The Battle At Three-Cross (6 page)

“They won't sound so empty before long,” Herrick snarled, again losing his temper. “I said I was going to get you. I'm not backing down any on that statement.”

“I've already invited you to pull your iron and start,” Lance said quietly. “The first move is up to you!” He stood easily before Herrick, right thumb hooked into cartridge belt, waiting.

Herrick backed a step, then another. Suddenly he threw both arms wide of his sides and shook his head. “I'm not drawing now,” he said thickly. “Not when you got that deputy to back your play. I'll get you sometime when the odds are even. A man can't get a square deal with the peace officers in this town.”

Oscar drawled indolently, “Cherry-Cow, how would you like me to knock your ugly mug out from under your hat?”

“There you are, there you are!” Herrick spat hotly. “Like I say, the law's taking sides. I ain't fool enough to take on two men at once——”

“You're fool enough to stand here talking about it, I notice,” Oscar stated disgustedly. “Go on, on your way, Herrick. First thing you know, I'll be running you out of town for good.”

Herrick commenced backing away, his gaze still on Lance. “You got things your way right now, Tolliver,” he grated, “but just remember, there's new cards turn up in every deal.”

“I'm remembering,” Lance said coldly. “Any time,
anywhere—the play's up to you. I'll meet any stakes you name!”

Herrick mouthed a muffled curse and, swinging around, strode swiftly down Main Street as though anxious to get away.

Oscar and Lance arrived back at the sheriff's office after a time to find Lockwood donning his sombrero preparatory to going to dinner. Lockwood eyed the two gravely as they entered.

“I understand,” the sheriff said, “that you two exchanged a few words with Chiricahua Herrick.”

“Where'd you hear that?” Lance asked.

“Herrick dropped in a few minutes back to make a complaint. He claims you tried to pick a fight with him, Lance, and you, Oscar, was ready to jump in to help. He asked that I tell you to leave him alone.”

Oscar said calmly, “He's a bloody liar if he claims we picked on him. Here's what happened.” He gave the sheriff the story of what had taken place.

Lockwood nodded. “I figured it was something like that. I wasn't impressed none. I told Herrick to mind his business, and you boys would mind yours. He was inclined to get a mite cocky, so I told him when he was willing to trust the law hereabouts the law would trust him. He claimed he didn't know what I meant, so I asked him what in hell was his idea riding to Tipata to check up on Lance's alibi after I'd passed my word the alibi was good. I reckon he hadn't figured on me knowing that, and he got
sort of flustered. I poured it on him pretty strong, and he was glad to get out of here, I reckon.”

“At that, I figure he'd be a mean man to tangle with,” Lance commented.

“You're probably right.” Lockwood nodded. “Well, I'm going to get some chow. My stomach is commencing to think my throat's cut. What you going to do, Lance?”

“I'm aiming to drop in on the hotel sometime this afternoon and get further acquainted with Professor Jones. I've got to see about getting a room there myself anyway.”

Oscar asked, mouthing a lemon drop, as he dropped into the chair vacated by Lockwood, “You figuring to see if you can pump him about those Loafer-for-William plants?”

“Mebbe.” Lance smiled. “I'd just like to get better acquainted with him.”

He and the sheriff passed through the doorway and started along Main Street. Lance mentioned that he had seen Herrick leave the bank with the bank's owner, Gillett Addison. Lockwood frowned and said, “I doubt if it means anything. Gill Addison has always been on the up-and-up so far as I know. Incidentally, if you're going to see the professor you'll probably meet his niece. She's a right likely looking filly, if I ever saw one. Her father owned a ranch down in Sonora. He was murdered about a year back. Nobody ever did know who done it. Some Yaquente Indians found the body and brought it into Pozo Verde——”

“They're sure the Yaquentes didn't kill him, eh?”

“I don't know how sure they are. Being in Sonora, the whole business was up to the Mexican authorities,
you know. What they ever did, if anything, I haven't heard. It was out of my jurisdiction, of course——Say, speaking of Yaquentes—there's a couple of 'em now across the street.”

Lance's gaze followed the sheriff's pointing finger and saw the two Indians. They were well setup men, clothed in loose, flopping cotton garments, with huge straw sombreros on their heads. One was in his bare feet; his companion wore crude leather sandals. They looked much like the peons to be found throughout Mexico, though there was an air of independence about the two men that almost smacked of belligerence.

“Right peaceful-looking hombres,” Lockwood muttered grimly, “but they're sure hell on wheels when it comes to fighting. You give them two a six-shooter and a carbine and a bandoleer of ca'tridges and you'd be surprised how it 'd transform 'em. I know; I fought 'em some about fifteen years back. The Mex Government has got 'em held down to some extent at present, but no man can say they were entirely conquered.”

“What do you suppose those two are doing in Pozo Verde?”

“They cross the line and come to town every once in a while,” Lockwood replied. “A small bunch of 'em get a few pesos and come up here for a buying spree every so often. We never have no trouble with 'em. They never do any drinking here—mostly they're satisfied to buy some beads or knives or bolts of colored cotton——”

“Here's three more of 'em,” Lance interrupted, “coming along the street on this side.”

The sheriff didn't seem greatly concerned. The
three Yaquentes, dresed approximately the same as the first two Lance had seen, passed them swiftly and turned in at Parker's General Store.

Lance laughed. “I hope somebody in that store can speak Yaquente.”

“He can't,” Lockwood said dryly. “Nobody speaks Yaquente but a Yaquente. But they get along all right. Some of those Indians can
habla
Spanish right well.”

Lance parted from the sheriff at the corner of Laredo Street and crossed diagonally to the steps of the San Antonio Hotel which stood at the intersection of the two thoroughfares. As he mounted the steps to the hotel porch which stretched across the front of the building's lower floor, fronting on Main, Lance glanced along the street in either direction. From this higher point of vantage he had a clear view both ways. His eyes narrowed a trifle as he noticed on the sidewalks still more Yaquente Indians.

“Knowing what I do of Yaquentes,” Lance muttered, “I sure wouldn't feel too good about 'em coming over here. Howsomever, they're peaceful now, and I reckon Ethan Lockwood knows his business.” Dismissing the thought from his mind, he passed on into the hotel.

The hotel lobby reached the length of the front of the building. To the left as one entered was a doorway into the hotel bar. At the opposite end of the lobby was a staircase ascending to the rooms on the second floor. Midway between the two was a small oaken desk with behind it a series of pigeonholes for room keys and letters. Several men were seated about the lobby. Most of them, Lance decided after a brief glance, were drummers for liquor or hardware houses or cattle buyers in Pozo Verde to make contacts with the neighboring ranches.

Lance negotiated for a room and secured one on the second floor, facing Main Street. “I'll see it later,” he told the clerk who wanted to show the room. “My bedroll is with my horse over at the Lone Star Livery. I'll bring over what dunnage I need later on.” He signed the register, then asked, “By the way, Professor Jones is staying here, isn't he?”

The clerk nodded. “Oh yes. His room is just down the hall from the one you've taken…. No, I'm afraid you can't see him now. He's out, I believe, riding with his niece. You know, studying cactus——” The clerk smiled a bit superciliously. “Why anyone should bother with such plants is more than I can understand. Now, a nice geranium in a window pot—that's different——”

“Everybody to his own taste, I reckon,” Lance commented. “The professor goes in pretty heavy for cactus, eh?”

“More than seems reasonable.” The clerk nodded. “He's already packed three boxes with plants and has them stored in our storage room until he leaves.” The clerk whirled the register around and read Lance's name. “Oh, Mr Tolliver. You're the one who found that murdered man, aren't you?—Frank Bowman?”

Lance nodded and started to turn away. “Tell the professor I dropped in, will you? I'll be back later on——”

He stopped short as a new voice broke in, “I'm a friend of Professor Jones'. Perhaps I can help you out if you'll let me know what you want. It may save you a trip back here. I'm Malcolm Fletcher. Did I understand you to say you're Tolliver?”

“I'm Tolliver.” Lance shook hands with Fletcher, whom he'd noticed seated at the far end of the hotel lobby. Fletcher was a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped
man with a lantern jaw, piercing eyes and brown hair, somewhere in the vicinity of thirty or thirty-five years of age. He wore high-heeled boots and corduroy trousers. A black sombrero was shoved to the back of his head. He had the appearance of a cowman, though Lance felt he hadn't worked at that trade for some time. There was an air of affluence about Fletcher.

“… and if you care to state your business,” he was saying, “I may be able to help you out.”

“No particular business to state.” Lance smiled. “I just met the professor on the street this morning, and he asked me to call. I'll see him later.”

“It wasn't about a job as a guide you wanted to see him?”

Lance shook his head. “Why should I?”

Fletcher laughed. “No reason at all,” he replied. “I just thought you were after that job Bowman had before his death. Just in case you were, I can tell you now it's not open.”

“The professor decide he doesn't need a guide any more?”

“He actually doesn't, of course, around here, but he had hired Bowman to take him down into Sonora.”

“I see.” Lance nodded. “Has Professor Jones given up the Mexico trip?”

“Just about,” Fletcher answered. “I've been against it from the first, of course. I think he'll take my advice.”

“There's nothing final been decided yet, then?”

“It's practically settled.”

“Why have you advised against the trip?”

“Mexico is pretty wild country,” Fletcher explained. “I don't think it any place to take a girl—at
least, a girl like Professor Jones' niece. There are a large number of Yaquente Indians through the section in which Jones wants to travel. The Yaquentes are peaceful enough now, but”—Fletcher shrugged his shoulders—“a man never knows what may turn up.”

“You certainly said something then,” Lance agreed. He turned to leave. “Well, much obliged for the information. If you'll tell the professor I called——”

“I'll tell him,” Fletcher said, “though there's no chance of you getting that job even if you knew that country down there. I hope you see how it is.”

“I reckon,” Lance said noncommittally. He nodded to Fletcher and left the hotel. On the street he said to himself, “I'm not sure if I do see how it is. I wonder who that Fletcher hombre is, and is he making all decisions for Jones? For some reason he's none too keen for Jones to head down into Mexico. Oh well, I'll see Jones later. Maybe a mite of conversation will bring out something.”

Lance next bent his steps in the direction of the railroad depot. As he entered the station old Johnny Quinn glanced up and grunted sourly. “You agin, eh?” he squeaked. “Well, I ain't remembered no more than I did this mornin', so ye're wastin' my time and yours if ye insist on hangin' round——”

“There's no law against sending a tele gram, is there?”

“A telygram?” Johnny Quinn stiffened like a soldier coming to attention. “Ye want to send a telygram? Whyn't ye say so in the first place? Here's a pad o' paper. Write 'er out plain, and I'll shoot 'er off.”

Lance smiled inwardly and proceeded to “write 'er out plain.” When he had finished he shoved the
paper across to old Quinn. Quinn snatched at the paper and started to read it. He got as far as the address, then glanced up over his spectacles at Lance, saying, “You're sendin' this to Washington, D.C., hey? Hmmm. Thet's where the President of these United States lives.”

Lance nodded. “I've heard rumors to that effect before. Howsomever, it isn't being sent to him.”

“Shucks all tarnation!” Old Quinn sounded exasperated. “I know thet much.” He started to read on, then stopped. A frown gathered on his forehead. He squinted through his spectacles, took them off, wiped them on his bandanna, replaced them, took them off again. Finally he gave up. “Are ye drunk?”

“Haven't had a drink today.”

“There's somethin' wrong with ye!” Quinn snapped. “I can read your words separate, but they don't make no sense strung out in a line. Can't make head ner tail what ye're aimin' to send.”

“You can send the words just as they are, can't you?”

“ 'Tain't usual!”

Lance laughed. “It is back in Washington. That's the way folks talk back there. If you're interested I can tell you what the message is about. You see, my aunt Minnie is back there suffering from a bad case of hemoglobinuria and——”

“What's thet?” Quinn's jaw sagged.

Lance laughed suddenly. “Of course, of course. I might have known you'd had that disease some time or other, so there's no need of me going into details about Aunt Minnie's case. Probably you know more about the ravages of hemoglobinuria than I do. What's that? You got it back in sixty-five? Well, well,
imagine that! That's the very year Aunt Minnie was took down with it. What? You don't say so! A poultice of axle grease and horse liniment, eh? And it cured you? I'll sure write Aunt Minnie about that if she doesn't get well——What? A glass of bourbon three times a day prevents a recurrence of the disease? Sa-ay, it's lucky I ran into you. Aunt Minnie will probably owe you her life.”

Johnny Quinn's eyes were glassy; his jaw hung open. He was gasping like a fish out of water. So far he hadn't said a word, but Lance's swift monologue had swept him from his feet. His brain swirled dizzily, and he was already convinced he had had the disease Lance mentioned.

“… and I'll sure remember,” Lance flowed on, “to bring you a bottle of bourbon when I come back for the answer to my tele gram. I wouldn't want you to come down with hemoglobinuria again. You see, when that answer comes through I'll know if Aunt Minnie is recovering or not, so shoot my message off pronto. I'll be back later for the reply—and I won't forget your bourbon.”

Five minutes after Lance had left the station old Quinn was still scratching his sparse gray hair and panting for breath. His brain whirled. “Lemme see,” he gulped, “was it in sixty-five I had that hemo disease?” His thin frame trembled. “By grab! I'd better get this telygram sent right to once. A case of life or death ain't to be ignored.” He stumbled toward the sending apparatus muttering, “Life or death, life or death, life or death.”