The Battle At Three-Cross (11 page)

“From down the street?” Lance frowned. “From this direction, you mean.”

Smiling, Fletcher shook his head. “No, I don't. That sound seemed to come from west of here, say, in the direction of the bank building. Of course, I couldn't say for sure.”

“You probably couldn't,” Lance said ironically. “Then what?”

“I saw you come running over here. I hung around down on the street for a while, then decided to come back to my room. I'd just entered the lobby when you grabbed me and started to ask questions. Now you've got it, what are you going to do with it?”

“I'll tell you later,” Lance replied quietly. He brushed past Fletcher and the hotel clerk and stepped out to the street once more. A few minutes later he found Oscar.

Oscar said, “Learn anything?”

Lance shook his head. “All I know is somebody could have fired that shot from one of those hotel rooms, closed the window—it wouldn't have to be open very far—and made a getaway down the back stairs of the hotel. Did you pick up anything?”

“Nothing but confusion,” Oscar said wearily. “No two men in the crowd have the same idea regardin' the direction that shot came from—east, west, north or south. There's them that claim somebody in the crowd did the shooting. I can't see that. It sounded like a rifle to me, and a rifle would be noticed pronto. Hell! It all happened so quick! We were all watching you and Kilby.”

“It sounded like a rifle to me too. I talked to Fletcher in the hotel, and he thinks—or claims to
think—that the shot came from near the bank building or even farther west.”

“There y'are. Nobody can agree on it.” Oscar scratched his blond head and glanced toward the bank building. “Maybe so,” he commented dubiously, “but I'd bet against it.”

“We've got to admit it was damn accurate shooting, anyway,” Lance said ruefully. “I've a hunch it was done to keep Kilby from spilling what he knew.”

“Maybe you've hit it. By the way, Kilby died almost instanter. Never recovered consciousness. It's a tough break.”

Lance nodded agreement. He and Oscar joined the sheriff standing near Kilby's lifeless form. Lock-wood glanced at Lance's face, saying, “I figure you didn't have much luck.”

“Not any,” Lance replied. “Jeepers! One minute I thought we had this case all sewed up. The next, it blew wide open.”

“It's not a total loss, anyway,” Oscar reminded. “Kilby confessed to Bowman's murder. That's one scut out of the way.”

Lockwood nodded, then said, “I reckon we'd better get this body off'n the street so the crowd can go about its business. Lance, it looks like Herrick has come to life again. What charge you want placed against him? He might have killed you.”

Lance glanced across the street. Herrick was seated at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the Pozo Verde Saloon holding his head and taking but little interest in his surroundings. Lance smiled. “Oscar, you sure take the fight out of 'em when your gun barrel lands.”

“It takes more than one jolt to take the fight out of Herrick's breed,” Lockwood growled. “Oscar just
softened him up temporary. Wait until we get him in a cell——”

“Ethan,” Lance proposed, “let's not arrest Herrick. I've got a hunch we may learn more by letting him run loose. You know, give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself.”

Lockwood looked surprised. “We-ell, sure, if you want it that way. But s'help me I'm going to give him a talking to and warn him that next time…” Muttering angrily, the sheriff started toward Herrick.

Oscar groped in a pocket for his sack of lemon drops. “Me, I never believe in givin' a sidewinder a second chance—but maybe you know best, Lance.”

“I'm hoping I do. After all, Herrick didn't do me any damage—thanks to your quick work. Maybe, if we let him run loose, I'll meet him again with drawn guns. I have a hunch I will—and the sooner, the better!”

The remainder of the morning was consumed by Lance, Lockwood and Oscar in an attempt to discover some clue regarding the person who had fired the rifle, ending George Kilby's life. Men on the street were interviewed, shop-and storekeepers talked to, but without result. Lance made another more thorough examination of the earth back of the rear entrance to the hotel, but without success. It was nearing noon when Lance made a trip to the railroad station to learn whether or not an answer to his telegram had arrived, but Johnny Quinn had nothing to give him as yet. Quinn would have liked to detain Lance to discuss Aunt Minnie, but Lance managed to break away and directed his steps toward the Pozo Verde Savings Bank.

At the bank, after waiting a few minutes, he was admitted to the private office of Gillett Addison, owner of the bank. Addison was of medium height, fat and bald, with small, squinty eyes. He appeared to be very busy, and Lance gained the impression that Addison felt valuable time was being wasted on the inquiry.

“No, no—sorry, I can't help you,” Addison said brusquely. “I wouldn't have any idea of the direction
from which that shot was fired. Matter of fact, I wasn't paying too much attention when the shot came. Oh yes, I was out on the steps of the bank, watching the excitement. To be frank with you, Tolliver, if I had to place a bet on the matter—though I want you to understand I'm not a betting man—I should say the shot came from over near the railroad tracks somewhere.”

“And,” Lance said dryly, “the bullet passed right through the Pozo Verde Saloon building, I suppose, and struck Kilby in the chest. Kilby, of course, was stretched on the ground when the shot came.”

“I'm not arguing the matter,” Addison said stiffly. “I'm simply giving you my impressions. Perhaps the shot came from the saloon.”

Lance said ironically, “Thanks a lot,” and, after a few more words had been exchanged, left the banker's private office, closing the door behind him.

On the way through the bank proper he stopped at the cashier's window. Behind the grill was a tall, thin young fellow with a pale complexion. Lance approached the cage. “You're Elmer Manley, I take it. Sheriff Lockwood was telling me about you——”

“I'm Manley, Deputy Tolliver.” The young fellow smiled. “I hope you or the sheriff aren't after me for anything?”

“Not at all.” Lance laughed. “I'm talking to as many folks as possible, trying to get an idea from which direction the shot was fired that killed George Kilby. Did you happen to be on the street when that happened?”

Manley nodded. “It sounded to me as though it came from the direction of the hotel. Of course, I couldn't be certain. I'm not supposed to leave my cage here at all but I did dash out to take a look for just a
second. Just as I reached the doorway I heard the shot. I really haven't much idea of what happened, except what I've gathered from others…. You don't remember me, do you, Mr Tolliver?”

“Should I?” Lance scrutinized the man more closely. There was something vaguely familiar about Manley's features.

“Think back about five years,” Manley suggested. “The Dankerker counterfeiting case in St Louis——”

“Sure enough,” Lance exclaimed, his brow clearing. “You were a witness for the prosecution. You helped us convict——” He paused suddenly. If this man knew him…

“Trust me, Mr Tolliver,” Manley said. “I've an idea what brought you here and what brought Frank Bowman here. I haven't said a word to anyone—and I don't intend to.”

“That's a relief,” Lance said ruefully. “You could upset a lot of plans.”

“I don't intend to,” Manley repeated, and somehow Lance felt he could put faith in the man. Manley went on, “You wouldn't want two five-dollar bills in exchange for a ten, would you?”

“I might at that,” Lance said slowly. What was the fellow up to? Lance drew a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and passed it through the grill.

Manley reached below his counter and secured two fives which he exchanged for the ten. Lance glanced at the numbers on the bills. Then he looked up, his eyes meeting Manley's. Manley nodded slowly. Lance tensed. “Where 'd you get these?” he demanded.

“I can't talk now,” Manley said, low voiced. “If I could meet you someplace after work——?”

“Anywhere you say. How about the sheriff's office?”

Manley shook his head. “Somebody might see us. I wouldn't be able to meet you until to night. It's getting along toward the end of the month, and I'll have to work fairly late. Do you know where Tony Pico's saloon is? How about meeting me there? That's the last place anybody would expect to see me——”

“Who do you mean by anybody?”

“Can't tell you now. I'll see you there to night around nine o'clock——” He stopped abruptly.

The door of Gillett Addison's office had opened suddenly, and the banker emerged with his hat on. He frowned upon seeing Lance at Manley's window.

“I doubt Manley can tell you anything, Tolliver,” he stated coldly, crossing over. “He scarcely stuck his head out the door.”

“I just learned that much, Mr Addison,” Lance said quietly. He still held in his hand the bills Manley had given him.

Addison spied the bills. His features tightened a bit, then he forced a cold smile. “Transacting a little business?”

Lance laughed. “Two-dollar bills are bad luck. I was just exchanging one for a couple of aces.” By this time Lance had thrust the two fives out of sight. He said much obliged to Manley and started toward the door with Addison by his side.

Addison said, “I'm just going out to my dinner. Have you tried the hotel yet? I'd be glad to have your company. I'd like to get better acquainted with the town's new deputy.”

“Thanks, no,” Lance refused. “Some other time. I'm going to be right busy for a spell.” He wondered what had made the banker suddenly grow so genial. Probably the man wanted to question him,
pump him. Or maybe it was just his imagination, Lance considered. On the street he said good-by to the banker and headed toward the sheriff's office.

Lockwood and Oscar were waiting there when he arrived.

“Looks like you didn't learn anything new?” Lockwood said.

“Regarding that shot, I didn't,” Lance replied. “Did you two?”

“Nary a thing,” Lockwood stated gloomily.

Oscar shook his head. “From the various yarns I've listened to, I'm commencin' to think that shot come down from the clouds.”

Lance asked, “Ethan, who is Elmer Manley? I know he's cashier at the bank, but what do you know about him?”

“We-ell,” Lockwood said slowly, “I always figured Elmer was a right nice hombre. I can't say I know much about him. He came to Pozo Verde about four years back—came out here for his health, he claimed. I reckon he was by way of becoming a lunger back in St Looie. That was his home. He told me one time he used to work for the First National Bank there. I'd be willing to take his word for that.' Bout the time he arrived out here Gill Addison needed a cashier. Elmer landed the job. I don't figure Gill pays him much, but I do think Elmer does most of the work around that bank. That bookkeeper they got in the bank—well, Elmer just about taught him to run the books from what I've heard. Yep, I figure Addison would miss Elmer was the boy to leave sudden. What about him?”

“He knows who I am.”

Lockwood whistled softly and in some consternation. He said finally, “What's he going to do about it?”

“Manley says he doesn't intend to reveal the information. I hope I can trust him. He wants to see me. I'm to meet him to night in Tony Pico's saloon.”

Oscar chuckled. “That 'll be a surprise all around. I don't reckon Elmer knows what the inside of a bar looks like—let alone Tony Pico's place, which is patronized almost solely by Mexes.”

“I'm betting,” Lockwood stated seriously, “that Elmer has something important to tell you. Me, I'd trust that fellow.”

“You sound encouraging, anyway”—Lance smiled—“so my stomach will probably enjoy that dinner it's been craving. Either of you ready for chow?”

“Both of us already et,” Oscar said, “before we come back to the office. Figured you might do the same.”

“Shucks”—Lance laughed—“if I'd known I wasn't going to have company I'd have taken Banker Addison up on his offer. He asked me to eat with him at the hotel.”

Oscar choked on a lemon drop. “By cripes,” he gulped, “I never knew that tightwad to buy anything for anybody before. There must have been a catch in it someplace.”

“If Gill Addison offered to buy your dinner”—Lock-wood frowned—“you can depend on it he had something in mind. He always gets double value for whatever he gives.”

“Maybe I made a profit by refusing then.” Lance laughed. “As a matter of fact, he didn't urge me very hard…. By the way, Ethan, you're going to have to get along without one of your deputies this afternoon. I'm going with Professor Jones, you know—though I don't know how much good it will do me.”

“You'll probably get stuck on one of two things,” Oscar prophesied: “cactus spines—or a girl with yellow hair. One nice thing about cactus spines—you can recover from their wounds.”

Lance flushed. “I doubt very much that Miss Gregory will go with us.”

“T'hell she won't,” Oscar denied. “She's a secretary, ain't she? She usually does go riding with him.”

“In that case”—Lance grinned—“maybe the afternoon won't be a total loss. Well, I'm going to hunt me a flock of food. See you later.”

He left the sheriff's office and walked down Main Street to the Chinaman's restaurant. Twenty minutes later he emerged and started toward the Lone Star Livery where his horse was stabled. He was still a couple of doors east of Laredo Street when he saw Chiricahua Herrick standing before the Pozo Verde Saloon talking to a Yaquente Indian. The two were having an argument of some sort. Lance paused and stood before a store window watching. The Yaquente appeared to be stubbornly insisting on something to which Herrick violently shook his head in the negative. Once Herrick raised his clenched fist with the quirt dangling from his wrist, but the Indian refused to give ground.

Lance mused, “Now I wonder what palaver Herrick. could be having with a Yaquente….”

At that moment Herrick broke into a fit of cursing. Toward the end of a savage tirade Lance caught a few words: “… and I told you last night you couldn't have any bullets. Understand, you low-down, flat-faced, greasy son of a bustard! I meant what I said! Now you get outa town and stay out….”

Herrick's fist suddenly shot out and caught the unsuspecting Yaquente alongside the head. The Indian's
huge straw sombrero tumbled off. He staggered back, tripped and fell flat on the sidewalk. Instantly Herrick was on him with tigerish ferocity. Twice the quirt at the man's wrist cruelly rose and fell, and each time it left a livid streak across the Yaquente's face. Lance could hear the whistling hiss of the split leather, metal-pointed end of the quirt as it swished through the air. The Indian covered his face with his arms. Herrick shifted his sadistic attack to the man's body. Crimson streaks appeared on the Yaquente's thin cotton shirt.

“I'll teach you, you——” Herrick was snarling as Lance closed in. The quirt was just raising in the air when Lance seized Herrick's wrist and forced it down.

“Better take it easy, Herrick,” Lance snapped.

Herrick stiffened, twisted his head to see who had stopped him. Then as he recognized Lance a look of extreme malevolence appeared in his bloodshot gaze. He jerked savagely free from Lance's grasp, fell back three paces. Swiftly his right hand dropped toward his holster.

“Hold it, Herrick!” Lance's tones were like chilled steel. His six-shooter was already out. “You're covered!”

Herrick paused with his gun half clear of holster. He tried to keep his eyes steady on Lance's, but something in Lance's piercing gaze sent chills coursing down Herrick's spine. He could see tiny, flickering, angry blue flames in the relentless eyes, warning him that this tall, redheaded deputy had the law on his side—more: that Lance Tolliver, if pushed to the limit, might prove as much of a killer as Herrick himself. Herrick's eyes widened at this discovery.
Involuntarily he commenced to back away. The fingers of his right hand spread, relinquishing their hold on the gun butt, and dropped to his side.

“Reach!” Lance jerked out. “Reach high, you scut!”

Herrick's hands came into the air above his Stetson. A shiver flashed along his backbone. He felt something jab, hard and sudden, into his middle. Looking down, he realized that Tolliver's gun muzzle was boring in between his ribs.

Lance's left hand moved forward, jerked the six-shooter from Herrick's holster. Then he stepped back. “This seems to be your day for getting jammed up, Herrick,” Lance commented coldly as he thrust the captured gun into the waistband of his overalls. “First thing you know, you're going to get into trouble—and I mean trouble! Beating up a helpless Indian seems to be just about your speed. I'm warning you not to go too far.”

“By God, Tolliver!” Herrick flamed. “I'll get you for this if it's the last thing I do——!”

“You had your chance,” Lance snapped, “but you lacked the nerve. I figure you're yellow clear through!”

A small knot of men had collected. Ordway, Anvil Wheeler, Ridge and two or three others of Herrick's gang had appeared on the porch of the Pozo Verde Saloon. Lance watched them warily while still keeping an eye on the fuming man before him. None of the gang attempted to take a hand in the affair.

The Yaquente had by this time climbed to his feet and stood stolidly by, blood running down from the angry lashes across his face. More blood was seeping into his clothing.