The Battle At Three-Cross (7 page)

Lance was still laughing when he entered the sheriff's office a short time later. Lockwood was back at his desk. Oscar Perkins had gone down to the general
store for a fresh supply of lemon drops. “What you grinnin' at?” Lockwood demanded.

“I had a tele gram to send,” Lance chuckled. “It was in code, so I had to give old Johnny Quinn an explanation.” He related what had happened.

The sheriff's laughter merged with Lance's. “Johnny's always boasting about how many different diseases he's had,” Lockwood said, “so I reckon it wa'n't hard to convince him he had this here—uh—hemo—uh—what was that word? What's it mean?”

“Hemoglobinuria.” Lance explained, “That's just a more scientific name for Texas tick fever.” Lock-wood went off into renewed gales of laughter. When he had quieted Lance asked, “Say, who's this Malcolm Fletcher staying at the hotel? I went to see Jones, but he was away digging cactus. Fletcher claims to be a friend of his.”

“He might be, at that,” Lockwood conceded. “I don't know. He's been right friendly with Miss Gregory—you know, Jones' niece. The two of 'em have gone riding a lot. Anyway, I told you the girl's father owned a ranch down in Sonora. Malcolm Fletcher was Jared Gregory's pardner in the ranch. I meant to tell you all this today. Then we got talking about those Yaquentes we saw, and it slipped my mind.”

“You told me about Jared Gregory being murdered and brought in by the Yaquentes.” Lance's eyes narrowed. “It couldn't be that Fletcher had a hand in the death of Miss Gregory's father?”

“If he did, I couldn't say. He had an alibi, at least.”

“The same being?”

“Fletcher claims to be interested in both mines and ranches. At the time Jared Gregory was killed
Fletcher was this side of the border driving around and looking at properties for sale.”

“You just got his word for that?”

“We got the word of Banker Addison. Addison was showing the properties which the bank had foreclosed on some time before.”

“Apparently,” Lance said slowly, “that clears Fletcher.” Then he added, “Apparently.”

Shortly before suppertime Lance entered the railroad depot, a bottle of bourbon under one arm. He placed it on the counter behind which old Johnny Quinn stood waiting with a yellow sheet of paper in his hand. “Johnny, there's your medicine. Did you get an answer for me?”

“Sartainly,” Johnny replied. “I had it rushed right through.”

Lance took the yellow paper and quickly perused the code message it contained. A frown gathered on his face.

“Aunt Minnie must be worse,” Johnny said anxiously.

“Aunt Minnie,” Lance replied solemnly, “has plumb passed away. You'd better drink your medicine regular, Johnny.”

Three minutes later Lance was back in the sheriff's office. “I got an answer to my tele gram,” he said tersely. “I had a little checking up done on Professor Ulysses Z. Jones of the Jonesian Institute at Washington, D.C. According to my reply there never was any such organization as the Jonesian Institute, and no one down there has ever heard of Professor Jones!”

“Somebody,” Lockwood said grimly, “is a blasted liar.”

Lance nodded. “I figure that I'm going to get acquainted with that somebody right after supper. I'll bet he doesn't do any cactus digging at night—though he may have other activities. That's something I'm aiming to find out with no more waste of time.”

It was shortly after six o'clock that evening when a worried-looking Johnny Quinn locked the doors of his station and took his departure, with an already partly depleted bottle of bourbon under his arm. Muttering something under his breath about the sad end of poor Aunt Minnie, he hurried off in the direction of his lodging house to fortify his system against the dread disease that had carried off Aunt Minnie.

The rapidly descending sun touched a line of fire along the high peaks of the Saddlestring Mountains. The crimson line turned to purple, then disappeared altogether. Darkness filled the ravines and hollows, spread swiftly overhead, and night came down. A few stars twinkled into being in the eastern sky, the first vanguard of the millions to follow. Off in the hills a coyote barked suddenly and as suddenly fell silent.

In the Mexican huts and adobe houses across the railroad tracks lights shone from windows, and a smell of cooking food mingled with the fragrant odor of mesquite roots ascending from dozens of chimneys. A door opened here and there and then closed abruptly on soft snatches of conversation in Spanish. Somewhere could be heard the strumming of a guitar. For a time quiet settled on the Mexican district.
Then, gradually, as meals were concluded doors commenced to open and close again as small knots of men and girls started walking toward Main Street to end up at Tony's Saloon or the Mexican Chili Parlor, with dance hall attached, which was located across the street from the sheriff's office. There weren't so many lamps burning in the houses now.

One, two, three hours passed. It had grown darker by this time. The moon wasn't yet up. By twos and threes soft-stepping, white-clothed forms in huge straw sombreros were commencing to cross the railroad tracks, flit silently past the scattered Mexican dwellings and take their steps in the direction of a squat adobe-and-rock building situated on the southern outer fringe of Pozo Verde at the very edge of the open range. The door of the building was locked, so the white-clad figures congregated silently about the building or conversed in low, guttural tones while they waited for the white man who had promised to come.

Chiricahua Herrick, followed by several other men, suddenly took form in the darkness. He jerked out a few low words of greeting in Spanish to the waiting Yaquentes, unlocked the door of the rock-and-adobe building and stepped inside. The Indians made no move to follow. Chiricahua found a bottle with a candle stuck in one end and touched a match flame to the wick, filling the room with soft light. Chiricahua spoke to two of his followers, and burlap sacks were fastened at the two windows of the single-room building which was furnished only with a table and a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs.

Chiricahua went to the doorway. “Johnson,” he said softly, “you and Ordway stay out there and keep those Injuns quiet. Tell 'em they won't have to wait
long and keep your eyes peeled to tip us off if anything goes wrong—though I don't reckon it will. Anvil should be along pretty soon.”

He shut the door and sat down at the table. George Kilby took a chair by his side, and Bert Ridge found a seat on the floor with his back to the wall. Cigarettes were rolled and lighted.

Chiricahua said, “George, where'd you put that box?”

“Right behind you,” Kilby said, “where it will be within easy reach.”

Herrick laughed a bit uneasily. “For a moment I thought you'd forgotten it.”

“Not that box,” Kilby stated definitely. “I might have forgotten one in the past, but that damn box of buttons caused us too much trouble to be forgotten easy.”

“By Jeez!” Ridge commented. “That was once we nearly got caught. That damned Bowman would have had us dead to rights——”

“That reminds me.” Chiricahua Herrick frowned. “I think that blasted Oscar Perkins has something in mind——”

“If it's anything but lemon drops”—Kilby grinned—“I'll be a heap surprised.”

“Don't you grade Perkins down none.” Herrick frowned. “That deputy has more sense than we give him credit for, unless”—he paused suddenly, struck by a new idea—“unless that Tolliver hombre is back of it——”

“Back of what?” Ridge asked.

“This afternoon,” Herrick explained, “the barkeep of the Pozo Verde Saloon told me Perkins had been in asking questions.”

Kilby asked, “What sort of questions?”

“Perkins wanted to know if there was any shooting heard out back of the saloon the night Frank Bowman was killed——”

“My Gawd!” Kilby exclaimed, and some of the color left his face. “That comes pretty nigh to hit-tin' the bull's-eye. The railroad station ain't much more than good spittin' distance back of the saloon.”

“I've been thinkin' about that, too,” Herrick growled. “I don't like it——”

“Look,” Ridge broke in, “did the barkeep hear anything that night?”

“We got a break,” Herrick said quietly. “Don't you remember, day before yesterday was payday for the Bar-L-Bar outfit? The whole crew was celebrating. The barkeep tells me they made plenty noise. Some of 'em was even shooting holes in the clouds. So,” and he smiled craftily, “the shot that got Bowman was never noticed.”

Kilby gave a long sigh of relief. “That
is
a break.”

“It's too damn bad,” Ridge commented, “that we couldn't have fastened that job on Tolliver.”

“Tolliver will get his yet,” Herrick promised darkly. “Only that I got orders from the chief not to start anything I'd slung a slug through Tolliver this morning.”

“Why'd the big boss give orders like that?” Kilby asked.

Herrick shrugged his shoulders. “He gives orders, and I take 'em. I'm paid well, so I don't kick. Howsomever, he probably don't want any of us mixed into any shooting scrapes until things are all set. We don't want to attract no more attention than possible.”

“I'd like a chance to put a fortyfour right through Tolliver's belly,” Kilby snarled. “I got to get even for the wallop he give me this mornin'——”

“I reckon you had that coming,” Herrick said coldly. “Only for you getting crocked and talking more than you should nobody would ever have known I rode to Tipata to check on Tolliver's alibi. Yep, sometimes I could almost wish Tolliver had plugged you——”

“Aw, hell, Chiricahua,” Kilby protested, “I told you I didn't know what I was doing. I made a mistake—I admit it.”

“It'd be your neck if I told the boss,” Herrick snapped. “I reckon you wouldn't last long if he knew——”

“Is that right?” Kilby said, bristling. “I wouldn't advise this boss you're always takin' orders from to get too hard with me. I know too much.”

Herrick nodded coolly. “I know you do, George. There was a couple of other fellers just like you—they knew too much. That's why we had to get rid of 'em. And we didn't just tell 'em to get out of the gang. Do you see what I mean?”

Kilby gulped and shivered a little. “I see what you mean,” he said shakily, and fell silent.

“Don't forget it then,” Herrick said cruelly. “There's no place in our gang for hombres who run off at the head. There's more 'n one way to keep a feller from talking—but there's only one sure way.”

“Sure, Chiricahua,” Kilby said placatingly. “I know what you mean.”

There was silence for a few moments. Kilby produced a flask and drank deeply. Herrick was restored to good humor again. “Going to keep that all
to yourself?” he demanded. “Me 'n' Bert could stand a drink.”

The flask was passed around until it was empty. Then Herrick said, “I don't know just what to think of Tolliver.”

Ridge asked, “Why?”

Herrick shrugged. “I don't know. I got a feeling I'm due to cross guns with him. Well, the sooner the better.”

There was another silence before Kilby said, “Anvil's later than usual, seems like.”

“I reckon not,” Herrick replied. “You're just nervous, George.”

“Maybe I got a right to be,” Kilby said. “If anybody ever stumbled onto us we'd have some fast explanations to make. I don't see why the big chief doesn't take the stuff over into Sonora instead of having those Yaquentes come here for it.”

“The big boss isn't running any more risk than necessary,” Herrick said. “The Mexican Government don't cater to those Yaquentes having guns, or buttons either. Suppose some of us got picked up in Mexico—running that stuff into the country? Anyway, don't you worry, George. I reckon this will be the last for a spell. We should have enough stuff over there now to outfit a young army.”

“I still don't get the idea of the mezcal buttons,” Ridge put in. “Guns, yes, that's clear, but——”

“A Yaquente will do anything for anybody that gives him a button he can dry and eat,” Herrick said. “The tribe has just about cleaned out the hills in their own neighborhood and they don't like the idea of traveling farther south to get the buttons for their ceremonies——” He paused suddenly.

Outside could be heard the sounds made by an
arriving team and wagon, then loud tones as the wagon was tooled into place near the building.

“There's Anvil now.” Kilby looked relieved.

“And noisier 'n hell!” Herrick said angrily. “Whoever named him Anvil sure called the turn. Loud and hard!” He jerked open the door and snapped, “Cut out the noise, Wheeler. You'll have the whole town down on us. Ridge—Kilby—get out and help Ordway and Johnson bring in them boxes.”

Kilby and Ridge hurried outside. Anvil Wheeler jumped down from the wagon he had been driving and strode into the 'dobe building. He was a big, powerfully built man with a hooked nose and wide spreading mustaches. A tattered, roll-brim sombrero was yanked down on one side of his head.

Herrick said, “You're late.”

“Hell's bells!” Anvil Wheeler replied. “I pushed that team right along. After all, it's quite some miles to Saddleville and back——”

“Have any trouble?” Herrick asked.

“Not none.”

“All right, get them boxes open when the boys bring 'em in. Get Kilby to help you.” From the doorway Herrick gave further orders. “Get them Injuns lined up, Johnson. Keep 'em quiet and keep 'em moving. We want to get away from here as soon as possible.”

Pine boxes were carried into the building. Johnson and one of the other men were getting the Indians in line. There was little talking now. Anvil Wheeler and Kilby were removing covers from the boxes, Kilby with tools, Wheeler with main brute strength much of the time.

Finally all was in readiness. Herrick sat at the table again, the box of mezcal buttons within easy
reach. Kilby and Wheeler stood near the boxes of rifles and six-shooters. Johnson entered from outside. He was grinning. “Them Yaquentes are ready for their ‘peestols,'” he announced.

Herrick chuckled. “Damn Injuns call all shootin' irons pistols. Makes no difference if it's a rifle or six-gun. All right, let 'em come.”

The Indians started entering the building. The first dark-skinned, flat-faced Yaquente came to the table at which Herrick sat. Herrick said, “What you want, hombre?”

The Yaquente's teeth flashed whitely. “Un peestol—peyote,” he said gutturally.

“Here's your peyote.” Herrick's hand dipped into the near-by box and came up with a mezcal button which he passed to the Indian. The Yaquente clutched it avidly. Herrick jerked one hand over his shoulder toward Kilby who stood near a box of six-shooters. “That hombre will give you your peestol,” he said.

The Indian passed on to receive his six-shooter. Others came behind to receive six-shooters and peyotes. Every fifth man received a rifle in addition to his six-shooter. The Yaquentes circled the table, then departed by the open doorway.

Suddenly there was a slight commotion at the doorway. One of the Indians was arguing with Larry Johnson. Herrick growled, “What's eatin' that hombre?”

Johnson replied, “He wants the ammunition to go with his gun.”

Herrick shook his head. “Tell him we'll bring the ca'tridges later. No bullets now—no slugs—no bang-bang. Savvy, hombre?”

“Savvy,” the Indian grunted, and disappeared through the doorway. Once more the passing line of Indians got under way.

Finally the line came to an end. There were still a few guns and mezcal buttons remaining in the boxes. Herrick said, “Take these leftovers out and divide 'em up.” When this had been done the door was once more closed. Herrick rose to his feet and stretched wearily. “A good night's work,” he announced. He glanced at the empty boxes, then smiled at the words painted on them. “Canned tomatoes, eh? Must be you're going into the grocery business, Anvil.”

Wheeler's loud laugh shook the raf ters of the room. “That's what the freight agent in Saddleville wanted to know. What gets that hombre is that he don't know where I take all these canned goods he delivers to me.”

“It's a damned good thing he don't know,” Herrick said shortly. “Ordway, get outside and see if those Yaquentes are gone yet. If they ain't tell 'em to vamoose and get over the line as soon as possible. We don't want any slip-up at this stage of the game.”

Ordway stepped outside. Within a few minutes he was back. “Not a Yaquente in sight,” he announced. “They've plumb faded. Aces to tens they're halfway to the border already.”

“I don't reckon it will be many more days before we're headed that way ourselves,” Herrick said. He blew out the candle. “All right, get going. Scatter! We'll meet at the Pozo Verde Saloon and drink a long one to crime and easy money.”