The Battle At Three-Cross (2 page)

“You're not arresting me,” Lance snapped.

“Suit yourself,” Lockwood said coldly. “Put up a fight if you like and see what happens to you. Maybe that would be best. I always like to save my taxpayers the cost of a trial when it can be done. Now, are you coming gentle or aren't you?”

Lance showed pale under his tan. His gaze shifted quickly about the half-ring of men confronting him. Three of them already had their hands on gun butts. The sheriff eyed him sardonically.

Lance relaxed. “All right, I'll come without a fuss,” he said quietly, “but I'm protesting this arrest——”

“Protest, and be damned to you,” Lockwood sneered. “There ain't been a killing in my county in six months, and I don't aim to have any murderer escape me now. You'll learn I have a rep for bringing criminals to justice and——”

Lance Tolliver interrupted, “If we're headed for your billy-be-blasted jail, let's go. I'm not honing to stand here and listen to a tinhorn po liti cal speech any longer than possible.”

“Still feeling hard, eh?” Lockwood snorted. “Once I get you in Pozo Verde you'll get over that. That roan gelding over there yours?”

“That's my horse.” Tolliver nodded.

“Get on it and don't give me any of your lip,” Lockwood commanded. “Chiricahua, get a piggin' string and tie his hands to the saddle horn. You,
Ordway, you stay here with the body until the coroner can come out and view it. I'll tell Doc Drummond as soon as we hit town. And don't touch that body—not none. I want it left just the way it is until Doc gets here.”

Tolliver was roped into his saddle, then his pony was led up out of the wash.

With Sheriff Lockwood on one side and Chiricahua Herrick on the other, the start was made for Pozo Verde, Tolliver riding between the two. Kilby, Ridge and Johnson fell in at the rear, leaving the man named Ordway to stay with the dead body until the arrival of the coroner. Kilby filled the time with a loud mouthing of threats regarding what was to happen to Tolliver until even the sheriff could stand it no longer. In no gentle voice he ordered Kilby to “pronto quit that runnin' off at the head before somebody slaps down your ears.” Kilby flushed and kept quiet from then on.

Tolliver remained silent during the ride to Pozo Verde though his mind was rife with speculation. Chiricahua Herrick on a couple of occasions insisted on Tolliver making a statement regarding his reasons for killing Bowman, but the prisoner just smiled coldly without answering.

“Lay off, Chiricahua,” Lockwood said finally. “Once I've got this hombre in a cell I'll get the truth or know the reason why. You just leave it to me.”

By this time the sun was picking out crimson high lights on the distant peaks of the Saddlestring Mountains and the air had commenced to cool a trifle. Before long the riders reached a wagon-rutted trail running across the campo and ten minutes later, topping a low ridge of ground, they spied the roofs
of Pozo Verde. Following the trail, they soon commenced to see blocky adobe houses on either side. The houses became more numerous. The smoke from mesquite fires was drifting lazily in the air, and here and there lights shone from windows.

Tolliver saw, when they reached it, that Pozo Verde was quite a sizable town. A double row of hitch racks before which stood a scattering of ponies and wagons stretched the length of Main Street, along which the riders were guiding their ponies. Yellow squares of light from store windows made rectangular patches on the dusty roadway; already it was too dark for passing pedestrians to notice that Tolliver was tied to his saddle. On either side were buildings with high false fronts. There were saloons, restaurants, a savings bank and a two-story brick hotel.

They had already crossed two intersections—Las Vegas Street and Laredo Street—and were approaching a third—Yuma Street. At the southwest corner of Yuma and Main stood a long, low building of rock and adobe construction before which swung a board sign bearing the words: “Sheriff's Office & County Jail.” There was no light in the office.

“Dang it,” Lockwood grunted, “I suppose that deputy of mine has gone to his supper already.” He signaled the horses to a stop before the hitch rail. “Untie this gent, Chiricahua. He's arrived at his steel-barred apartment.”

Chiricahua untied the rope that bound Tolliver's wrists, then whipped out his gun. “Get down off'n that horse, hombre, and move right cautious. I'll plug you if you try a getaway!”

Lance slid down from his saddle. “How about taking care of my horse?” he commenced. “He's covered a lot of——”

Kilby sneered. “You ain't goin' to have no more need of a horse——”

“Shut up, Kilby,” Lockwood growled. “I'll see your horse is watered and fed, Tolliver. Now you get on there!”

The door to the sheriff's office was open. Lance “got on there,” with the barrel of Chiricahua's gun boring into his backbone.

There wasn't any light in the cell. Lance heard the steel-barred door swing behind him, then the retreating steps down the corridor between the double row of cells. Kilby was talking again, saying something about hoping he'd have a chance to have a hand on the rope when they hung Tolliver. The door to the sheriff's office slammed shut. A moment later the door to the street closed loudly. The voices died away, leaving Lance to his own thoughts.

He fumbled around in the darkness, found a wooden bunk in which was a burlap sack filled with straw and sat down to roll a cigarette. He could thank heaven they hadn't searched him nor taken away his tobacco and matches anyway. He struck a match, dragged deeply on the brown-paper cigarette, then held the match up and glanced around. The cell had one barred window in its outer wall. Lance saw that much and little more before the match flickered out.

“This,” he told himself, “is a hell of a note.”

Not that he was unduly worried about the situation. His mind dwelled more on the dead man he had found that afternoon. And there was that
black-painted hand. And the mezcal button. The plant still reposed inside Lance's shirt.

“There's something damnably queer about the whole setup,” he muttered.

His cigarette had burned nearly to the end when he heard footsteps entering the office from the street. It suddenly occurred to Lance this was the first sound he'd heard since the sheriff and the other men had departed. It must be that all the other cells in the jail were empty. The door between the sheriff's office and the jail opened now. Light shone along the corridor between cells, and a long shadow appeared on the floor.

Lance caught the gleam of the deputy sheriff's badge first, then he saw its wearer standing before the cell door holding in one hand an oil lamp and in the other a platter of food. The food was placed on the floor while the cell door was unlocked. Picking up the platter, the deputy kicked open the door and stepped inside. He handed the platter to Lance, set the lamp on the floor and turned back toward the corridor with the explanation that he had to go back for the coffee.

Lance considered the matter while the deputy was gone. The man hadn't bothered to close the cell door. Careless or—something else? Prisoners had been known to be allowed to escape just so they could be shot down when they emerged into the open. Lance decided not to take any chances.

The deputy reappeared in a few moments bearing a pail of steaming coffee. Lance felt better as he commenced to eat the potatoes and roast beef and biscuits on the platter. Apparently the deputy hadn't intended him to escape.

“I understand your name is Tolliver,” the deputy said. “I'm Oscar Perkins.”

“Glad to know you,” Tolliver said gravely. “This chow is sure welcome.”

“I figured it might be.” Perkins nodded.

There was something comical about the man. He had large, bony wrists that hung well below his shirt sleeves. His black sombrero's brim was sadly tattered along one side. The skinny legs in corduroy trousers appeared to be badly warped. He had sleepy, indolent eyes, and a mild manner of speech. Looking at Oscar Perkins Lance Tolliver was reminded of nothing so much as a tall, skinny, blond scarecrow. Even the gun belt at the deputy's hips looked as though it might slip down around his knees at any instant.

Perkins produced a small paper sack from a hip pocket. “Would you like a lemon drop?”

“A what?” After the day's experiences, Lance could scarcely believe his ears. It sounded too mild to be true.

“A lemon drop.” Perkins thrust the bag toward Tolliver.

“Not right now, thanks. I'll finish my supper first.”

“Uh-huh. Lemon drops is right good for indigestion.” Perkins seated himself across the cell with his back resting against the wall. He shoved a couple of lemon drops into his mouth and made loud sucking noises while he watched Tolliver eat. “Fact is,” he added after a time, “lemon drops is good for nigh any ailment. They offset the acidity in one's stomach.”

Tolliver gulped. “Did I hear you right?” he ventured.

“Reckon you did. Anyway, that's what a sawbones
in Kansas City told me one time. I always remembered just how he said it. Sounds genteel like, don't it?”

Lance swallowed some more coffee. “Sort of,” he admitted. He changed the subject. “Seems to me like I'm the only prisoner in your jail.”

“Y'are. Every crime wave in this town has been washed out for a long spell. Folks don't start things with Ethan Lockwood enforcing the law like he does. You're the first prisoner we had to entertain in a year of Sundays, seems like.” He crunched a lemon drop between his teeth and went on, “That's just the trouble. With crime at a minimum, the taxpayers can't see why a deputy is needed here. I reckon they figure Ethan can handle it all—and I reckon he can. Eventually I'm going to commence to begin looking around for another job. Say, you don't look like a murderer.”

“Much obliged,” Lance said dryly. “Same to you. Did the sheriff tell you I was a murderer?”

Deputy Perkins shook his head. “Not for certain. As a matter of fact, after he told me to come down here and feed you—he found me in the general store getting some lemon drops—he tipped me off I was to treat you like a guest. Didn't think I heard him right at first. First time I ever knew him to act that-a-way. Y'ain't got anything on him, have you?”

“Not yet,” Lance commenced grimly “But hope——”

The door between the sheriff's office and the jail corridor opened. The deputy said, “Here comes Ethan now.” He scrambled to his feet, still holding the bag of lemon drops.

Lance glanced at the open cell door and wondered
what the sheriff would have to say regarding that oversight. Apparently Lockwood was accustomed to such happenings. He strode into the cell, saying, “Oscar, there's a lot of noise coming out of the Red Steer Saloon.”

“There won't be long.” The deputy nodded. “I'll go down and see can I quieten 'em a mite. See you later, Tolliver.” He popped a lemon drop into his mouth, thrust the paper sack into a hip pocket and sauntered leisurely out along the corridor.

“And how he'll quiet 'em,” Lockwood chuckled. Lance had left his seat on the bunk now. The sheriff came nearer, one hand outthrust. “Reckon I owe you an apology, Tolliver.”

Lance took the hand but said cautiously, “Thanks. You must have discovered I didn't have anything to do with the murder.”

Lockwood laughed. “I knew that right along. You see, Tolliver, I had a letter from your outfit a couple of days back telling me to be on the lookout for you and give you all assistance possible. The instant you told me your name today I realized who you were. Didn't know just what you were after but figured it might be as well to put on an act for the benefit of Chiricahua Herrick and those others.”

Relief flooded through Tolliver. He grinned a bit wryly. “You're one good actor, Sheriff. You had me feeling I was in a tight for a spell. It all came as a bit of a surprise, particularly as I'd been given to understand that Sartoris County had an honest peace officer on the job.”

They sat down together on the bunk and rolled cigarettes. “Never suspected you for a moment, of course,” Lockwood was saying. “But I'm not so sure that some of that gang that rode out with me today
don't know more about that murder than they were letting on. Bowman's horse came wandering back to town about noon and——”

“That explains,” Tolliver said, “how one of the three horses left after the others. I read that much from the sign.”

Lockwood nodded. “Herrick, Kilby and a couple of others came running to me with the news that their pal, Bowman, was missing. We followed the hoofprints back toward that dry wash where we met you.”

“I figured something of the kind might have brought you out,” Lance said, “providing you were on the square. At the same time I wasn't sure but what you and your riders might be looking for somebody to frame.”

“Not
my
riders,” the sheriff denied strenuously. “I don't ride with those hombres unless I can't help myself. It smelled fishy to me when they kept calling Bowman their pal. So far as I know Bowman was a right decent sort, and I don't remember seeing him mix with Herrick and his crew to any extent.”

“What was Bowman doing here?” Lance asked.

“Not much of anything,” Lockwood replied, “until recently. Last week or so he's been acting as a guide to a professor who's been riding the near-by hills.”

“Guide, eh?” Lance frowned. “Wonder what was back of that play. Confidentially, Frank Bowman was one of our best operatives.”

“T'hell you say!” Lockwood's jaw dropped. “It must have been considerable of a shock finding him dead that-a-way.”

“Worse than that,” Lance said grimly. “All I ask is to meet the man who did it. Who is this professor you mentioned?”

“Name's Ulysses Z. Jones. Claims to be working out of the Jonesian Institute of Washington, D.C. Ever hear of him?”

Lance shook his head. “What's his game?”

“Cactus. He rides——”

“Cactus?”

Lockwood shrugged his shoulders. “I'm just telling you what he claims. It sounds crazy to me, but he says he's making a study of the flora—I think that was his word—of the Southwest. He's staying at the hotel. His niece is with him acting as secretary. Her name is Gregory——”

“One minute. Is this Professor Jones a big man, dark, around thirty or thirty-five?”

“Nothing like that at all. He's——”

“Never mind. I'll see him eventually.” Lance's frown deepened as he drew meditatively on his cigarette. “I can't understand Bowman acting as his guide unless he ties into the situation——”

“Do you mind telling me what, or who, you're looking for?”

“Anybody by the name of Matt Foster in town?”

Lockwood considered, then shook his head. “Not that I know of. The name isn't familiar.”

“Probably he'd change his name anyway. I'll give you more of the story later, Sheriff. Meanwhile, what of those hombres who were with you this afternoon? Who are they? What do they do?”

“Chiricahua Herrick is the leader of that gang. Frankly, I don't know what they do. They've been hanging around Pozo Verde for quite a spell now—that is, Herrick, Kilby, Johnson and Ridge have. Those four are right thick. Ordway is a local man. Never amounted to much. Lately he's been tagging after Herrick and the others. If he's considered one of
their gang I don't know it. Fact is, I'd like to know more about that crew myself but I haven't anything to go on. They don't break any laws that I know of. I haven't any legal excuse for bopping down on 'em.”

Lance smiled. “I understood from your deputy that you ruled with an iron hand here and that there wasn't any crime.”

“You can give Oscar the credit for that.”

Lance showed his surprise. “You mean that—that——?”

“Yeah,” Lockwood chuckled, “that sleepy-looking, lemon drop-devouring, lengthy bag of bones that brought you your supper. But don't you make any mistake about Oscar Perkins. He's the one who keeps this town on the straight-and-narrow path.”

Lance said skeptically, “I'd sure like to know how he does it. Has he got a rep for a fast draw or something?”

“That ain't been put to the test yet.” Lockwood laughed. “Ain't been necessary. Oscar just hits 'em!”

“Oscar just what?” Lance's eyes bugged out.

“Hits 'em. When a hombre starts misbehaving Oscar cracks him over the head with his gun barrel. If the fellow shows signs of coming back for more Oscar lets him have it with his fist. That always settles it. Talk about a mule's kick!”

Lance grinned. “Maybe the lemon drops have something to do with it. I can't think of anything else to explain it.”

“Oscar has fooled a heap of folks. Now, me, I used to slam the hell raisers in my cooler. They didn't mind that so much in the long run, and my jail was always full. Howsomever, this town has discovered it would rather behave than be hit by Oscar. Consequently, Pozo Verde has tamed down a heap. So much so, in fact,
that the taxpayers are commencing to say it isn't necessary to maintain two peace officers here.”

“Bowman's murder may cause them to change their minds.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. By the way, Tolliver, what do you make of Bowman's hand being painted black?”

Lance shook his head. “It's a mystery to me. Here's something else that's got my brain going in circles.” He drew the mezcal button from inside his shirt. “I found this clutched in Bowman's left hand before you got there. Know what it is?”

Lockwood took the plant, said immediately, “Hell, yes! This is a peyote. I've heard it called ‘sacred mushroom,' ‘piote bean,' ‘hikuli'——”

“And ‘mezcal button,'” Lance interrupted. “Also ‘dry whisky.'”

“I've heard it called a lot of other names by people who tried to keep it away from the Indians.” Lock-wood frowned. “But it seems to be as hard to stamp out as the marijuana habit.”

“The question is”—Lance frowned—“what was Bowman doing with it? What did it have to do with his death—if anything?”

“In the first place,” Lockwood said slowly, “I wonder where it came from. I can't say I ever noticed peyotes growing around here. When I was in Texas I used to run across 'em right often. There's a lot of peyote growing down in Mexico too. You say you found this in Bowman's hand?”

Lance nodded. “He was hanging onto it like he never meant to let go too. Cripes! I've got to get out of here and find out what it's all about.”

“You're free to go any time,” Lockwood said.
“I did figure it might be a good idea for you to stay overnight, though, until we can cook up an alibi—that is, if you don't mind. After that act I put on to impress Chiricahua Herrick and his gang——”