by Noel Loomis
“Damn!” Quist said. “I should have asked her where she was staying. If she stopped at a hotel before starting out. Anybody as impulsive, as she appears to be, might not—”
“Likely she’s staying at the Grand Central Hotel,” Fletcher said. “If she’s not there, ten to one she can be found at the depot, awaiting the return train home—what are you doing?”
Quist was on his feet now, stuffing clean shirts and handkerchiefs into a small leather valise. He dropped his holstered gun inside. “Me, I’m aiming to catch the 1:43 train for Clarion City. I figure I can make it with an hour to spare. With luck I can locate Kate Porter at the Grand Central and ask her to have dinner with me before we leave. I want to talk to that girl some more. And you can get a lot of talking done on a train.”
Fletcher rose. “Likely that’s a good idea.” The thought wrinkles on his forehead deepened. “Lord, as an old friend of the family I should see her and tell her—”
Quist grinned. He was shrugging into his coat now. “Don’t let that part worry you, Jay.” He donned his flat-topped sombrero, pulled the belt tighter about his tan corduroy pants, flicked a soiled bandanna across the toes of his high-heeled boots. He glanced around the room, then catching sight of the violet-trimmed bonnet still resting on top of his desk, dropped it into his bag and closed it. “I’m off, Jay,” he said. “No, you needn’t come along with me. Catch a few minutes’ rest here. I’ll give Mrs. Porter your regrets that you were too busy to see her. After all, I can tell her all the things you’d have to say. Maybe more.”
Fletcher forced a thin smile. “I’m not so sure, Greg, but anyway, I’ll be in your debt. Thanks for taking a mean job off my hands. You can break the news to her.”
Halfway to the door, Quist stiffened, then slowly turned back. The grin was gone from his lips now. His topaz eyes narrowed as though he’d suddenly found himself caught in some sort of trap. He asked, the words slowly spaced, “Exactly what are you trying to say, Jay?”
Fletcher’s eyes weren’t quite meeting Quist’s gaze now. “I said it would be your job to break the news to her—a job I hate the thought of. You’ve been moving so fast, you’ve not heard all my story—”
“What news?” Quist snapped. “What story?”
Fletcher swallowed hard. “Just before I arrived here, I had a telegram from the station-master at Clarion City. Among other things, he wired that Lloyd Porter was found about four hours ago. His body had just been brought into town—”
“Body?” Quist tensed.
“The body of Porter was found some miles out of town in the foothills of the Clarin Mountains on Rocking-T holdings. Porter had been shot to death. You can tell Kate about it—” Fletcher paused. “You know, sort of break the news, so she’ll have herself in hand by the time she reaches Clarion City…” Fletcher’s voice fell off lamely.
Quist said irritably, “You lowdown, lousy—”
“I know, Greg.” Fletcher raised one hand. “No need to go on. I’m everything you say. I don’t deny it. It’s a hell of a thing to ask of a friend, but I just lack the heart to tell that girl myself.”
Quist drew a long breath. Abruptly, he turned, whipped open the door and stepped into the corridor. The door slammed at his back. Cursing bitterly, he strode rapidly along the hall toward the stairway that led to the lobby. “Good God, what next!” he swore. “A fine job for me, breaking such news. On top of that—strawberry jam, violets, murder! This job is taking on crazy angles even before I get thoroughly into things. Oh, Lord!”
CHAPTER 4
DOUBLE-CROSS
A week previous to the day Kate Porter had called on Quist at his hotel, a man sat at a table in a small cantina some twenty miles below the Mexican Border, idly toying with a glass of tequila. The man’s name was Porter and he was hiding out—or so he thought—until such time as a certain storm would have sufficient time to blow over. Ventoso, he had concluded, would be a good town in which to take cover. Calling it a town, of course, was somewhat flattering. There was just a widening of the roadway running south to points in Old Mexico, and a scattering of adobe huts, flung down helter-skelter here and there. These huts, together with a sort of general store and the cantina made up all the structures in Ventoso.
Ventoso wasn’t even large enough to have a peace officer of any sort. The people did a small bit of farming, raised chickens and goats and contrived a rather placid easy mode of existence. It wasn’t good country for farming: the soil was too rocky and there wasn’t enough water. Too, the wind blew continuously down from the mountains, purple in the distance, stirring the inches-deep dust of the roadway. The man who was hiding out stated that he had come to Ventoso to shoot doves, but he’d not stirred out of the town since arriving, and no one had seen him use the double-barreled shotgun he carried on his saddle the day he dismounted before the doorway of the widowed, and ancient, Maria Bistula, and arranged to rent the spare room in her adobe for “a week or so.” Since then he had slept and eaten his meals at the adobe. The rest of his days had been spent loitering in the cantina, at a table where he had a clear view of the entrance. Mexicans have the very good habit of minding their own business, so they didn’t ask questions. Nevertheless the population of Ventoso, not more than fifty or sixty all told, couldn’t help wondering who the man was waiting for. Or perhaps, whom he was hiding from.
The Cantina del Vino Oro—the Cantina of Golden Wine—was definitely a misnomer. The old adobe brick walls hadn’t ever witnessed the pouring of any wine in man’s memory. Thirsty customers drank tequila or pulque. Occasionally a bit of mescal or aguardiente made its appearance, but not often. But never any wine. Actually, it wasn’t much of a cantina, as such places go. A blocky oblong building of adobe from which the plaster was cracking from the outer walls. A front and rear door, nearly always open, allowing free passage of wind. And dust. Always dust. There were two side windows, paneless. The inner walls had been whitewashed sometime or other, and were badly in need of another coating. The bar, of weathered pine, was rough and scarred and stained on top with many rings from wet glasses. Behind the bar was a small oblong fly-specked mirror, a shelf holding several bottles and a single box of cigars. Also there was the “makin’s” for cigarettes—cornhusks and tobacco. A cigar box minus a cover constituted a sort of “change drawer” and contained a number of pesos and small silver change.
In one respect the Cantina of Golden Wine differed from other such establishments: around the walls were fastened at various spots, crayon and charcoal drawings of most of the town’s residents—male—done on cheap newsprint paper. Diego Cubero, proprietor of the cantina, spent much of his time, when not serving customers, in studying and making caricatures of clients, which eventually were hung on the walls. Anyone with half an eye could tell instantly that Diego Cubero possessed no small ability as a draughtsman. Cubero was a rather stocky young Mexican with good features and the hope that some day he’d be able to dispose of his establishment and devote the rest of his life to art. But he was rapidly becoming convinced that that day was far off. Now if all his patrons were as free-spending as the Señor Porter seated across the room. Cubero, bent over a drawing at the bar, lifted his head and glanced at the other two customers at the far end of the counter. Old friends both, Mexicans, dressed in shapeless white cotton clothing and straw sombreros. One wore sandals; the other’s feet were bare on the rough board floor. There wasn’t any bar rail to accommodate feet.
Cubero sighed. How many, many times he had drawn his friends. It was an old story to them; they no longer paid him or his charcoal any attention. And he had done the Señor Porter several times too, beginning last year when he had first started coming to Ventoso. Porter was an easy type to draw: regular, even features; dark-brown hair; shoulders not wide. There was a tricky-look about the eyes though, and the mouth was rather petulant. Cubero wondered how Porter had got those faint pinkish streaks across his nose and one cheek. They looked like nearly-healed slashes from a quirt. Done within the past
month or so, Cubero figured. As to the rest of the man’s make-up, well, clothing was clothing—gray sombrero, dark trousers tucked into knee boots, flannel shirt and necktie. The Señor Porter didn’t appear to be a cattleman. Something to do with cattle perhaps, but that seemed doubtful. But he had made money; at least he spent freely. Though he bought much tequila, he never became real drunk. But always he seemed on the watch for some one—on this visit more than formerly—and he was never seen without the pearl-butted six-shooter at his right hip. It was very queer.…
Booted feet made sounds at the entrance. Diego brightened. He put down the stick of charcoal with which he’d been drawing. Ah, business with thirsty ones. And perhaps—quién sabe?—new models from which to work. Two men entered the cantina, hard rough-bitten characters they were, wearing scarred holsters. Diego’s spirits sank a little. This type he knew. Border scum. But he did his best, smiling, with a “Buenes dias, señores…” And then Diego fell silent. The men had paid him no attention, but headed straight for the Señor Porter seated at the table across the room.
Porter had stiffened slightly as the two men entered, one hand reached toward his glass of tequila; the other, out of sight below the table also moved slightly. He didn’t speak, as he watched the pair cross the floor and came to a halt across the table from him. For a moment the men just stared at each other.
Porter’s lips twitched to a thin smile. He said, “Well?”
One of the men said, “Mead had a hunch we might find you here?”
Porter’s smile broadened a trifle. “Took him a long while to get his hunch, didn’t it?”
“That’s neither here nor there, Porter. Mead wants to see you.”
“I don’t think I’m interested,” Porter said. “I know about what Mead Leftwick has to say, Riker.” He said again, “I don’t think I’m interested.”
“Maybe,” the other man said in ugly tones, “we can change your mind, Porter.”
Porter said contemptuously, “I doubt it, Ferris. Now, you two better run along and tell Leftwick I decided to dissolve the pardnership. Vamonos! Get your horses and ride, boys.”
Neither Riker nor Ferris replied to that for a moment. They exchanged looks then Riker said, “No use you actin’ like a fool, Porter. You’re outnumbered, two to one. I reckon you’d best come along with us. Mead won’t like to be kept waiting—”
“You’re the one’s talking like a fool now,” Porter snapped. “You and your two-to-one talk. I don’t scare easily. You poor damn’ fools! I’ve had you covered under the table since I first laid eyes on you. Now make your play.”
Again Riker and Ferris hesitated. Their eyes went to Porter’s left hand, fingers clenched around the glass of tequila, then in the direction of the right which was hidden from them by the table top.
Riker said, after a moment, “That’s as may be, Porter, but you can’t cover both of us at the same time. One of us could—”
“Ah, but that’s the point,” Porter laughed coldly. “You haven’t the least idea which of you I’m covering. And I could get one of you. I might even have luck enough to…”
Even while he was talking he acted. The hand holding the glass suddenly flicked the fiery liquor toward Ferris’s eyes, and at the same moment his trigger finger moved beneath the table.
The gun roared. A small bulge appeared abruptly on the scarred surface of the table, a splinter of wood sprung into view. Riker swung back, congratulating himself that Porter’s shot had missed, even as his fingers clawed at his gun-butt. Porter’s six-shooter came above the table, as he fired a second time. A look of surprise came over Riker’s tough features, then his legs jack-knifed and he went to the floor. Powder smoke swirled through the room, then evaporated as it was swept away by the wind blowing through the doorway.
Ferris had staggered, whimpering in pain, across the room and halted against the bar, fingers dabbing at his eyes. Finally he got a dirty bandanna into action. The two Mexicans had moved as far down the bar as possible and were staring frightenedly at the dead man on the floor. Diego Cubero stood as before, thinking, Ah, why can’t these gringos keep their quarrels on their own side of the border? Trouble may come of this. The jefe at San Eneas will learn of this business. He will send—”
Porter was already up from his chair, swearing at Ferris who still pawed at his eyes, cutting short Diego’s gloomy cogitations.
“Now get out of here,” Porter was shouting at Ferris, “before you get a dose of the same. God damn your dirty hide—” He broke off to seize Ferris by the shirt collar and hustle the whining man toward the doorway. After a few moments, rapid hoofbeats were heard leaving town. Porter came back to the bar. Diego saw that reaction had set in now. Porter’s face was white; his hand trembled as he re-holstered his gun. He said hoarsely, “Tequila, Diego,” and spun a silver dollar on the bar.
Diego placed a bottle on the bar, followed with a glass and saucer of salt. With a shaking hand, Porter poured the glass full and downed it at a gulp, then poured a second.
Diego ventured, “Was a bad business, señor, no?”
“You saw it all,” Porter’s teeth chattered as he talked. “You heard those killers threaten me, didn’t you, Diego? You saw Riker reach for his gun, first. I didn’t want to kill him, but they would have—Diego, you could see—”
“Señor, I saw nozzeeng.” Diego shrugged his shoulders and gestured toward the stick of charcoal. “I was make busy weeth the charcoal and paper, then, sodden—bang! bang! Only then deed I look. But, what ees eet we do weeth the bodee, Señor Porter?”
“Oh, yes.” Porter put down his drink, and turned a half-scared glance over his shoulder at the still form on the floor. He was conscious too now of certain voices throughout the town. People were wondering at the sounds of the shooting. Still, there wouldn’t be any trouble in a town this size. The two Mexicans at the far end of the bar had now changed position and started out. Porter detained them and spoke rapidly. With Diego’s help he made himself understood. There was some bargaining, not much, before Porter passed over a couple of ten dollar bills and the two Mexicans picked up the body between them and carried it out the rear open door. Porter didn’t look again at the body. He was still pale as he carried the bottle of tequila back to his seat at the table.
Porter poured another drink, and his courage began to return. After all, had Riker been caught by the U.S. authorities, the man was due for hanging. “After all,” Porter told himself, “I saved the state the cost of a trial and hanging. No doubt, I should be considered a benefactor of humanity.” He started to chuckle, then caught himself. Mead Leftwick had been smart, sending men to trail him down here. And now Ferris would return and report to Leftwick what had happened. That wasn’t good. Definitely, Porter didn’t want to have to face Leftwick. And here was Leftwick getting warm on the trail. “Blast the luck,” Porter scowled, “I’ve got to be moving on again. Best thing I can do is get far away and stay hidden for a year or so. I can always come back and.…” And then his thoughts took another tangent.
Three-quarters of an hour had passed since the two Mexicans had carried out Riker’s body. Neither of the Mexicans had returned to the cantina, nor had anyone else entered. Diego was busy with a broom and bucket of water, endeavoring to clean the floor of the dark stain where Riker had fallen. Porter still sat at the table, smoke curling from a cigarette between his fingers, a deep scowl of thought on his forehead.
A man appeared noiselessly at the open rear door and stood a moment looking within. He was a tall man of about Porter’s build and coloring, dressed much the same, except that there was a sterner set to his jaw and his movements seemed more certain. Porter’s back was to him, and Diego was so engrossed with his cleaning operation that he didn’t see the newcomer.
Without preliminaries, the newcomer spoke from the rear doorway. “Sort of lost your head, didn’t you, Lloyd?” His tones carried a slow easy drawling quality.
Porter gasped, then turned slowly in his chair, as though fear
ing to look. “My God!” he said, “Mead—Mean Leftwick.”
“None other, Lloyd. You act surprised.”
Diego Cubero had paused, broom in hand, thinking, Por Dios! Let there be no more trouble with these gringos. The Señor Porter looks to have received a shock. Of this new man he is much afraid. And yet, the new man doesn’t appear to want a fight. His hand has moved nowhere near his gun. Perhaps this meeting will be peaceful.
Porter recovered his voice. “Why wouldn’t I be surprised, Mead? Never suspected you were down here, or—”
“Or you wouldn’t have acted as you did with Ferris and Riker,” Leftwick completed the sentence. “That was a bad move, Lloyd.”
“You don’t understand, Mead. They came in and started acting rough. Riker reached for his gun—”
“Ferris told me what happened,” Leftwick cut in. “Don’t trouble to repeat the story. I doubt the story would agree with Ferris’s anyway.” Porter started a protest, but Leftwick paid no heed as he turned and spoke to Cubero. “You, Mex, bring another glass over here.”
“Si, si, señor. Immediatamente.” In an instant, a clean glass had been placed on the table and Leftwick seated himself across from Porter. Cubero took his broom and bucket of water and retired once more behind his bar, thinking, A new model, perhaps. But, no, I have the feeling this one would not take kindly to having his picture done. He retired into his moody thoughts and started to wipe dust from the back bar.
Leftwick poured a drink of tequila and tossed it off in a single gulp. He smiled thinly at Porter half slumped across the table. “And so you thought I’d be on the other side of the border, Lloyd. You had me fooled for a spell too, before I hit on the idea you might be down here. The more I thought of it, the more reasonable the idea became. After all, we’d carried on operations through here, at one time. Ventoso’s quiet, not too far from Clarion City. Lloyd, I never thought you’d do a thing like that to me. We’ve been business pardners too long—”
