The Battle At Three-Cross (5 page)

“Whoa!” Lance laughed. “Maybe we got more out of that conversation than you figure.” They slowly descended the steps to the cinder-packed earth around the platform. Lance surveyed the ground for “sign,” but it was too tracked up to furnish any fresh information. Oscar remained silent while they walked slowly back toward the center of town.

Finally Lance spoke. “I'm going to do a little supposing and speculating and see if I can reconstruct a picture of what happened to Frank Bowman. I may be miles off in my guess, but here's the way I see it. As you know, Bowman was here as one of our operatives—I'll explain why at another time. Anyway, we'll say he hit on some sort of clue here. I don't know just what, but it was hot. I've a hunch it was connected with peyotes——”

“Basing that on the fact he had one in his hand when you found him?”

“Exactly. We'll say Bowman was watching a certain man. Now, mezcal buttons don't grow hereabouts, so this certain man had a supply of the plants shipped here from some cactus company. Let's suppose Bowman saw that box of cactus plants and got suspicious, though he wouldn't know for sure there were peyotes inside. He watched, and no one called for it. Maybe the guilty man knew Bowman was watching the box. When no one called for the box Bowman decided to open it and learn what it contained. With a cold chisel he pried off the top of the box——”

“There's the cold chisel Johnny Quinn found!”

Lance nodded. “We'll say the box top splintered when it was forced off. I saw splinters on the station platform, remember, and picked one up. With the box open, Bowman stuck his hand inside and got a peyote. A loose splinter at the edge of the box stuck in Bowman's shirt sleeve.”

“Could be, could be!” Oscar had lost his indolent manner.

Lance continued, “Now Bowman has his peyote evidence. He knows who the box is shipped to. But that person or some of his gang are watching Bowman. They see him break into the box. Remember this is
around midnight; it's dark. Bowman doesn't see his assailant approach. Just as Bowman straightens up from the box someone comes running toward the platform. It's too late for Bowman to pull his gun. The killer's bullet strikes at a sharp angle—proving the killer was on the earth below the platform. He may even have been hiding under the platform. Bowman falls, and as he goes down his right hand strikes that bucket of creosote standing near, tipping it over. The creosote floods out over Bowman's hand, accidentally painting it black.”

“Lance, you're sure knocking the mystery out of this.”

“When a man hasn't the facts,” Lance said grimly, “he has to work his imagination overtime…. Let's get on. Somebody takes away the box of peyotes. Somebody gets through Johnny Quinn's office window and steals the bill of lading so the shipment of cactus can't be traced to the guilty man—right off at least. Now, remember, it was Doctor Drummond's opinion that Bowman, while unconscious, didn't die at once. Something had to be done with the body. The killer didn't dare risk firing more shots for fear of attracting attention. And he didn't dare leave the body there for fear it might be found and Bowman, regaining consciousness, make some sort of dying statement——”

“So they took the body out to that wash where you found it.”

Lance said, “That's my idea. They threw the body across the saddle of Bowman's horse and lit out pronto. I figure it took two to lift him to the saddle, one at the shoulders, one at the feet. Maybe Bowman's spur rowel caught on one man's shirt. That accounts for the woolly threads I found on Bowman's spur. Remember, this is largely guesswork.”

“Damn good guesswork,” Oscar said admiringly.

“Meanwhile,” Lance continued, “in the darkness the killers had failed to notice that Bowman clutched that mezcal button in his hand. Bowman was a man of great determination, strong will. Probably his last conscious thought was to hang onto that bit of evidence at any cost. So he was still gripping that button when they dumped him off his horse out in that dry wash. As he died and grew cold his fingers stiffened rigidly about the plant—and didn't release it until I took it from his hand.”

“Cripes A'mighty, Lance! You've hit it!”

“Don't be too certain, Oscar. I may be striking far wide of the mark. But who do you suppose might be having a box shipped from a cactus company?”

“I just see one man,” Oscar said promptly. “Professor Ulysses Z. Jones.”

“I may be mistaken,” Lance said slowly, “but I sure aim to further my acquaintance with the professor.”

“He was plumb eager to get that mezcal button you had.”

“He won't be so eager to get another one,” Lance stated grimly, “if I'm right in my suspicions!”

It was nearly noon by the time Oscar and Lance arrived back at the sheriff's office to find Lockwood still working on his monthly accounts. The sheriff glanced up as they entered, then resumed work on the printed forms before him. “Well, sleuths,” he grunted, entering some figures in lead pencil, “did you get to the bottom of our crime problem?”

“We mebbe didn't get to the bottom of it,” Oscar stated, “but Lance sure constructed a picture that brings us nearer the top, I'm thinking.”

Lockwood looked quizzically at Lance. “Think you found anything definite?”

Lance nodded. “Yes, I do, Ethan. Here's the way it looks to me….” From that point on he told the story of what he and Oscar had discovered. When he had finished:

“By grab!” Lockwood exclaimed. “I think you've hit it.”

“So far, so good,” Lance pointed out, “but I still don't know who the murderer is nor what Bowman found here that had to do with mezcal buttons. That's not the case he was on—what I mean is, I don't see what mezcal buttons have to do with the case. But it's all tied in—somehow.”

“Do you feel like telling us just what brought you and Bowman here?” Lockwood asked.

“I'll give you the story,” Lance consented. “This information is to be held confidential, of course. I'm after a man named Matt Foster. Something over a year ago Foster and a gang of four accomplices stuck up a United States messenger who was delivering thirty thousand dollars, in bills, to a bank in Kansas City. The messenger and two guards were killed, but one of Foster's men was wounded and captured in the fight that took place. Through information from this captured bandit we managed to run down and capture all but Foster himself. Foster got away scot free. Not only that—he had all the money. The gang hadn't had an opportunity to divide the spoils. Luckily, the numbers of the stolen bills were on record and a warning sent out. The first bill showed up in New Orleans. My Denver office sent me to New Orleans to trace it down. From there the chase took me to Tampico, in Mexico, then up to Chihuahua City. I worked out of Chihuahua City a spell, trying to find something. No luck. I returned to Chihuahua after a month and found a letter for me saying some of the stolen money had showed up in Pozo Verde and that Frank Bowman had already been sent here. I was ordered to come here also.”

“And on your way here,” Oscar put in, “you found Bowman's body.”

Lance nodded. “Now you know about as much as I do.”

Lockwood asked, “Who in Pozo Verde reported the bills?”

“A traveling salesman passed them in Saddleville. He claimed that he'd got them from your local bank. The cashier here said he thought he remembered the
bills but he'd never seen a list of the recorded numbers, so he couldn't be sure. The president of the Pozo Verde bank insisted his cashier was mistaken. Anyway, Bowman was sent on to investigate. Incidentally, the traveling salesman was released; he proved to be an honest man.”

Lockwood looked thoughtful. “I wouldn't say our local banker was particularly bright. On the other hand, Elmer Manley, the cashier, is quite a smart boy.”

Oscar said, “I suppose the bank would have a list of the numbers.”

“Every bank in the country has them,” Lance replied.

“Do you happen to have a description of Matt Foster?” Lockwood asked. “Or any idea what he looks like?”

“We have a description from his pards we captured,” Lance replied, “but it's the sort of description that fits any number of men. One of the captured gang had a photograph on him that helps some, but not much. Before they pulled that Kansas City job they'd been operating up in Wyoming. They held up a small bank there. Later, when they got down as far as Nebraska, they went on a wild party with the stolen money and ended up in a photo gallery where they had a group picture taken. Trouble is, Matt Foster was at the back of the group and he was wearing a heavy crop of whiskers——”

“And he's probably clean shaven now, eh?” Lock-wood said.

“That's the way I figure.” Lance drew out of one pocket a small photograph of five men seated in the typical photographer's gallery of the time, replete with palms, wicker furniture and a painted
background. The five men all wore derby hats; their clothing looked new; wide watch chains stretched across each fancy vest. Apparently they had gone on a wild buying spree with their ill-gotten gains. Four of the men wore heavy mustaches; the fifth, only his head showing in the background, had a thick, dark beard that nearly covered his face.

Lance pointed out the bearded man. “That's Matt Foster. He doesn't look familiar to you, I suppose?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Never saw him so far as I know. With only his head showing that way and with that beard you haven't much to go on. I figure this Matt Foster had a mite more sense than the rest of the gang and didn't want his face seen no more than could be helped.”

“That's the way I figure him,” Lance agreed.

Oscar studied the picture for a time, but Foster's face wasn't familiar to him either. The men talked a few minutes more, then Lockwood said, “I'll be busy on these reports for a mite yet. Why don't you two go get your dinner, then relieve me when you're finished?”

On the street Lance said to Oscar, “Where do we eat?”

“There's three or four good restaurants in town. There's a chili joint across the street there. The New York Chop house serves good grub. I like the hotel dining room, too, only they take longer to serve. There's a Chink down the street a couple of blocks has right good chow.”

“Let's make it the Chink's. A couple of blocks' walk will give me a chance to see your town.”

They sauntered along, their high-heeled boots making hollow, clumping sounds on the raised plank
sidewalk from which, in places, the broiling noon sun was drawing spots of pitch. As they crossed Laredo Street Oscar pointed out the Pozo Verde Savings Bank at the northeast corner of Main. As Lance glanced across the street Chiricahua Herrick, accompanied by a middle-aged fat man in a white shirt, was just emerging from the bank doorway. The fat man was mopping perspiration from his bald head with his handkerchief.

“That fat feller is Gillett Addison, owner of the bank,” Oscar commented.

“Queer bedfellows,” Lance said.

“Huh?”

“I mean it's rather surprising to see a man like Herrick consorting with the owner of a bank.”

“I reckon they weren't together. Probably just came out the door at the same time. See, Addison is walking down the street alone. Probably headed for the hotel. He always eats his dinner there.”

“And Herrick,” Lance added, “is heading out toward the hitch rack. It sure looks like his pony had been pushed hard. Look at the poor beast. It's flecked with foam all over its forequarters. I reckon Kilby was speaking straight when he said Herrick had gone to Tipata to check up on my alibi. But why should he go direct to the bank?”

“You tell me,” Oscar suggested.

“I wouldn't know. Though generally a man like Herrick don't have many dealings with a bank. I was just wondering if he had gone there to report that my alibi was airtight.”

“Report to who?”

“That's something else I wouldn't know.”

“Gosh, you're sure suspicious, Lance, when you start picking on one of Pozo Verde's leading citizens.”

“I didn't say he'd reported to Banker Gillett. But in my game you have to be suspicious of everybody.”

They walked on until they came to the Chink's restaurant. Across the windows of the building was painted the words: “Jou Low—Restaurant.” They passed inside and found seats at a long counter, where presently they were served with roast beef, pie, potatoes, bread and coffee. They were half through the meal when Chiricahua Herrick entered. Spying Lance seated at the counter, Herrick stiffened suddenly, then, noting the deputy sheriff at his side, relaxed again. He nodded shortly to Oscar and spoke coldly to Lance:

“I want to see you, Tolliver.”

Lance glanced over his shoulder at Herrick. “You see me, hombre. What's on your mind?” His eyes drilled into Herrick's.

Herrick opened his mouth to speak; his eyes fell momentarily before Lance's steely gaze. Finally he turned away muttering, “I'll see you later,” and passed down the counter to find a seat farther on.

“I wonder what's eating him?” Lance commented to Oscar.

“He's prob'ly got liver trouble,” Oscar grunted between bites of food. “He should eat more lemon drops.”

They finished their dinners, drained coffee cups and left the restaurant. On the sidewalk once more, Oscar said, “I'll get back to the office and see can I help out on the sheriff's reports. What you going to do?”

“I'm going to stay here until Herrick comes out,” Lance said quietly. “He opened a topic of conversation he didn't finish. I aim to learn what's on his mind.”

“In that case,” Oscar drawled, “I reckon the sheriff's reports can wait a spell longer. I don't think you'll start trouble, but you might have it forced on you. It's my duty to keep the peace when possible.”

“Suit yourself.”

They rolled and lighted cigarettes and stood leaning against the tie rail, waiting for Herrick to put in an appearance. Within a short time he emerged from the restaurant doorway, picking his teeth. His face flushed a trifle as he noted Lance and Oscar standing at the hitch rack, but he made no move to stop.

“Hi yuh, Cherry-Cow,” Oscar said cheerfully. “I hear you been ridin' across the line to Tipata to check up on Tolliver's alibi—and incident'ly on Sheriff Lockwood's word. He already told you where Tolliver was the night Bowman was killed.”

Chiricahua Herrick paused, spun about and crossed the sidewalk directly to face Oscar and Lance. “Who told you I'd been to Tipata?” he growled.

Lance took up the conversation. “I encountered your friend, Kilby, this morning. He spilled the beans.”

Herrick's swarthy features twisted angrily. “I heard something about that encounter, Tolliver. Taken to beating up fellers when they've been drinking, eh? Is that your idea? Get 'em when they ain't steady on their pins?”

“Frankly,” Lance said quietly, “I didn't want to do it. I wasn't looking for trouble. I wasn't side-stepping any that was forced upon me either. I couldn't do anything else——”

“That's your story,” Herrick sneered, deceived by Lance's quiet manner

“Hell, Cherry-Cow,” Oscar said disgustedly,

“Kilby's just lucky Lance didn't plug him. He was asking for it. Lance was decent to him just as long as he dared be——”

“Yaah!” Herrick said scornfully. “That's why Tolliver hit him. He wouldn't dare cross guns with George Kilby. Kilby would shoot rings——”

“Oh, cripes,” Lance said wearily, “let's forget it. There was no powder burned and no one hurt to any extent. If Kilby's got any sense he'll be glad I acted as I did when he sobers up. Let's skip it, Herrick…. I hope you learned that I spent the night at Moreles' fonda in Tipata the night Bowman was killed.”

Herrick laughed skeptically. “Yeah—that's what Moreles says, but I wouldn't believe that Mex on a stack of Bibles. You probably paid him plenty pesos for backing up your play. But we'll get the deadwood on you yet——”

“If you're trying to make trouble,” Lance said firmly, “I'll do what I can to accommodate you——”

“… and square matters for the murder of our old pal, Frank Bowman,” Herrick raged on, the angry words gushing from his lips.

“Herrick,” Lance asked, “you keep talking about your old pal, Bowman. Just how long has he been a pal of yours?”

Herrick paused. “Why—why,” he finally said lamely, “me and the boys have only known him about a month or so, but we were right friendly. We all thought a heap of Frank——”

“I think you're a liar,” Lance said quietly.

“You can't call me a liar!” Herrick flared hotly.

“I've already done it.”

“That sounds like war talk, Tolliver,” Herrick said menacingly.

“It's meant to be!” Lance took a step nearer Herrick. “If you don't like that kind of war talk get out your iron and go to work.”

Herrick eyed Lance unbelievingly. “You're offering to cross guns with
me
?” Again he laughed scornfully. “I reckon you don't know my rep hereabouts.”

“I'm not even interested in it,” Lance snapped. “I don't like you or anybody that does. Furthermore, you're so damned anxious to pin Bowman's murder on me I'm commencing to wonder just who you're shielding——”

“Huh? What did you say?” A certain consternation appeared in Herrick's beady eyes. “Where did you ever get such a crazy idea as——?”

“And I'd also like to know,” Lance interrupted, “just why you have to report to the bank that my alibi was airtight.” This last was largely a feeler to see what it might draw forth from Herrick.

“You—you—you're crazy as a hoot owl,” Herrick stammered.

“What were you doing in the bank a spell back?” Lance flashed.

“Why, I—I wasn't at the bank—I——”

“Don't lie, Herrick!”

“Oh yes, I know what you mean.” Herrick's words sounded a bit crippled. “Yeah, I remember now. I dropped in to get a ten-dollar bill changed.”

Oscar chuckled dryly. “All the saloons in town out of change, I suppose.”

Herrick directed a look of hate at Oscar and swung back to Lance. He was regaining some of his courage now. “What in hell business is it of yours, anyway?” he demanded. “I got a right to go in the bank——”

“I'm not denying that.” Lance nodded coolly. “As a matter of fact, I didn't open this conversation.
In the restaurant you said you wanted to see me. I waited here until you'd finished your dinner. So far you haven't had anything to say that amounts to a damn, aside from voicing some threats that sound pretty empty to me.”