William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“So they took the body out to that wash where you found it.”

Lance said, “That’s my idea. They threw the body across the saddle of Bowman’s horse and lit out pronto. I figure it took two to lift him to the saddle, one at the shoulders, one at the feet. Maybe Bowman’s spur rowel caught on one man’s shirt. That accounts for the woolly threads I found on Bowman’s spur. Remember, this is largely guesswork.”

“Damn good guesswork,” Oscar said admiringly.

“Meanwhile,” Lance continued, “in the darkness the killers had failed to notice that Bowman clutched that mezcal button in his hand. Bowman was a man of great determination, strong will. Probably his last conscious thought was to hang onto that bit of evidence at any cost. So he was still gripping that button when they dumped him off his horse out in that dry wash. As he died and grew cold his fingers stiffened rigidly about the plant—and didn’t release it until I took it from his hand.”

“Cripes A’mighty, Lance! You’ve hit it!”

“Don’t be too certain, Oscar. I may be striking far wide of the mark. But who do you suppose might be having a box shipped from a cactus company?”

“I just see one man,” Oscar said promptly. “Professor Ulysses Z. Jones.”

“I may be mistaken,” Lance said slowly, “but I sure aim to further my acquaintance with the professor.”

“He was plumb eager to get that mezcal button you had.”

“He won’t be so eager to get another one,” Lance stated grimly, “if I’m right in my suspicions!”

V War Talk!

It was nearly noon by the time Oscar and Lance arrived back at the sheriff’s office to find Lockwood still working on his monthly accounts. The sheriff glanced up as they entered, then resumed work on the printed forms before him. “Well, sleuths,” he grunted, entering some figures in lead pencil, “did you get to the bottom of our crime problem?”

“We mebbe didn’t get to the bottom of it,” Oscar stated, “but Lance sure constructed a picture that brings us nearer the top, I’m thinking.”

Lockwood looked quizzically at Lance. “Think you found anything definite?”

Lance nodded. “Yes, I do, Ethan. Here’s the way it looks to me….” From that point on he told the story of what he and Oscar had discovered. When he had finished:

“By grab!” Lockwood exclaimed. “I think you’ve hit it.”

“So far, so good,” Lance pointed out, “but I still don’t know who the murderer is nor what Bowman found here that had to do with mezcal buttons. That’s not the case he was on—what I mean is, I don’t see what mezcal buttons have to do with the case. But it’s all tied in—somehow.”

“Do you feel like telling us just what brought you and Bowman here?” Lockwood asked.

“I’ll give you the story,” Lance consented. “This information is to be held confidential, of course. I’m after a man named Matt Foster. Something over a year ago Foster and a gang of four accomplices stuck up a United States messenger who was delivering thirty thousand dollars, in bills, to a bank in Kansas City. The messenger and two guards were killed, but one of Foster’s men was wounded and captured in the fight that took place. Through information from this captured bandit we managed to run down and capture all but Foster himself. Foster got away scot free. Not only that—he had all the money. The gang hadn’t had an opportunity to divide the spoils. Luckily, the numbers of the stolen bills were on record and a warning sent out. The first bill showed up in New Orleans. My Denver office sent me to New Orleans to trace it down. From there the chase took me to Tampico, in Mexico, then up to Chihuahua City. I worked out of Chihuahua City a spell, trying to find something. No luck. I returned to Chihuahua after a month and found a letter for me saying some of the stolen money had showed up in Pozo Verde and that Frank Bowman had already been sent here. I was ordered to come here also.”

“And on your way here,” Oscar put in, “you found Bowman’s body.”

Lance nodded. “Now you know about as much as I do.”

Lockwood asked, “Who in Pozo Verde reported the bills?”

“A traveling salesman passed them in Saddleville. He claimed that he’d got them from your local bank. The cashier here said he thought he remembered the bills but he’d never seen a list of the recorded numbers, so he couldn’t be sure. The president of the Pozo Verde bank insisted his cashier was mistaken. Anyway, Bowman was sent on to investigate. Incidentally, the traveling salesman was released; he proved to be an honest man.”

Lockwood looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t say our local banker was particularly bright. On the other hand, Elmer Manley, the cashier, is quite a smart boy.”

Oscar said, “I suppose the bank would have a list of the numbers.”

“Every bank in the country has them,” Lance replied.

“Do you happen to have a description of Matt Foster?” Lockwood asked. “Or any idea what he looks like?”

“We have a description from his pards we captured,” Lance replied, “but it’s the sort of description that fits any number of men. One of the captured gang had a photograph on him that helps some, but not much. Before they pulled that Kansas City job they’d been operating up in Wyoming. They held up a small bank there. Later, when they got down as far as Nebraska, they went on a wild party with the stolen money and ended up in a photo gallery where they had a group picture taken. Trouble is, Matt Foster was at the back of the group and he was wearing a heavy crop of whiskers——”

“And he’s probably clean shaven now, eh?” Lock-wood said.

“That’s the way I figure.” Lance drew out of one pocket a small photograph of five men seated in the typical photographer’s gallery of the time, replete with palms, wicker furniture and a painted background. The five men all wore derby hats; their clothing looked new; wide watch chains stretched across each fancy vest. Apparently they had gone on a wild buying spree with their ill-gotten gains. Four of the men wore heavy mustaches; the fifth, only his head showing in the background, had a thick, dark beard that nearly covered his face.

Lance pointed out the bearded man. “That’s Matt Foster. He doesn’t look familiar to you, I suppose?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Never saw him so far as I know. With only his head showing that way and with that beard you haven’t much to go on. I figure this Matt Foster had a mite more sense than the rest of the gang and didn’t want his face seen no more than could be helped.”

“That’s the way I figure him,” Lance agreed.

Oscar studied the picture for a time, but Foster’s face wasn’t familiar to him either. The men talked a few minutes more, then Lockwood said, “I’ll be busy on these reports for a mite yet. Why don’t you two go get your dinner, then relieve me when you’re finished?”

On the street Lance said to Oscar, “Where do we eat?”

“There’s three or four good restaurants in town. There’s a chili joint across the street there. The New York Chop house serves good grub. I like the hotel dining room, too, only they take longer to serve. There’s a Chink down the street a couple of blocks has right good chow.”

“Let’s make it the Chink’s. A couple of blocks’ walk will give me a chance to see your town.”

They sauntered along, their high-heeled boots making hollow, clumping sounds on the raised plank sidewalk from which, in places, the broiling noon sun was drawing spots of pitch. As they crossed Laredo Street Oscar pointed out the Pozo Verde Savings Bank at the northeast corner of Main. As Lance glanced across the street Chiricahua Herrick, accompanied by a middle-aged fat man in a white shirt, was just emerging from the bank doorway. The fat man was mopping perspiration from his bald head with his handkerchief.