulted over the hitch rack and started toward Kilby who was still backing away. Abruptly a look of hate flashed across Kilby's fear-twisted features. His left hand ripped open his shirt, his right darting inside the shirt to
the underarm gun hidden there. A burst of flame and smoke blossomed suddenly from Kilby's right hand.

Lance heard the bullet thud into the tie rail at his rear. His hand stabbed toward holster, came up in a swift, eye-defying arc. Lead started to pour from the six-shooter muzzle the instant it left the holster. A leaden slug threw up dust at Kilby's feet. Lance's aim lifted higher. Kilby fired again. Lance thumbed his hammer once, twice, three times.

Kilby was flung violently sidewise by the impact of the heavy slugs. For a brief moment he swayed uncertainly, then his right leg buckled, and he pitched to the roadway. For a short interval he struggled to regain the weapon that had fallen from his hand then, as Lance closed in and kicked the underarm gun out of reach, Kilby shivered and slumped in the dust.

Wild yells sounded along Main Street. Men came running from all directions. Lance was kneeling above Kilby's still form now, examining his wounds. A sudden breath of relief was expelled from his lips. Then he stiffened.

Behind him came Chiricahua Herrick's voice, violent with hate. “Damn you, Tolliver! You can't do this to a friend of mine. Now, by God! we'll see how you like the taste of hot lead!”

Lance leaped to his feet but he was too late to do anything about it. He caught the complete picture in a single glance: Chiricahua Herrick's rage-contorted, snarling features as the man came plunging in, his six-shooter high in the air, already swinging down to bear on Lance!

Lance knew he'd be too late even as he started to lift his own gun. Then he saw Oscar's lanky, scarecrow figure flash in between him and Herrick. Oscar's left hand swept up to clutch Herrick's right wrist. Herrick's gun exploded harmlessly in midair. There came a swift glint of gun metal as Oscar's six-shooter barrel crashed down on Herrick's head. Herrick's legs slumped, and he pitched on his face.

Sheriff Lockwood's stern words cut in, “Back, everybody! Ordway! Keep your hand away from that gun!”

“Ain't figured to draw it a-tall,” Ordway replied sullenly.

Others of the Herrick crew were near now, but none of them made movements toward weapons. A crowd was gathering swiftly.

Oscar had shoved his gun back in holster and stood looking down at Herrick, one fist doubled
menacingly. “Get up, you low-lifed varmint,” Oscar was promising, “and I'll give you some more!” Herrick didn't stir. Oscar looked disappointed. “Hell! You ain't as tough as I reckoned you were.”

A man in the crowd commented laughingly, “That deputy can sure coldcock 'em. I'll betcha Herrick's lamp is put out for an hour.”

Oscar came ambling toward Lance. Lance said, “Much obliged, Oscar. You sure moved fast. That was nice work. Herrick would have got me.”

“You did some pretty nice work yourself—dropping Kilby,” Oscar replied calmly. “You were sure shellin' out lead faster 'n I ever see before. Is he dead?”

Lance shook his head. “Just fainted from the shock of the slugs. I reckoned to get him in the leg and shoulder.” He added meaningly, “I didn't want him dead, you know.”

He again dropped at Kilby's side. Kilby had a wound in his right thigh, and his right shoulder had been smashed. His eyes were closed. “Oscar, get me some whisky, will you?” Lance requested.

Oscar left the circle of men around Kilby. Lance asked the crowd to get back and give the man air. The crowd backed reluctantly. Lockwood took a hand in the proceedings. “Go on, get back!” Lockwood snapped. “ 'Way back! Show some speed before I throw half a dozen of you hombres in the cooler on a charge of defying an officer. Go on, scatter!” The crowd commenced to move back. Lockwood added, “And take Herrick's carcass with you. Lay him over there near the sidewalk.”

The crowd moved well back out of earshot, a couple of men taking Herrick with them. Now only Lance and the sheriff stood near the unconscious Kilby.
Lance said, “Much obliged, Ethan. When Kilby comes to maybe we can make him talk. I'd just as soon too many folks don't hear what he has to say.”

Oscar came hurrying back with a flask of whisky. Lance knelt again at Kilby's side and forced a few drops of the fiery liquor between the man's lips. Kilby swallowed convulsively. Then he choked, gagged. His eyes opened. For a moment he gazed vacantly at Lance, then a look of mingled fear and pain swept his features. “You—you——” he mumbled, and shrank back. A mask of sheer terror replaced his look of fear.

Lance said quietly, “I reckon I didn't get to make that arrest, after all, Kilby, but it was your own fault. I was willing to give you a chance and a fair trial. You see, your pals didn't come to your rescue. They left you to go it alone. You don't owe them anything. How about 'fessing up? We've got the evidence we need to prove you killed Bowman but we want the whole story. Who helped you?—Herrick, Ordway, some of that crew?”

Kilby shook his head. “Didn't have nothin' to do with it——”

“Don't lie, Kilby. We want the truth.”

Kilby said weakly, “You're right. I killed Bowman. We took his body out—to that wash. It was—too dark for us—to notice that peyote he had——Gimme another drink, eh?”

Lance held the flask to the man's lips. Kilby swallowed deeply. When he had done his voice came strong. “Hey, how about getting me to a doctor?”

“We'll take you to a doctor when you've finished talking.”

“But—but I might bleed to death.”

“You're not hit that bad,” Lance said grimly, “but it's up to you. The sooner you decide to talk the
sooner you'll get medical aid. And we want the truth. No stalling. Why did you kill Bowman?”

“We had him figured for a dick,” Kilby answered, apparently anxious now to give Lance the desired information. “He was always asking questions about the freight shipments that came to—that came in——”

“Came in to who?” Lance asked quickly. “What were the freight shipments?”

“Peyotes—mezcal buttons—for the Yaquentes. That night I killed Bowman he kept hangin' around the box at the depot. Later we caught him opening it. I had to stop him. Then we——”

“Who's we?”

Kilby's eyes shifted uneasily. “I don't dare tell——”

“Yes, you do. We'll see you get protection. Talk up, Kilby. It's for your own good. What sort of game have you been playing here? I want the name of every man that's behind you.”

“All right, I'll give you the whole damn story,” Kilby said suddenly. “They haven't helped me none, so——” He stopped abruptly.

Lance saw the sudden hole appear in Kilby's breast even before he heard the report of the gun. A cry of anguish was torn from Kilby's lips. Blood seeped swiftly into his shirt front. His eyes closed, then opened again, already growing glassy.

“Like hell you'll protect me,” he muttered. His eyes closed again, and his head fell to one side.

Lance was already on his feet, looking right and left. A startled row of onlookers were ranged along the sidewalk on either side. A confused clamor filled the air.

“Where 'd that shot come from?” Sheriff Lock-wood bellowed.

“That's what I want to know,” Lance snapped.

“Sounded like it come from over that-a-way,” Oscar stated, jerking one hand toward the hotel.

Lance glanced at the hotel building. A line of men were ranged along the porch, looking above the heads of the men crowded on the sidewalk. High up above the top of the building Lance glimpsed a vagrant wisp of smoke. Powder smoke? He couldn't be sure. Even while he looked it disappeared in thin air. The smoke may have come from farther down the street. Lance studied the second-story windows in the front of the hotel. There were five of them. All windows were lowered to keep out the heat of the day.

“Ethan”—Lance spoke swiftly—“I'm going over to that hotel. You see can you bring Kilby back to consciousness, though I'm afraid it's too late. Oscar, you question that crowd standing in front of the hotel.”

Turning swiftly, Lance ran across the street. On the porch of the hotel he found the hotel clerk. “C'mon, you,” Lance snapped, “get your house keys. I want to examine those front rooms upstairs.”

“You certainly won't,” the clerk stated indignantly. “Some of those rooms are occupied. I can't——”

“I figure one of 'em must have been,” Lance cut in. “I'm going to have a look at all of 'em.”

“I can't have strangers entering guests' rooms——”

“Damn it, march!” Lance growled, impatient at the time being wasted in meaningless bickering with the stubborn clerk. He tapped the deputy sheriff badge on his chest. “Maybe you'd like to face a charge of obstructing justice, mister. Either you do as I say or I'm putting you under arrest——Oh hell!” He seized the angry clerk by the coat collar and forced him into the hotel lobby. “Now you get your keys. You
and me are going upstairs, and I don't want to lose any more time.”

The clerk was quite pale by this time. He secured the necessary keys from behind his desk and led the way to the second-floor hall. “Who's occupying these front rooms?” Lance asked.

“Miss Gregory has the corner room—number 201,” the clerk replied. “Professor Jones is in 202, Mr Fletcher has 203——”

“I have 204,” Lance cut in.

“And 205 is vacant,” the clerk finished. “There are only five rooms facing on Main Street——”

“I guessed that from the number of windows. Get a move on, will you? Is the professor or Miss Gregory or Fletcher in this morning?”

“Miss Gregory and the professor are out in the hills. They left word, in case you called, they'd be back by dinnertime. Mr Fletcher is in, I believe. At least, I didn't see him go out, though he may have by this time——”

“Open up Fletcher's room.”

The clerk halted before number 203, thrust a key into the door and turned the knob. “Mr Fletcher,” he called. There was no answer. He flung the door wider, and Lance stepped inside. The room was empty, furnished about as his own room was with a bed, dresser, two chairs and a small washstand. There were curtains at the window which was shut tightly.

Lance stepped back to the corridor. “Try 205 next.”

The vacant room also was empty and didn't appear to have been occupied for some time. Dust was heavy on the dresser and washstand. Lance led the way back to the hall. “Now, my room.”

The clerk thrust the key into the lock, then paused. “Why, this door is unlocked.”

“It could be,” Lance agreed. “I might have left it unlocked.”

Nothing in that room to furnish a clue to the mysterious shot either. Lance and the clerk next entered Professor Jones's room. Here the table was littered with books and papers. A trunk stood in one corner, but there was no sign of a human having been in the room within the last ten minutes at least.

Once more in the hall, the clerk said, “That leaves only Miss Gregory's room. Surely you don't intend to enter——”

“Open it up,” Lance said grimly. He could feel his face growing warm. A trunk stood in one corner of the girl's room, as in the room occupied by Jones. Articles of apparel hung on a clothes rack. There were some ribbons on the dresser. The room seemed faintly scented. But no clue here. Lance backed out as swiftly as he could, the clerk right after him. The door was re-locked.

“Well, I hope you're satisfied,” the clerk said righteously. “The idea! Entering a young lady's room——”

“You make another crack like that,” Lance threatened, red faced, “and I'll mop up the floor with you.” He left Katherine's door and swung at right angles into another corridor. At the end of the corridor he saw a stair well. “Where does that lead to?” he demanded.

“That's a back entrance from the alley at the rear of the building.”

“Door unlocked?”

“It's left unlocked during the day.”

Lance hurried down the steps and opened the
door on the alley. He scrutinized the earth in the vicinity of the door, but too many people had passed there to leave any definite sign. Slowly he retraced his steps up the stairway, his keen eyes looking for some evidence of the killer's having come this way, but again the search was without result.

“Is that all?” the clerk asked when Lance had rejoined him.

“I reckon that's all,” Lance said disappointedly. He followed the clerk along the corridor and descended the stairs to the lobby once more. As they stepped into the lobby Lance saw Malcolm Fletcher just entering. Malcolm nodded and started to pass.

Lance caught his arm. “Where you been?” he asked.

“Out on the street,” Malcolm said in surprised tones. He smiled. “I guess the rest of the town is out there too. Nice bit of shooting you did awhile back, Tolliver.”

“Somebody else did some shooting, too,” Lance said grimly. “That's the hombre I'm looking for.”

“Mr Fletcher,” the clerk put in, “this fellow insisted on entering your room. I told him——”

“What's the idea?” Fletcher demanded of Lance.

“Looking for the man who fired that shot,” Lance said coldly. “I figure it came from the direction of this hotel. I looked in all the front rooms. I wasn't overlooking any bets.”

Malcolm laughed shortly. “I guess there was no harm done. I see you're wearing a deputy's badge. You won't have to go after Bowman's job, after all.”

“Fletcher, I never intended going after Bowman's job. I got this badge for the purpose of arresting Bowman's murderer. That part is accomplished. Somebody killed Kilby——”

“Who is Kilby?”

Lance stopped. “Kilby is the man who finished Bowman—just in case you don't know.”

“Surely you're not suspecting me of having a hand in the affair?”

“I'm suspecting damn near everybody until I get to the bottom of things. Just where were you before that shot was fired?”

“Which shot—yours or the one that got Kilby?”

“Mine got him first,” Lance growled, “but you know damn well I'm talking about the shot afterwards—the one that came from the direction of this hotel.” Lance felt himself growing angry.

“Oh, I see.” Fletcher looked amused. “In other words, you want to know what I was doing at the time and so on.”

“Exactly.”

“Here goes. I had finished my breakfast and was sitting in my room when I heard some shooting. I looked out of the window and saw one man down and you running toward him with your gun in your hand. I jumped up, ran downstairs and went out to the street——”

“Wait a minute.” Lance turned to the hotel clerk. “Did you see Fletcher leave?”

The clerk shook his head. “But that doesn't mean anything. I ran outside, myself, when I heard the shot. Naturally I'd——”

“All right,” Lance cut in, turning again to Fletcher, “all right, you're out on the street now. What happened?”

“I saw another man try to shoot you,” Malcolm said coolly. “Herrick, I understand, is his name. But that other deputy prevented that. Later you'd started to talk to Kilby when that shot came from down the street——”