by Noel Loomis
His hot gaze swept the audience. Within a few minutes he again turned to Kate. “And when your husband had been gone a month, I understand you decided to have a search made for him.”
Kate said, “That is right.” She continued, telling about her trip to El Paso to see Quist, and of her hearing of her husband’s death while in El Paso. A few minutes later Kate’s testimony was concluded and she resumed her seat.
Quist was next called to testify. After giving his name and occupation he confirmed Kate’s visit to his office, under the doctor’s questioning. Ingram continued, “And you agreed to come here and instigate a search for Lloyd Porter, Mr. Quist?”
“On the contrary,” Quist replied. “Other business—for my company—brings me here. I was unable to accept Mrs. Porter’s offer of a job.”
“Did you feel that she was sincere in her request?” Ingram asked.
“Very much so,” Quist stated definitely. “In fact she appeared very,”—he hesitated and glanced at Kate whose cheeks had crimsoned—“disappointed,” Quist concluded, “when I had to refuse to help her.”
His words had a favorable effect on the jury, in view of Quist’s reputation as a detective.
“At any rate,” Ingram smiled, “no one can accuse Mrs. Porter of not trying to get the best man for the job. It is my feeling that she deserves considerable credit for her efforts.”
A commotion occurred at the head of the stairway just as Quist had concluded. Someone at the back of the room called, “Hey, Doc, here’s a man wants to testify.” A man came pushing through the crowd and started up the aisle. He was a hard-looking character in cow-togs. A scarred holster hung at his hip and he didn’t look as though he’d shaved for a week or so. All told, an unprepossessing-looking character. Two or three cowhands in the audience spoke to him as he headed toward Ingram’s table, but he didn’t reply.
“Gawd,” the man ejaculated as he reached the front of the room, “if it hadn’t been for Marshal Eldred back there”—jerking one thumb over his shoulder—“I never would have got in here.”
“You’ve got some pertinent information you wash to place before this inquiry?” Ingram asked, eyes sizing up the man.
“I ain’t reckonin’ to be impert’nent, Doc.” The man gave a surly laugh. Ingram flushed. “I’ll make it clearer,” he stated curtly. “Have you any information regarding the death of Lloyd Porter?”
“Yeah, I got information ’bout Porter—”
Ingram swung to the clerk. “Swear this man.”
The man took the oath. Ingram had him repeat his name for the benefit of the audience. The man said, “Name’s Luke Ferris.”
“Occupation?” Ingram asked.
“I work for Judd Lombardy—punch cows for the L-Bar-D—on and off. You can ask Judd. Plenty folks ’round here know me.”
“Are you working for Lombardy at present?”
“I reckon so.”
“Why haven’t you come forward with your information before?”
“I been out of town for a spell. Sort of a leave of absence. You can ask Judd—”
“I’m not doubting your word, Mr. Ferris. Where have you been?”
“Away—visitin’ my dear old mother in Albuquerque.”
“New Mexico?”
Ferris owlishly looked over the audience, then back to Ingram. “I don’t know of no other Albuquerque. I just got in a mite back. Lotta miles between here and—”
“I’m aware of the distance between here and New Mexico,” Ingram said icily.
“Then, Doc, you’d oughter know how long a train takes to get here,” the man guffawed.
Ingram looked somewhat exasperated. Ranger Arbuckle spoke sharply from his seat, “You mind your tongue, Ferris, and answer the coroner’s questions, without trying to be funny.” Ingram shot a quick look of thanks to Arbuckle when Ferris immediately sobered.
Ingram went on, “So your address has been in another state for a while past. May I ask that address?” Ferris hesitated. Ingram said curtly, “Come, come! You say you’ve been visiting your mother. What is her address in Albuquerque?”
Again the hesitation. “Uh—uh—One-Twenty-Three—er—er—Ventoso—”
Impatiently, Ingram asked, “Well, Ventoso what? Street? Avenue? Road?”
Ferris swallowed hard, then noticing Arbuckle’s frown, gulped, “That’s it—One-Two-Three Ventoso Street. Anyway, that don’t matter. My address now is at the L-Bar-D Ranch.”
Ingram drew a long sigh. “Well, I’m glad we got that settled anyhow. All right, Mr. Ferris, what do you know of Lloyd Porter, or his death?”
The man straightened a little, seeming more confident now. “Can’t say I know much about him, Doc, ’cept what’s generally knowed hereabouts. I just heard when I got off’n the train this mornin’, that folks was claimin’ he was dead. Well, facts must be sort of ’xaggerated, ’cause I was talkin’ to Lloyd Porter just yesterday, in Albuquerque.”
There ensued a stunned silence, then, “What?” Ingram fairly yelled.
Again an uproar filled the big room. Men stood up from their chairs, necks craned for a better view. No one could hear what Ingram or Ferris were saying now. Suddenly, Quist heard Ingram exclaim, “I’ll be goddamed!” then he started an apology as he rapped furiously with his gavel. Quiet once more settled over the room.
CHAPTER 11
SCRAMBLED FACTS
Ingram looked considerably bewildered now, as he resumed questioning. “You’re absolutely certain, Mr. Ferris, that the man you talked to was Lloyd Porter?”
“Certain sure,” Ferris replied. “I guess I know Porter, talked to him plenty times when he visited the L-Bar-D.”
Ingram tried in various ways to make the man change his story, but it was no good. He could shake Ferris’ testimony not at all. Finally, “May I ask, Mr. Ferris, exactly what you and—and this man you claim was Lloyd Porter—”
“Dammit, I know Porter when I see him—”
“Apparently,” Ingram said weakly. “Do you remember what you talked about?”
“We-ell,”—again the hesitation—“to tell the truth we didn’t habla but a few minutes. I asked him how things was in Clarion City. You see, I was down by the depot trying to raise the price of my ticket back here—I was sort of on my uppers after not workin’ for a spell—when Porter come up to the ticket window. I spotted him immediate. At the same time I remembered he owed me ten bucks from a poker game we had ’bout three months ago at the L-Bar-D, so I braced him for the money—” Ferris paused.
“And did you get it?” Ingram prompted.
“Sure, Lloyd Porter was always good pay. It was just that he’d forgot, I reckon.”
“And where did he go after you got the money?”
“I ain’t got no idea, Doc. I went to my mother’s place to get my grip and say good-bye. Then when I got here I heard about Porter havin’ been brought in dead yesterday. I knowed the facts was scrambled some place, so I come here soon’s I could make it.”
“And you are absolutely sure it was Porter,” Ingram persisted dubiously.
“Ain’t I told you?” Ferris demanded in aggrieved tones. “Ain’t I told you more’n once? You callin’ me a liar?”
Ingram drew a deep breath. “No.” And added, “Not yet, any way. Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Ferris. You are excused.” He turned to the jury. “Considering the testimony we’ve had, I see no reason for longer continuing this inquiry. It is now up to you gentlemen to come to some sort of verdict, regarding either Lloyd Porter’s murder, or the murder of some man unknown. You may begin your deliberations as soon as this room is cleared.” Then to the audience, “This inquest is closed. Please clear the room as quickly as possible.”
One of the jurors spoke, “Hey, Doc,” he complained, “how’s for getting our dinners first? I’m starved fit to eat the Lord’s Supper. We can do our deliberatin’ later.”
“In view of the facts we’ve had,” Ingram said grimly, “food is of small importance. If yo
u get at your deliberating now, you’ll get through quicker. So start in, gentlemen.”
Below, on the street, as the audience thronged past talking excitedly, Quist waited for Corliss and Arbuckle to emerge. He nodded to Kate and Gene Thornton as the two came through the wide doorway. Kate looked for a moment as though she were about to stop, but Gene spoke to the girl and they moved on in the direction of the hotel. Corliss and Arbuckle appeared on the heels of the last stragglers. With them was a little old man whom Corliss introduced as Town Marshal Dave Eldred. Eldred was rather scrawny with wide sun-bleached mustaches and watery blue eyes. One of the last of the old-timers, Quist thought, and a good man in his prime, but nowadays elected to office through gratitude for good deeds accomplished in the past.
“Glad to meet ye, Mr. Quist,” Eldred spoke, shaking hands. “Whut ye think of the preccedin’s?”
Quist shook his bead. “Damned if I know what to think.”
“Same here,” from Eldred. “Ferris shore called the turn when he said the facts wuz scrambled. Ferris swears he talked to Porter yesterday. Musta been nigh the same time this ranger brought in the body that wuz ’dentified by young Gene Thornton as Porter. Who’s a man to believe?”
Arbuckle said, “Me, I’d be most inclined to swing along with Thornton. At the same time, Ferris took his oath. You can’t overlook that point. But it’s a cinch somebody’s mistaken.”
“What about Ferris?” Quist asked. “He claims to be known around here.”
“That part’s right” Corliss said. “He’s been working on and off for Lombardy for a year or so now. I’ve seen him around town—”
“He’s a no-good, if you ask me,” Marshal Eldred put in. “No, I can’t say nothin’ definite ’bout him. Jest feel it in muh bones.”
“Well, I feel it in my bones I’d better get some dinner,” Corliss laughed. “My belly’s beginning to think my throat’s cut. How about you, Greg—Fred? There’s a Chink’s restaurant just beyond San Antonio Street that serves a mighty tender steak.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Quist said, “but I want to step down to the railroad depot a few minutes first—”
“That reminds me,” Arbuckle cut in, “I want to send a telegram to Captain Craig at Bandera. I’ll go along with you—”
“Bandera ranger headquarters now?” Quist asked.
“For Company K,” Arbuckle nodded. “We’ve been in camp there about six months now. For a time there was some wire-cutting trouble outside of San Antonio, so the whole company was shifted to Bandera which was conveniently near. We haven’t been moved yet, even though the trouble is ended. But I want to keep Jim Craig posted on developments here.”
“You hombres,” Corliss suggested, “drift on down to the depot. I’m almighty thirsty so I’ll wait for you in the Amber Cup. Meet me there.”
The other two nodded and started off, turning the corner at Mesquite Street where it led to Railroad Street. Arbuckle said, as they strode along, “Well, if Ferris’ testimony didn’t do anything else, it got Mrs. Porter off the hook. I was watching those jurors close, and I figured they was set to return some sort of indictment against her. Then Ferris’ spiel really threw them off the track.”
Quist said dryly, “You sound sort of relieved, Fred.”
“Jeepers!” Arbuckle exclaimed. “Certainly you can’t blame me. A woman as beautiful as Mrs. Porter—well, no man in his right senses wants to see her convicted of murder. I just wish—” He hesitated.
Quist grinned. “Come on, out with it.”
“Well, I just wish she wasn’t married. I’d admire a heap to go calling on a woman of her caliber—and with honorable intentions.”
“You sound like you’ve been hard hit.”
“I’m beginning to suspect it myself. If only she wasn’t married I might—”
“Maybe she isn’t,” Quist said.
“I thought that way too—until Ferris showed up with his talk of seeing Porter yesterday. From all I can learn around town, Lloyd Porter was really a skunk.”
“So I hear.”
They turned into Railroad Street, passing heaps of rubbish at the rear of buildings fronting on Main, and within a few minutes reached the station. Quist found a telegraph blank at a desk against one wall and quickly scribbled out a message directed to a T.N. & A.S. operative in New Mexico, then took it to the ticket window and passed it in to be sent. He glanced at Arbuckle, stub of pencil in right hand, frowning over the pad of telegraph blanks as though uncertain what to say.
Quist said, “I’ll wait for you out on the platform, Fred.”
“Right. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
As Quist stepped outside, he could hear the clickety-click-click of the telegraph key forwarding his message. Over the course of years’ employ with the T.N. & A.S. he had picked up considerable knowledge of the Morse code, which from time to time was of value to him. While unable to send, Quist could listen in and interpret messages being sent, and had fallen into the habit of unconsciously listening whenever he was in the vicinity of a telegrapher.
His eyes roved along the platform and saw Stationmaster Nugent busy with way-bills and checking some freight. Nugent saw him and called that he’d be with him in a minute. Through the open windows of the station, the telegraph instrument crackled and snapped. Quist could pick up the message: “…Craig, Company K, Bandera…” The next few words were too fast for Quist, then he caught some more: “…and developments here too complicated…for wire… Will keep you posted… Will write…” And the signature: “…Fred Arbuckle, Sergeant…”
Quist chuckled. “Damned if I’m not getting to be a regular eavesdropper.”
At the moment Nugent approached. “Anything I can do for you, Mr. Quist?”
“Maybe. Did you happen to see who got off eastbound #18 when it stopped this morning?”
Nugent nodded. “I saw several people. Few folks I know in town. A whisky drummer that makes regular stops here. Salesman for building materials. You expect anybody in particular?”
“Do you happen to know a cowhand by the name of Ferris, works for the L-Bar-D?”
Nugent shoved his cap to the back of his head and frowned. “Ye-es, think I do,” he said slowly. “Seen him around town on occasion. If it’s him you mean, he didn’t get off #18—at least I didn’t see him. I didn’t see any cow-folks get off, for that matter. You can generally spot ’em.”
Arbuckle came up at that time. Quist said, “I’m trying to get a line on Ferris. I gathered that he meant he had arrived on #18—that’s the eastbound passenger that arrives here at ten-thirty each morning. The stationmaster says he didn’t see him get off.”
Arbuckle’s eyebrows raised. “Could be Mister Ferris is telling lies.”
Quist nodded. Nugent said, “Of course, he might have ridden in the caboose. That stops down the track farther. In that case I might not see him get off.”
Quist said, “Or he may have bummed his ride. Rode the rods, or beat the fare some other way. He mentioned being short of cash, and to me he didn’t appear to be the sort of hombre who’d pay money for a ticket if it could be avoided.”
“It’s possible,” Arbuckle said dubiously.
Quist shrugged. “Well, I’ll give the bustard the benefit of the doubt, until I learn something more definite. Thanks, Nugent.”
He and Arbuckle pursued their way back to Main Street and thence into the Amber Cup where they found Corliss and several other men discussing the inquest. Corliss said, “Have one on me?”
Mickey Kurtz took Quist’s order for beer. Arbuckle asked for a “touch” of Old Crow. They had just been served when Doc Ingram entered and joined them at the bar. “Thought I might find you here, Lish,” he said, and to the bartender, “Nothing right now, Mickey.”
“Your jury reach a finding yet?” Corliss asked.
Ingram nodded. “They just finished deliberating. The verdict is to the effect that Lloyd Porter or someone unknown—they couldn’t decide which—met
his death as the result of an inflicted gunshot, fired by someone unknown—if all that makes sense.” The doctor swore, and continued, “Also the sheriff of this county is directed to immediately take steps to apprehend the murderer.”
Corliss groaned. “And now they hand me a puzzle to solve,” he said bitterly.
“Hell’s-bells!” Ingram said, “It might have been worse. Juror #3 held out for some sort of a verdict of suicide. Claimed Porter might have shot himself—presumably with a shotgun. I had to remind him that no shotgun was found, but he was stubborn as a hawg on ice for a spell.”
“Juror #3,” Corliss scowled, “that’s Jiggs Tanner. I’d figure him as the smartest man in the lot too. I guess they’re all nitwits.”
“You rounded ’em up for me,” Ingram reminded the sheriff.
“Hereafter,” Corliss said sourly, “I’ll pick nobody but personal friends for your juries, Doc—people who won’t hand me puzzles to figure out.”
“Gosh, Lish,” Ingram asked, “what else can you expect?”
“Damned if I know,” the sheriff conceded. “I reckon they did the only thing possible.” And to Arbuckle and Quist, “Let’s go eat. No man can think without proper nourishment in his bread-basket.”
The three men left with Ingram, carrying his black bag, close behind. The doctor declined an invitation to accompany them on the plea that he had to make the calls he had missed that morning. “And if we don’t have another inquest for months,” Ingram said acidly, “it will be too soon. They take up too much of my time.”
The Chinese restaurant was a small place just west of San Antonio Street, on the south side of Main. The three men entered and three-quarters of an hour later emerged feeling better prepared to meet the rest of the day: the Chinese cook’s steaks had lived up to Corliss’ praise “so tender they could be cut with a fork.”
