William MacDonald: The Battle At Three-Cross

THE BATTLE AT THREE-CROSS

William Colt MacDonald

HOT LEAD!

Lance heard the bullet thud into the tie rail at his rear. His hand stabbed toward the holster, came up in a swift, eye-defying arc. Lead started to pour from the six-shooter muzzle the instant it left the holster. A leaden slug threw up dust at Kilby’s feet. Lance’s aim lifted higher. Kilby fired again. Lance thumbed his hammer once, twice, three times.

Kilby was flung violently sideways by the impact of the heavy slugs. For a brief moment he swayed uncertainly; then his right leg buckled, and he pitched to the roadway. For a short interval he struggled to regain the weapon that had fallen from his hand, then, as Lance closed in and kicked the underarm gun out of reach, Kilby shivered and slumped in the dust.

Behind him came Chiricahua Herrick’s voice, violent with hate. “Damn you, Tolliver! You can’t do this to a friend of mine. Now, by God! We’ll see how you like the taste of hot lead!”

I Two-Handed Mystery

There were several things about the dead man that interested Tolliver, but mostly it was the cold, stiffened hands that drew his greatest concentration of attention. The right hand, even to the fingernails, had been painted a brownish black as far as the wrist. The left was clutched tightly—almost fiercely, as though determined to retain the object at all costs—around an article of desert plant life known in parts of the Southwest as the “mezcal button.” No doubt about its being a mezcal button; Tolliver could see the thick, carrot-like root with bits of sandy earth still clinging to it protruding from the firmly clenched dead hand. Even a bit of the bluish-green flattened top was visible between the thumb and forefinger.

Tolliver had been in the saddle from early morning, having crossed the Mexican border to return to the States about two o’clock that afternoon. He was a lean, rangy man with good features and gray eyes. A dusty sombrero that had once been fawn colored covered his unruly reddish hair. His denim overalls were clean, though somewhat faded, with wide cuffs just above the ankles of his high-heeled cowman boots. His woolen shirt fitted smoothly across wide shoulders, and there was a blue bandanna knotted at his throat. A Colt forty-five gun was slung at Tolliver’s right hip. He wasn’t more than twenty-seven or-eight.

After crossing the border that afternoon Tolliver had headed his roan pony in the direction of Pozo Verde which wasn’t more than six or eight miles from the Mexican line. He was still some three miles or so distant from the town, riding along an ancient, rock-littered, sandy dry wash, when he had come upon the body of the dead man, sprawled on its left side, the left arm cramped beneath the body, one leg slightly drawn up. Tolliver had immediately checked his horse, dismounted a short distance away and approached the still form to make a closer survey.

There was an ugly black hole just beneath the dead man’s right cheekbone. Dried blood streaked the man’s face and had run up into the iron-gray hair. There was no sign of his hat about. Flies buzzed in the afternoon heat. Overhead a buzzard wheeled in a wide circle, dropping lower, then at a movement from Tolliver again lifted toward the higher reaches of the cloudless sky. Tolliver’s normally firm lips tightened still more as he studied intently the features of the corpse. After a moment he drew a clean bandanna from a pocket and spread it over the dead face.

Stooping carefully close to the dead man, Tolliver pried open the rigid fingers of the left hand. It was considerable of a job getting possession of the mezcal button, so tightly were the cold fingers clenched about the spongy top of the plant, but Tolliver finally straightened up with the mezcal button in his hand. Root and all, it wasn’t more than four inches long. The top of the plant was circular, about an inch thick and two inches across, with tiny lines, or indentations, running from the top center to the earth line at the sides. Spaced at regular intervals on the segments formed by these lines were tiny woollike tufts. A pinkish cast shoved through the bluish-green surface of the plant.

Tolliver frowned as he studied the object in his hand, looked again at the dead man before thrusting the mezcal button inside his shirt. “Hmmm!” he muttered. “I wonder what he was doing with dry whisky.” There didn’t seem to be any immediate reply to that question. The dead man’s six-shooter was still in its holster Tolliver noticed next. That made the business look like murder.

There were two buzzards soaring overhead by this time, their wheeling, dipping gyrations forming black patterns against the turquoise sky. To the west rose the high, serrated peaks of the Saddlestring Mountains, their ravines and hollows etched clearly in brilliant desert light. Here in the dry wash the way was littered with boulders of all sizes and shapes. The near-by slopes were covered with brush at some spots, sandy, gravelly soil at others. Here and there among the brush were clumps of cholla and prickly pear. A few yuccas with the stalks of last spring’s blossoms showing brown and dry dotted the landscape.

Tolliver spoke his thoughts half aloud: “I’d judge he was killed last night sometime. Now, I wonder …”

Without waiting to complete the words, Tolliver stepped back from the corpse and commenced to circle around, scrutinizing closely the earth as he moved. There were prints to be seen in the sandy bed of the dry wash, prints showing that three riders had arrived at this spot—at least there were the prints of three horses. The sandy soil was too loose to leave definite impressions though to a keen, understanding eye like Tolliver’s certain details were clear. Back at the body again, Tolliver found blurry footprints.

“They came out here,” Tolliver muttered, “from the direction of Pozo Verde. When they left they returned the same way. One horse left considerably later than the others, though. Why?”

He knelt near the corpse, closely studying the dead man’s form—woolen shirt, denim overalls, boots and spurs. His gaze returned to that black-painted hand again and again. He stooped close and sniffed the atmosphere in the vicinity of the hand. After a time he went back to the high-heeled boots once more. Several minutes slipped past with Tolliver lost in deep concentration.

So intense were his meditative speculations that the riders were almost upon him before he realized it. Then as his ear caught the thudding of running hoofs and creaking of saddle leather Tolliver straightened up to await the arrival of whoever was coming. A big gray horse with a rider wearing a law officer’s star was first to pull to a halt on the edge of the dry wash. Then, in quick succession, five other riders drew alongside the rider with the sheriff’s star. A look of surprise swept across six faces as they glanced down into the wash and saw Tolliver and the dead man. Almost immediately the six faces went hard. Certain hands moved toward guns. No one spoke for a moment.

Tolliver broke the silence. “Mister Sheriff, it looks like you’d arrived at a good time.”

The big man with the sheriff’s star grunted, “Maybe I didn’t arrive soon enough.” He was middle aged, grizzled, sharp eyed, with a close-cropped gray mustache. He pushed back the big black sombrero from his forehead and repeated meaningly, “Maybe I didn’t arrive soon enough. That man dead?”

“That’s my opinion,” Tolliver said easily. “Maybe you’d better examine him yourself.”

“Exactly what I’m aimin’ to do,” the sheriff said, tight lipped.