William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“Only,” Oscar drawled, “it looks to me like you was too drunk to ride at leaving time. Well, Cherry-Cow Herrick will find out that Lance’s alibi holds water—which same you’d be better off if that’s all you held.”

Kilby teetered gravely back and forth a moment, owlishly eying the deputy. He lifted one admonishing finger. “Now I ain’t got no—hic!—quarrel with you, Oscar. It’s this Tolliver hombre I’m aimin’ to——”

“Forget it, Kilby.” Lance laughed good-naturedly. “Go get yourself some sleep.” He talked to the man as one would to a child. “Look, you’ve spilt some whisky on your nice new overalls. You’d better go wash them——”

“What do you know about my overalls?” Kilby’s eyes had narrowed. For some reason Lance’s words appeared to have a somewhat sobering effect on the man. He straightened up and came a step nearer, curses tumbling from his thick lips.

“Cut it out, Kilby,” Lance said sternly.

Kilby rushed on, heedless of the warning. He called Lance a name no fighting man will take. Lance didn’t want to hit him, but there seemed nothing else to do. His fist shot out—not too hard—and Kilby went stumbling awkwardly off the sidewalk to sprawl on his back in the dust.

That completely sobered the man without knocking any sense into his head. He came struggling up from the roadway, one hand clawing at his gun butt.

Lance took two quick steps forward. His left fist sunk to the wrist in Kilby’s middle; his right crashed against the side of Kilby’s jaw. An explosive grunt was expelled from Kilby’s lips, and he commenced to sag. For a moment he stood bent over, arms dangling limply at his sides. Then slowly he sank to his knees and rolled on his back. His eyes were closed, and he was dead to the world.

“The old one-two,” Oscar said approvingly, calmly stuffing a lemon drop into his mouth. “Very nice. I don’t think I could’ve done better myself.”

A crowd had commenced to gather. Lance said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Oscar told a couple of men in the crowd to get Kilby’s unconscious form off the street, then followed Lance down Laredo Street in the direction of the railroad station.

“Dammit!” Lance growled when Oscar had caught up. “There wasn’t any other way out of it, but I do hate to hit a hombre that’s been drinking heavy.”

“Mebbe so,” Oscar said judiciously, “but they go out quicker in that condition. Now if you’d just get a mite more snap into your wrist as you hit——”

“Let’s forget it,” Lance cut in.

“You’re upset.” Oscar thrust a paper sack toward Lance. “Here, have a lemon drop. It ’ll soothe your nerves.”

Without realizing what he was doing, Lance thrust a lemon drop into his mouth.

“Ah, another convert,” Oscar chuckled. “You’ll be an addict in no time.”

Lance started to smile, then laughed. “Like I say, I hate to hit a drunk, but I was thinking about something else. It seemed to make Kilby madder ’n ever when I mentioned his new overalls. Danged if I understand why. I was speaking as friendly as possible.”

“Drunks are sensitive on queer points sometimes,” Oscar drawled. “I’ve known ’em to fight at the drop of the hat at the mention of a new one.

“New what?” Lance asked absent-mindedly.

“Hat. Don’t you know what we’re talking about?”

“I was thinking about overalls.”

“I certainly pick intelligent company this mornin’,” Oscar commented. “One talks about spiny plant life and t’other about everyday clothing. Forget it. Here’s the depot.”

They had reached the T.N. & A.S. railroad tracks that paralleled Main Street a block back. Beyond the tracks were scattered a line of Mexican adobe houses, strung along a rather crooked roadway. Between the tracks and the single line of buildings fronting Main were heaps of old rubbish, tin cans, littered papers. Oscar led the way toward the railroad station, a small frame building, painted red, with the T.N. & A.S. sign erected on its roof. The station stood about five feet above the earth on a platform constructed of heavy planks.

Oscar led the way up the short flight of steps to the platform. From inside the station came the clattering taps of a telegraphic instrument. Abruptly the sound ceased, and a fuzzy little old man appeared in the doorway.

“No, Oscar Perkins, I don’t want no lemon drops,” he stated in a cantankerous voice before Oscar had had an opportunity to say a word. He wore faded overalls with bib attached, and on his scanty gray hair was a stiff-peaked cap bearing the letters: “T.N. & A.S.R.R.” Spectacles rested on his sharp nose.

“Ain’t asked you to have one,” Oscar stated calmly. “Johnny Quinn, shake hands with my friend, Lance Tolliver. You know”—to Lance—“Johnny just about runs the T.N. and A.S. He’s the combination station agent, freight agent, telegraph operator, swamper, train dispatcher——”

“There’s more truth ’n poetry in them remarks,” Johnny Quinn squeaked. He gave Lance a limp hand, then turned back to Oscar. “What ye want?”

“Don’t want nothing,” Oscar said quietly. “Lance is new to town, and I was just showing him the sights. We didn’t want to overlook your depot.”

“I can ’preciate thet.” Johnny Quinn nodded. He seemed more friendly now. “Ye’d be surprised now to l’arn just how much freight was put off at this little depot. By the way, Oscar, ye didn’t catch them thieves whut took my bills, did ye?”

“Sheriff Lockwood is running down a hot clue on that right now,” Oscar said without batting an eye.

Lance said, “Oscar was saying you found your window open yesterday morning and certain of your papers missing.”

“Valyble papers they was, Mister Tolliver. I been a-maintainin’ right along we should have a night man on duty in the depot, but them brass hats back East won’t pay me no ’tention. Someday I’ll up and quit ’em, then they’ll see whut’s whut! And we should have better law enforcement in this town, too, whut with hoodlums spillin’ cre’sote all over my platform—right after I’d mopped the office, too—and it got tracked inside.”

“Where was the creosote spilled?” Lance asked.

Old Quinn led the way to a place near the edge of the platform where a dark brownish-black stain had seeped into the heavy planks. “Lucky they wa’n’t much cre’sote in thet bucket. It ’d made a fine mess! I’m a-keepin’ thet bucket and next time when them section hands come back and ask for it I aim to give ’em Hail Columbia! Bein’ wasteful with company property is bad enough, but—and another thing”—Johnny Quinn was warming to his subject now—“if them hoodlums whut tipped over the cre’sote come back a-whinin’ for their cold chisel I ain’t a-goin’ to give it to ’em——”

“Was a cold chisel left here?” Lance asked.

Old Johnny nodded indignantly. “It’s my opeenion,” he said confidentially, “thet they figgered to pry open some of the boxes of freight and steal some-thin’. Yes sirree! But I reckon nothin’ was left for ’em. Folks usually come here and collect whut freight’s due, and I ain’t had no complaints ner an inquiry ’bout anythin’ that didn’t come when it should.”

“You mean,” Lance asked, “that folks just come and collect their freight when it arrives without signing for it?”

“Sartain, I know everybody here. I bring ’em the bills at the end of the month, and they sign ’em then. Only, this time I’ll be minus them bills thet was stole.”

“Can’t you check up and get duplicate bills?” Lance asked.

Quinn nodded. “It ’ll take a mite of time, though. I figure to get at thet right soon.”

“I take it,” Lance said, “that the same folks get freight shipped in right along.”