William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

Fear appeared in Herrick’s face. “All right, if you got to know,” he said sullenly. “This flat-faced Yaquente was begging ammunition from me. I told him I wouldn’t give him none. He made a blasted nuisance of himself, hanging around.”

“Is that straight?” Lance asked.

“Hell!” Herrick jerked one angry thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t need to take my word. Ask any of them fellers. They heard the whole thing—how this Yaquente has been hanging around all day——”

“That’s right,” Herrick’s pals chorused. “Chiricahua’s throwing a straight loop, Tolliver.”

Lance glanced scornfully at the knot of men on the porch, then turned to the Yaquente standing near. “You understand this, hombre?”

The Yaquente burst into a guttural flow in his own tongue.

“Whoa, whoa!” Lance exclaimed. “Hold it, Injun. Now, listen careful.” Lance tried the man with a few Spanish words and saw his face light up. “You understand that, eh?” Lance asked. The Indian nodded. It appeared after a moment that he also had a few words of En glish. “All right, we’re getting straightened around now,” Lance said. He repeated certain words.

Again a volley of Yaquente verbiage mingled with Spanish and a spattering of En glish assailed Lance’s ears. He turned to Herrick. “The Injun says you promised him some ammunition for a gun.”

“He’s a goddam liar,” Herrick growled.

“How about it, Yaquente?” Lance asked.

The Indian glanced at Herrick’s friends on the saloon porch, next at Herrick. Something in their eyes made him change his mind, apparently. He finally grunted, “Forget eet, señor. Ees not’ing.”

Lance shrugged his shoulders. Time was passing. “What’s your name?”

The Indian replied promptly. Lance smiled. “Maybe you’re right, but it sounds like Horatio to me.”

“Ees good name.” The Yaquente showed white teeth from his bloody countenance.

Lance took a half-dollar from his pocket and gave it to the Yaquente. “Here, go get your face washed and a bellyful of chili. Then you’d better light out for home, savvy?”

“I’m—savvy. Gracias, señor.” Obediently the Yaquente turned the corner and stalked off in the direction of the railroad tracks.

Lance turned to Herrick. “You’d better keep off my path for a spell, Herrick. I won’t be pushed much farther.”

“I want my gun——” Herrick commenced.

“Want and be damned,” Lance said wrathfully. “You can have it when you learn how to act civilized. Just remember what I’ve told you. Don’t cross my trail any more than you can help.”

He left Herrick standing on the corner cursing under his breath and started once more for the livery stable. Here he saddled up and headed toward the sheriff’s office. When he arrived there he didn’t dismount, but drew to a halt before the tie rail and called to Oscar. Oscar came out of the office.

“Hell’s bells!” Oscar said, “ain’t you left yet? I figured by this time you’d have dug up half the cactus in Sartoris County.”

Lance took Herrick’s gun from his waistband. “Here’s your friend Cherry-Cow’s gun,” he said. “I told him he could have it when he learned to behave himself.”

“Cripes A’mighty! You had another run-in with Herrick?”

Lance smiled. “I had to prove to him I didn’t always need you for protection.” He related what had taken place.

When Lance had finished Oscar said indignantly, “The dirty sidewinder. I’m sorry you didn’t plug him. Taking his gun won’t do any good.”

“It ’ll make him buy another, leastwise,” Lance said, “if he needs one right away. And now”—touching spurs to his pony’s ribs—“I’m off to the cactus party.” He moved down the street.

Oscar called after him, “Better take along some lemon drops. They’re right beneficial for sunstroke.”

“It’s not the sun I’m afraid of.” Lance laughed back.

XIII Hot Lead!

Katherine Gregory and Professor Jones were mounted, waiting for Lance, by the time he arrived at the hotel. He apologized for being late but asked to be excused on the grounds that he’d had some business to attend to.

“Yes”—Jones nodded—“we were watching you from the hotel-lobby window. You seemed quite busy for a few minutes with that fellow—Herrick—or some such name——”

“In fact,” Miss Gregory put in, “the hotel clerk tells us there’s been quite a bit of excitement around town while we were out in the hills this morning——”

“I hope you had a good time,” Lance mumbled sheepishly, sensing what was coming.

“… and I was quite surprised to find I had a visitor,” Katherine continued, apparently not noticing the interruption. “If I’d only known you were coming——”

“Look here, Miss Gregory,” Lance protested, growing red in the face, “I’m plumb sorry I had to go in your room this morning, but it was all in the line of duty. I inspected every room in the front of the hotel. I just had to—somebody fired a shot and—and”—he commenced to stammer and paused to get a grip on himself—“and, anyway, I didn’t look at anything. I just looked for the hombre who might have fired a shot. I—I——” Again he paused, feeling perspiration forming on his forehead.

Something very near to a giggle reached Lance’s ears. He glanced at the girl and saw she was having difficulty smothering her laughter. “Look, Mr Tolliver,” she said frankly, “it really didn’t make a speck of difference. I know you had to do what you did. It was the hotel clerk who was indignant, not I. Honestly, I didn’t believe our famous deputy sheriff could be so easily upset after all I’ve heard about him.”

“Aw, shucks,” Lance said awkwardly, “let’s forget it. I’m just mighty glad you weren’t really sore——”

“Think we—should make a start,” Professor Jones broke in. “Plan—cover—eight—ten miles today. Let’s go.”

The three horses moved west along Main Street, Katherine riding between the two men. The girl wore a corduroy divided skirt, mannish flannel shirt and high-heeled riding boots. A black Stetson adequately covered her heavy yellow hair. Jones wore his usual riding breeches, knee-laced leather boots and tweed jacket. His saddle was equipped with roomy saddlebags for holding his notebooks and any small specimens he might collect. At the cantle was a rolled burlap sack. From one of Jones’s jacket pockets projected the wooden handle of a trowel. Lance was surprised to note that both Jones and Katherine carried thirty-eight six-shooters in holsters at their sides. He wondered if they knew how to use them. Whatever his thoughts, both guns and holsters appeared well worn.

At the edge of town Jones turned in a northwesterly direction. The horses were moving at an easy lope. Lance had to admit that both Jones and Katherine were good riders. For a time there was silence between the three as they moved across the semidesert country toward a row of low foothills. Yucca and prickly pear and cholla dotted the landscape, with occasional bunches of dry, wispy sagebrush. Overhead the sky was a great blue, inverted bowl. Far on the western horizon fleecy white clouds floated above the highest peaks of the Saddlestring Mountains.

When five miles had passed to the rear the horses were pulled to a walk. Jones reopened the talk of the morning’s happenings. Apparently he and the girl were interested in learning firsthand the details of Kilby’s death and of the events leading up to the disarming of Herrick a short time before Lance joined them at the hotel. Lance gave brief details, but he could tell when he had finished that Jones wasn’t satisfied.

“It’s very—queer—very”—Jones frowned—“this Kilby fellow—found time to say nothing. You’re sure—didn’t let drop anything—to incriminate his gang?”