William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“He knows who I am.”

Lockwood whistled softly and in some consternation. He said finally, “What’s he going to do about it?”

“Manley says he doesn’t intend to reveal the information. I hope I can trust him. He wants to see me. I’m to meet him to night in Tony Pico’s saloon.”

Oscar chuckled. “That ’ll be a surprise all around. I don’t reckon Elmer knows what the inside of a bar looks like—let alone Tony Pico’s place, which is patronized almost solely by Mexes.”

“I’m betting,” Lockwood stated seriously, “that Elmer has something important to tell you. Me, I’d trust that fellow.”

“You sound encouraging, anyway”—Lance smiled—“so my stomach will probably enjoy that dinner it’s been craving. Either of you ready for chow?”

“Both of us already et,” Oscar said, “before we come back to the office. Figured you might do the same.”

“Shucks”—Lance laughed—“if I’d known I wasn’t going to have company I’d have taken Banker Addison up on his offer. He asked me to eat with him at the hotel.”

Oscar choked on a lemon drop. “By cripes,” he gulped, “I never knew that tightwad to buy anything for anybody before. There must have been a catch in it someplace.”

“If Gill Addison offered to buy your dinner”—Lock-wood frowned—“you can depend on it he had something in mind. He always gets double value for whatever he gives.”

“Maybe I made a profit by refusing then.” Lance laughed. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t urge me very hard…. By the way, Ethan, you’re going to have to get along without one of your deputies this afternoon. I’m going with Professor Jones, you know—though I don’t know how much good it will do me.”

“You’ll probably get stuck on one of two things,” Oscar prophesied: “cactus spines—or a girl with yellow hair. One nice thing about cactus spines—you can recover from their wounds.”

Lance flushed. “I doubt very much that Miss Gregory will go with us.”

“T’hell she won’t,” Oscar denied. “She’s a secretary, ain’t she? She usually does go riding with him.”

“In that case”—Lance grinned—“maybe the afternoon won’t be a total loss. Well, I’m going to hunt me a flock of food. See you later.”

He left the sheriff’s office and walked down Main Street to the Chinaman’s restaurant. Twenty minutes later he emerged and started toward the Lone Star Livery where his horse was stabled. He was still a couple of doors east of Laredo Street when he saw Chiricahua Herrick standing before the Pozo Verde Saloon talking to a Yaquente Indian. The two were having an argument of some sort. Lance paused and stood before a store window watching. The Yaquente appeared to be stubbornly insisting on something to which Herrick violently shook his head in the negative. Once Herrick raised his clenched fist with the quirt dangling from his wrist, but the Indian refused to give ground.

Lance mused, “Now I wonder what palaver Herrick. could be having with a Yaquente….”

At that moment Herrick broke into a fit of cursing. Toward the end of a savage tirade Lance caught a few words: “… and I told you last night you couldn’t have any bullets. Understand, you low-down, flat-faced, greasy son of a bustard! I meant what I said! Now you get outa town and stay out….”

Herrick’s fist suddenly shot out and caught the unsuspecting Yaquente alongside the head. The Indian’s huge straw sombrero tumbled off. He staggered back, tripped and fell flat on the sidewalk. Instantly Herrick was on him with tigerish ferocity. Twice the quirt at the man’s wrist cruelly rose and fell, and each time it left a livid streak across the Yaquente’s face. Lance could hear the whistling hiss of the split leather, metal-pointed end of the quirt as it swished through the air. The Indian covered his face with his arms. Herrick shifted his sadistic attack to the man’s body. Crimson streaks appeared on the Yaquente’s thin cotton shirt.

“I’ll teach you, you——” Herrick was snarling as Lance closed in. The quirt was just raising in the air when Lance seized Herrick’s wrist and forced it down.

“Better take it easy, Herrick,” Lance snapped.

Herrick stiffened, twisted his head to see who had stopped him. Then as he recognized Lance a look of extreme malevolence appeared in his bloodshot gaze. He jerked savagely free from Lance’s grasp, fell back three paces. Swiftly his right hand dropped toward his holster.

“Hold it, Herrick!” Lance’s tones were like chilled steel. His six-shooter was already out. “You’re covered!”

Herrick paused with his gun half clear of holster. He tried to keep his eyes steady on Lance’s, but something in Lance’s piercing gaze sent chills coursing down Herrick’s spine. He could see tiny, flickering, angry blue flames in the relentless eyes, warning him that this tall, redheaded deputy had the law on his side—more: that Lance Tolliver, if pushed to the limit, might prove as much of a killer as Herrick himself. Herrick’s eyes widened at this discovery. Involuntarily he commenced to back away. The fingers of his right hand spread, relinquishing their hold on the gun butt, and dropped to his side.

“Reach!” Lance jerked out. “Reach high, you scut!”

Herrick’s hands came into the air above his Stetson. A shiver flashed along his backbone. He felt something jab, hard and sudden, into his middle. Looking down, he realized that Tolliver’s gun muzzle was boring in between his ribs.

Lance’s left hand moved forward, jerked the six-shooter from Herrick’s holster. Then he stepped back. “This seems to be your day for getting jammed up, Herrick,” Lance commented coldly as he thrust the captured gun into the waistband of his overalls. “First thing you know, you’re going to get into trouble—and I mean trouble! Beating up a helpless Indian seems to be just about your speed. I’m warning you not to go too far.”

“By God, Tolliver!” Herrick flamed. “I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do——!”

“You had your chance,” Lance snapped, “but you lacked the nerve. I figure you’re yellow clear through!”

A small knot of men had collected. Ordway, Anvil Wheeler, Ridge and two or three others of Herrick’s gang had appeared on the porch of the Pozo Verde Saloon. Lance watched them warily while still keeping an eye on the fuming man before him. None of the gang attempted to take a hand in the affair.

The Yaquente had by this time climbed to his feet and stood stolidly by, blood running down from the angry lashes across his face. More blood was seeping into his clothing.

Lance glanced at the man and felt a sharp anger run through his body. For a brief moment his gun barrel raised a trifle toward Herrick. Herrick quailed back. “My God! You wouldn’t shoot a defenseless man!” he exclaimed in terror.

Lance laughed shortly. “Yellow clear through,” he repeated. “No, Herrick, I’m not aiming to shoot you, though you deserve just that.”

Herrick glanced at his gang on the porch at his rear and could see the beginning of a certain contempt in their eyes. He gathered his fleeing remnants of courage and forced himself to meet Lance’s angry gaze. “Sometime,” he grated, “I’ll show you if I’m yellow or not. Don’t think you got me bluffed, Tolliver. Right now my hands are tied.” This for the benefit of his friends on the porch. “But my time will come. The time just ain’t ripe yet. But you’ll see. I’ll blast you so wide open that——”

“Cut it,” Lance said sharply. “Cut out your boasting and tell me what all this is about. What’s the idea of beating this Yaquente?”

“None of your damn business,” Herrick snarled.

“Maybe”—Lance’s gun tilted threateningly—“you’d like me to make it my business.”