The Battle At Three-Cross (14 page)

“Nine,” Lance said. “What sort of joint does Pico run?”

“Tony's all right,” Lockwood said. “He obeys the closing law on time. There's never any fights in his place. By Hanner! If all of the people in this town was as law-abidin' as our Mex population we wouldn't have any trouble.”

Shortly before nine o'clock Lance crossed the street to Pico's saloon. Oscar went with him. Pico proved to be a round-faced, grinning Mexican who immediately
insisted on buying drinks for Oscar and Lance. Oscar didn't drink. This didn't at all stop Tony. Grinning widely, he reached to his back bar and handed Oscar a paper sack of lemon drops. “I'm know someday you come een my bar, Os-cair, so I'm prepare' for any emergen-cee.”

“By cripes, Tony”—Oscar laughed—“you're a man after my own heart. Take care of my friend, will you? He's aiming to meet somebody here.”

Oscar departed. Lance waited. A few Mexicans strolled in from time to time and drank beer or tequila. Lance carried on a desultory conversation with Pico. Pico happened to mention that a great many Yaquentes were being seen in Pozo Verde the last few months. Lance pricked up his ears and asked Pico if he knew the reason. Pico shrugged. Apparently he knew nothing much about it. “Good fightairs, those Injun,” he commented.

“So I hear.” Lance nodded. He ordered another bottle of beer. By this time it was nine forty-five, with no sign of Elmer Manley. Ten o'clock came and passed, then ten-thirty. There were more Mexicans in the saloon now; the place was filled with smoke. Lance stepped out to the sidewalk in front to get a breath of air. He wondered why Manley failed to put in an appearance, and there was growing concern in the thought.

A few lights, here and there, still shone along Main Street. Across the roadway oil lamps burned in the sheriff's office. Now and then Lance could hear Oscar's laugh. Lance breathed deeply of the cool night air. Footsteps sounded along the sidewalk. A familiar figure took form.

“Why, hello, Lance.” It was Professor Jones. “Waiting for somebody?”

“Just enjoying the cool of the evening,” Lance evaded.

“Looking for you—you know,” Jones went on. “Intended visiting—sheriff's office——”

“Now, look, Jones,” Lance said wearily. “I'm not going down into Mexico with you.”

“Quite so, quite. Great disappointment. Not what I wanted to see you about—at all. Fletcher not back—yet. Thought perhaps—you'd be—interested.”

“Fletcher hasn't come in yet?”

“Not yet. Strange, what?” Jones puffed smoke from his brier, and the glow from the bowl lighted his face. “Thought you would care to know.”

“Well, yes, much obliged.”

The professor appeared to want to talk further but when Lance showed no inclination to continue the discussion he said good night and turned back toward the hotel. “Now what”—Lance frowned, looking after the professor's disappearing figure—“did you want? Or are you just being friendly? I don't know whether to be ashamed of myself or not.”

It was after eleven o'clock by this time. Oscar came across from the sheriff's office and stood talking to Lance awhile. Lance told him about the professor. Oscar said, “Damn! I wish I could figure that coot out. Looks like Manley isn't going to show up either. I'll tell you what I'll do, Lance. I know where Manley lives. I'll go see if he's home. You wait here in case he shows up.” Oscar hurried off down the street.

Within fifteen minutes he was back. “Manley has plumb disappeared,” he announced. “About six o'clock he hired a horse and buggy at the Lone Star Livery.”

“Did he happen to say where he was going?” Lance asked quickly.

“Not definitely. Just told the livery man he wanted a horse and rig that could make a quick trip to Saddleville.”

“How far is Saddleville?”

“About eighteen miles. I went to his boarding-house first. They hadn't seen him since breakfast.”

“How'd you happen to go to the livery?”

“Dropped in there on my way back to see if Fletcher had put in an appearance. He hadn't. Fletcher got his horse this afternoon and hasn't been back since.”

“I wonder if there's any connection between the two?” Lance frowned. “Oh hell, nothing works out right. I'm going to bed. Maybe we'll have better luck tomorrow——”

“Wait,” Oscar interrupted. “Here's the rub. The horse and buggy Manley hired is back. The horse came wandering in about an hour ago. But Manley wasn't with it. There's a suitcase in the rig. That's all.”

“Nope, I'm not going to bed,” Lance said wearily. “I reckon we'd better saddle up and see if we can find Manley along the Saddleville Road. There's no rest for the wicked, Oscar.”

“You mean,” Oscar pointed out, “the wicked don't seem to give us any rest. All right, let's go.”

They hurried across the street to inform the sheriff what had happened. Lockwood looked concerned. “I don't like it. All right, you boys get going. I'll see what I can do at this end.”

Lance and Oscar hurried to saddle up. Within five minutes they were riding out of town on the Saddleville Road. Lance felt from the beginning such efforts were futile, but it was part of the routine that had to be gone through.

Lance proved to be right. Gray dawn was lighting the silent streets of Pozo Verde when they returned and put their ponies up at the livery stable. Then they hastened to the sheriff's office. Lockwood had spent the night there sleeping on Oscar's cot. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Any news?” he asked.

Lance shook his head, his eyes dark with fatigue. “We went all the way to Saddleville. It was too dark to see any tracks, of course. When it did commence to get light this morning on the way back the road was too chopped up to figure out anything anyway, even if we knew exactly at what spot to look. Course, we were half hoping we might find Manley's body along the way someplace—but no dice. We had the ride for nothing.”

“Did you learn anything, Ethan?” Oscar asked.

“Not much. I got Gill Addison out of his bed last night after you left and queried him some. He didn't know where Manley was. He said Manley left the bank about five-thirty or a quarter to six to get his supper. As Addison tells it, Manley was due back at the bank to put in another hour or so on the accounts. Addison was plumb riled he didn't come back.”

“Manley told me,” Lance said, “that he had to work some last night.”

“Here's something,” Lockwood went on. “I opened up that suitcase that was in the buggy. It was filled with old newspapers.”

“Newspapers?” Lance exclaimed.

“Newspapers.” Lockwood nodded. “What do you make of it?”

Lance shook his head. “It's got me down. There's just this much to it. If Manley had suddenly decided to leave town he certainly wouldn't pack his suitcase with newspapers——”

“Unless,” Lockwood put in, “somebody exchanged suitcases with him and he didn't notice the exchange. What would the employee of a bank have in a suitcase maybe?”

“Money,” Oscar said promptly.

“That's what Gill Addison thought too.” Lock-wood nodded. “He got dressed to once and hurried down to his bank. He was here just a few minutes before you boys arrived. He couldn't find any money missing, so he felt better. But he's still peeved at Manley. I could tell it in his manner when he left to go back to bed.”

“Did Manley have that suitcase with him when he hired the horse and rig?” Lance asked.

“I asked the livery man about that,” Lockwood replied. “He doesn't remember for sure, but he thinks not. Doesn't remember seeing it leastwise. What do we do now?”

“I'm going to the hotel and grab a couple hours of shut-eye,” Lance replied.

Lockwood nodded. “It's a good idea. Oscar, you tumble into your cot. I've managed to get in several hours, so I won't bother going to bed.”

The lobby of the hotel was deserted when Lance opened the door and quickly ascended the stairway to the upper floor. He paused a moment, listening, outside of Fletcher's door. He could hear nothing from the room beyond. Then he knocked. There was no answer. Lance frowned. “I wonder if that hombre didn't come back all night either?”

Turning, he let himself into his own room, undressed and went to bed. He didn't sleep long but he felt refreshed by the time he again descended to the street. It wasn't eight o'clock yet. He found Oscar already having breakfast in the Chinaman's restaurant when he stepped in.

Oscar grinned and said, “Hope you had pleasant dreams.”

“I slept like a log while it lasted.” Lance gave his breakfast order to the slant-eyed Oriental behind the counter, then turned back to Oscar. “Anything new show up?”

“Not much. I talked to Ethan just before I came in here. He's been over to Manley's boarding house and asked questions but he didn't uncover much. He examined Manley's room. All Manley's clothes and things were there. Either he didn't expect to stay away long or——”

“He didn't expect to leave,” Lance finished the thought. “I don't like it, Oscar.”

Ham, eggs, coffee and bread were placed on the counter before Lance. The two men ate in silence. Oscar finished first. He said to Lance, “Well, where do we go next?”

“There's much to be done, but damned if I know where to start,” Lance answered. “We can't do anything about Manley's disappearance until we dig up a clue or something to go on. Suppose you go to the bank and talk to that bookkeeper. Manley might have let something drop that will help. If you know anybody else that was close to him see what you can dig up. I can't help feeling his disappearance is mixed up in this whole business—peyotes, stolen money, Bowman murdered. Jeepers! What a mess. And I don't know where to start to dig myself out. If Kilby hadn't been shot——”

“I know,” Oscar put in, “and if Manley had met you as he promised and if you only knew something definite about Jones——Shucks! What are you going to do?”

“I sent a telegraph to our operative in El Paso. Maybe by this morning Johnny Quinn will have an answer. If he does maybe we'll know who sent for that shipment of peyotes.”

“I'll give you odds Jones is the man.”

Lance smiled wryly. “I don't like to take any man's money on a sure-thing bet, Oscar. I'd bet in a minute if I thought there was a chance of your losing——”

“I know what's eating you,” Oscar said. “You don't like the idea of Katherine Gregory being mixed up in the business.”

Lance reddened and drained his coffee cup. “Hell!
I don't even like to think the professor is mixed into it. In spite of myself I like him.”

They slid down off the stools and went out to the street after paying for their breakfasts. Lance rolled and lighted a cigarette. Blue smoke floated in the bright morning sunlight. Lance said, “It's going to be hot today.”

“By cripes!” Oscar said, “it's been hot every day since you hit this neck of the range. And I'm not talking about sunshine.”

They walked west on Main Street, nodding absentmindedly to the few people they passed. The minds of both men were full of thoughts of the things that had happened. They weren't much inclined to talk at the moment. Reaching the corner where the Pozo Verde Saloon was situated, Lance left Oscar and cut off in the direction of the T.N. & A.S. station.

As he entered the small depot old Johnny Quinn was standing behind the counter impatiently awaiting Lance's arrival.

“Crackee!” Johnny grumbled. “Where ye been? I thought ye was never goin' to get here.”

“Got a reply to my tele gram?” Lance asked.

“Sartain. It arruve not five minutes ago.” He passed the sheet of paper across to Lance. “Quick! Whut about Aunt Minnie?”

Lance accepted the tele gram. It was rather lengthy and required some time to decipher. Johnny Quinn fidgeted impatiently. Finally Lance glanced up, his forehead creased with frowning concentration.

“Well, well, speak up,” Johnny snapped anxiously. “Whut they aimin' to do with Aunt Minnie? Ye looked sorter shocked.”

“Maybe I am,” Lance said slowly.

“Whut's it to be?” Johnny demanded querulously. “Glass coffin or stuffed in th' rocking chair?”

Lance managed to bring his thoughts back to the conversation. “Neither,” he said solemnly. “It's too late.”

“Whut! Whut? Speak up! Ain't there goin' to be no funeral for Aunt Minnie?”

“There ain't no Aunt Minnie,” Lance explained gravely. “You see, that hemoglobinuria disease just wasted her body away until there wa'n't nothing but a couple fingernails an' a tiny patch of skin left. Them 'll be cremated.”

Johnny Quinn gasped. His face went pale. He tried to talk, but his teeth were chattering violently. “Whut—whut a turrible end,” he quavered. “You got my sympathies in your bereavement.”

“I appreciate that, Johnny,” Lance said sadly. “And I'm much obliged for handling all these telegraphing details like you did. It's mitigated my sorrow more than you'll ever understand. I'll mention your help in my next letter to Uncle Obadiah.”

“Thankee, Mr Tolliver. An' I hopes as how he'll be mitigated too.”

“He's sure to be.” Lance turned and left the office. Two minutes later he ran into Sheriff Lockwood sauntering along Main Street.

“You look like you'd learned something,” Lock-wood commented.

“I did,” Lance replied tersely. “I just got an answer to that tele gram I sent our El Paso operative. It's taken them quite a spell to run down what I wanted, but here's the facts. That box of mezcal buttons was ordered from the Southwest Cactus Company by Malcolm Fletcher——”

“T'hell you say!” Lockwood exclaimed. “But why? What's the idea? What's he do with 'em?”

“I don't know for certain, but it's my guess he's furnishing 'em to the Yaquentes. That's why you've seen so many of those Indians in Pozo Verde of late——”

“Cripes!” Lockwood protested. “Those Indians have been coming here for two, three months now——”

“And that,” Lance stated grimly, “is just about the length of time Fletcher has been ordering peyotes from the cactus company. There's been more than one shipment. I've got the list when the peyotes were ordered and when they were sent. Now you tell me just why Fletcher is supplying peyotes to the Yaquentes. What's back of it all?”

“You got me.” Lockwood frowned. “The best thing to do is ask Fletcher.”

“Fletcher hasn't been back to the hotel since yesterday.”

“He's back,” Lockwood stated. “I met Doc Drummond on the street just a few minutes ago. Doc was returning late from a case early this morning. As he passed the hotel he saw Fletcher just going in.”

“Good!” Lance exclaimed. Then he scowled. “It's damn funny! If Fletcher got back, why didn't he answer my knock when I stopped at his door this morning just before I turned in?”

“Maybe he didn't hear you. He might be a sound sleeper.”

Lance shrugged his shoulders. “Could be,” he admitted. “Well, maybe we're getting someplace at last. I can tell better after I've had a talk with Mister Malcolm Fletcher—and I figure to find out just where he was yesterday afternoon when somebody threw lead
at Miss Gregory and me. Oh yes, I'm going to tie Fletcher down, hard and tight, this time. No more of his uppity airs for me. He's going to talk or else!”

“Or else what?” Lockwood asked.

“Ethan, I've a hunch you're going to have a guest in one of your furnished, steel-barred apartments by to night. Will you please see that there's lots of hot water and clean sheets?—particularly hot water!”

“Go to it, Lance.” Lockwood nodded, tight lipped. “I'll back up any play you make.”

“Thanks.” Lance turned, swung diagonally across the street toward the San Antonio Hotel. He was about to enter the building when a voice hailed him from near the hitch rack. Professor Jones was just climbing into his saddle. Lance halted.

“Oh, I say,” Jones asked, “feel inclined—continue—study of cacti—this morning?”

Lance crossed to the hitch rack. “I do not,” he said emphatically. “I've got other business.”

“Quite so.” Jones smiled. “However—no necessity to—snap my head off. Just suggestion, what? No harm done.”

“Not at all.” Lance softened a trifle. “I didn't intend to snap your head off. I was thinking about something else.”

“Quite so, quite. I intend returning—spot we studied—yesterday. Unusually rich territory. Wide variety—genera.”

“Going alone?” Lance asked.

Jones gave a quick, short nod. “Katherine remaining here. Advised her—not accompany me. Suggested she—start packing—Mexican trip. Plain subterfuge, of course. I consider it—safer in Pozo Verde. No blasted hunter's bullets—flying about. Bad situation, that. Very!”

Lance pointed out, “It doesn't seem to worry you any.”

“Don't like it at all.” Jones frowned. “But—can't risk—losing desired specimens. Only yesterday I—noticed exquisite clump—
Opuntia
macrocentra
. Must make notes. Very queer—yellow flowers—turn red when dry. Such observation extremely important.”

“Oh, extremely,” Lance said ironically. “See you later, Professor.” He entered the hotel thinking that Jones either felt certain no one would shoot at him or that the man's enthusiasm for cacti was worth the risk. “Maybe he's just a nut—I hope,” Lance mused.

At the desk in the hotel lobby Lance told the clerk he wanted to see Fletcher. “And,” Lance added, “don't stall me off. I know Fletcher got back last night. If you know what's good for you you'll send word up to him pronto—or run up to his room and——”

“But, Deputy Tolliver——”

“Never mind your ‘buts,'” Lance snapped. “Do as I tell you——What!!! He's not here?”

“If you'd listen to reason,” the clerk said in chilly accents, “instead of rushing in like a mad bull, you'd understand what I'm trying to tell you. At my last hotel in Boston such an attitude would never be tolerated——”

“Never mind Boston,” Lance fumed. “Where's Fletcher?”

“I haven't the least idea. He checked out last night—I should say, early this morning, around three o'clock. Roused me out of my bed to settle his account. He left a note for Professor Jones. Perhaps the professor may know of his whereabouts. I'm sure I don't. And furthermore…”

What more the clerk said Lance didn't hear. He
was already hurrying out of the lobby and down to the sidewalk. A look of relief crossed his features when he saw Jones still mounted at the hitch rack.