William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“Any law ag’in’ it?” Kilby growled.

“Never heard of one,” Lance replied quietly. “Sometimes I wonder why more people don’t tote ’em. They make a nice pard for the .44-40 Winchester.”

“That’s my idea in carrying it. Same ca’tridges for both.”

“Oh, so you’re a rifle shot too?”

“I’m pretty good, if you want to know,” Kilby boasted.

“I’m glad you’ve still got a rifle.” Lance smiled thinly. “I’d sure hate to deprive you of all your weapons.” He stuck Kilby’s fortyfour into the waistband of his overalls.

“Hey, gimme that gun,” Kilby protested.

“Maybe you’ll get it, and maybe you won’t. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t try anything rash. Now we can have our talk peacefully——”

“What in hell’s got into you, Tolliver?” Kilby rasped. “I ain’t done nothing.”

“I was just thinking,” Lance said smoothly, “about the weight of a forty-four slug. You know, there’s only about fifty grains difference in the weights of a forty-four and a forty-five. Course, when Doc Drummond first probed that slug out of Frank Bowman everybody took it for granted it was a forty-five——”

“Hey, what you talking about?” A lot of the color had suddenly departed from Kilby’s face. “You mean they’ve weighed that slug and found out——? Oh hell! Suppose that slug did turn out to be a fortyfour? Lots of hombres use ’em. You can’t pin Bowman’s killing on me just because——”

“Why, Kilby”—Lance assumed a look of surprise—“I never said anything about weighing slugs. You just jumped to conclusions.”

Kilby clutched at his swiftly vanishing courage. He looked uneasily about. Across the street Chiricahua Herrick and Luke Ordway had appeared on the porch of the Pozo Verde Saloon and stood looking curiously at Lance and Kilby. They couldn’t hear what was being said but they saw that Kilby had surrendered his gun, so there didn’t seem any possibility of immediate gun slinging.

“Speaking of Bowman,” Lance was saying easily, “reminds me I wanted a look at your shirt.”

“My shirt?” Kilby looked blank. “What in hell’s got into you, Tolliver?”

“Turn around—slowly,” Lance ordered.

Kilby obeyed. As he faced the Pozo Verde Saloon he saw Herrick and Ordway and commenced to feel better. At least his friends were near. He made a complete turn and again faced Lance. “C’mon, cut it out,” he said cockily. “I ain’t no time for foolishness. Gimme my six-shooter, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Uh-huh,” Lance murmured, his eyes intent on Kilby’s right shirt sleeve where a couple of torn spots showed. Lance considered. A spur could have caught in one of those spots, especially where the material was worn thin. “Just a moment, Kilby. Don’t get impatient. I want to show you something.” He took out his notebook and from between the pages produced a few twisted threads of dark wool. These he held against the sleeve of Kilby’s shirt, then nodded with satisfaction. “Looks like the same material to me, Kilby. What do you think?”

“I think you’re cuckoo in the head,” Kilby snarled, losing his temper. “If you think you got something on me quit beating around the bush and come out with it. Otherwise, I’m leaving right now. I’ve wasted enough time.”

“I’ll come to the point then.” Lance replaced the woolen threads in his notebook and put it away. “Those threads were found caught on Bowman’s spur, Kilby. What do you know about it?”

Kilby looked startled. “Why—why, I don’t know nothin’ about it. You can’t prove them threads come from my shirt.” He backed away a step and stood ner vous ly scuffling one booted toe in the dust of the roadway. “Cripes, Tolliver! I don’t know nothin’ about that killing——”

“Or about creosote either, I suppose.” Lance’s voice had suddenly gone hard.

“Creosote! Creosote?” Kilby’s face was the color of ashes now.

“Yes, you know that stuff that was spilled at the station platform when Bowman went down. Remember? It spilled all over his hand, and when you lifted him to his horse you got some smeared on your overalls——”

“My Gawd! What are you talking about? I don’t know—know—anythin’—about——” Kilby’s tones sounded choked. He backed another step. “Hot—hot sun—here. Let’s get across in the shade.” He was still backing away, moving faster with every step.

“Stop, Kilby!” Lance snapped. “We got your old overalls from Ike Dreben. I’m arresting you for the murder of Frank Bowman. Stop, or I’ll have to shoot!”

Reluctant to draw, Lance vaulted over the hitch rack and started toward Kilby who was still backing away. Abruptly a look of hate flashed across Kilby’s fear-twisted features. His left hand ripped open his shirt, his right darting inside the shirt to the underarm gun hidden there. A burst of flame and smoke blossomed suddenly from Kilby’s right hand.

Lance heard the bullet thud into the tie rail at his rear. His hand stabbed toward holster, came up in a swift, eye-defying arc. Lead started to pour from the six-shooter muzzle the instant it left the holster. A leaden slug threw up dust at Kilby’s feet. Lance’s aim lifted higher. Kilby fired again. Lance thumbed his hammer once, twice, three times.

Kilby was flung violently sidewise by the impact of the heavy slugs. For a brief moment he swayed uncertainly, then his right leg buckled, and he pitched to the roadway. For a short interval he struggled to regain the weapon that had fallen from his hand then, as Lance closed in and kicked the underarm gun out of reach, Kilby shivered and slumped in the dust.

Wild yells sounded along Main Street. Men came running from all directions. Lance was kneeling above Kilby’s still form now, examining his wounds. A sudden breath of relief was expelled from his lips. Then he stiffened.

Behind him came Chiricahua Herrick’s voice, violent with hate. “Damn you, Tolliver! You can’t do this to a friend of mine. Now, by God! we’ll see how you like the taste of hot lead!”

XI Powder Smoke

Lance leaped to his feet but he was too late to do anything about it. He caught the complete picture in a single glance: Chiricahua Herrick’s rage-contorted, snarling features as the man came plunging in, his six-shooter high in the air, already swinging down to bear on Lance!

Lance knew he’d be too late even as he started to lift his own gun. Then he saw Oscar’s lanky, scarecrow figure flash in between him and Herrick. Oscar’s left hand swept up to clutch Herrick’s right wrist. Herrick’s gun exploded harmlessly in midair. There came a swift glint of gun metal as Oscar’s six-shooter barrel crashed down on Herrick’s head. Herrick’s legs slumped, and he pitched on his face.

Sheriff Lockwood’s stern words cut in, “Back, everybody! Ordway! Keep your hand away from that gun!”

“Ain’t figured to draw it a-tall,” Ordway replied sullenly.

Others of the Herrick crew were near now, but none of them made movements toward weapons. A crowd was gathering swiftly.

Oscar had shoved his gun back in holster and stood looking down at Herrick, one fist doubled menacingly. “Get up, you low-lifed varmint,” Oscar was promising, “and I’ll give you some more!” Herrick didn’t stir. Oscar looked disappointed. “Hell! You ain’t as tough as I reckoned you were.”

A man in the crowd commented laughingly, “That deputy can sure coldcock ’em. I’ll betcha Herrick’s lamp is put out for an hour.”

Oscar came ambling toward Lance. Lance said, “Much obliged, Oscar. You sure moved fast. That was nice work. Herrick would have got me.”

“You did some pretty nice work yourself—dropping Kilby,” Oscar replied calmly. “You were sure shellin’ out lead faster ’n I ever see before. Is he dead?”