William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

They walked west on Main Street, nodding absentmindedly to the few people they passed. The minds of both men were full of thoughts of the things that had happened. They weren’t much inclined to talk at the moment. Reaching the corner where the Pozo Verde Saloon was situated, Lance left Oscar and cut off in the direction of the T.N. & A.S. station.

As he entered the small depot old Johnny Quinn was standing behind the counter impatiently awaiting Lance’s arrival.

“Crackee!” Johnny grumbled. “Where ye been? I thought ye was never goin’ to get here.”

“Got a reply to my tele gram?” Lance asked.

“Sartain. It arruve not five minutes ago.” He passed the sheet of paper across to Lance. “Quick! Whut about Aunt Minnie?”

Lance accepted the tele gram. It was rather lengthy and required some time to decipher. Johnny Quinn fidgeted impatiently. Finally Lance glanced up, his forehead creased with frowning concentration.

“Well, well, speak up,” Johnny snapped anxiously. “Whut they aimin’ to do with Aunt Minnie? Ye looked sorter shocked.”

“Maybe I am,” Lance said slowly.

“Whut’s it to be?” Johnny demanded querulously. “Glass coffin or stuffed in th’ rocking chair?”

Lance managed to bring his thoughts back to the conversation. “Neither,” he said solemnly. “It’s too late.”

“Whut! Whut? Speak up! Ain’t there goin’ to be no funeral for Aunt Minnie?”

“There ain’t no Aunt Minnie,” Lance explained gravely. “You see, that hemoglobinuria disease just wasted her body away until there wa’n’t nothing but a couple fingernails an’ a tiny patch of skin left. Them ’ll be cremated.”

Johnny Quinn gasped. His face went pale. He tried to talk, but his teeth were chattering violently. “Whut—whut a turrible end,” he quavered. “You got my sympathies in your bereavement.”

“I appreciate that, Johnny,” Lance said sadly. “And I’m much obliged for handling all these telegraphing details like you did. It’s mitigated my sorrow more than you’ll ever understand. I’ll mention your help in my next letter to Uncle Obadiah.”

“Thankee, Mr Tolliver. An’ I hopes as how he’ll be mitigated too.”

“He’s sure to be.” Lance turned and left the office. Two minutes later he ran into Sheriff Lockwood sauntering along Main Street.

“You look like you’d learned something,” Lock-wood commented.

“I did,” Lance replied tersely. “I just got an answer to that tele gram I sent our El Paso operative. It’s taken them quite a spell to run down what I wanted, but here’s the facts. That box of mezcal buttons was ordered from the Southwest Cactus Company by Malcolm Fletcher——”

“T’hell you say!” Lockwood exclaimed. “But why? What’s the idea? What’s he do with ’em?”

“I don’t know for certain, but it’s my guess he’s furnishing ’em to the Yaquentes. That’s why you’ve seen so many of those Indians in Pozo Verde of late——”

“Cripes!” Lockwood protested. “Those Indians have been coming here for two, three months now——”

“And that,” Lance stated grimly, “is just about the length of time Fletcher has been ordering peyotes from the cactus company. There’s been more than one shipment. I’ve got the list when the peyotes were ordered and when they were sent. Now you tell me just why Fletcher is supplying peyotes to the Yaquentes. What’s back of it all?”

“You got me.” Lockwood frowned. “The best thing to do is ask Fletcher.”

“Fletcher hasn’t been back to the hotel since yesterday.”

“He’s back,” Lockwood stated. “I met Doc Drummond on the street just a few minutes ago. Doc was returning late from a case early this morning. As he passed the hotel he saw Fletcher just going in.”

“Good!” Lance exclaimed. Then he scowled. “It’s damn funny! If Fletcher got back, why didn’t he answer my knock when I stopped at his door this morning just before I turned in?”

“Maybe he didn’t hear you. He might be a sound sleeper.”

Lance shrugged his shoulders. “Could be,” he admitted. “Well, maybe we’re getting someplace at last. I can tell better after I’ve had a talk with Mister Malcolm Fletcher—and I figure to find out just where he was yesterday afternoon when somebody threw lead at Miss Gregory and me. Oh yes, I’m going to tie Fletcher down, hard and tight, this time. No more of his uppity airs for me. He’s going to talk or else!”

“Or else what?” Lockwood asked.

“Ethan, I’ve a hunch you’re going to have a guest in one of your furnished, steel-barred apartments by to night. Will you please see that there’s lots of hot water and clean sheets?—particularly hot water!”

“Go to it, Lance.” Lockwood nodded, tight lipped. “I’ll back up any play you make.”

“Thanks.” Lance turned, swung diagonally across the street toward the San Antonio Hotel. He was about to enter the building when a voice hailed him from near the hitch rack. Professor Jones was just climbing into his saddle. Lance halted.

“Oh, I say,” Jones asked, “feel inclined—continue—study of cacti—this morning?”

Lance crossed to the hitch rack. “I do not,” he said emphatically. “I’ve got other business.”

“Quite so.” Jones smiled. “However—no necessity to—snap my head off. Just suggestion, what? No harm done.”

“Not at all.” Lance softened a trifle. “I didn’t intend to snap your head off. I was thinking about something else.”

“Quite so, quite. I intend returning—spot we studied—yesterday. Unusually rich territory. Wide variety—genera.”

“Going alone?” Lance asked.

Jones gave a quick, short nod. “Katherine remaining here. Advised her—not accompany me. Suggested she—start packing—Mexican trip. Plain subterfuge, of course. I consider it—safer in Pozo Verde. No blasted hunter’s bullets—flying about. Bad situation, that. Very!”

Lance pointed out, “It doesn’t seem to worry you any.”

“Don’t like it at all.” Jones frowned. “But—can’t risk—losing desired specimens. Only yesterday I—noticed exquisite clump— Opuntia macrocentra . Must make notes. Very queer—yellow flowers—turn red when dry. Such observation extremely important.”

“Oh, extremely,” Lance said ironically. “See you later, Professor.” He entered the hotel thinking that Jones either felt certain no one would shoot at him or that the man’s enthusiasm for cacti was worth the risk. “Maybe he’s just a nut—I hope,” Lance mused.

At the desk in the hotel lobby Lance told the clerk he wanted to see Fletcher. “And,” Lance added, “don’t stall me off. I know Fletcher got back last night. If you know what’s good for you you’ll send word up to him pronto—or run up to his room and——”

“But, Deputy Tolliver——”

“Never mind your ‘buts,’” Lance snapped. “Do as I tell you——What!!! He’s not here?”

“If you’d listen to reason,” the clerk said in chilly accents, “instead of rushing in like a mad bull, you’d understand what I’m trying to tell you. At my last hotel in Boston such an attitude would never be tolerated——”

“Never mind Boston,” Lance fumed. “Where’s Fletcher?”

“I haven’t the least idea. He checked out last night—I should say, early this morning, around three o’clock. Roused me out of my bed to settle his account. He left a note for Professor Jones. Perhaps the professor may know of his whereabouts. I’m sure I don’t. And furthermore…”

What more the clerk said Lance didn’t hear. He was already hurrying out of the lobby and down to the sidewalk. A look of relief crossed his features when he saw Jones still mounted at the hitch rack.