William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“Sorry,” the clerk informed Lance, “Mr Fletcher isn’t in. No, I can’t say where he went. I saw him riding a horse earlier today. If he’s returned, I couldn’t say. I haven’t seen him. He may be eating his dinner.”

Lance left the desk and went to the hotel dining room. There was no sign of Fletcher there. He returned to the street and visited all the restaurants in town, then the saloons. He kept a sharp eye for those passing along the street, but of Fletcher there didn’t seem to be any sign. Lance finally gave up the search and ate his own dinner. It was dark now. He finished his food and went to the sheriff’s office. Oscar and Lockwood were there.

“Ah, the return of the cactus hunter.” Oscar grinned. “Did you get your itsy-bitsy hands full of nasty old spines?”

“No, but I dang nigh got my carcass full of lead,” Lance said.

“You don’t say!” Lockwood sat straighter at his desk.

“Somebody tried to dry-gulch me—or Miss Gregory,” Lance said grimly. “I’m not sure which. I just know the slugs were too close to both of us to be comfortable.” He told the rest of the story, ending with, “And now I want to talk to Fletcher.”

Lockwood frowned. “If Jones has got a tie-in with Fletcher why in the dev il does he suggest things that make you suspicious of Fletcher?”

“For that matter,” Oscar put in, “it was Jones suggested you look for creosote on the overalls of Bowman’s killer. What’s his game—if any?”

“You got me.” Lance shook his head. “Maybe he’s just what he says he is. Somehow I’ve got a hunch to the contrary but I’m damned if I can put a finger on anything definite. Of course, there was that remark he made last night about a gang getting rid of careless members, or something of the sort. Incidentally, have you hombres seen anything of Fletcher this afternoon?”

Oscar said, “I saw him mounted, riding west along Main, a short time after you pulled out with the professor. I don’t know where he went though.”

“I might make a guess,” Lance said darkly, “but I’ve no proof to back it up. At any rate he’s not back yet, according to the hotel clerk.”

“Cripes!” Lockwood growled, “that wooden-faced hotel clerk don’t know what’s going on anyway.” He paused, then: “By the way, Lance, I checked up with Johnny Quinn as you asked me to. There’s no answer to your tele gram yet. Johnny’s quite put out about the whole business. Says he had a notion not to close the depot until he learned just what was to happen to your aunt Minnie.”

Lance smiled. “Thank your stars there’s something left in this world to laugh at. Things are so muddled in my brain that I can’t seem to figure anything out. F’rinstance, why in the dev il is Jones so anxious to have me guide him down into Mexico?”

“Maybe he figures there isn’t so much law down there.” Oscar chuckled. “Up here, in the States, we sort of enforce the law concernin’ assault and battery. What I want to know, where does Jones’ niece fit into the picture?”

“I’m betting that girl’s straight,” Lance said earnestly.

“You would.” Oscar grinned. “I know—pure as the lily in the dell. But a lily might get the wool pulled over her eyes.”

“By the way,” Lockwood put in. “I was passing Smith’s Gun Shop this afternoon. I glanced through the window. Chiricahua Herrick was looking at six-shooters. I reckon he figured I wouldn’t give him back that weapon you took off him, Lance.”

“That reminds me of something else,” Lance said gloomily. “I’ve been thinking I should have held that Yaquente that Herrick was beating up today. I let him go, at the time thinking it wouldn’t be much use questioning him, but I should have tried.”

“It wouldn’t have done you any good.” Lockwood shook his head. “I know those hombres. They don’t talk unless they feel like it, and wild horses couldn’t drag any information out of ’em.”

Lance nodded. “Just about what I was afraid of. This whole damn business is a puzzle. I’m just hoping when I meet Elmer Manley to night he’ll have something to say that will give me a lead. By the way, where is Tony Pico’s saloon?”

Oscar jerked one thumb toward the doorway. “That Mex joint across the street. You won’t have far to go. You weren’t to meet Manley until nine o’clock, were you?”

“Nine,” Lance said. “What sort of joint does Pico run?”

“Tony’s all right,” Lockwood said. “He obeys the closing law on time. There’s never any fights in his place. By Hanner! If all of the people in this town was as law-abidin’ as our Mex population we wouldn’t have any trouble.”

Shortly before nine o’clock Lance crossed the street to Pico’s saloon. Oscar went with him. Pico proved to be a round-faced, grinning Mexican who immediately insisted on buying drinks for Oscar and Lance. Oscar didn’t drink. This didn’t at all stop Tony. Grinning widely, he reached to his back bar and handed Oscar a paper sack of lemon drops. “I’m know someday you come een my bar, Os-cair, so I’m prepare’ for any emergen-cee.”

“By cripes, Tony”—Oscar laughed—“you’re a man after my own heart. Take care of my friend, will you? He’s aiming to meet somebody here.”

Oscar departed. Lance waited. A few Mexicans strolled in from time to time and drank beer or tequila. Lance carried on a desultory conversation with Pico. Pico happened to mention that a great many Yaquentes were being seen in Pozo Verde the last few months. Lance pricked up his ears and asked Pico if he knew the reason. Pico shrugged. Apparently he knew nothing much about it. “Good fightairs, those Injun,” he commented.

“So I hear.” Lance nodded. He ordered another bottle of beer. By this time it was nine forty-five, with no sign of Elmer Manley. Ten o’clock came and passed, then ten-thirty. There were more Mexicans in the saloon now; the place was filled with smoke. Lance stepped out to the sidewalk in front to get a breath of air. He wondered why Manley failed to put in an appearance, and there was growing concern in the thought.

A few lights, here and there, still shone along Main Street. Across the roadway oil lamps burned in the sheriff’s office. Now and then Lance could hear Oscar’s laugh. Lance breathed deeply of the cool night air. Footsteps sounded along the sidewalk. A familiar figure took form.

“Why, hello, Lance.” It was Professor Jones. “Waiting for somebody?”

“Just enjoying the cool of the evening,” Lance evaded.

“Looking for you—you know,” Jones went on. “Intended visiting—sheriff’s office——”

“Now, look, Jones,” Lance said wearily. “I’m not going down into Mexico with you.”

“Quite so, quite. Great disappointment. Not what I wanted to see you about—at all. Fletcher not back—yet. Thought perhaps—you’d be—interested.”

“Fletcher hasn’t come in yet?”

“Not yet. Strange, what?” Jones puffed smoke from his brier, and the glow from the bowl lighted his face. “Thought you would care to know.”

“Well, yes, much obliged.”

The professor appeared to want to talk further but when Lance showed no inclination to continue the discussion he said good night and turned back toward the hotel. “Now what”—Lance frowned, looking after the professor’s disappearing figure—“did you want? Or are you just being friendly? I don’t know whether to be ashamed of myself or not.”

It was after eleven o’clock by this time. Oscar came across from the sheriff’s office and stood talking to Lance awhile. Lance told him about the professor. Oscar said, “Damn! I wish I could figure that coot out. Looks like Manley isn’t going to show up either. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Lance. I know where Manley lives. I’ll go see if he’s home. You wait here in case he shows up.” Oscar hurried off down the street.