William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“Why didn’t you tell me Fletcher left?” Lance demanded.

“You didn’t ask.” Jones appeared slightly amused at something in Lance’s attitude. “Had an idea you—looking for Fletcher. Waited to see——”

“You know where he went?” Lance commenced to cool down.

“Faint idea at least. Left note for me. Note explained—Fletcher reconciled to idea—our trip to Mexico. He’s left to prepare Three-Cross ranch house—for visitors. Note stated—considerable cleaning up necessary—that sort of thing.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Oh, quite likely.” Jones smiled cheerfully. “Enjoy yourself first, though—what? When I see Fletcher—tell him you were sorry—miss him—all that sort of thing.”

“Dang right I am,” Lance said coldly. “I wanted to ask him why he’s been having mezcal buttons shipped in.”

The smile left Jones’s face. “What’s that?” he cracked out.

Lance repeated the words, closely watching Jones’s face meanwhile. “Certain shipments have been traced direct to Fletcher,” he added. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Jones’s eyes had a narrowed, faraway look. A frown creased his forehead. His horse shifted weight suddenly, jogging Jones’s mind back to the present. He smiled thinly down at Lance. “It means one thing, Lance,” he said slowly. “Your information places me in the clear.”

Lance looked startled. “What do you mean—places you in the clear?” he demanded.

“Surprised,” Jones murmured absent-mindedly, “Fletcher didn’t—cover tracks better.”

Lance repeated his demands.

“It’s this way,” Jones replied. “Now you’ll no longer suspect me——No, wait! Don’t deny it. Natural thing. Peyote cacti shipped here. Only normal for you—assume—I’m guilty party. Admitted?”

“Admitted,” Lance said sheepishly.

“Thought so.” Jones smiled. “Better friends now, what? By the way, Fletcher has gone to Mexico. If you must see him—make the trip, eh? Still need that guide, y’understand.”

Lance laughed softly. “Professor, you’ve hired a hand—providing I can pick my own crew.”

“What!” Jones’s face beamed. “Excellent! Must tell Katherine. Good news.” He got down from his horse and gripped Lance’s hand, then started toward the hotel entrance. At the doorway he paused, looked back. “Pick your own crew—naturally. Suit yourself.”

Lance said, “If you’re going after cacti I suppose you’ll want men who ’re handy with shovels.”

“Talk it over with me—tonight. Already—wasted part of the day. And—er—er—you mentioned shovels. Not so important. Prefer men—thoroughly familiar—six-shooters.”

And with such surprising statement Jones disappeared through the hotel doorway.

“Now what in the devil”—Lance frowned—“did he mean by that?”

He turned and hastened back to the sheriff’s office. Oscar and Lockwood were seated in straight-backed wooden chairs, tipped back against the wall of the building. Lockwood said, “Did you see Fletcher?”

Lance shook his head and told them about Fletcher leaving during the night.

Oscar said, “I’d just like to know if he took Herrick and his gang with him. I haven’t seen one of that crowd this morning.”

“Maybe I’ll find out soon,” Lance replied.

“What do you mean?” Oscar asked.

“I’ll tell you in a few minutes. Oscar, did you learn anything about Manley?”

Oscar shook his head. “I talked to a lot of folks. Nobody saw him leave town. The bookkeeper at the bank didn’t know anything about it. He’d stepped out for his supper a short time before Manley left. After supper the bookkeeper worked an hour or so on his books. Then he ran into some sort of a snag that Manley wasn’t there to explain. So the bookkeeper went home.”

“I reckon we’ll have to leave further work to Ethan—so far as the Manley case is concerned. Ethan, I’m resigning from my deputy job.”

“Didn’t expect you to continue on with it. You leaving Pozo Verde?”

Lance nodded. “I’m going to guide Jones on that trip into Mexico. Bowman must have expected skulduggery from that direction. I’m going to see if I can pick up where he left off.”

“Maybe you’ve got the right hunch.” Lockwood nodded.

“We’ll sure miss you, feller,” Oscar said sincerely.

“Maybe you won’t,” Lance replied. “Ethan, you said once that the taxpayers thought you could get along without a deputy in Pozo Verde. I’d like to take Oscar along with me—if he’ll take the job.”

Oscar’s chair bumped down suddenly on all four legs. A wide grin spread over his features. “If I’ll take the job?” he exclaimed. “Man alive! All you got to do is let me have lemon drops on my expense account, and I’ll follow you to hell and back.”

“It ’ll be a relief to get rid of him”—Lockwood laughed—“I get so damn tired of that crunch-crunch-crunch of lemon drops all the time.”

“When do we start?” Oscar asked.

“Two, three days, I figure,” Lance said. “We’ve got to buy equipment, hire men and so on. Oscar, you should know a few cow hands hereabouts who’d like a trip down into mañana land.”

“Yeah, I do—several,” Oscar said warily, “but they’d be fighting men. They wouldn’t take kindly to breaking their backs with a shovel in a cactus pasture.”

Lance laughed. “What the professor wants is men who can handle six-shooters.”

Oscar’s jaw dropped. He slumped down on his chair. “Well, may I be hung for a tobacco-eatin’ sheepherder,” he said weakly.

Lockwood frowned. “Men who can handle six-shooters? Hmmm! Must be Jones is expecting trouble down in Mexico.”

“Well”—Lance smiled thinly—“I never yet heard of anybody shooting cactus out by the roots!”

XVI Captured!

Mexico. Land of sun and dust and soaring-buzzard shadows across alkali wastes, of purple mountain peaks and broiling deserts and coppery skies. A country of romantic laughter and music and wood smoke under starry nights. A gargantuan arena running crimson with the blood of revolution. A vast region of the oppressed; an indolent realm of soft laughter. A paradoxical land of dreamers and noble warriors, of poets and seraped centaurs. Mañana land. Land of tomorrow. Mexico: a saddle for el diablo , a sombero for the buen Dios . Where—it is said—nothing ever happens, and where life—and even death—is in a state of unceasing flux. A nation whose battle-drenched soil is all things to all men. Mexico: land of perpetual contradiction.

Thus the thoughts coursed through Lance Tolliver’s mind, entirely excluding that other Mexico to the far south, the Mexico of high plateaus and humid jungle lands. Here the country through which the little caravan passed was one of sand and spiny vegetation that marched solemnly through the undulating hills. Huge black rocks or massed phalanxes of Spanish bayonet broke the monotony from time to time, with always, overhead, that burning metallic sun. In the veins of man and beast and plant ran an unceasing desire for rain.

It was the fourth day out from Pozo Verde. It had required three days to outfit the expedition, during which no sign of Herrick or his gang had been seen. Nor had any news been received regarding the sudden disappearance of Elmer Manley who, by now Oscar had decided, had just lost his nerve and “run out” on his promise to talk to Lance, an opinion in which Lance Tolliver concurred not at all.

Meanwhile Lance and Oscar had been busy—the professor was too occupied in the hills near Pozo Verde to take any real part in the outfitting—though Lance had found it necessary on frequent occasions to consult Katherine Gregory, much to Oscar’s amusement. To Oscar had been delegated the job of hiring men and the two wagons that accompanied the expedition. Oscar’s idea it was that resulted in the employment of two ordinary cow-country chuck wagons. One was rebuilt to furnish sleeping quarters for Katherine Gregory, its tarpaulin-covered bows providing adequate shelter from early-morning suns or chill night winds. The remaining wagon was left “as was” and carried supplies, bedrolls for the men (who slept in the open), the professor’s notebooks and a pine box filled with wood shavings from the Pozo Verde Builders’ Supply Company—this last to be used to pack such rare specimens as the professor might find.