The Battle At Three-Cross (4 page)

Jones stiffened suddenly at sight of the plant. A warm glow entered his eyes. “Why, bless me! A
Lophophora williamsii!
Wherever did you find this? I've seen none on the hills hereabouts. Its distribution generally is from central Mexico to southern Texas. Where did——?”

“What did you call it?” Oscar looked narrowly at Jones. “Loafer-for-William? Is that what you said?”

Lance smiled. “We generally call it a peyote or mezcal button.”

“True, true,” Jones jerked out. He had the plant in his hand now, examining it. “I've heard those names. It's one of many forms—known as ‘dumpling cacti.' I say, have you ever——?”

“Dumpling cactus?” from Oscar. “There's no spines on that——”

“Several species—cacti—practically no spines.” He turned impatiently back to Lance. “I've heard—Indians of certain tribes—eat these. Some sort of narcotic effect—delusions of grandeur—fantastic, colorful visions—trances—all that sort of thing. Is it true, do you know?”

“I've never tried eating 'em myself.” Lance smiled. “But I know it's done. Those peyotes are first cut in sections and dried, of course, before being eaten. The whole practice has been pretty well stamped out nowadays. It's forbidden, you know.”

“It is possible then.” Jones was intensely interested. “I understood that a Doctor—Doctor—the name escapes me at present—had isolated certain alkaloids—analysis of this genus. You say you didn't find it in this region?”

“I found it,” Lance said cautiously, “but not growing. I don't know just where it came from.”

“May I?—I'd like to have this specimen—interested in studying it—if you don't mind——”

“Sure, take it along.” Lance scarcely knew what else to say at the moment. He decided right then, however, to see more of the professor.

Jones was shaking hands again. “Delighted if you'd come to my hotel—meet my niece—tell me
more of the Indians who make—practice—becoming intoxicated—on peyote—pleasure—assure you.” He shook hands again and departed, walking swiftly along Main Street.

Oscar heaved a long sigh. “There goes your Loafer-for-William,” he chuckled. “Me, I can't figure whether the professor is a nut or just plain cuckoo. Imagine, trying to make us believe folks grow cactus gardens.”

“Don't jump to any hasty conclusions, Oscar,” Lance advised thoughtfully. “He may be a nut, but I figure there's more to Jones than shows on the surface.”

They had progressed along Main Street and were just turning the corner at Laredo Street when an angry shout reached them from across the roadway. George Kilby had emerged from the doorway of a building which bore the sign of the Pozo Verde Saloon.

“I may get balled up on cactus,” Oscar said with some satisfaction, “but here comes something I do understand. Kilby looks like he's heading for trouble, and we're in his path!”

It was evident to Lance and Oscar that Kilby had been imbibing rather heavily at the bar of the Pozo Verde Saloon. The man approached them from across the street, walking with a decided lurch. His eyes were bloodshot and angry, and liquor, or some liquid, had been spilled down the left leg of the brand-new overalls he was wearing.

He was halfway across the roadway when another torrent of angry words spilled from his lips, ending with, “Travelin' with murderers now, eh, Deputy Perkins?”

Oscar muttered, “I'm sure going to have to bend a gun barrel across that hombre's Stetson. I wonder how much he can stand.”

“Wait, let me handle this,” Lance said quickly. “It's me his words are aimed at.”

Oscar shrugged. “Go to it, but watch yourself.”

Kilby's step was a trifle uncertain as he confronted Lance. “Pretty lucky, you are, Mr Lancelot Tolliver. Only for the law being on your side we'd have the sidewinder who bumped off my good old pal, Bowman.”

“I figure you're wrong, Kilby,” Lance replied
quietly. “Look, you've had a couple of drinks too many. Why don't you go away and sleep it off?”

“Tryin' to get rid of me, eh?” Kilby sneered. “Well, it don't work. We're going to put the bee on you yet. We'll bust that alibi of yours wide open. You know what? Chiricahua, hisself, has gone ridin' down to Tipata. He's goin' to find out if you stayed there that night or not. I say not, but Chiricahua is checking you up. We was both going, only——”

“Only,” Oscar drawled, “it looks to me like you was too drunk to ride at leaving time. Well, Cherry-Cow Herrick will find out that Lance's alibi holds water—which same you'd be better off if that's all you held.”

Kilby teetered gravely back and forth a moment, owlishly eying the deputy. He lifted one admonishing finger. “Now I ain't got no—hic!—quarrel with you, Oscar. It's this Tolliver hombre I'm aimin' to——”

“Forget it, Kilby.” Lance laughed good-naturedly. “Go get yourself some sleep.” He talked to the man as one would to a child. “Look, you've spilt some whisky on your nice new overalls. You'd better go wash them——”

“What do you know about my overalls?” Kilby's eyes had narrowed. For some reason Lance's words appeared to have a somewhat sobering effect on the man. He straightened up and came a step nearer, curses tumbling from his thick lips.

“Cut it out, Kilby,” Lance said sternly.

Kilby rushed on, heedless of the warning. He called Lance a name no fighting man will take. Lance didn't want to hit him, but there seemed nothing else to do. His fist shot out—not too hard—and Kilby went stumbling awkwardly off the sidewalk to sprawl on his back in the dust.

That completely sobered the man without knocking any sense into his head. He came struggling up from the roadway, one hand clawing at his gun butt.

Lance took two quick steps forward. His left fist sunk to the wrist in Kilby's middle; his right crashed against the side of Kilby's jaw. An explosive grunt was expelled from Kilby's lips, and he commenced to sag. For a moment he stood bent over, arms dangling limply at his sides. Then slowly he sank to his knees and rolled on his back. His eyes were closed, and he was dead to the world.

“The old one-two,” Oscar said approvingly, calmly stuffing a lemon drop into his mouth. “Very nice. I don't think I could've done better myself.”

A crowd had commenced to gather. Lance said, “C'mon, let's get out of here.” Oscar told a couple of men in the crowd to get Kilby's unconscious form off the street, then followed Lance down Laredo Street in the direction of the railroad station.

“Dammit!” Lance growled when Oscar had caught up. “There wasn't any other way out of it, but I do hate to hit a hombre that's been drinking heavy.”

“Mebbe so,” Oscar said judiciously, “but they go out quicker in that condition. Now if you'd just get a mite more snap into your wrist as you hit——”

“Let's forget it,” Lance cut in.

“You're upset.” Oscar thrust a paper sack toward Lance. “Here, have a lemon drop. It 'll soothe your nerves.”

Without realizing what he was doing, Lance thrust a lemon drop into his mouth.

“Ah, another convert,” Oscar chuckled. “You'll be an addict in no time.”

Lance started to smile, then laughed. “Like I say, I
hate to hit a drunk, but I was thinking about something else. It seemed to make Kilby madder 'n ever when I mentioned his new overalls. Danged if I understand why. I was speaking as friendly as possible.”

“Drunks are sensitive on queer points sometimes,” Oscar drawled. “I've known 'em to fight at the drop of the hat at the mention of a new one.

“New what?” Lance asked absent-mindedly.

“Hat. Don't you know what we're talking about?”

“I was thinking about overalls.”

“I certainly pick intelligent company this mornin',” Oscar commented. “One talks about spiny plant life and t'other about everyday clothing. Forget it. Here's the depot.”

They had reached the T.N. & A.S. railroad tracks that paralleled Main Street a block back. Beyond the tracks were scattered a line of Mexican adobe houses, strung along a rather crooked roadway. Between the tracks and the single line of buildings fronting Main were heaps of old rubbish, tin cans, littered papers. Oscar led the way toward the railroad station, a small frame building, painted red, with the T.N. & A.S. sign erected on its roof. The station stood about five feet above the earth on a platform constructed of heavy planks.

Oscar led the way up the short flight of steps to the platform. From inside the station came the clattering taps of a telegraphic instrument. Abruptly the sound ceased, and a fuzzy little old man appeared in the doorway.

“No, Oscar Perkins, I don't want no lemon drops,” he stated in a cantankerous voice before Oscar had had an opportunity to say a word. He wore faded
overalls with bib attached, and on his scanty gray hair was a stiff-peaked cap bearing the letters: “T.N. & A.S.R.R.” Spectacles rested on his sharp nose.

“Ain't asked you to have one,” Oscar stated calmly. “Johnny Quinn, shake hands with my friend, Lance Tolliver. You know”—to Lance—“Johnny just about runs the T.N. and A.S. He's the combination station agent, freight agent, telegraph operator, swamper, train dispatcher——”

“There's more truth 'n poetry in them remarks,” Johnny Quinn squeaked. He gave Lance a limp hand, then turned back to Oscar. “What ye want?”

“Don't want nothing,” Oscar said quietly. “Lance is new to town, and I was just showing him the sights. We didn't want to overlook your depot.”

“I can 'preciate thet.” Johnny Quinn nodded. He seemed more friendly now. “Ye'd be surprised now to l'arn just how much freight was put off at this little depot. By the way, Oscar, ye didn't catch them thieves whut took my bills, did ye?”

“Sheriff Lockwood is running down a hot clue on that right now,” Oscar said without batting an eye.

Lance said, “Oscar was saying you found your window open yesterday morning and certain of your papers missing.”

“Valyble papers they was, Mister Tolliver. I been a-maintainin' right along we should have a night man on duty in the depot, but them brass hats back East won't pay me no 'tention. Someday I'll up and quit 'em, then they'll see whut's whut! And we should have better law enforcement in this town, too, whut with hoodlums spillin' cre'sote all over my platform—right after I'd mopped the office, too—and it got tracked inside.”

“Where was the creosote spilled?” Lance asked.

Old Quinn led the way to a place near the edge of the platform where a dark brownish-black stain had seeped into the heavy planks. “Lucky they wa'n't much cre'sote in thet bucket. It 'd made a fine mess! I'm a-keepin' thet bucket and next time when them section hands come back and ask for it I aim to give 'em Hail Columbia! Bein' wasteful with company property is bad enough, but—and another thing”—Johnny Quinn was warming to his subject now—“if them hoodlums whut tipped over the cre'sote come back a-whinin' for their cold chisel I ain't a-goin' to give it to 'em——”

“Was a cold chisel left here?” Lance asked.

Old Johnny nodded indignantly. “It's my opeenion,” he said confidentially, “thet they figgered to pry open some of the boxes of freight and steal some-thin'. Yes sirree! But I reckon nothin' was left for 'em. Folks usually come here and collect whut freight's due, and I ain't had no complaints ner an inquiry 'bout anythin' that didn't come when it should.”

“You mean,” Lance asked, “that folks just come and collect their freight when it arrives without signing for it?”

“Sartain, I know everybody here. I bring 'em the bills at the end of the month, and they sign 'em then. Only, this time I'll be minus them bills thet was stole.”

“Can't you check up and get duplicate bills?” Lance asked.

Quinn nodded. “It 'll take a mite of time, though. I figure to get at thet right soon.”

“I take it,” Lance said, “that the same folks get freight shipped in right along.”

“Same folks,” Johnny said. “Cases of liquor for the saloons, canned goods for the general stores, small boxes for the barber shops and so on. Folks jest come down and pick up their stuff when it's put off'n the train. Anything unusual is put off, I notice it, ye betcha!” He paused, then his mouth sagged a trifle. “Come to think on it,” he said slowly, “there was one box I never noticed before. From a company strange to me. Now I wonder who got thet?” He removed his cap and scratched his scanty hair in perplexity. “Shucks! Reckon it don't make no difference. Whoever it b'longed to picked 'er up, or I'd had a complaint. Thet's the trouble, with my bills missin'——Whut'd ye find, Mister Tolliver?”

Lance had suddenly stooped and retrieved from between two planks, clogged with dirt, a small pine splinter. There were two or three other splinters near by. Lance said, “Only this,” and held up the splinter to the old man's view, after which he calmly commenced picking his teeth with it.

“Oh,” Johnny grunted, “I thought ye'd found somethin' valyble.”

Lance laughed. “It might be to some people. You were talking about a box of freight that looked strange to you, Mr Quinn. What kind of a box was it?”

“Jest an ordinary pine box,” Quinn sniffed, “like freight is usual shipped in. Whut did ye expect?”

“I mean,” Lance said easily, “how big was it?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Quinn was vague in his ideas. “ 'Bout so big, I reckon.” With his skinny arms he mea sured the size of the missing box in the air. Lance judged the box to have been approximately one by one by two feet in size.

“Pretty heavy?” Lance asked next.

“Not turrible,” Quinn said, frowning. “I just
remember puttin' it on my truck with some other boxes and wheelin' 'em over to stack ag'in' the depot wall. Hefty enough though.”

“You don't remember who it was for?”

“Consarn it,” Quinn said angrily. “Ain't I told ye I don't know? Now ye've got me thinkin' on thet ye've spoiled my hull day.” His frown deepened. “I jest remember seein' the label pasted on the box, tellin' who it was from and where it was a-goin'. Folks was all around me, already pickin' up their shipments. Thet address was writ in pen an' ink. I didn't have no time to stop and decipher writin'——”

“Was the whole address label in writing?” Lance asked.

“No, I rec'lect that was in print, like most labels.”

“Think hard,” Lance urged. “Where was it from?”

“Tarnation an' damnity!” Johnny Quinn squealed angrily. “Ain't I a-thinkin'? I'm concentratin' like all get out and——” He paused suddenly, then, “Wait, wait—thet box had been shipped from——Cracky! I can see thet label plain's day, only I don't remember——It was shipped from—from—some sort of Southwest Something Company. I wish I could think of that middle word. All's I can think of is cactus. Wouldn't that be the consarnedest idea? Southwest Cactus Com pany. Hee-hee! Like if there was a company org'nized to sell something that grows wild all over——”

“Cactus?” Lance said quickly, breaking in on the oldster's gleeful cackling.

Quinn paused from lack of breath. “I do get th' most redickerlous idees sometimes,” he panted. “No, it sartainly couldn't have been cactus. Must have been somethin' else.”

“Do you remember where it came from?” Lance queried.

Quinn concentrated. “Texas,” he said at last—“El Paso, Texas. Nope, I'm wrong! It was some place in New Mexico. Or was it Texas? Come to think on it, seems like I rec'lect readin' Colorady on thet box.” He removed the cap and scratched his head some more. The harder he concentrated the angrier he became. Suddenly he exploded heatedly, “I don't know why it should make any business of yours where my freight comes from. You come around here askin' questions like a brass hat and a-wastin' of my time. Valyble railroad company time! If ye're figgerin' to ship anythin' or if ye expect freight to arrive I'll be pleased to take care of ye. Otherwise, I'm too busy for more lallygaggin'!”

He spun angrily about, entered his office. At once the telegraph instrument commenced rattling at a furious rate.

Lance looked at Oscar. Oscar looked at Lance. “I reckon we might as well leave.” Oscar sighed. “I know that old coot, and he won't talk to us no more today. But, Lance, do you reckon a box did come from the Southwest Cactus Company—if there is such a company? And how does it all fit in? What's the creosote got to do with it? That's the first I've heard of a cold chisel too. And that pine splinter you picked up——”