William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“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.