by Noel Loomis
At the mention of Porter’s name, Cubero’s eyes became veiled, the smile vanished from his round brown features. Upon questioning he reluctantly admitted that Porter had visited the Cantina of Golden Wine. Quist placed all his cards on the table, telling of his connection with the T.N. & A.S. and of his need for information. “There was a matter of thieving from a freight train,” Quist stated. “I think Porter was involved and others from near Clarion City.”
It took considerable persuasion before Cubero consented to tell what he knew. Yes, Porter and others had been in the habit of coming to Ventoso from time to time. But that was nearly two years ago, except—Cubero paused. Quist asked further questions. No, Cubero didn’t know why they came. They stayed a day or two, and then in the night someone would arrive from the south with pack-horses which were turned over to Porter and the men with him to drive toward the north.
“And the pack-horses were loaded with what?” Quist asked.
“That I can not say with a certainty,” Cubero replied cautiously.
“Could it have been narcotics?” Quist pursued.
Cubero studied Quist with a long stare. “I have sometimes thought so,” he admitted. “But it is not wise for us to meddle with gringos’ affairs, Señor Quist. Your pardon for the word gringo. All are not as you. Then came a day when agents from your government came here. And they waited long, but no more pack-horses with loaded sacks arrived. Nor have any come through since that time, and the Señor Porter and his companions came no more, until—” He paused, “Not too far back, the Señor Porter arrived here, stating he would hunt for the dove. He carried a fine shotgun, but spent all his time in my poor cantina. I thought he watched for one to come with much uneasiness, and he had the look of hoping that one would not come…”
Cubero continued, telling of the arrival of men named Riker and Ferris, and of Porter’s killing of Riker, and the later arrival of one named Mead Leftwick. “It was very plain,” Cubero continued, “that the Señor Porter feared greatly the man named Leftwick, and when Leftwick persuaded him to leave here, I could see a look of death on the Señor Porter’s face. And that is all I know,” he finished simply.
Quist thanked Cubero and said, “Could you from memory make a picture of Porter?”
Cubero smiled. “That would be of the most ease.” He seized a sheet of paper and charcoal, and within a few minutes spun the paper to Quist. Quist glanced at it and saw it was much like the sketch Gene had shown him. Quist complimented the Mexican on the work, saying, “You have a fine memory. Could you do the same for this man Leftwick and others who formerly came here with Porter?”
Cubero was smiling again. Here, in the Señor Quist was a man who appreciated art. Again he seized his charcoal and sent it rapidly darting over sheet after sheet, sometimes pausing to smear a line with one thumb or finger to represent shading. It seemed no time before Quist had a dozen or more sketches of Porter’s accomplices. Cubero had scribbled names to the papers, in such cases as he knew them. It was easy for Quist to recognize Lombardy, Gilly Deray, Ferris and two or three other L-Bar-D punchers. Cubero completed a final sketch. “Here is the one known as Mead Leftwick.”
Quist studied the drawing intently. Cubero said, “Him, too, you have seen?”
Quist said grimly, “I’ve seen him.” He drew out his wallet after rolling the drawings together, and placed some money on the scarred bar. Cubero protested payment, but Quist said, “You have done me a very great service. It is my understanding that you hope to attend a school of art.”
“Si, Señor Quist. Someday—it is only a matter of money—I shall go to Mexico City. What I do now is nothing. There I will learn much, the painting with water color and oils. Someday, too, I hope to paint murals on great walls. But the saving of money requires much time—”
“I promise you it will not be too long. In the matter of the freight thieving I mentioned, my company offers a reward of five hundred dollars. Perhaps I can persuade the company to make it more. I will recommend you to receive that reward. So, you see, Mexico City is nearer than you thought of.”
Cubero’s features were a study in all that is wonderful. He couldn’t find his tongue to speak his joy. And then another voice spoke:
“Only fools plan ahead, hombres.”
Quist spun around facing the open doorway. Gilly Deray stood there, leveled forty-five six-shooter bearing on Quist. How long the man had been standing there, Quist didn’t know, but apparently long enough to learn what Quist had been doing.
“Raise ’em high, Quist,” Deray ordered. Quist raised them. Deray continued. “You had your innings in Clarion City. Now it’s my turn and I’m going to make it count. You’re headed for a long journey—and the Mex too. He’s too goddam free with his drawings. I’ll fix him so he’ll make no more of them sketches—”
“I suppose,”—Quist spoke easily—stalling for time—“you trailed me here, Deray.”
“You suppose correct, Quist. We’ve had enough of you around. It was plumb easy to pick up your sign. I saw you when you rode out of town last night. Me, I’m curious. I wondered what you were up to. I found out.” His eyes grew even more hard, becoming almost opaque, his voice flattened tonelessly. “You won’t be going back, Quist.” He added, “And don’t try to reach that hideout gun of yours. You couldn’t make it in time. Just get reconciled to the fact you’re not going back.”
Cubero finally found his voice. With all the dignity he could summon to his quavering tones he said, “Señor Deray, it is that I order you immediatamente to make the depart of my cantina.”
“Shut your greasy face, Mex,” Deray rasped. For just a brief instant the man’s gaze shifted to Cubero, and it was the chance Quist was waiting for.
Abruptly, Quist threw his body to one side, hearing the roar of Deray’s thundering forty-five as he moved, feeling the breeze of Deray’s bullet as it passed dangerously close. His ear caught the savage thud of the heavy slug as it spat-flattened against a rock in the adobe wall, even as his own six-shooter was jerked into action.
Twice the .44 Colt’s jumped in Quist’s right fist, smoke and white flame mushrooming from the short barrel, the twin explosions coming so closely together they seemed almost one.
Deray was spun half around by the impact of Quist’s fire, as the man endeavored to lift his forty-five for a second try. From a crouching position near the floor, Quist thumbed a third shot.
Fighting to stay erect, Deray was smashed back against the doorjamb. He coughed convulsively and lost his gun. For a moment he seemed to hang poised there in the doorway, then slowly his legs buckled beneath him and he slid down, his body sprawled half in, half out of the entrance.
Powder smoke drifted, was caught up by the draft of wind, and vanished in air. Suddenly, from somewhere out on the street, a woman screamed. Followed an excited chattering of Mexican voices along the glare-hot roadway. A trembling voice called to Cubero.
Quist straightened cautiously from his crouching position, gun in hand, crossed the floor and kicked Deray’s gun out of reach. It was a needless maneuver: Deray was already dead, his shirt front stained darkly with slowly spreading moisture. Quist plugged out his empty shells, inserted fresh loads in his weapon and spoke to Cubero:
“Go quiet your people, Diego. They are concerned for your welfare. Tell them no trouble will come to you because of this business.”
Eyes wide, Cubero nodded. His knees were still shaking a little as he made his way to the street.
CHAPTER 17
A DEFINITE THREAT
There were details to be taken care of in Ventoso that day. So that no trouble might attach to Cubero, due to the killing.
Quist went with him in a wagon to visit the jefe at San Eneas, seven miles farther south. Deray’s body traveled with them. The jefe, a man friendly to gringos, listened quietly to the story. There were certain papers to be signed, the address of Quist’s railroad company taken. No, the jefe told them, there would be no trouble, and, yes, burial for the d
ead man would be seen to at once. It was evening by the time they returned to Ventoso. That night, Quist slept at the home of the ancient Maria Bistula, and the following morning made an early start for Clarion City.
It was shortly after noontime when he pulled his pony to a halt at the T.N. & A.S. depot. A telegram from Jay Fletcher awaited him. Quist read it, and said to himself, “For once Jay didn’t argue. Apparently, he’s getting action.” He paused long enough to send a couple of wires, then left the station and stepped out to the platform. On the platform he saw Stationmaster Nugent. Nugent said, “Did you see Duval Sloan, Mr. Quist?”
“Who?” Quist asked, frowning.
“Sloan—Duval Sloan. The telegrapher at San Julio Station—you know, the feller that got knocked on the head, the night that fake message came through, signed Tyrus Wolcott, and we thought it had been relayed by Sloan—”
“Sure, I remember, now.” Quist’s brow cleared. “What about him?”
“He was looking for you. Took a couple of days off to come up here to see you.”
“About what?” Quist asked.
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t tell me. He appeared right nervous. Every so often he’d come slinking in here to ask for you, like he was afraid of being caught at it. I hear he inquired at the hotel, too.” Quist asked a question. Nugent said, “I don’t know where he is now. He came once this morning asking for you. Haven’t seen him since. Could be he returned to San Julio on #18. But nobody knew where you were.”
“I’ve been out of town. What’s this Duval Sloan like?”
“A whiz at a telegraph key. Otherwise sort of timid. The kind that scares easy. Whines a lot about railroad working conditions.”
“Well, if he shows up again, tell him I’m back.” Quist remounted and rode the buckskin to the livery stable. That done he went to his hotel, washed up and descended to the street again. The hotel clerk mentioned that a man named Sloan had been looking for him. Quist nodded and left to find some dinner. An hour later he entered the sheriff’s office.
Lish said, “Where in hell you been, Greg? We’ve been sort of worried. You weren’t here for Porter’s funeral, either.”
“Who was at the funeral?” Quist asked. “And who’s the we that did the worrying?”
“The L-Bar-D crew showed up for the funeral. Kate rode out with Gene, but didn’t speak to anybody. Fred and I went just to look things over. And there was the usual number of curious people. Both Fred and I were bothered when we didn’t see you around. You took off ’thout a word. Fred got to thinking about your brush with Gilly Deray and thought maybe Deray had been up to some skullduggery. Said he had half a notion to ride to the L-Bar-D and question Deray some—”
“Did he?”
Corliss shook his head. “No, he’s around town someplace.”
“Well, Deray’s not bothering me any,” Quist said. It wasn’t until later that Corliss remembered that Quist hadn’t explained where he’d been the previous day. Quist now changed the subject, “I want some information, Lish.”
“About what?”
“About two men—Jarvis Fanchon and Morley Harper—I understand Harper’s out of town at present.”
Corliss nodded. “He runs the Golden Wheel Gambling House. Morley’s up in Denver right now. Went there to buy himself a new roulette table. But what about them?”
“At one time, both Fanchon and Harper were calling on Kate Porter—Thornton, that is.”
Corliss’ face reddened at the girl’s name. “I don’t figure it was anything serious,” the sheriff said. “Sure, they took her around some to dances and such, but a lot of us—a lot of fellows did.”
“Couple of nights ago in the Amber Cup, I sort of taunted Lombardy into making some talk. To get me off his shoulders, he tried to shift my viewpoint to Fanchon and Harper—said they’d both had fights with Porter. Lombardy hinted maybe they killed him. Do you know anything about it?”
Corliss smiled. “As to Fanchon, I doubt it had anything to do with Mrs. Porter. Fanchon is eternally on the defensive. You know he brands his cattle with a Jar-F. A design shaped like a jar with a letter F inside. Well, some of his cows were branded with a running iron, and the cowhand who made the jar design, couldn’t draw for beans. Consequently, the jar on a lot of cows came out looking more like a spittoon—or something else. Well, Porter had a sort of nasty tongue. He got to jeering at Fanchon and calling the brand the Spittoon-F. Fanchon thought he was being belittled and, having no sense of humor, it made him mad every time Porter said it. Then one day Porter suggested next time Fanchon was branding, he’d better put a handle on the jar. With that, Fanchon went higher’n a kite and he hauled off and knocked Porter out to the gutter. Porter didn’t attempt to fight back.”
“And that’s all there was to it?” Quist asked, smiling.
“So far’s I know, Greg.” Quist asked about Harper. The sheriff said, “I can explain that too. I don’t know’s you’d say it was a fight. Harper got the worst of it, in a way. Now Morley Harper is a pretty good hombre. A square gambler if there is such a thing. Well, Porter was shooting craps in there one day, and a new man Harper had put to work inserted a pair of crooked dice into the game, and Porter lost a pile of money.” Corliss paused, “It likely wouldn’t have made any difference if the dice were crooked or not. Porter always lost when he gambled.”
“There’s men like that,” Quist nodded. “No gambler’s luck.”
“That was Porter. Anyway he discovered the dice were loaded, and he complained to Harper. Harper investigated, saw that Porter was right for once, and returned the money. Then he kicked the crooked craps shooter out of the Golden Wheel. You’d have thought that would have satisfied Porter, but no. Thinking he had something on Harper, he tried to make a deal, said deal being that Harper was to sell him a half interest in the Golden Wheel on payments, to be made from house winnings. Otherwise, Porter threatened to tell it all over town that Harper ran crooked games. Naturally, Harper refused to be blackmailed in such fashion and he said no. The two men got to arguing. Harper ordered Porter out of his place. When Harper’s back was turned for a minute, Porter picked a bottle from the bar and struck Harper over the head. Could have hurt Morley bad, except that it was a glancing blow. Then he pitched Porter into the street Morley came here and told me about the ruckus right after. I wanted him to prefer charges against Porter, but Harper preferred to let the matter drop. And so far as I know, Greg, that’s all there is to that scrap. If anything else happened I don’t know about it.”
Quist considered. “Well, that don’t sound like Harper had done any threatening to kill. Gradually I’m running all these threats to earth. You don’t know of anybody else who threatened Porter, do you?”
“Nary a man, Greg—”
“Except one,” Quist interrupted. Corliss frowned. Quist continued, “Lombardy claims you threatened to kill Porter.”
Corliss just stared at Quist a moment, some of the color left his face. “That’s a lie—” he commenced, then, his shoulders slumped and he said, “All right, it’s true, but that’s a long time back. I was pretty sore at the time, and I said things I shouldn’t have. Porter was here in the office, and Lombardy happened to be passing. He heard what I said.”
‘Tell me about it,” Quist said.
“I guess you know Kate and I were to be married one time. Then we quarreled. Before things could be patched up, Porter had come to town and the next thing I knew they’d got married. Porter knew about Kate and me and one day he came in here and start kidding in a nasty way about Kate picking the best man. It made me see red for a minute, and I told Porter if he wasn’t good to Kate, or if he mistreated her in any way, I’d kill him. Lombardy spread the story all over town, of course. Kate heard about it, and sent word to me that she didn’t require my protection. I guess she was still mad at me. Anyway, that put things beyond the patching point. But hell, Greg, that was a long spell back—”
Quist said. “Sure, and a man can hold a grudge for a long time
too. The fact remains, Porter did mistreat her, and the question is what did you do about it? You admit you made a definite threat.”
“I didn’t do a damn thing,” Corliss said miserably. “I wish to hell now that I had.”
“You’ve got an alibi for the day Porter was killed—?”
“Now, look here, Greg, there’s no absolutely certainty that Porter is dead. Ferris swore that he talked to him in Albuquerque—”
“Do you believe Ferris? Would you take his word for anything?” Quist snapped.
Corliss drew a long sigh. “You win, Greg. No, I wouldn’t believe Ferris if he swore on a stack of Bibles Hereford-high. But as for me—hell I’ve been in town every day, except once or twice.”
“That once or twice—what days were those?”
“I don’t remember right now, but hell, Greg”—perspiration was starting on Corliss’s forehead—“I wouldn’t kill Porter.”
“Maybe you can dig up some sort of alibi,” Quist said quietly. “I’m making no accusation, Lish, but I do like to eliminate suspects. I’ll be glad if you can help me.”
Corliss didn’t reply. Quist turned and left the sheriff’s office.
An hour later, Quist found Gene Thornton in the Amber Cup. The instant Gene spied Quist he called to Mickey Kurtz. “Take Greg’s order, Mickey. This one is on me.”
Quist joined him at the bar and ordered a beer. There were a few other men in the place, quietly drinking. The noise of pedestrians and passing horses floated dimly into the barroom. Quist downed half a glass of beer and said, “Thank God Mickey doesn’t keep his beer too cold.” He turned smiling to Gene. “Ten to one I can tell you where you’ve been today.”
“As well as yesterday,” Gene admitted. “Jeepers, Greg, we owe you a lot for getting things straightened out.”
“Things aren’t straightened out yet by a long shot,” Greg said, “but I’m glad your affairs are smoothing out Ellen should have told you long ago.”
Gene nodded seriously. “Yeah. She realizes it now. But she was so afraid it would make a difference between her and me. Well, hell, yes, I was surprised of course to even learn she’d known Porter, let alone being married to the skunk—but that’s all dried grass on last year’s range now. I can tell you, Greg, Ellen’s a lot easier in her mind. So am I for that matter, now I understand why Porter visited her so much. We can’t thank you enough—”
