William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

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.”

VIII Another Clue

Meanwhile, after having eaten supper with Sheriff Lockwood and his deputy, Lance returned to the sheriff’s office with the two peace officers to smoke a couple of cigarettes before going back to the hotel in search of “Professor Jones”—as he called himself.

“Those Yaquentes,” Lance commented, “seem to have disappeared from the streets. I haven’t seen one since suppertime.”

Lockwood nodded. “They don’t often stay in Pozo Verde after dark. I noticed a small bunch of ’em crossing the railroad tracks shortly before we went to eat. They’ll probably travel all night and keep going, with but little sleep, until they strike their own country. They’re tough travelers and tough fighters. They can move through a country where an animal couldn’t find forage and be ready to tackle their weight in puma cats at the same time.”

Oscar Perkins fumbled with his sack of lemon drops, thrust it back into his pocket and then rose and lighted two oil lamps resting in their brackets on the walls of the sheriff’s office. Velvety darkness settled softly along Main Street. Occasionally the clump-clump of heavy boots could be heard passing along the raised plank sidewalks. Now and then a rider loped his pony through town, raising dust from the roadway. Across the street from the sheriff’s office small knots of Mexican girls and men congregated before the chili restaurant. At the rear of the restaurant, where a dance floor was located, a string orchestra could already be heard tuning its instruments.

Lance rose and donned his sombrero. “I reckon I’ll drift down to the hotel and see can I find Professor Jones. He should be through his supper by this time.”

Lockwood asked, “Are you going to tell him you discovered there wasn’t any Jonesian Institute in Washington?”

“And that they don’t even know of a Professor Jones there?” Oscar put in.

Lance smiled and shook his head. “I won’t tip my hand in that direction until I have to.”

He said “S’long” to Oscar and the sheriff and sauntered along Main Street past the rows of shops and stores and saloons, many of which were brightly lighted; others were closed and dark. He crossed diagonally at the corner of Laredo Street and entered the San Antonio Hotel. There were several men lounging about the lobby when he came in. There were two women in sight. One, whom he judged to be the wife of the local minister, was carrying on a discussion with an elderly man regarding the sermon of the previous week. The other, a girl with yellow hair, in a blue dress, was seated at the far end of the lobby conversing with Malcolm Fletcher. Fletcher was talking earnestly to his companion, but the girl was smiling and shaking her head. Whatever the conversation, Lance judged Fletcher wasn’t making any headway.

Looking at the girl with Fletcher, Lance paused and felt a small twinge of envy. The girl glanced up; her eyes met his. She said something to Fletcher. Fletcher frowned impatiently and glanced around. His frown deepened as his gaze fell on Lance.

“You’ll find the professor in the hotel bar, Tolliver,” he called tersely, “if you still want to see him. If it’s a job, though, it won’t do you any good.”

Lance said, “Thanks,” and turned toward a doorway at his left, but not before he had seen Fletcher swing abruptly back to the girl. Passing through into the hotel bar, Lance saw Ulysses Jones seated at a corner table with a bottle of beer before him. At the professor’s elbow was a small cactus plant, and he was busily engaged in transferring certain penciled notes from a small notebook to a larger memoranda book. Lance glanced along the bar. Some half-dozen men were engaged in desultory conversation. The bar keep was polishing glasses. A couple of the men at the bar glanced at Lance when he entered, then turned back to their drinks.

Lance approached Jones’s table. “Howdy, Professor.”

Jones lifted his thin face. His vague eyes settled on Lance with a sort of irritated expression. They cleared suddenly, sharpened; a smile crossed his lips. “Ah, it’s Mr Tolliver—right? Glad to see you. Sit down. Drinking beer myself. Suit you? Right!” He raised his voice. “Pat, two more of the same.”

“Be right with you, Professor.” The bartender nodded.

“… thought I’d drop in and get acquainted,” Lance was saying. “How’d the cactus digging go today?”

“Little digging,” Jones jerked out. “I only take the rarer specimens—y’know, the unusual—that sort of thing. Mostly study soil—growing conditions—whether in full sun or shade—surrounding brush—so on.”

“The hotel clerk was telling me you already had three boxes packed in his storeroom.”

Jones nodded. “Not full, y’know—not entirely. Packed in wood shavings. Nice specimens—not rare, all of them. Certain plants—necessary to complete my—our—Jonesian Institute collection….”

The bartender arrived with the beer and glasses and removed Jones’s empty bottle. Jones drank deeply of the foamy amber liquid, set down his glass and resumed: “You say—clerk—told you of my boxes?” Lance nodded. Jones smiled. “Fortunate I’m not trying—smuggle anything. Done, you know. Great Christopher, yes! Rare plants—smuggled one country—to another. Clerks—great source—information.”

“I wasn’t particularly looking for information,” Lance said, “at least along those lines.” He chuckled. “Fellow named Fletcher who said he was a friend of yours had an idea I was looking for Bowman’s job. He told me it wasn’t any use.”

“Aren’t, are you?”

Lance shook his head. “I saw him in the lobby when I came in to night. He said the same thing again.”

Jones frowned. “Fletcher takes a great deal on himself,” he said more slowly than usual, running long fingers through his dark, gray-streaked hair. “He has no right to make decisions for me just because he doesn’t favor my trip down into Mexico. Was Katherine with him?”