William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

Lanky rolled and lighted a cigarette, placed it between Herrick’s lips. Herrick inhaled, then coughed. Blood appeared on his pallid lips. Lance wiped the blood away with the man’s neckerchief and gave him another swallow from the bottle.

Herrick commenced to talk again. “You ain’t a bad hombre, after all, Tolliver. White, I call it. I suppose … Ridge and Anvil is dead. You two … was too fast for us. Mebbe I should go out clean, eh? Tell you what you want to know? You’re … treating me … like a white … man….” Again his eyes closed. He was beyond help from the bottle now. Lance spoke to the dying man, trying to hold him to consciousness.

Lance said, “Who killed Katherine Gregory’s father?”

For a moment there was no reply, then Herrick’s lips moved slightly to frame one word, “Fletcher.” A shudder went through his frame, then he started to speak feebly again. The words were so low Lance could just distinguish them. “Fletcher … mean killer. Gregory wa’n’t … the first. Fletcher killed Kilby that day to keep him from telling you … what he knew. Fired rifle … from hotel window, then ran down back stairs … hid rifle. Met you later … hotel lobby. Made a fool of you that day, Tolliver. It was Fletcher … damn nigh got you and the girl … out in the Pozo Verde hills … that day. Back East … he killed a couple of hombres ….”

“Herrick,” Lance interrupted, “who’s the man back of Fletcher? Tell me quick. You haven’t much more time.”

“I’ll tell … you … whole story … Tolliver. Got to have …’ nother drink… first….”

Lance started to hold the bottle to the man’s lips. Lanky stood near, ready with Herrick’s cigarette in case he called for another drag. Then Lance paused. Herrick’s eyes were wide open now. They were like glass. Blood was welling from his open mouth. Slowly Lance got to his feet. “Lord, how I hate to have to kill a man,” he said grimly.

“Gone?” Lanky asked.

“Gone.” Lance nodded.

A few Mexicans had moved timidly out to the road by this time and were looking in awe struck silence at the bodies of the dead gun fighters. Lance dropped the bottle of tequila to the road. “C’mon, Lanky, we’ll get back to the Three-Cross. These Mexicans will take over the burying end of the business, I reckon.”

Lanky climbed into his saddle. Lance caught up his pony and examined the animal’s wounded ear. Herrick’s bullet had done little more than remove the tip, and the injury had already ceased bleeding. The animal was quiet now. Lance put his left foot in the stirrup and swung up. The two men started for the Three-Cross at an easy lope. Both were thinking deeply of the events of the past hour and wondering grimly what still lay in store for them.

XXIII Surrender or Fight!

As they neared the Three-Cross Lance noticed a saddled gray horse standing near the gallery of the house. The horse stood, head drooping and weary, as though it had covered a lot of miles in a short time. Lance said, “Damned if that doesn’t look like Ethan Lockwood’s big gray.”

Lanky nodded. “If that ain’t the sheriff’s horse I’m a jug-headed sheep thief.”

Even while they were talking about the matter Trunk-Strap Kelly rounded the corner of the house and led the beast away—probably to be watered and rubbed down. Lance yelled, “Hey, Trunk-Strap, wait and take our broncs with you.”

Kelly turned and saw the approaching riders. He waited until they came up, dismounted, then grasped the reins of the ponies. “Have any luck in that Yaquente camp?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lanky drawled. “We escaped with our scalps. Had some more luck comin’ through Muletero. I’ll tell it later.”

“That’s Sheriff Lockwood’s gray, isn’t it?” Lance asked.

Trunk-Strap nodded. “He got here just a spell ago—been riding all night, I reckon, from the looks of the horse. Something’s in the wind; I could tell it from his face. He’s in the house.”

“Must have come through Muletero just before we staged our shindig,” Lanky commented.

Then from the doorway came a sudden hail. “Hi yuh, Lance! How they going, Lanky?” Ethan Lock-wood was standing there.

Lance and Lanky stepped up on the gallery and shook hands. “What you doing here?” Lance asked.

“Ran across something I thought you should know,” Lockwood replied. “Got a deputy from Saddleville to substitute for me, got on my horse and pushed hard. I even remembered to bring Oscar a fresh supply of lemon drops.” They entered the house. Katherine, the professor and Oscar were just beyond the door. The sheriff continued, “I’ve been hearing about the lively time you’re having down here, what with snake temples and Aztec gods and that damned—excuse me, Miss Gregory—that damned Fletcher. If he ain’t a dyed-in-the-wool blackguard I never seen one. Coming through Muletero a spell back I thought I caught a glimpse of Chiricahua Herrick going into a cantina, but I couldn’t be sure. I was riding fast and didn’t want to stop.”

“Ten to one it was Herrick.” Lance nodded. “Lanky and I had a fuss with ’em when we came through. Herrick, Wheeler and Ridge.”

“Lance!” Katherine exclaimed. “More trouble! What happened?”

“We won’t be bothered with those three any more,” Lance said meaningly. “I’ll give you the details later.” Everyone was silent for a minute. Lance went on, “What’s on your mind, Ethan?”

“Quite a bit,” the sheriff said. “I’ve been saving it until you get here so I wouldn’t have to tell it twice. There’s so much to tell I don’t just know where to start. In the first place, Lance, that feller you were trailing is——” He broke off, then: “Is it all right to tell what brought you to Pozo Verde, Lance?”

“I’ll tell it myself,” Lance said, and turned to the others. “You see, I’m an operative of the Special Agency Ser vice, U. S. Trea sury Department. I came to——”

“Lance,” Katherine exclaimed, her violet-blue eyes widening, “you mean that you’re a secret-ser vice man?”

“Something of the sort.” Lance smiled.

“Great Godfrey!” the professor burst out. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You never asked me.” Lance grinned. “Howsomever, I’m asking you something right now. Just where do you fit into the scheme? There isn’t any Jonesian Institute in Washington, D.C., you know. I’ve already checked on that.”

Jones colored. “I suspected—as much. Deuced awkward. Made a fool—myself—no doubt. Posed as cactus expert. Bah! Should have known better. Just a rank amateur. Small knowledge of cacti. Embarrassing, what? Didn’t intend—deceive you—Lance.’ Pon my word. I—I——” He paused, his face crimson.

Katherine came to his rescue. “It’s all right, Uncle Uly. Lance, Uncle may say he’s not an expert on cacti but he’s pretty close to it. It’s been his hobby, his ruling passion for years—more years than I can remember. But in addition to that Uncle Uly is one of the finest criminal investigators in the country. Out in California it’s that phase of his career, rather than for his collection of cacti, for which he is best known.”

Jones looked embarrassed. “Katherine laying it on—too thick,” he said disparagingly. “Had—great deal—luck—one or two criminal problems. Reputation overrated—assure you.”

“Don’t take his word for it,” Katherine said earnestly. “Anyway, I wanted to come down here and see if anything could be learned regarding Father’s death. Uncle Uly consented to lend me his assistance. We decided it was best for him to pose as being sent on a cactus-hunting expedition by some big institute, so as not to arouse suspicions. From the first Uncle suspected Fletcher of a hand in Father’s death but couldn’t get the necessary proof. He also guessed that Frank Bowman was on Fletcher’s trail, though for what purpose he didn’t know. Fletcher kept trying to dissuade us from the trip down here. Later, when Bowman had been killed, Uncle Uly wanted a man he could count on in a pinch rather than a guide. He liked Lance’s looks in that capacity. Uncle has also wondered if Lance wasn’t a law officer of some sort.”