by Noel Loomis
Quist nodded and headed “’tother side of that barn yonderly.” Rounding a corner of the big rock-and-adobe structure, Quist spied Gene seated on the earth a short distance away, bent over a board on which was stretched a sheet of watercolor paper. Near at hand was Gene’s palette and box of colors, and a jar of water which had been turned to a dirty grayish color. Gene’s brush was moving steadily across the paper, and from time to time he dipped into his box of paints and jar of water.
It wasn’t until Quist was almost on top of him that Gene glanced up. A sort of faraway look faded from his eyes, and he smiled briefly. “Good to see you, Greg. Be with you in a minute, I want to get this finished.…” His voice trailed off as he once more concentrated on the paper before him. Quist moved around behind Gene and squatted down nearby where he could watch. Now he saw what Gene was depicting: One corner of the barn, with an old gray saddled cowpony standing tethered to a hitch rail extending from the barn. Back of the horse, standing in full sunlight, was a huge old oak tree for a background. The whole made a nice triangular composition—barn at one side, lower down the pony and leafy oak boughs reaching to the upper corner.
The painting was nearly completed. A few penciled spaces remained white paper. Patches and lines of white paper spotted variously made highlights. Gene was working swiftly now, brush flowing color here and there, touching in other color while the first was still wet.
Gene spoke without raising his head. “How do you like my model?”
Quist chuckled, “Looks to me like that old pony would make a better model than a work horse.”
“Right. Too old for work any more…” He continued talking while he painted. “I have to work fast in this sun. Color dries almost as soon as I put it down. And then, ten to one, once I get this picture inside, the colors won’t be near so bright as they look now.” His brush, a round one and rather big, Quist thought, considering some of the finer lines being painted, moved to the barn. As though by magic, rectangles of gray rock appeared in the wall. The horse was already finished, as was the oak tree. A broken window in the barn caught a bit of reflected light, with beyond the jagged edge the darkness of the interior. Small rocks and earth color, straggly grass commenced to appear in the foreground. “Damn foregrounds,” Gene muttered then, “How’s it look to you, Greg?”
“We-ell, can’t say I know anything about art, but it looks damn’ good. Just an old cowhorse patiently waiting for its rider to show up.”
Gene’s brush moved with darker color now. Black shadows, details, accents appeared. “Jeepers!” Quist exclaimed, “Those shadows really bring out the light, don’t they? Now I can see the sun just blazing down. That looks pretty wonderful to me. Don’t wonder you want to paint.”
Gene shook his head, stuck his brush in water and gave it a couple of sharp flicks. “It’s finished, but it’s far from wonderful, Greg. I can’t draw yet—”
“T’hell you can’t!”
“All right, let’s say I’ve got a lot to learn about drawing. Look at that pony’s lower jaw. Too thick by far,”—indicating with the wooden end of the paint brush. “My line’s too thick, too much shadow. Ever see any of this man Remington’s pictures in Harper’s Weekly?” Quist nodded. Gene said, “There’s a man who can handle horses. There’s a hombre up in Montana, named Charley Russell, who’s damn’ good too.” Gene emptied his water jar and started gathering up his equipment. “But for sheer line drawing that can’t be beat, I’ll take a Mex from down in Ventoso. Why, he can express more—”
“Ventoso?” Quist said quickly.
“Yeah. What’s up?” The two men got to their feet, Gene carrying his equipment.
“I happened to think that it was on Ventoso Street that Ferris had been visiting in Albuquerque—so he claimed.”
“Oh, yes he did. I remember. That’s a coincidence. The Ventoso I mean is down in Mexico, about thirty-five miles due south of Clarion City. This Mex, as I understand it, is trying to save enough money to go to art school. Lord, he’s clever. No, I don’t know him. He did a sketch of Porter one time—”
“What was Porter doing in Ventoso?” Quist asked.
Gene’s face darkened. He shrugged. “That’s something I don’t know. Something to do with his business deals—which he never explained to any of us. This Mexican, name of Cubero, had done the sketch while Porter was in his cantina and gave it to Porter. Porter brought it back and gave it to me. Seems the Mexican just sits in his place all day, sketching anybody that comes in.”
“I’ve been wondering if you had a photograph of Porter at the house. I’d like to see what the hombre looks like.”
“There’s a photo of him in his old room. I’ll show it to you and the sketch too, after we’ve had chow. You going to Porter’s funeral tomorrow, Greg?” Quist said he didn’t think so. Gene said moodily, “Kate says she’s going, so I reckon I’ll have to accompany her.” He untethered his “model” and led it back to the corral while they talked.
At dinner, Quist met a couple more Rocking-T hands. Kate and her father hadn’t returned from their ride yet. Dinner concluded, Gene led the way to the house. While Quist waited in the main room, a large airy chamber with Indian rugs on the floor and a huge rock fireplace, Gene went to an inner room. He reappeared in a few minutes, bearing the photograph and sketch. Quist studied the photo and saw a man with even regular features and a rather petulant mouth. Not bad looking though.
“Now look at this sketch,” Gene urged, holding up the paper with its charcoal lines. “See how the Mexican caught Porter’s likeness, even if it is a caricature? And the few lines he needed to do it! I’ve never seen anything like it, and I saw a lot of fine stuff in Chicago. Look at this long curve— What that man can express with a single line! The way the line thickens and diminishes gives him the modeling. And this line here, from forehead to chin, with the nose and mouth between. It’s just a sort of ‘squiggle’ actually, but it tells the whole story. Can you see it?”
“Jeepers! I couldn’t miss it,” Quist exclaimed. “The Mexican has got everything with just lines, that shows in the photograph, only he’s brought out a certain weakness you don’t see at first, in the photo. How in the devil can a man do that?”
“The Mexican is a genius. I’ve always been intending to ride down to Ventoso and talk to him, but never got around to it.” Gene placed the sketch and photograph on a table. “Drop down and take a load off your boots, Greg,” he said, seating himself.
Quist settled to a comfortable chair. “I’d thought to see your sister, but maybe you’ll do just as well. Wanted to talk to you, anyway. What gauge shotguns do you and Mrs. Porter use generally?”
Gene’s eyes narrowed. “You’re remembering that Kate and I were out with shotguns the day Porter was killed—if it was Porter.”
“I’m riding along with the idea it was,” Quist said. “I think Ferris lied.”
“Lord, I hope so,” Gene said darkly. Then, “That’s a hell of a thing to say about a brother-in-law, I suppose, but that louse—”
“I was asking about shotguns,” Quist cut in dryly.
Gene nodded, smiling wryly, “So you’re still wondering if Kate or I had anything to do with the job.”
“And I’m still asking about shotguns. Come down off your high horse. I’ve made no accusations. I’m just trying to eliminate certain factors.”
Gene drew a long sigh. “Kate uses a 16-gauge, shells loaded with #7 shot. I use a #12-gauge. Usually I shoot shells loaded with #5 or #6 shot. I can see what you’re aiming at, Greg. Let me remind you that Doc Ingram testified that the shot that tore Porter’s face loose, was much larger—a #2. I’ve been thinking things over. Porter always loaded with #2. Do you suppose there’s a chance he was killed with his own shotgun?”
“It’s possible,” Quist said. “I was sort of playing with that idea myself. When you identified him, did you notice whether his six-shooter had been fired?”
“I checked on that, first thing. The cylinder carried five
cartridges, with the hammer resting on an empty shell. The barrel was clean. To get back to Kate’s and my loads a minute. You want me to show you our shells?”
Quist smiled. “I’m willing to take your word for it. If either of you had loaded shells with #2 shot, you’d not admit it to me now, anyway. So I’m giving you both the benefit of the doubt—at present.”
“Thanks for nothing,” Gene said tersely.
“Look, you damn’ young idiot,” Quist snapped. “Don’t be so blasted suspicious. If you’d use your noodle, you’d realize I’m trying to help you and your sister—clear you of guilt.”
“I know, Greg,” Gene said apologetically. “It’s just that things have been so damn’ muddled, I—I—well, I guess like you said, I don’t use my head. I’m sorry. You got any more questions?”
“Yes. What’s been the trouble between your outfit and Lombardy’s L-Bar-D—?”
“That reminds me,” Gene said, “one of our hands was in town and he brought back a report that you’d tangled with Gilly Deray—”
“It didn’t amount to much,” Quist said, and gave brief details. “Then, last night, I sort of goaded Lombardy into talking too much. He talked plenty. One of the things I’ve picked up around town is there’s bad feeling between the Rocking-T and the Lombardy crowd.”
“I think we’re in the right there,” Gene said. “The L-Bar-D hasn’t too much grazing in bad seasons, and sometimes their waterholes run low. Lombardy tried to chisel in on our holdings, a couple of years back when we had a near drought There was just enough water for our herds, so we turned back Lombardy’s cows. Lombardy swore he’d get even some day. Since then, our hands have had orders to always turn back L-Bar-D cows when they stray over our way. It’s made hard feelings between the two crews, too, of course. But I guess Lombardy got discouraged. He sold most of his herd to Jarv Fanchon.” Gene frowned. “He never did reduce his crew though, and those L-Bar-D hands always seem well heeled.”
“Maybe Lombardy is running some other sort of game. Meanwhile, I’d like to know why you and Porter quarreled over Ellen Bristol—”
Gene’s face flamed. “Now, look here, Quist—”
Quist said sharply, “Cut it, Gene. I’ve talked to Ellen. She’s worried. Now use sense. If you won’t tell me, somebody else will.” He related briefly his talk with Ellen Bristol.
“All right,” Gene sullenly surrendered. “Ellen and I expect to get married. Porter was smitten with her, and took to hanging around her shop too often. I was already sore over the way he was treating Kate. Also, Ellen acted like she was afraid of Porter. I told him off on Main Street, one day. Several people heard me tell Porter if he didn’t stay away from Ellen I’d use a gun on him. Now make of that what you will. I was mad and lost my temper.” Quist merely nodded. Gene went on:
“Then, later Damaret Gilmore got into the argument. Gilmore had sparked Kate, until she married Porter, then he switched over to Ellen. He didn’t like Porter hanging around Ellen either, and he made certain threats. Maybe Gilmore killed him—if Porter has been killed. I just know I didn’t. I’ve the inside track with Ellen now, but I imagine Gilmore is still hopeful.”
“Thanks for clearing up a few matters,” Quist said. The two men conversed a while longer, then Quist rose and stated he’d have to be getting back to town. Gene glanced curiously at his bulging pocket, saying, “Greg, looks like you’re getting sort of ‘hippy.’”
Quist laughed. “I was over near Shoulder Bluff before I came here. Found two cans of those missing preserves. I’m aiming to send ’em to our division superintendent with a sarcastic message.” They left the house and walked down to the corral to get Quist’s horse.
As Quist was about to leave, Kate and her father rode in. Wyatt Thornton had been a big man in his prime, but now his frame was wasted through long illness. He and Kate greeted Quist cordially, after the elder Thornton had been assisted down from the saddle. Quist said, “I went to the hotel yesterday to inquire as to the trouble you and Lombardy’s spread had had, but you’d already left. However, Gene has explained it.” They discussed that subject a few minutes. Quist mentioned the dead man, Leftwick, being found and brought to town.
Thornton said in his old man’s voice, “Seems to be an all-fired lot of skullduggery taking over this country in past years.”
Quist asked if they knew or had ever heard of Leftwick. All three shook their heads. Quist started to mount. The elder Thornton invited him to stay for supper. Quist refused with thanks, saying he had to get back to town. In that case, Kate said, perhaps Quist could deliver a message to Lish Corliss. Quist said he’d be glad to and asked what the message was. Kate explained: “Dad and I found my husb—Lloyd Porter’s horse, today, over in the foothills. It should be reported to the sheriff—”
“The devil you did!” Quist exclaimed.
Kate nodded. “The horse had stepped into a gopher hole and snapped a front leg. Someone had put a bullet in its head.”
“You’re sure it was Porter’s horse?” Quist asked.
“I’m certain,” Kate said firmly. “Both Dad and I recognized the saddle too. The carcass was only about half a mile from where that ranger found the body. I’ll have to send a couple of the boys out to bury the horse tomorrow.”
“You didn’t see any sign of Porter’s shotgun, did you?”
Kate shook her head. Old Thornton said, “Nary a sign. Maybe it ain’t Christian-like, but whoever used that scatter-gun on Porter did a good job. Was I a jury, I’d never convict him.”
Neither Kate nor Gene said anything. A few minutes later, Quist rode away from the ranch after promising to come again soon.
CHAPTER 15
BLACKMAIL
It was late afternoon when Quist reached Clarion City. Crossing the plank bridge over Clarin Creek, he turned the buckskin right to reach Railroad Street and made his way to the T.N. & A.S. depot where he found two telegrams awaiting him. He read them through, then remounted and headed the pony for the livery stable. To the livery man he gave explicit instructions regarding the care of the horse: “And give him a good rubdown and a feed of oats. I’ll be needing him again tonight, maybe, and I want him in prime condition.”
There were the usual pedestrians along Main Street as Quist headed toward the sheriff’s office. Here he found both Lish Corliss and Fred Arbuckle who hailed him with questions as to where he’d been all day. Corliss added, “I heard at the livery that you’d saddled up and headed out.”
“I’ve been out to the Rocking-T. Saw Gene and Kate. Kate asked me to give you a message, Lish.”
“Lucky Lish,” Arbuckle grinned. “I wish some beautiful lady—”
“Kate did?” Corliss interrupted, face brightening.
Quist explained, “She and her father were out riding today. They ran across Porter’s horse. It had been killed after breaking a leg in a fall.” He turned to Arbuckle, “It was only about a half a mile from where you found Porter’s body, I understand.”
“T’hell you say,” Arbuckle said. “That just goes to show I should have circled wider in my search for sign. But I was damn’ anxious to get that body to town—”
“Finding that horse reminds me of something else,” Corliss said. He looked somewhat disappointed that Kate’s message hadn’t been of different import. “You know one of the teams and wagons those teamsters drove that night, never was found. Well, the team and wagon was turned in today. Feller living south of the tracks claims he found the mules and wagon right near his place one morning, ’bout three weeks back. Well, he had some hauling to do, toting his in-laws to Junctionville, so he just kept the wagon until he got back. Then, so he says, he got to thinking he’d best turn them in to the sheriff’s office.”
“Do you believe him?” Quist asked.
Corliss nodded. “Jeff Fargol—never does work much. Seems to visit between here and Junctionville most of the time. But he’s honest. I reckon those fool mules just strayed into his neighborhood.”
Quist dis
missed the subject. “I had an answer to our investigator in Albuquerque regarding that address that Ferris gave. One-Twenty-Three Ventoso turns out to be a Hay & Feed Store. And they never had any dear old lady named Ferris there.”
“Proving Ferris lied.” Arbuckle frowned. “Next time I see him in town—”
“I’d just as soon you let it ride, Fred,” Quist said. “Let the scut think he’s got us all fooled. Maybe he’ll hang himself yet.”
“You’re probably right,” Arbuckle agreed reluctantly. “Just the same I wish I’d known about that today. Lish and I were out looking at the place where Deray claims he found that Leftwick body.”
“Uncover anything?” Quist asked.
Both men shook their heads. “Oh, it looked like there had been a grave there—the earth and tumbled rock and so on,” Corliss added, “but we couldn’t find anything to shake Deray’s word. He’s in town now and I talked to him again a spell before you got here. He insists he found that body just as he told it.”
“So we’ll have to let that lay as is, until we learn different,” Quist said. “I mentioned the finding of Leftwick’s body to Mrs. Porter and her father and brother. They know of no one by that name. Lish, you were going to check with those hotels—”
“Got replies this afternoon,” Corliss answered, “from the Denver Palace, the Menger in San Antonio and the Driskill in Austin. All have records of a Mead Leftwick staying at their place, at various times, but they could tell me nothing else about him.”
“And that doesn’t help any,” Quist grunted. He turned toward the door. “Well I’m going to get along to the hotel and clean up, then get some supper.”
“How’s for a drink at the Amber Cup first?” Arbuckle invited.
Quist hesitated, then refused reluctantly. “I’ve got a couple of other things to do first. I’ll take you up on it another time, Fred.”
He nodded good-bye to the two, then strode along Main Street until he’d reached Ellen Bristol’s store, which was on the north side of Main just beyond Austin Street. He stepped within and heard a bell tinkle overhead as he opened the door. The shop was empty and Quist had a chance to glance around. There was a worn carpet on the floor and a couple of chairs. Against one wall was a long mirror and several closed cabinets with drawers. A table held a number of women’s hats, and there were two small glass showcases holding ribbons, pins, artificial flowers, and sewing materials. At the rear was a curtained doorway beyond which, Quist judged, Ellen Bristol had living quarters. The curtain was drawn aside and Ellen entered. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Quist. I was out back, emptying some rubbish. I thought I heard the bell—”
