The Battle At Three-Cross (3 page)

“I understand. I'm glad you acted as you did. I figure Bowman was killed sometime last night. If so, I'm alibied. About the time he was killed I was asleep in a little fonda in Tipata over across the line——”

“I know Tipata—and Moreles who runs the fonda over there. I'll let on like I've sent someone to check up on you. If Bowman was taken out there and killed last night——”

“He wasn't killed out there,” Lance interrupted. “He was taken out there after he'd been shot.”

“You got proof of that?” the sheriff said quickly.

“It's what the evidence showed me,” Lance replied. “When his body is brought in you look careful at the blood——”

“His body was brought to Pozo Verde quite a spell ago. It's over to Doc Drummond's place. Doc's going to hold the inquest to night.”

“As I see it, two riders took Bowman out there after he was shot. I don't know why. They left him there dead and returned to Pozo Verde. Hours later, Bowman's horse wandered back to town——”

“But you said he was shot before being taken out there. How could he ride his horse——?”

The sheriff paused, frowning. Oscar Perkins stood at the doorway of the cell. “Doc Drummond's ready to start the inquest now, Ethan,” Oscar announced, sucking on a lemon drop. “You said you wanted to be there.”

“I sure do.” The sheriff rose from his seat on the bunk.

“I'd like to hear it myself,” Oscar said. “At the same time, if Tolliver wants me to remain and keep him company——”

“You go along, Oscar,” Lance said. “Both of you keep your ears open. You look at that blood careful, Sheriff. Maybe you'll get what I'm driving at.”

“I'll do that. And I'll bring you word of the findings just as soon as a decision is reached.”

The sheriff and his deputy closed the cell door without locking it and made their way out of the building. Lance waited a long time for their return but when they didn't put in an appearance he extinguished the lamplight and curled up on the bunk to get some sleep.

Early-morning sunlight was streaming through Lance's cell window when he awoke. Oscar Perkins was standing in the cell. Lance had slept the night through without interruption. He shoved his sombrero onto his head and got to his feet.

“Inquest kept going dang nigh all night,” Oscar was saying. “When a verdict finally was reached it was so late that Sheriff Ethan figured you might as well get your whole sleep in. Just as soon as you wash up there's some breakfast waiting for you in Ethan's office. He'd like to talk to you.”

“I'll be right with you,” Lance said. “Much obliged.”

“Don't mention it,” Oscar said politely, and withdrew.

Five minutes later Lance was sitting down to a tray of breakfast on Lockwood's desk. Lockwood leaned back in his office chair and talked while Lance consumed food. Oscar slouched back on another chair and made inroads on his sack of lemon drops.

“We had quite a session,” the sheriff was saying. “Chiricahua Herrick and his crowd were there, along with a lot of other folks. Chiricahua insisted the murderer was already caught, meaning you, and
the jury was some impressed. There were a lot of squabbles and arguments, Chiricahua insisting that the jury bring in a verdict against you. I stalled things along by telling them I had sent a man over to Tipata to check on your alibi.' Bout two this morning I strolled down here to the office, stalled around a spell and then went back to the inquest with the word that my messenger had returned from Tipata and that your alibi was airtight——”

“And they took your word for that?” Lance asked.

“My word was good with everybody except Chiricahua and his crowd. They wanted to talk to my messenger personal and they asked a lot of other questions. Howsomever, I represent the law here, and they didn't get no place. Doc Drummond gave his jury a talk. The jury retired for a spell and finally returned a verdict that Bowman had met his death at approximately midnight, night before last, at the hands of some person unknown. Doc had probed out the slug, of course. It was some battered but looked like a forty-five. It had entered below the right cheekbone and ranged up at quite a sharp angle. Doc says he thinks Bowman may have lived quite a spell after the bullet struck, though he'd be unconscious, of course.”

“Ranged up at a sharp angle,” Lance repeated slowly. “Bowman was a fairly tall man. He may have been shot by a shorter one or he may have been on his horse, and the killer on foot.”

Lockwood said, “You're positive he wasn't killed where you found the body?”

“Positive. Did you examine the blood on Bowman's face?”

“Yes, I did,” the sheriff replied, frowning. “There was a streak of dried blood that had run across his
nose. Another streak had run up across his forehead and into his hair——”

“There's the point,” Lance quickly pointed out. “Blood doesn't run up. See what I'm getting at? Bowman was shot, then the murderer threw the body across the saddle of Bowman's horse and traveled out there where the body was left in the dry wash——”

“And if Bowman's head hung down over the saddle”—Oscar had straightened in his chair—“the blood running from the wound would course down across his forehead and into the hair. That's the way it looked——”

“Oscar, you're smart,” Lockwood said.

“Lance is the smart one,” Oscar said indolently. “I just recognized what was pointed out to me.”

“And when they took the body out to that dry wash,” Lance continued, “they may have put Bowman down on his side. That would account for blood running in the other direction, though there wasn't so much of it by that time. Maybe he was just left out there on his horse and fell off after a time. That part's not so important. But I think I've proved that Frank Bowman's shooting didn't take place in that dry wash.”

“By cripes!” Lockwood exclaimed, “you certainly have.” He paused, then: “That still doesn't explain what he was doing with that mezcal button.”

“No, it doesn't,” Lance admitted. “But I picked up a couple of other clues out in that dry wash before you arrived, Sheriff, that I haven't mentioned before. I call them clues—maybe they don't mean a thing.” He ceased talking to produce a small notebook from between the pages of which he extracted a tiny splinter of pine wood and a few threads of dark woolen cloth.

“What are those?” asked the sheriff.

“This bit of pine splinter was sticking to Bowman's sleeve on the arm that held the mezcal button. Those twisted wool threads I picked off his right spur. Apparently his spur had caught in a piece of cloth at some time or other.”

“What do they tell you?” Lockwood asked.

“Not a great deal,” Lance confessed. “They're not objects that would ordinarily be found in a dry wash, of course. Particularly these threads of wool I picked from Bowman's spur. A man couldn't walk far without losing those threads, so I figure he must have picked 'em up about the time he was shot.”

Oscar Perkins put in, “There wasn't any chance that Bowman did a little peyote chewing, was there?” He paused, then added, “Ethan was telling me about finding that mezcal button.”

“Not a chance,” Lance said definitely. “In the first place, that button hadn't been dried. In the second place, I knew Frank Bowman. He was in the organization long before I joined and he had a right good reputation. No, we'll have to leave that peyote-eating habit to certain of the Indian tribes and their ceremonies. You haven't heard anything of the kind around here, have you?”

Lockwood shook his head. “The Indians hereabouts gave up that sort of thing long ago—if they ever did anything like that.” The sheriff paused, then, “There's a small tribe of Yaquente Indians down below the border that might go in for peyote eating. Come to think of it, I've heard they do.”

Lance nodded. “I've heard of the Yaquentes. Pretty fierce fighters at one time, though they've made peace with the Mexican Government——”

“A sort of armed peace.” Lockwood nodded. “The
Mexican Government never did entirely subjugate them. Howsomever, those Yaquentes I mentioned haven't kicked up any trouble in years. Small bunches of 'em come to Pozo Verde now and then. They seem civilized enough.”

“Maybe they dropped peyotes in favor of lemon drops,” Oscar drawled.

“Come to think of it,” Lockwood put in, “some Indian tribal ceremonies call for painting parts of the body. Do you suppose there'd be any connection between that and Bowman's hand being painted black——?”

“Jeepers!” Oscar exclaimed. “That's an idea.”

Lance shook his head. “I don't think so, Sheriff. That wasn't regular paint on Bowman's hand. I examined it right close—even smelled it. It had a sort of creosote odor.”

“Creosote?” Oscar pricked up his ears. “Wait—where did I hear about creosote? Oh, yeah, I remember. There was a section gang working down near the

T.N. & A.S. depot, replacing a couple of railroad ties. They painted the new ties with creosote. When the gang left they forgot a bucket with some creosote in it, standing on the depot platform. Night before last somebody tipped the bucket over. Old Johnny Quinn, the station agent, was madder 'n a wet hen. Seems like he stepped into the creosote that had been spilled and then tracked it into his office. He'd just mopped the office the day before. You know what an old woman Johnny is, Ethan.” “When did this happen?” Lance said quickly. “The same night Bowman was shot?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah, night before last. Yesterday was one tough day for old Johnny Quinn. On top of being peeved about that spilled creosote, Johnny
claimed somebody had broke into his office and stole his bills of lading for what freight came in day before yesterday. He probably lost 'em and had to blame somebody. You 'member, Ethan, I mentioned it to you?”

The sheriff said he remembered. “Johnny Quinn is always finding fault with something. S'far as concerns his office being broke into, all's he had to base that on was the fact his window was open when he come to work. Nothing else was missing except his bills of lading. It's my opinion he forgot to close his window the night before, and his bills blew away.”

Lance had finished his breakfast by this time. He rolled and lighted a cigarette, rose and donned his sombrero. “I reckon I'll walk over to the railroad station and see where that creosote was spilled. Can't tell, I might pick up something.”

“Want I should go with you?” Lockwood said.

“Not unless you feel like it. If you're busy——”

The sheriff made a wry face. “I ain't made out my expense report for last month yet and I've got to get to it. Take Oscar along with you. By the way, that's your gun and belt hanging on that hook across the room. Might be a good idea to put 'em on.”

“I'll feel more comfortable anyway.” Lance smiled.

A few moments later Lance and Oscar were walking east along Main Street. They passed shops and stores of various commercial enterprises, nearly all of which had built-out wooden awnings over the plank sidewalk to protect pedestrians from the broiling sun baking the dusty roadway. Oscar nodded or spoke to several townspeople he met. He and Lance were just passing Lem Parker's General Store when a man in riding breeches and knee-laced boots emerged from the doorway.

“Hi yuh, Professor?” Oscar said.

An irritated, vague look disappeared from the man's eyes as they focused on the deputy. “Ah!” He smiled suddenly. “It's my lemon-drop friend. How's everything this morning? I've just been trying to get a trowel in the general store. It seems they don't stock such implements.”

“Try Herb Rumler's General Store,” Oscar suggested. “He carries a line of such tools, rakes, and so on to accommodate some of the ladies in town who go in for raisin' garden sass and such. By the way, shake hands with my friend, Lance Tolliver—Professor Jones. It was Lance who found Frank Bowman's body.”

Professor Ulysses Z. Jones was probably forty-five or fifty years old, with thick, gray-streaked, dark hair. He was of medium height with a bony frame and an energetic bearing. His face was thin, accenting the contours of rather high cheekbones, although healthily tanned. He was smoothly shaven. His gray eyes had a manner of suddenly taking on a vague expression, as though the man were chary of revealing innermost thoughts, though at times they could be unusually keen. Almost instantly Lance gained the impression that Professor Jones's mind concealed far more knowledge than was put into words. Despite the heat of the southwest sun Jones wore a necktie and loose-fitting tweed jacket. His hat was a soft gray felt with a fairly wide brim. There was something trim, neat, compact about the man, and he displayed a sort of ner vous, driving energy in every movement.

Jones was commenting on the Bowman killing: “… I was most distressed… very sad affair … I like Bowman … excellent chap. Great shock to you … presume … Tolliver. Acquainted … by any chance?”

“We had mutual friends,” Lance evaded. “I felt as though I knew him.”

“Sincerely hope … authorities … bring murderer to swift justice.”

“I understood,” Lance commented, “that Bowman was working for you. Would you have any idea of what he was doing the night he was killed?”

“Not the slightest,” Jones replied instantly. “I had hired him to guide me through the hills near by. He knew this country. Later we planned going down into a section of Mexico with which he claimed to be thoroughly familiar. I'll miss him no end.”

Lance said, “Oscar tells me you're on some sort of expedition for the Jonesian Institute.”

“Right, right, quite right.” Jones spoke jerkily. “Our board of directors decided I was the man to go. You see, we're planning a rare plant garden—all under glass, of course—you understand, cacti deserves its place—will be one of our largest exhibits, in fact. I'm looking for rare specimens—studying distribution—type locality—that sort of thing—really a splendid vacation for me.”

Oscar bit suddenly down on a lemon drop. His eyes bulged. “Do you mean to say you're going to grow cactus in a garden? What's the good of that? It grows wild all over around here.”

Jones laughed shortly. “That's one thing I've discovered people hereabouts don't realize—that they've one of the most striking cacti displays in the Western Hemisphere, right at their doorsteps, you might say. Not appreciated as it should be, not at all. The value of a garden such as we plan will be great to collectors—they can study firsthand specimens many of them will never have an opportunity to see otherwise.”

Oscar's jaw dropped. “Collectors?”

“Certainly.” Jones sounded a bit irritated. “People collect books, stamps, coins—why not cacti? All over the world there is a rapidly growing interest in cacti.”

Oscar seemed stunned by the thought. He crammed a lemon drop into his mouth. To keep the conversation going Lance said, “I suppose Europe and Asia have different forms of cactus like in the United States?”

“Not at all, not at all. There are no cacti at all in the Eastern Hemisphere—that is, native cacti. Africa, of course, has its own form of succulents, but the Western Hemisphere is the only place—true cacti—to be found. Anything in Europe or Asia—matter of propagation—transplanting.”

“These collectors”—Oscar had somewhat recovered from his surprise—“where do they get their cactus?”

“Cactus nurseries and companies, of course. It's a growing business. Out in California one company has been in business since the early seventies—just furnishing—Eastern trade.”

Oscar burst into laughter. “Haw-haw! First time I ever heard of a cactus needin' a nursery.”

Jones turned half impatiently away. Struck by a sudden impulse, Lance withdrew from his shirt the mezcal button. “You seem right well posted on cactus, Professor. Maybe you can tell me what sort of plant this is?”