The Battle At Three-Cross (9 page)

The girl was seated at the far end of the lobby when Lance followed the professor into the long room.
Jones performed the introduction, adding, “I believe we're going to be brother enthusiasts, Katherine. I feel Tolliver will prove a most apt pupil in the study of cacti.”

All this was news to Lance. He blinked, though afterward he was never sure whether it was the pro fessor's words or sight of Katherine Gregory that momentarily threw him off balance. He liked instantly the girl's cool, rippling laugh that greeted her uncle's words. The direct, even glance from the girl's dark, long-lashed eyes did things to Lance Tolliver. She was tall and slim and healthily tanned. Mostly it was her heavy mass of yellow hair, knotted low at her nape, that caught Lance's attention. The color was so vivid, reminding Lance of the golden pollen dust of certain desert flowers, it seemed to cast a pale shimmering light about her head.

“Uncle Uly is always trying to make converts, Mr Tolliver”—she smiled—“so don't take him too seriously.”

Jones commented on the absence of Fletcher. The smile left Katherine Gregory's face. “I don't know where he is. We had a bit of an argument. To get out of it I made the excuse I was going to my room for a handkerchief. I haven't seen him since. He wasn't here when I returned.”

Lance put in, “He came into the bar and said something about going for a walk.”

The girl lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. She suggested that Jones and Lance take chairs. Lance seated himself, twirling his sombrero on one finger, scarcely knowing what to say. Katherine suggested that the men smoke. That put Lance more at ease. He rolled a brown-paper cigarette while Jones
stuffed tobacco into a battered and ancient-looking brier.

“By the way, Tolliver”—Jones looked slightly apologetic—“do you mind if I tell Katherine of your deductions in the Bowman killing? Very interesting. I remember you said—confidential—that sort of thing—but—but——” His voice trailed off lamely.

“Go ahead,” Lance consented, feeling the professor would tell the girl whether he liked it or not if it pleased him to do so. Jones said, “Thanks,” and related the story in his jerky accents. The girl's eyes widened, and something of admiration came into them as the story was unfolded. “All this—confidential—of course,” Jones concluded.

The girl was still looking at Lance. “Smart—awfully smart,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

Lance felt a pleasurable flush mounting to his face. “It was just a matter of using my head,” he said awkwardly. “Professor Jones pointed out one clue I entirely overlooked—that matter of the creosote being wiped on the killer's clothing.”

“Uncle Uly always was quite good that way,” Katherine Gregory said dryly. Lance didn't understand her tone at the time.

To keep the conversational ball rolling Lance asked the professor if he had ever heard of an outfit called the Southwest Cactus Company. Jones replied promptly, “Why, of course. Situated in El Paso—old company—export to Europe a great deal—all over nation, in fact. Suppose you've passed the place—traveling through—Texas——”

Once on the subject of cacti it was natural for the professor to do all the talking. It was nearly midnight
by the time Lance rose to leave. Someplace during the conversation he had promised to accompany the professor the following day and study “plants in their native soil,” as Jones put it. Pleading that he expected to be busy all morning had had no effect on Jones who had pointed out the afternoon would do just as well. Finally, when he had said his good nights and once more found himself on Main Street, Lance's brain was still somewhat in a whirl.

Sheriff Lockwood had gone home by the time Lance arrived back at the sheriff's office. Oscar was sitting on the cot where he spent his sleeping hours, eating from the usual paper sack. Oscar glanced up as Lance entered. “Huh, you made quite a stay. Learn anything new?”

“Maybe,” Lance said noncommittally. “Oscar, do you remember how sore Kilby got when I mentioned his new overalls?”

Oscar nodded. “That was just before you hit him. Why?”

“Where would he be likely to buy those overalls?”

“One of the general stores—Parker's or Rumler's.”

“Do me a favor tomorrow morning. Find out if Kilby did get his overalls at one of those places and if they know what became of his old ones. You can ask questions and get answers that might be refused me because I'm a stranger in Pozo Verde.”

“Sure, I'll do that. But what's the idea——?”

“I'll tell you tomorrow. I'm working on a hunch. What time does Johnny Quinn open his station? I've got to send another tele gram.”

“Probably around seven o'clock. Just before the limited goes through.”

“I'd better get along to bed, then, so I can rise early.”

“It's an idea for both of us. By the way, did you get to meet the professor's niece?” Lance nodded carelessly. Oscar said enthusiastically, “Stunner, ain't she?”

Lance shrugged. “I didn't notice in particular.”

Oscar snorted skeptically. “The hell you didn't! You can't look at that girl without noticin' in particular. Did you ever see such hair? Pretty as—as—dlemon drops.”

Lance laughed and said good night. He retraced his steps toward the hotel, mounted to his room on the second floor and went to bed to dream of a girl with pollen-dust hair.

Early as Lance left his hotel room and got breakfast the following morning, Sheriff Lockwood was already at his office desk when Lance arrived. Lance asked, “Where's Oscar?”

“He's been sitting around here waiting for the general stores to open up. He just left. He tells me you wanted him to check up on overalls sales.”

Lance nodded. “I'll tell you about it later. Right now I've got to dust over to the railroad station and send a tele gram. See you in a little spell, Ethan.”

“Right, Lance.”

Lance walked rapidly along the street. As he passed Parker's General Store Oscar was just emerging from the doorway. Lance said without preliminaries, “Any luck?”

Oscar shook his head, lowered his voice and fell in step with Lance. “Kilby hasn't bought any overalls there recent. I'm going to try Rumler's next.”

They parted at the corner of Laredo Street, Lance turning right in the direction of the railroad station. Old Johnny Quinn looked as though he'd had a hard night when Lance stepped into the depot. “How's your hemoglobinuria this morning, Johnny?”

Johnny Quinn raised one hand tenderly to his head.
“Poorly, Mr Tolliver. I took my bourbon last night too. Felt right pert then. But this mawnin' my head thumps fit to be tied. Tongue feels sort of dry an' parched too. Huh? Oh, my telygraph pad? Here ye are.”

Lance quickly composed and wrote out his message. He passed it across the counter and put down some money. Johnny took the paper, tried to make sense of the written words, then raised his eyes accusingly to Lance.

“Same crazy words like yisterday,” he complained. “Separate, I can read the words, but when I string 'em together they're jest flapdoodle. I like to know what folks is sendin'.”

“I appreciate your interest,” Lance said gravely. “I'm just trying to make arrangements for Aunt Minnie's funeral.”

“But the address here is to El Paso,” Johnny Quinn pointed out. “Aunt Minnie passed away in Washington, D.C.”

“I know,” Lance explained patiently. “You see, Aunt Minnie came from El Paso. They're shipping the remains home to Uncle Obadiah. This feller I'm sending the message to is a relation of ours. He's to let me know if they're going to keep Aunt Minnie in a glass coffin or call in a taxidermist and have her mounted in her old rocking chair.”

Johnny Quinn's watery eyes bulged. “Whut?” he demanded in horror-stricken tones. “Ye ain't meanin' to tell me they're aimin' to stuff Aunt Minnie and keep her in the house?”

“You're being hardhearted about the whole matter,” Lance said in mingled sadness and indignation. “Uncle Obadiah would miss Aunt Minnie something fierce if she wasn't around the house to keep
him company. Just put yourself in Uncle Obadiah's boots. See how you'd feel!”

“I—I guess you're right,” Quinn stammered weakly.

Lance made as though to brush a tear from his cheek. “I'm glad you understand,” he said in broken accents. “Now, if you'll just send that tele gram right away——”

“I'll do it to once, Mr Tolliver.”

Lance turned and left the station. Johnny Quinn gazed after him, shaking his head. “Thet redheaded Tolliver jasper sure must have some mighty peculiar kinfolks,” he muttered.

Oscar was sitting on the corner of Lockwood's desk talking to the sheriff by the time Lance returned. He glanced up disappointedly as Lance strode through the open doorway.

Lance nodded philosophically. “Don't say it, Oscar. I can tell from the length of your face you didn't have any luck.”

“Not none,” Oscar said gloomily. “I was sort of pinning hopes on them missing garments, too—or would you say overalls was a garment?”

“I'll tell better when we locate 'em,” Lance said.

“Just what do you expect to find?” Lockwood asked.

“It's this way,” Lance replied. “There was fresh creosote on Frank Bowman's hand. I was hoping that when the murderer lifted Frank to his horse some of that creosote might have rubbed on the killer's clothing. You know how such things go—a man can hardly pick up a paint brush without getting some on his clothing.” He smiled. “That's always been my experience, I've noticed…. Anyway, George Kilby did suddenly get new overalls. When I mentioned the fact to him he sure got riled. He was drunk, of course, but——”

“You figuring Kilby killed Bowman?” the sheriff asked.

“I've got hunches that-a-way.” Lance nodded. “Day before yesterday when I found the body and you rode up with Kilby, Herrick and the others I don't remember Kilby having new overalls then. Things like that stand out sometimes. At the same time, maybe he had 'em then, and I just overlooked it.”

“There'd be no reason for you noticing new overalls then,” Oscar put in.

“Look at it this way,” Lance continued. “Bowman was killed at night. The creosote on his hand wouldn't be seen in the dark. But in the daylight, when I found the body, it was seen plain enough. All those hombres saw it. Let's suppose Kilby noticed some on his overalls and figured somebody might tie the two together. He'd want to get rid of his overalls, wouldn't he?”

“By cripes!” Oscar exclaimed, “maybe you've hit on something.”

“It's no good without the missing overalls,” Lance pointed out. “Besides, it wasn't me hit on it. Give Professor Jones credit for that.”

“Who?” Lockwood frowned. “Did you say Jones?” Oscar's eyes widened.

“I said Jones.” Lance smiled. “I took a chance last night and told him part of the story—confidentially. Maybe he'll keep it to himself, maybe he won't. I don't much care. I just wanted to watch his reactions, and damned if he didn't suggest overalls to me. Pointed out that a man who would leave part of his clothing on Bowman's spur might make other mistakes. That Jones is one shrewd customer whether we like him or not, and I've got to admit to a sneaking liking for him.”

Oscar drawled, “His niece wouldn't have anything to do with that, would she?”

“Not a thing.” Lance felt his face color. He went on, “I had a hunch that Kilby might have left his old overalls wherever he bought the new ones. He'd want to get rid of the old ones as soon as possible. By the same reasoning he wouldn't want to be caught carrying them down the street when he was wearing the new overalls. That might attract attention.”

Lockwood cut in, “Speaking of Jones reminds me of that friend of his—Fletcher. Last night I was walking along Main, seeing that all was quiet, when Fletcher came tearing out of the street entrance of the hotel bar. He was in a hell of a hurry, looked like——”

“What time was this?” Lance asked quietly.

“ 'Tween eight and eight-thuty, I should say.”

Lance's gray eyes hardened. “That's just about the time he overheard me tell Jones about finding that peyote in Bowman's hand. He didn't even ask about the rest of the story. Maybe he didn't think there 'd be more. Anyway, he lit out of the bar like a bat out of hell. Where 'd he go, Ethan?”

“Down to the Pozo Verde Saloon. He was almost running by the time he got there. I dropped in a few minutes later and looked around. Fletcher was standing at the bar alone, drinking whisky. He looked worried and didn't even hear me when I spoke to him.”

Oscar said, “Herrick and his gang usually hang out in the Pozo Verde Saloon—if that means anything.”

“It might,” Lance said, “again, it might not.”

Lockwood continued, “Fletcher stayed in the Pozo Verde for some time. I know because I kept an eye on
the place. Quite a while after Fletcher went in there I saw Chiricahua Herrick go in. Well, it was about second-drink time of the evening anyway, so I followed. When I came in it looked like Fletcher suddenly broke off talking to Herrick, though I couldn't swear to that. While I was in there the two men might have been total strangers as far as appearances went. Later Kilby and Ordway and some more of the gang came in, and I drifted out.”

Oscar leaped to his feet suddenly and exclaimed, “Dreben's! Cripes! I forgot Dreben's! If my brains was dynamite there wouldn't be enough to blow my Stet hat off'n my head.”

“What you talking about?” Lance demanded.

“Ike Dreben's Clothing Store,” Oscar explained. “Mostly he carries shirts and neckties and Sunday-go-to-meetin' togs, but I just remembered he carries a line of overalls too. Don't sell much. Hereabouts folks likes the regular brands, and Dreben stocks a kind of cheap line——” He broke off and dashed through the doorway, calling back, “I'm heading for Dreben's plenty
pronto!
”

Neither Lockwood nor Lance said anything for a couple of minutes while they waited for Oscar's return. Lance finally broke the silence. “I've been thinking something, Ethan.”

“Let's hear it.”

Lance said slowly, “If Oscar does bring back Kilby's overalls it looks like we've got the deadwood on him. Either he killed Bowman or he was an accomplice.”

“Right,” the sheriff agreed.

“That first day Bowman was found a lot of folks in this town reckoned I killed him. Herrick and his crew probably did their best to spread that report.
What I'm getting at, I'd like the chance to make the arrest.”

Lockwood nodded. “I get your slant: but you don't want to do it in your own official capacity. I reckon that can be arranged.” He drew out a drawer of his desk and fumbled among papers, pencils, a number of forty-five cartridges and other miscellaneous articles until he had found a couple of deputy sheriff badges. He polished the face of one on a pants leg, slid it across the desk to Lance and tossed the remaining badge back into his desk. “Hold up your hand,” he commenced. “Do you solemnly swear and promise to uphold and enforce the laws of Sartoris County to the best of your ability…?”

The sheriff had scarcely finished deputizing Lance when Oscar came rushing in, a newspaper-wrapped parcel under one arm. “We got 'er!” he announced jubilantly. “Dreben had——Hey, what you doing, Ethan? Swearing Lance in?”

Lance explained, “I'd like to make the arrest myself, if possible.”

“That's fine. But if you can get lemon drops on your expense account that's more than I've been able to do. Look here!” Oscar's indolent manner vanished as he unrolled the newspaper-wrapped bundle to display a pair of very dirty overalls. “See these marks on the right knee?”

Lance seized the right pants leg, scrutinizing the brownish-black smear on the blue cloth. He held it near his nostrils, sniffed, nodded with satisfaction as he released the garment. “You can still smell the creosote. I reckon the evidence is tightening around Kilby—providing these are his overalls.”

“They are.” Oscar nodded eagerly. “He bought the
new ones from Ike Dreben night before last just as Dreben was about to close up his store. I reckon Kilby must have looked himself over after he saw Bowman's right hand. It's plain why he went to Dreben's, too: he wouldn't want to go to either of the general stores where there's always people hanging around. He changed into the new overalls in Dreben's back room.”

“Did Dreben know why Kilby left the old pair?” Lance asked.

Oscar shook his head. “Kilby just told Ike he didn't want 'em any more. He tossed 'em into Ike's rubbish can and told Ike to burn 'em.”

“And Ike put off burning his rubbish, eh?” Lock-wood said.

Oscar grinned. “He burned his rubbish yesterday—but you don't know Ike. Ike had hauled the overalls out of the rubbish can, looked 'em over and decided they was too good to burn. He was aiming to clean 'em up and get four bits from some customer. I gave him a dollar and told him to keep his mouth shut. I didn't tell him why.”

Lance said, “Nice work, Oscar.” He looked thoughtful, then: “What color shirt would you say Kilby wore?”

Oscar considered a moment. “Sort of brownish red—kind of a plaid with black stripes—wool——”

“Maroon, maybe.” Lance nodded. “That's as I remembered it.” He drew a small notebook from his pocket and took from between the leaves the woolly threads he had found on Bowman's spur. This he held before Oscar's eyes. “About this color, perhaps.”

Oscar and the sheriff both nodded. “Could be,” Oscar said.

“Ethan,” Lance asked, “do you reckon we've enough evidence to warrant an arrest?”

“Plenty.” The sheriff nodded. “Go get your man.”

Lance started toward the door. Oscar said, “Want I should go with you, Lance? Kilby might prove to be a tough nut to crack.”

“I'll crack him when I get him in a cell,” Lance said grimly. “I figure to make him talk plenty. There's more to this than just the murder of Frank Bowman. There's a lot of things I want to know—and by the seven bald steers I'm aiming to get that information!”

He didn't say any more, just shoved his holster a trifle nearer the front and strode through the doorway.

Lockwood and Oscar exchanged glances. Oscar said, “It looks like you've taken on a fighting deputy, Ethan.”

“He's got the reputation as such,” the sheriff said quietly. “But he might have trouble making an arrest alone—not that I think he will, but you'd better trail along, just in case. I won't be far behind you. Get going!”