by Noel Loomis
“That was signed,” Arbuckle said, “Drumm & Tidwell Company, San Francisco, and merely stated, ‘Shipment goes forward on the thirteenth of this month, as per request.’ That was dated five months back, Greg. The other letters were dated two and three months ago. What do you make of it?”
Quist frowned. “Hell’s-bells on a tomcat! I don’t make anything of it, Lish. It’s a puzzle to me. Drumm & Tidwell is the company that shipped the preserves I’m trying to run down. Uhlmann Wholesale was the consignee. I’ll see what I can do about checking on those two companies, to see what connection they have—or had—with some hombre named Leftwick. Meanwhile, why don’t you shoot a telegram to those hotels—Menger, Driskill and Palace—and learn if they can tell you anything about Mead Leftwick? You may get some sort of lead in that direction.”
“I’ll do that,” the sheriff said. “We’ll see what can be turned up.”
The three men stood talking and speculating some minutes longer on the sidewalk before Cromlech’s Undertaking Parlors. Ferris came walking slowly from the entrance of the building, his face very white. He slipped past Quist and the other two without saying a word, holding his side and with an agonized expression on his features. The three men followed him with their eyes and saw him enter the Warbonnet Saloon, a few doors beyond Main Street.
Arbuckle grinned. “Well, Ferris isn’t hurt so bad that it destroyed his taste for liquor, I reckon.”
“That type,” Quist smiled, “is damn’ hard to discourage where a taste for liquor is concerned. Come to think of it, if I’d been plugged with a .44 and had the slug extracted, I’d welcome a couple of fingers of whisky myself.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Corliss chuckled.
Doc Ingram, followed by Mort Cromlech, appeared from the doorway of the undertaking establishment. Ingram said, “Ferris wasn’t bad hurt. He yelled like a stuck pig while I was probing out your slug, Greg, but that just showed he was a mite yellow. I bandaged him up, and he’ll feel as good as new, come mornin’. That .44 bullet scarcely got under his skin.”
“What about that dead man Deray brought in?” Quist asked.
Ingram frowned. “Nobody seems to know who he is. I’ve arranged with Mort to have his body on view through tomorrow morning, to see if anybody hereabouts knows him. Lish, will you pass the word around town that I’d like to have folks take a look at this unknown hombre, and see if we can learn anything about him.”
“I’ll do that,” Corliss said. “Y’know, I keep thinking about that hombre being plugged in the back, and then I think about Deray waiting until Greg’s back was turned before, going for his gun.”
“You figuring Deray shot this Leftwick hombre?” Arbuckle asked.
“I’m damned if I know,” the sheriff confessed. “But it’s something to think about.”
Arbuckle said, “Yeah—maybe.” He didn’t seem entirely convinced.
Quist said, “Suppose nobody appears who can tell us anything about Leftwick, Doc?”
“We’ll hold an inquest tomorrow afternoon,” Ingram said. “Get any testimony that’s possible, then bury the man at county expense. I don’t know what else we can do, do you, Greg?”
“Damned if I know what to say,” Quist replied slowly. “I just hate to have that fellow put under earth until we get more chance to learn something about him.” He turned to Arbuckle and Corliss. “What about Leftwick’s clothing? Cow country stuff?”
“Cow country, probably,” Corliss replied, “but not cowman. In the first place, Leftwick’s hands didn’t show the calluses a puncher acquires in his work. At the same time, worn places in the pants showed he’d done plenty of riding.” Quist asked a question. Corliss said, “Nothing unusual about the togs. Dark gray woolen pants, flannel shirt, necktie, instead of a bandanna. You see dozens of similar sombreros every day. One thing did sort of bother me. Cromlech swears that when he undressed the body, the pant-legs were outside the boots. And yet the lower part of the pant-legs were unfaded, as though Leftwick had been accustomed to tucking them into his boot-tops—knee-length boots, incidentally. Make anything of that, Greg?”
Quist shrugged. “Not at the moment. Maybe the guy was used to tucking his pants in his boots, but the last time he dressed he was in a hurry, and just let ’em hang.” He turned to Ingram, “Look here, Doc, can you postpone the inquest on Leftwick for a spell?”
“Why?” Ingram wanted to know.
“I’m not sure,” Quist admitted. “I’m just working on a hunch. Maybe if we stall off the inquest, something will turn up to give us some facts to go on.”
“How long would you want the inquest postponed?” Ingram asked.
“I’m not sure about that, either,” Quist stated. “I’m just asking that you keep that body on tap until I say go ahead with the burial.”
“Hey, Mr. Quist,” Mort Cromlech protested, “don’t you realize holding that body will cost money? Ice don’t come cheap in this country.”
Impatiently, Quist said, “You’ll get your money—and I don’t care if it costs enough to cover the whole town with ice.”
“It’ll be expensive,” Ingram cut in. “I’m not sure the county will approve a cost of that sort—”
Quist half snarled, “Nobody’s asking your county to approve anything, Doc. Charge the cost to the T.N. & A.S. I’ll be responsible for my company paying.”
“Well, if you insist—” Ingram began dubiously.
“I do insist,” Quist snapped.
Arbuckle asked, “Greg, what do you know that we don’t?”
“I’m not sure I know a blasted thing,” Quist said morosely. “Dammit, didn’t I just tell you I was working on a hunch? And I learned long ago not to disregard hunches. I can’t say why, but I just feel I’m working in the right direction. Sure, maybe it sounds foolish to you, but I’m so sick of problems cropping up that can’t be explained, that I’m ready to try something else—something foolish.”
Arbuckle smiled. “Seems I’ve heard it said that when Greg Quist acts foolish—he’s acting foolish like a fox.”
Quist glared at the ranger, but didn’t make any reply.
CHAPTER 13
SUSPECTS
Quist spent the remainder of the afternoon strolling around, visiting barrooms here and there, listening to conversations in the hope of picking up information that might prove valuable, but he had to admit when, just before supper time, he dropped into the Amber Cup for a beer, he knew little more than he had known before. Men had talked quite freely when questioned, but Quist had gained nothing definite on which to act. A couple of times Ellen Bristol’s name had entered the conversation, connected with not only Porter and Gene Thornton, but Damaret Gilmore, owner of the Diamond-G, as well. One man claimed to have overheard a quarrel between Porter and Gene some five weeks previously, in which the girl’s name had played a part. Quist remembered now that Doc Ingram had commented that Gene “wanted to make good,” on Ellen’s account. Quist mused, “It might pay to get acquainted with that girl and ask a few questions.”
By the time he’d finished his beer and stepped out to the street, the sun was low behind the tumbled ridges of the Clarin Mountains, the Devil’s Drum being silhouetted sharply against the reddening sky. Stores along Main Street were being closed for the day. When Quist had gone to his hotel room, shaved and changed his shirt and again descended to the lobby, the dining room looked quite full. He noticed a girl standing in the lobby as he passed through, but beyond taking note of the fact she was of slight build and extremely pretty, he thought nothing of the matter, judging she was waiting for someone.
There was a buzz of conversation in the dining room and the sounds of cutlery and dishes. The door leading to the kitchen seemed almost continually in motion as waiters passed through. Quist glanced over the room and saw but one table unoccupied, and that in a far corner. He sat down and within a few minutes his order for ham and fried potatoes had been taken. The waiter had scarcely left when, glancing around, Quist saw the girl he’d noti
ced in the lobby, just entering. She looked uncertainly about, seeking a table; with the exception of Quist’s all the tables were filled. The girl started toward him, then paused. Quist, sensing what was in her mind, immediately rose and indicated a place across from his own. She approached immediately.
“Do you mind if I sit at your table?”
“On the contrary,” Quist replied, “I’d be honored.” He drew out a chair for her, then reseated himself. He added something about the dining room being crowded, which was interrupted by the waiter arriving for her order. A few minutes later he said, “May I introduce myself? I’m Gregory Quist.”
The girl smiled. “I doubt there’s anyone in Clarion City doesn’t know Mr. Quist. Just your coming here created something of a stir. You’re quite famous.” Quist protested that in polite tones. The girl went on, “I’m Ellen Bristol. I have a ladies’ goods shop here.”
Quist nodded. “I believe we have mutual friends—Gene Thornton and Mrs. Porter.” Ellen Bristol made some appropriate remark. The girl was definitely pretty, somewhere in the vicinity of Gene’s age, though probably a year or two older. She had very dark hair, almost raven-wing black, parted in the center and drawn to a big knot at her nape. Her eyes were a deep blue, well spaced, her face oval, the lips full and red. There was a touch of lace at the throat and wrists on the dress she wore. Not tall and with small bones.
Conversation lagged. Food arrived and they commenced to eat. Quist noticed the girl appeared slightly nervous. Once or twice she had appeared about to say something, then changed her mind. Quist washed down a chunk of ham with a swallow of coffee, and said quietly, “Miss Bristol, what’s on your mind? You were waiting in the lobby when I passed through. You undoubtedly knew the dining room was filling up and yet you waited until I was seated, before coming in.” He smiled suddenly and the girl read the laughter in his topaz eyes and knew he’d not been fooled. “And so there you were, a poor helpless woman, and only one table left at which you might find a seat. You did want to talk to me about something, didn’t you?”
Ellen Bristol bit her lip. “It was a pretty cheap trick, wasn’t it, Mr. Quist?”
“Let’s call it a maneuver that didn’t fool anyone—I’m afraid not even some of the people in this dining room. Conversation at various spots sort of picked up when you decided to come to my table.”
The girl gave a slight shrug, chewed a moment at a morsel of food. “Conversation where I’m concerned has picked up before. I try to ignore it, not—”
“Fight as Kate Porter does?” Quist put in. “Well, I’m not sure which provides the best defense. But you did want to talk to me, didn’t you?”
The girl said directly. “I wanted to talk to you as soon as Kate told me she was going to try to bring you here.”
“Mrs. Porter told you—?”
“We’re quite good friends. I sold her her traveling outfit, just before she left to see you in El Paso.” Ellen Bristol smiled. “I don’t think she cared much for it. Kate feels more at home in range togs than anything else, I guess”—she paused—“anyway, that’s what she says nowadays.”
“She’s carrying a ‘range-togs’ job, I hear,” Quist said, smiling, “though I seem to remember a very feminine bonnet covered with violets.” Ellen Bristol smiled, and Quist concluded, “Anyway, we were to talk about you, not Mrs. Porter. Exactly what is it you want to tell me?”
“I wanted to ask you to do all possible to find Lloyd Porter’s murderer, Mr. Quist.” The girl explained, “I think the sooner that is cleared up, the happier Kate will be. Things will straighten themselves out, and Gene—well, Gene will be more happy.” Her last words came with a rush, “I love Gene terribly, Mr. Quist, and the sooner we can be married—” She seemed very earnest.
“Doc Ingram gave me to understand something like that was in the wind,” Quist said. “But is there any reason why Gene can’t marry you now, Miss Bristol?”
Apparently, there were a number of reasons. Gene wanted to make a name as an artist. He didn’t want to get married while Kate was in trouble. There seemed to be talk, since the inquest, that Lloyd Porter wasn’t the man found dead and that increased the difficulties. There’d been trouble about Porter too…Quist broke in on the girl’s talk: “What sort of trouble did you have with Porter?”
Ellen hesitated, then, “If I don’t tell you, you’ll hear it around town. The fact is, Lloyd Porter visited my shop much oftener than I cared to see him. It caused a great deal of talk, but I couldn’t seem to get rid of him. There was trouble—”
“You mean, Gene threatened to kill him if he didn’t stay away from you.” It was a statement rather than a question.
The girl gasped, “I didn’t say that at all—”
“You said more than you intended to say, Miss Bristol. I can tell from your manner that I made a good guess. All right, if it makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop the subject, so far as Gene’s threats are concerned. But I can’t see why Porter couldn’t be stopped from bothering you. A word to Sheriff Corliss, or Marshal Eldred—”
“That would just have made more talk around town—it might have brought things into more prominence.”
“What things?” Quist asked. “Apparently, you feared Porter. Why?”
The girl bent silently over her food. Quist swallowed a couple more mouthfuls while he waited. Finally she lifted her head. “I think I’ve said enough, Mr. Quist. I seem to be involving others. Just please remember that I’ve never fired a shotgun in my life.”
“Great Christopher!” Quist exclaimed. “I’ve not suspected you. Whatever gave you the idea—?”
The girl said again, “I think I’ve said enough, Mr. Quist. For the present.” Nervously, her fingers plucked at the cloth on the table. “But please do one thing for me. If you hear of—of anything—concerning me, will you please first give me a chance to explain, before taking any action?”
“Of course,” Quist promised, smiling. “Now forget your troubles for a while. We’ll talk no more about Porter. I’m afraid this conversation has spoiled your dinner. Tell me about yourself…”
The girl’s manner changed and she talked of early school days in San Antonio, of experience in dressmaking and millinery. “There seemed to be better opportunities in a small town,” she said. “Clarion City seemed progressive, so I came here to open my shop…” By the time supper was concluded and Quist was lighting a cigar, the girl seemed gay and cheerful, though Quist could tell she had something on her mind. He accompanied her out to the lobby, asking if he could pay for her supper. When she refused with thanks, he didn’t press the offer.
When she had left the hotel, he stood on the gallery mulling over what he had heard. It was dark along Main Street now; only a few lights shone here and there. The end of his cigar glowed and died in the darkness. “Dammit,” he growled at last, “she was holding something back. What was it? Something she was afraid I might uncover. Else, why ask me to give her a chance to explain before taking action?” He added a trifle bitterly, “I wish to hell pretty women would stay out of my job.”
He left the hotel gallery and strode down to the depot to see if any telegrams had arrived for him. None had, but he took the opportunity while there to send a wire to the T.N. & A.S. operative in San Antonio. That done, he walked around town a while and eventually wound up at Lish Corliss’ office, only to find that the sheriff wasn’t there. Turning back, he passed the Chinese restaurant and saw Fred Arbuckle through the window, seated within. “Looks like Fred goes for those steaks,” Quist chuckled, and walked on. Eventually he ended up at the Amber Cup Saloon where he requested a bottle of beer “not too cold.”
There were only a few customers in the saloon as yet Mickey Kurtz made him acquainted with two of them, Damaret Gilmore, lean, thin-faced, with high cheekbones, and owner of the Diamond-G Ranch; and the burly Jarvis Fanchon, who ran the Jar-F outfit. Both were in their early thirties. Gilmore had the sort of reddish complexion that usually accompanies a hot temper. Fanchon had
the features of a man who is always on the defensive and always fears to get the worst of a bargain. Quist put him down as a grudge-holder, having heard Fanchon made various derogatory remarks about local people.
The two men had been apparently discussing some sort of mutual cattle deal, or trade, so Quist, after shaking hands with them, moved his bottle of beer farther along the bar. When that was empty he ordered a second bottle. Arbuckle showed up after a time and joined him in a drink. Arbuckle said,
“I cornered Luke Ferris down the street a spell back, and—”
“Able to get around, is he?” Quist said.
“Hell, he was lucky. Your slug just furrowed in under the skin. No worse a wound than you and I have had many a time in just ordinary work. ’Course, he belly-aches a lot and swears he’ll get even with you. I pointed out to the damn’ fool it was Deray’s fault for shoving him in front of your gun—”
“You said something about cornering him,” Quist reminded.
“Oh, yeah. You know we were wondering just how he got here from Albuquerque. Well, I persuaded him to ’fess up. He never bought a ticket for that train. What he did was sneak on that train and ride between the coaches.”
“Bummed a ride, eh?” Quist laughed. “The law provides penalties for cheating a railroad of its due fare. If he starts to get tough with me I’ll threaten him with prosecution.”
Arbuckle grinned. “Yeah—I can imagine you bothering your head over small scum like Ferris.” He sobered. “But damned if I could shake the scut’s story that he talked to Porter yesterday.” Kurtz came along the bar and turned higher one of the oil-lamps swinging overhead. Arbuckle watched the bartender, then straightened from his lounging position on the bar. “Well, I’ve got to get along to my room and write a letter to Captain Craig about developments here. Hate letter-writing worse’n poison, too—but there’s too much to put in a telegram.” He and Quist chatted a few minutes longer, then the ranger took his departure.
