William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“Same folks,” Johnny said. “Cases of liquor for the saloons, canned goods for the general stores, small boxes for the barber shops and so on. Folks jest come down and pick up their stuff when it’s put off’n the train. Anything unusual is put off, I notice it, ye betcha!” He paused, then his mouth sagged a trifle. “Come to think on it,” he said slowly, “there was one box I never noticed before. From a company strange to me. Now I wonder who got thet?” He removed his cap and scratched his scanty hair in perplexity. “Shucks! Reckon it don’t make no difference. Whoever it b’longed to picked ’er up, or I’d had a complaint. Thet’s the trouble, with my bills missin’——Whut’d ye find, Mister Tolliver?”

Lance had suddenly stooped and retrieved from between two planks, clogged with dirt, a small pine splinter. There were two or three other splinters near by. Lance said, “Only this,” and held up the splinter to the old man’s view, after which he calmly commenced picking his teeth with it.

“Oh,” Johnny grunted, “I thought ye’d found somethin’ valyble.”

Lance laughed. “It might be to some people. You were talking about a box of freight that looked strange to you, Mr Quinn. What kind of a box was it?”

“Jest an ordinary pine box,” Quinn sniffed, “like freight is usual shipped in. Whut did ye expect?”

“I mean,” Lance said easily, “how big was it?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Quinn was vague in his ideas. “ ’Bout so big, I reckon.” With his skinny arms he mea sured the size of the missing box in the air. Lance judged the box to have been approximately one by one by two feet in size.

“Pretty heavy?” Lance asked next.

“Not turrible,” Quinn said, frowning. “I just remember puttin’ it on my truck with some other boxes and wheelin’ ’em over to stack ag’in’ the depot wall. Hefty enough though.”

“You don’t remember who it was for?”

“Consarn it,” Quinn said angrily. “Ain’t I told ye I don’t know? Now ye’ve got me thinkin’ on thet ye’ve spoiled my hull day.” His frown deepened. “I jest remember seein’ the label pasted on the box, tellin’ who it was from and where it was a-goin’. Folks was all around me, already pickin’ up their shipments. Thet address was writ in pen an’ ink. I didn’t have no time to stop and decipher writin’——”

“Was the whole address label in writing?” Lance asked.

“No, I rec’lect that was in print, like most labels.”

“Think hard,” Lance urged. “Where was it from?”

“Tarnation an’ damnity!” Johnny Quinn squealed angrily. “Ain’t I a-thinkin’? I’m concentratin’ like all get out and——” He paused suddenly, then, “Wait, wait—thet box had been shipped from——Cracky! I can see thet label plain’s day, only I don’t remember——It was shipped from—from—some sort of Southwest Something Company. I wish I could think of that middle word. All’s I can think of is cactus. Wouldn’t that be the consarnedest idea? Southwest Cactus Com pany. Hee-hee! Like if there was a company org’nized to sell something that grows wild all over——”

“Cactus?” Lance said quickly, breaking in on the oldster’s gleeful cackling.

Quinn paused from lack of breath. “I do get th’ most redickerlous idees sometimes,” he panted. “No, it sartainly couldn’t have been cactus. Must have been somethin’ else.”

“Do you remember where it came from?” Lance queried.

Quinn concentrated. “Texas,” he said at last—“El Paso, Texas. Nope, I’m wrong! It was some place in New Mexico. Or was it Texas? Come to think on it, seems like I rec’lect readin’ Colorady on thet box.” He removed the cap and scratched his head some more. The harder he concentrated the angrier he became. Suddenly he exploded heatedly, “I don’t know why it should make any business of yours where my freight comes from. You come around here askin’ questions like a brass hat and a-wastin’ of my time. Valyble railroad company time! If ye’re figgerin’ to ship anythin’ or if ye expect freight to arrive I’ll be pleased to take care of ye. Otherwise, I’m too busy for more lallygaggin’!”

He spun angrily about, entered his office. At once the telegraph instrument commenced rattling at a furious rate.

Lance looked at Oscar. Oscar looked at Lance. “I reckon we might as well leave.” Oscar sighed. “I know that old coot, and he won’t talk to us no more today. But, Lance, do you reckon a box did come from the Southwest Cactus Company—if there is such a company? And how does it all fit in? What’s the creosote got to do with it? That’s the first I’ve heard of a cold chisel too. And that pine splinter you picked up——”

“Whoa!” Lance laughed. “Maybe we got more out of that conversation than you figure.” They slowly descended the steps to the cinder-packed earth around the platform. Lance surveyed the ground for “sign,” but it was too tracked up to furnish any fresh information. Oscar remained silent while they walked slowly back toward the center of town.

Finally Lance spoke. “I’m going to do a little supposing and speculating and see if I can reconstruct a picture of what happened to Frank Bowman. I may be miles off in my guess, but here’s the way I see it. As you know, Bowman was here as one of our operatives—I’ll explain why at another time. Anyway, we’ll say he hit on some sort of clue here. I don’t know just what, but it was hot. I’ve a hunch it was connected with peyotes——”

“Basing that on the fact he had one in his hand when you found him?”

“Exactly. We’ll say Bowman was watching a certain man. Now, mezcal buttons don’t grow hereabouts, so this certain man had a supply of the plants shipped here from some cactus company. Let’s suppose Bowman saw that box of cactus plants and got suspicious, though he wouldn’t know for sure there were peyotes inside. He watched, and no one called for it. Maybe the guilty man knew Bowman was watching the box. When no one called for the box Bowman decided to open it and learn what it contained. With a cold chisel he pried off the top of the box——”

“There’s the cold chisel Johnny Quinn found!”

Lance nodded. “We’ll say the box top splintered when it was forced off. I saw splinters on the station platform, remember, and picked one up. With the box open, Bowman stuck his hand inside and got a peyote. A loose splinter at the edge of the box stuck in Bowman’s shirt sleeve.”

“Could be, could be!” Oscar had lost his indolent manner.

Lance continued, “Now Bowman has his peyote evidence. He knows who the box is shipped to. But that person or some of his gang are watching Bowman. They see him break into the box. Remember this is around midnight; it’s dark. Bowman doesn’t see his assailant approach. Just as Bowman straightens up from the box someone comes running toward the platform. It’s too late for Bowman to pull his gun. The killer’s bullet strikes at a sharp angle—proving the killer was on the earth below the platform. He may even have been hiding under the platform. Bowman falls, and as he goes down his right hand strikes that bucket of creosote standing near, tipping it over. The creosote floods out over Bowman’s hand, accidentally painting it black.”

“Lance, you’re sure knocking the mystery out of this.”

“When a man hasn’t the facts,” Lance said grimly, “he has to work his imagination overtime…. Let’s get on. Somebody takes away the box of peyotes. Somebody gets through Johnny Quinn’s office window and steals the bill of lading so the shipment of cactus can’t be traced to the guilty man—right off at least. Now, remember, it was Doctor Drummond’s opinion that Bowman, while unconscious, didn’t die at once. Something had to be done with the body. The killer didn’t dare risk firing more shots for fear of attracting attention. And he didn’t dare leave the body there for fear it might be found and Bowman, regaining consciousness, make some sort of dying statement——”