The Battle At Three-Cross (12 page)

Lance glanced at the man and felt a sharp anger
run through his body. For a brief moment his gun barrel raised a trifle toward Herrick. Herrick quailed back. “My God! You wouldn't shoot a defenseless man!” he exclaimed in terror.

Lance laughed shortly. “Yellow clear through,” he repeated. “No, Herrick, I'm not aiming to shoot you, though you deserve just that.”

Herrick glanced at his gang on the porch at his rear and could see the beginning of a certain contempt in their eyes. He gathered his fleeing remnants of courage and forced himself to meet Lance's angry gaze. “Sometime,” he grated, “I'll show you if I'm yellow or not. Don't think you got me bluffed, Tolliver. Right now my hands are tied.” This for the benefit of his friends on the porch. “But my time will come. The time just ain't ripe yet. But you'll see. I'll blast you so wide open that——”

“Cut it,” Lance said sharply. “Cut out your boasting and tell me what all this is about. What's the idea of beating this Yaquente?”

“None of your damn business,” Herrick snarled.

“Maybe”—Lance's gun tilted threateningly—“you'd like me to make it my business.”

Fear appeared in Herrick's face. “All right, if you got to know,” he said sullenly. “This flat-faced Yaquente was begging ammunition from me. I told him I wouldn't give him none. He made a blasted nuisance of himself, hanging around.”

“Is that straight?” Lance asked.

“Hell!” Herrick jerked one angry thumb over his shoulder. “You don't need to take my word. Ask any of them fellers. They heard the whole thing—how this Yaquente has been hanging around all day——”

“That's right,” Herrick's pals chorused. “Chiricahua's throwing a straight loop, Tolliver.”

Lance glanced scornfully at the knot of men on the porch, then turned to the Yaquente standing near. “You understand this, hombre?”

The Yaquente burst into a guttural flow in his own tongue.

“Whoa, whoa!” Lance exclaimed. “Hold it, Injun. Now, listen careful.” Lance tried the man with a few Spanish words and saw his face light up. “You understand that, eh?” Lance asked. The Indian nodded. It appeared after a moment that he also had a few words of En glish. “All right, we're getting straightened around now,” Lance said. He repeated certain words.

Again a volley of Yaquente verbiage mingled with Spanish and a spattering of En glish assailed Lance's ears. He turned to Herrick. “The Injun says you promised him some ammunition for a gun.”

“He's a goddam liar,” Herrick growled.

“How about it, Yaquente?” Lance asked.

The Indian glanced at Herrick's friends on the saloon porch, next at Herrick. Something in their eyes made him change his mind, apparently. He finally grunted, “Forget eet, señor. Ees not'ing.”

Lance shrugged his shoulders. Time was passing. “What's your name?”

The Indian replied promptly. Lance smiled. “Maybe you're right, but it sounds like Horatio to me.”

“Ees good name.” The Yaquente showed white teeth from his bloody countenance.

Lance took a half-dollar from his pocket and gave it to the Yaquente. “Here, go get your face washed and a bellyful of chili. Then you'd better light out for home, savvy?”

“I'm—savvy. Gracias, señor.” Obediently the Yaquente turned the corner and stalked off in the direction of the railroad tracks.

Lance turned to Herrick. “You'd better keep off my path for a spell, Herrick. I won't be pushed much farther.”

“I want my gun——” Herrick commenced.

“Want and be damned,” Lance said wrathfully. “You can have it when you learn how to act civilized. Just remember what I've told you. Don't cross my trail any more than you can help.”

He left Herrick standing on the corner cursing under his breath and started once more for the livery stable. Here he saddled up and headed toward the sheriff's office. When he arrived there he didn't dismount, but drew to a halt before the tie rail and called to Oscar. Oscar came out of the office.

“Hell's bells!” Oscar said, “ain't you left yet? I figured by this time you'd have dug up half the cactus in Sartoris County.”

Lance took Herrick's gun from his waistband. “Here's your friend Cherry-Cow's gun,” he said. “I told him he could have it when he learned to behave himself.”

“Cripes A'mighty! You had another run-in with Herrick?”

Lance smiled. “I had to prove to him I didn't always need you for protection.” He related what had taken place.

When Lance had finished Oscar said indignantly, “The dirty sidewinder. I'm sorry you didn't plug him. Taking his gun won't do any good.”

“It 'll make him buy another, leastwise,” Lance said, “if he needs one right away. And now”—
touching spurs to his pony's ribs—“I'm off to the cactus party.” He moved down the street.

Oscar called after him, “Better take along some lemon drops. They're right beneficial for sunstroke.”

“It's not the sun I'm afraid of.” Lance laughed back.

Katherine Gregory and Professor Jones were mounted, waiting for Lance, by the time he arrived at the hotel. He apologized for being late but asked to be excused on the grounds that he'd had some business to attend to.

“Yes”—Jones nodded—“we were watching you from the hotel-lobby window. You seemed quite busy for a few minutes with that fellow—Herrick—or some such name——”

“In fact,” Miss Gregory put in, “the hotel clerk tells us there's been quite a bit of excitement around town while we were out in the hills this morning——”

“I hope you had a good time,” Lance mumbled sheepishly, sensing what was coming.

“… and I was quite surprised to find I had a visitor,” Katherine continued, apparently not noticing the interruption. “If I'd only known you were coming——”

“Look here, Miss Gregory,” Lance protested, growing red in the face, “I'm plumb sorry I had to go in your room this morning, but it was all in the line of duty. I inspected every room in the front of the hotel. I just had to—somebody fired a shot and—and”—he commenced to stammer and paused to get
a grip on himself—“and, anyway, I didn't look at anything. I just looked for the hombre who might have fired a shot. I—I——” Again he paused, feeling perspiration forming on his forehead.

Something very near to a giggle reached Lance's ears. He glanced at the girl and saw she was having difficulty smothering her laughter. “Look, Mr Tolliver,” she said frankly, “it really didn't make a speck of difference. I know you had to do what you did. It was the hotel clerk who was indignant, not I. Honestly, I didn't believe our famous deputy sheriff could be so easily upset after all I've heard about him.”

“Aw, shucks,” Lance said awkwardly, “let's forget it. I'm just mighty glad you weren't really sore——”

“Think we—should make a start,” Professor Jones broke in. “Plan—cover—eight—ten miles today. Let's go.”

The three horses moved west along Main Street, Katherine riding between the two men. The girl wore a corduroy divided skirt, mannish flannel shirt and high-heeled riding boots. A black Stetson adequately covered her heavy yellow hair. Jones wore his usual riding breeches, knee-laced leather boots and tweed jacket. His saddle was equipped with roomy saddlebags for holding his notebooks and any small specimens he might collect. At the cantle was a rolled burlap sack. From one of Jones's jacket pockets projected the wooden handle of a trowel. Lance was surprised to note that both Jones and Katherine carried thirty-eight six-shooters in holsters at their sides. He wondered if they knew how to use them. Whatever his thoughts, both guns and holsters appeared well worn.

At the edge of town Jones turned in a northwesterly direction. The horses were moving at an easy
lope. Lance had to admit that both Jones and Katherine were good riders. For a time there was silence between the three as they moved across the semidesert country toward a row of low foothills. Yucca and prickly pear and cholla dotted the landscape, with occasional bunches of dry, wispy sagebrush. Overhead the sky was a great blue, inverted bowl. Far on the western horizon fleecy white clouds floated above the highest peaks of the Saddlestring Mountains.

When five miles had passed to the rear the horses were pulled to a walk. Jones reopened the talk of the morning's happenings. Apparently he and the girl were interested in learning firsthand the details of Kilby's death and of the events leading up to the disarming of Herrick a short time before Lance joined them at the hotel. Lance gave brief details, but he could tell when he had finished that Jones wasn't satisfied.

“It's very—queer—very”—Jones frowned—“this Kilby fellow—found time to say nothing. You're sure—didn't let drop anything—to incriminate his gang?”

“Nothing a man could tie to,” Lance evaded. “Anyway, you don't want to be bothered with such stuff. Remember, you were going to teach me something about cactus this afternoon.”

“Quite so, quite.” Jones nodded. “At any rate—I imagine this—Kilby fellow—put out of the way—by one of his gang. Logical, what?”

“Logical,” Lance agreed.

“Feel sure—someone in hotel—responsible for that shooting—from all I hear.” Jones looked sharply at Lance to see if he agreed.

“It's logical,” Lance said dryly.

Jones said, “Humph! Like drawing cactus spines from one's fingers—get information from you.” He smiled suddenly. “All right, cacti it shall be. Over that way”—he swept one arm to the left—“small stretch—haven't investigated yet.”

He touched spurs to his pony, and the three horses lengthened their gaits. For twenty minutes they rode through a series of low-lying foothills. Once Jones drew to a halt, and the other two followed suit. Jones directed Lance's attention to a slender, many-branched plant covered thickly with pale yellow spines. “What, for instance,” Jones asked, “do you call that?”

“Cactus, I suppose,” Lance guessed, though he usually thought of cactus as the prickly-pear variety.

“Right. Which genus—what kind of cactus?”

“I've always known it as cholla,” Lance answered.

Jones frowned. “Yes—and no. Not the true cholla. That particular specimen—
Opuntia bigelovii
—more spiny than the true cholla. Remember that next time.”

Lance said meekly, “Yes sir,” feeling like a small boy in school.

The horses moved on. They were crossing gravelly soil now. Outcroppings of granite rose at places and barred the way, necessitating wide swings to the right or left, as the case might be. Here and there Lance noticed barrel cacti growing along the way. Here at least he would show his knowledge. He spoke to the professor.

“You tell me if I'm right about those cactuses——”

“Cacti,” Jones corrected, frowning.

“… those cacti over there. In the Southwest we call 'em ‘barrel' cactuses—cacti. They are also known as ‘viznaga'——”

“And ‘biznaga.'” Jones was quick to take him up.

Katherine put in, “And ‘mule' cactus.”

“
Ferocactus
wislizenii
,” Jones snapped.

Lance laughed weakly. “Anyway, they're all Fero——Whatever that word was, Professor.”

“Wrong,” Jones jerked out. “Only tyro—think them all—same. Many of them—
Ferocactus
lecontei
.”

“Well”—Lance laughed—“they look the same to me.”

“Not if—examined closely. The
lecontei
—narrower plant—spines not so hooked.”

“Have it your way,” Lance said helplessly.

“Uncle Uly”—Katherine laughed—“quit pestering Lance.”

Jones grinned suddenly. “He's not too young—to learn.”

He moved his pony to a faster gait. Lance hadn't overlooked the use of his first name by Katherine. He wondered why the girl appeared so friendly. What was back of all this? Lance felt sure Jones hadn't brought him 'way out here simply to teach him the botanical names of certain species of cacti. He glanced back over his shoulder once and unconsciously moved his holster a trifle nearer the front.

Katherine didn't miss the movement. She said dryly, “We really didn't bring you out here to assassinate you, you know.”

Lance flushed. What he might have answered he didn't know. At that moment the professor drew his pony to a halt at the entrance to a low rocky canyon descending sharply to an old river bottom. He motioned for Katherine and Lance to dismount. He pointed to a plant a few feet away. “There's your true cholla, Lance.
Opuntia
fulgida
. Beyond that—see—with the red and yellow flowers—clump—
Opuntia versicolor
—remarkable color range—of bloom——”

“Look,” Katherine exclaimed, “a dove just flew out of the versicolor.”

“Nest probably there—spines protection—certain enemies. Katherine—suggest you and Lance—rest here—wait for me—get acquainted, y'understand.” Jones paused awkwardly.

“Where are you going?” the girl asked.

Jones jerked one thumb over his shoulder. “Down into that canyon—gravelly limestone soil—evidence presence—perhaps—
Echinocactus horizonthalonius
—valuable field observation—that sort of thing, y'understand——” Jones was moving off, burdened with notebooks and trowel, even before he finished talking. Within a few minutes he had passed from sight around a high shoulder of rock.

Katherine sighed and dropped to a sitting position on the earth. “Well, there doesn't seem anything else to do, does there?”

“Suits me.” Lance dropped down a few feet away.

“Poor Uncle Uly.” Katherine laughed ruefully. “Sometimes I think he's plain batty on the subject of cacti——”

“At the same time,” Lance said directly, “he didn't bring me out here to just educate me along those lines.”

Katherine's blue eyes met his a moment, then dropped before his steady gaze. Suddenly she lifted her head. “Lance, we haven't fooled you a moment, have we?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know how I mean. You've been suspicious right from the start. I've felt it. Uncle Uly felt perhaps
I could persuade you better than he—you know”—the girl's face crimsoned—“turn on my winning feminine charm or something of the kind. I can see, now, it was all so silly.”

“I think,” Lance said directly, “that if anybody could persuade me to anything it would be you, Miss Gregory.”

Katherine smiled. “Very nicely put, Lance, and you can dispense with the ‘Miss.' I'm plain Katherine to my friends. And that's not part of the charm. At least I'm sincere in that.”

“Just what,” Lance asked, “are you supposed to persuade me to do?”

“Uncle wants,” the girl replied, “a guide to take us down into Mexico.”

Lance considered. Just what was back of this? Why should anybody try to persuade him to leave Pozo Verde? He said, “So your uncle is going through with the Mexican trip. I had understood from Fletcher that he wasn't going——”

“Mr Fletcher is against the trip. He says it is no place for me to go.”

“For once I think I agree with Fletcher.”

The girl made an impatient little gesture. “I've been able to take care of myself for a long time,” she said slowly. “I don't believe I have anything to fear from Mexico.”

“Even so, why should your uncle want me for a guide? I've been all through Sonora and Chihuahua, of course, but I don't count myself as thoroughly familiar with that country down there. You could probably find dozens of men around Pozo Verde who'd make far better guides than I.”

“That may be,” Katherine agreed, “but it isn't so much a guide as it is a man to manage the trip. There
'll be wagons to buy, men to hire; someone to handle them is necessary. Uncle says you're smart. He likes you. He said he considered the trailing down of Frank Bowman's murderer one of the finest pieces of detection he ever heard of.”

Lance smiled. “I reckon your uncle isn't too familiar with the business of detection.”

“He might fool you.”

“He might, at that.” Lance added after a minute, “And you're going to the expense of such a trip just to collect and study cacti? Do you expect me to believe that, Katherine?”

The girl was silent for several minutes. Lance rolled and lighted a cigarette. Finally Katherine spoke. “Maybe I'd better give you the whole story. You've probably heard that my father owned the Three-Cross Ranch down in Mexico—and that he was killed down there?”

“I've heard that.” Lance nodded. “I believe the Yaquentes brought him to Pozo Verde, and nobody ever discovered who did it.”

“That's correct. Father was given that ranch years ago in return for certain ser vices he rendered the Mexican Government's Bureau of Mines. Father was really a mining man, you see. He didn't know very much about cattle raising but he wanted to try. Things didn't go as well as he hoped, though he made a good living for us. Then, when I was fifteen, Mother died. There was a revolution brewing in Mexico at the time. Father thought it best if I return to the States. He sent me up to San Francisco, where I lived at a school for girls, to complete my education.”

“And you haven't been back to the ranch since?” Lance asked.

Katherine shook her head. “I never saw Father
again. That's nearly seven years ago. He was always promising to get away from the Three-Cross and come to San Francisco to visit me, but the ranch always needed him. He was still working hard to put it on a big-paying business, and I guess it wasn't easy. I wanted to be with him, but he always refused to let me come to the ranch until, as he said, he could furnish it fit for a lady. That was foolish, of course, but, after all, he was the boss.”

Lance ground out his cigarette butt in the sandy soil at his feet and waited for the girl to continue. In a few moments she went on, “A little over a year ago I had a letter from Father. He seemed more cheerful than usual and enclosed a draft on the Pozo Verde bank for five thousand dollars, which he wrote was to make up for the years of doing without things—though that was another foolish idea. I may not have had as many clothes as other girls at the school but I wasn't doing any protesting. He said that before long he would be sending for me.”

“That was the last letter you had from him?”

“The last.” Katherine nodded. “He explained that for twenty-five thousand dollars he had sold a half-interest in the ranch to a man named Malcolm Fletcher and that they intended to buy some blooded bulls and raise the quality of their stock. Father appeared very cheerful about his new pardner and mentioned that he'd made a discovery that might make us all wealthy. He didn't mention what it was but said he was sending a present that might give me a clue.”