by Noel Loomis
Fletcher nodded. “I’ll cut the story short. The government agents arrested two men at Uhlmann’s first. There were only two men in the company, Uhlmann and his brother. They caved fast and confessed to distributing narcotics. They implicated others, as well, including Drumm & Tidwell out in ’Frisco. Government agents swooped down there next. Drumm & Tidwell just had a small canning plant, with a single canning machine, operated by hand. Agents found a lot of half-rotten fruit there but little attempt at honest canning. Drumm & Tidwell’s preserve company was just a front. They were really canning and shipping raw opium, under the guise of jam and preserves, so as to get it out of California. Once they heard the things Uhlmann had told about them, they were only too anxious to confess. And they implicated others. It seems the opium was being brought up from Mexico in fishing boats, landed on some spot of lonely coast. Then Drumm & Tidwell took over.”
“Figured it was something of the sort,” Quist said. “I found two cans of that damned strawberry jam you were blowing up about. Learned it was opium. That’s when I wired you to get busy and have arrests made.”
“Lord Almighty, the government works fast. They’ve kept me out of bed with their telegrams, night and day. They made a real clean-up, with one or two exceptions. Both the Chicago crooks and the scoundrels in San Francisco say they had an accomplice named Mead Leftwick stationed in this district. And Leftwick’s right hand man was Lloyd Porter, Kate’s husband. Well, Porter’s dead, but to make the clean-up complete, Washington wants you to do all possible to find Leftwick. The Customs Bureau is sending a couple of men here to help you—”
“They may be too late,” Quist grunted.
“You know anything about Leftwick?” Fletcher asked.
“Maybe—”
“And of course,” Fletcher rushed on, “the government would like to get trace of those missing cans of strawberry jam—er—opium, Greg. Now if you’ll just throw yourself into the job, I’m sure—”
A knock came at the door. Quist opened it to the sleepy-eyed night clerk. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Quist, but Doc Ingram sent word if you can get there right away—”
“I’m on my way,” Quist jerked out, rushing back into the room to don his sombrero and shrug shoulders into his coat after strapping on his underarm gun. He paused a moment to shake Fletcher’s hand. “Sorry to have to leave like this, Jay, but you’ll be gone before I get back. Don’t miss your train—”
“But, Greg, you haven’t told me—”
“I’ll bring a complete report to El Paso—” Quist was already passing through the doorway on the way to the staircase.
“Greg,” Fletcher called after him. “The government’s offering a nice reward if you can—”
“I want it split with a Mexican in Ventoso, named Diego Cubero, Jay,” Quist’s tones carried back above the sound of his descending feet. “I also want the company reward increased for Cubero.…”
The words died to silence. Fletcher heard the hotel door slam.
Quist walked swiftly along Main, wishing he had a horse under him. His gaze flitted along the hitchracks. Not a pony in sight yet. A few men passed, looked curiously after him noting his haste. A few stores were being opened. The morning sun was bright, shining directly along Main from the east Quist turned at San Antonio, and broke into a run until he’d reached Houston Street where the doctor’s home was located. Ingram was standing in his open doorway when Quist appeared, an anxious look on his face.
Quist came bounding up to the doctor’s front porch. “He’s conscious, Doc?” he demanded eagerly.
Ingram nodded. “I was wrong, Greg. Never did think he’d regain consciousness. But he’s slipping fast. He asked to talk to you. I sent for you right off. You’ll have to hurry. He can’t last much longer. If necessary I’ll give him a shot to delay death, but it won’t be for long—”
But Quist didn’t wait to hear more. He was already brushing past the doctor and heading for the “hospital room.” Ingram hurried after him, saying, “What Sloan’s got to say, had better be said fast.”
It was something over an hour later that Lish Corliss, dropping into the Chinese restaurant for his breakfast, found Quist ahead of him, just finishing off his coffee and a plate of pancakes, smothered in butter and syrup. “Jeepers,” the sheriff exclaimed, “I never expected to see you up this early, after we sat up most of the night with Sloan.”
Quist gave him a thin mocking smile. “It’s even more of a surprise to see a man on the state payroll getting on the job at this hour. However, I suppose there are a good many honest men elected to public office. Only we don’t hear of them frequently enough—”
“But, Greg, what gets you out so early?”
“Doc Ingram sent for me.”
Corliss’ eyes widened as he sat down and gave his order to the restaurant proprietor, then swung back to Quist. “You mean to say that Sloan recovered consciousness after all?” Quist nodded. Corliss asked, “Did he talk—?”
“He talked plenty.” Quist sounded somewhat grim. “Before dying.”
“Feel like telling me about it?”
Quist shook his head and rose. “No time now, Lish. I’m on my way. You’ll get the details later. See you again. Adios!”
“But where are you heading now?”
“Out to the Rocking-T. You got any message to send Kate?”
Corliss colored and said no, he guessed not.
Quist nodded, left the restaurant and headed for the White Star Livery. A few minutes later he had saddled up the buckskin und was loping out of Clarion City.
CHAPTER 20
A CERTAIN HUNCH
After crossing the plank bridge over the Rio Clarin, Quist turned his horse north, traveling at an easy gait, to follow the creek, which was flanked on either side by tall cottonwoods. Here was all gently undulating grass lands. As he proceeded, Quist began to see small bunches of Herefords, branded on the left ribs with the Rocking-T iron, either just leaving or heading toward the stream. The cows increased as the horse loped steadily on. Eventually the creek made a wide bend to the northeast, away from the well-traveled road Quist had been following. He continued on until the hoof-chopped and wagon-rutted trail carried him in a wide turn to the northwest, bringing him within sight of the Thornton ranch buildings. Here he pulled the pony to a walk, looking about as he approached. It wasn’t yet quite ten o’clock, and the morning sun was giving off considerable heat. Almost directly ahead of Quist now was The Devil’s Drum, its rounded side rising sheer against the vast expanse of cobalt sky, where a few clouds announced the presence of the huge thunderheads building farther north.
Kate Porter was seated on the wide gallery of the ranch house when Quist rode in. The man’s gaze widened a little as it fell on the girl. Here was no stiff traveling costume, with violeted bonnet, nor yet riding togs. The girl wore a loose white blouse, cut low at the neck to reveal well-shaped tanned shoulders. Her arms were bare, as were her legs; her feet were covered with Mexican sandals, and she wore a wide colored-striped skirt that Quist judged had come from south of the border, as well. Her blond hair was gathered high in a knot at the back of her head. She had been, Quist noted with some amazement, doing some sewing.
“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Quist,” the girl said, as Quist swung down from the saddle at the edge of the gallery and dropped his reins over the pony’s head.
“It’s nice to see you,” Quist said meaningfully, his topaz eyes frank with admiration. “I don’t know—” He paused.
“You didn’t know I ever dressed like this?” The girl indicated a seat at her side and laughed self-consciously. “I don’t often. These are old things I wore long ago, but it was so muggy and warm I wanted something cooler. There’s generally a breeze here under the gallery roof. For once there was nothing much to do. Gene’s shirt needed mending.” She paused, saying tartly, “I don’t know why I’m saying all this. You’re not interested in what I wear.”
“I think perhaps I am,” Quist said slowly
, seating himself. “It’s all very becoming—”
Kate broke in caustically, “The butterfly emerging from the chrysalis after the long sleep, I suppose. Enough of such nonsense, Mr. Quist—”
“And I’m not sure,” Quist put in, “that it was a sleep.”
The girl said abruptly, “Dad’s down to the bunkhouse chewing the rag with Chan Yount, if you want him. I’m not sure where Gene is, someplace back of the buildings. I saw him head down that way with his painting equipment. Ha said something about early morning light—”
“I came here to see you, Mrs. Porter—”
“I’ve decided to resume my Thornton name,” Kate cut in.
“You’re sure your hus—that is, Lloyd Porter is dead?”
“Yes, aren’t you?”
“In spite of Ferris’s testimony?” Quist asked.
The girl didn’t answer that. “Just what brings you here?”
Quist replied, “I’m making a ride to the Devil’s Drum, and I stopped to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?”
“Perhaps I do mind,” Kate said tersely. “I’m getting tired of being questioned. I had nothing to do with my husband’s death, as I testified on the inquest stand. I feel that should be sufficient.” Her voice softened a moment. “Not that we’re not all grateful to you, for helping Ellen see things in a clearer light. It’s made a difference to Gene. But you can see why I want to resume my own name.”
Quist smiled. “‘A rose by any other name—’” he commenced.
Kate’s lips tightened. “Mr. Quist, I’ve heard quite enough flattery in my life to last me a lifetime. I’ve no intention—”
“Of being flattered into making a fool of yourself again?” Quist finished.
The girl’s face went crimson with anger. With an effort she controlled her voice. “If you’ve anything important to say, Mr. Quist, please get it off your chest, then go down and see Gene or Dad or go to the devil—”
“Devil’s Drum,” Quist supplied. “Look here, you’re showing about the same lack of sense Gene did at first. To date, you’ve no occasion to scrap with me.” He held up one hand for attention as the girl started some sort of protest. “No, you listen to me. What I’m trying to find out is, how much did you know of Porter’s smuggling activities?”
The girl’s brown eyes widened. She sank back in her chair. “Smuggling?”—unbelievingly.
“Smuggling opium, to be exact,” Quist stated.
“Believe me, not a thing,” she said in a half-whisper. “I never suspected anything of that kind. Oh, there were times when I felt almost sure some of the deals he talked of weren’t on the level. And at times he’d have sizable sums of money—which he gambled away at once. But, you’ve got to believe me, I never dreamed—”
“All right,” Quist sounded a trifle disappointed. “I’d hoped you’d be able to give me some sort of tip to back up an idea I have.”
“Smuggling opium,” Kate repeated. She sounded dumbfounded.
“You heard about those missing cans of strawberry jam that were stolen. They contained opium.”
“And Lloyd was doing that—?”
“He was assistant to a man named Leftwick—”
Kate slowly shook her head. “Believe me, Mr. Quist, I knew nothing about it.”
Quist rose from his seat “Well, thanks, anyway. I’ll be getting along.” He hesitated at the edge of the gallery.
The girl also rose. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the tip you were looking for. If there’s anything else that you have to ask that I could make clear…”
Quist swung around facing her. “Yes, I think there is, something that will satisfy my personal curiosity. You’re a beautiful woman, Kate Thornton, and you could have had your choice of several men, including Lish Corliss whom—”
“Mr. Quist! I don’t have to listen to this,” Kate flared.
“You’re going to listen to it,” Quist snapped, “whether you like it or not. I’ve talked to people around town. Lloyd Porter was the lowest sort of a skunk, and yet you married him. Why?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“All right, I’m sticking my nose in where it’s not welcome, then. But it’s about time somebody told you a few things before you ruin your own life. This hard mannish attitude of yours doesn’t fool me. It’s all a poise and a damn’ bad one. You got sore at the town, and like the idiot you are, you married Porter thinking to spite your enemies and because you’d quarreled with Lish Corliss—”
“I refuse to listen!” Kate was furious, breathing hard.
“Get into the house then,” Quist half snarled. “Go ahead, continue as you’ve been doing, riding roughshod over everyone who disagrees with you. Keep up that fool pretence of being as hard as nails and of having no truck with womanly sentiment. Drive on in your hardheaded, damn’ fool way—and ride to the fall you’ve got coming. The trouble with you, Kate, is that you need a man, and you won’t admit—”
“Quist!” The girl’s breast was heaving, her face crimson. “You get on your horse and ride to blazes off this ranch, or—”
“—and you won’t admit it,” Quist finished scornfully.
Kate’s arm flashed up and she swung hard, her right hand landing resoundingly against Quist’s face. He felt her fingers burn against his skin, as reflex action brought his own hand up to describe a swift arc that fell just short of returning her blow. Instead Quist’s right hand landed on her left shoulder. His other hand came up, gripping hard the other shoulder. The girl fought to get free, but Quist shook her savagely.
“You should—be spanked—like a—disobedient child.” He grunted, putting considerable vigor into his actions. “Sure—I know no gentleman—ever lays hands—on a lady. But, by God—you haven’t—been acting—like a lady. I’ve lost all—patience with this hard-boiled poise—of yours. If you insist—on being hard—you deserve the—rough treatment—you get—”
The girl’s blond head was snapping back and forth. The lovely yellow hair came tumbling down. Hairpins showered the gallery floor. For a moment, Quist, himself, had been almost angry. Now he stopped shaking the girl and looked at her. To his amazement, Kate’s eyes were brimming with tears. Quist said tentatively, “Kate—” and then felt her arms come up and tighten about his shoulders. A tear dropped from the long lashes, and he drew her close, feeling her form warm against his own and her lips pressing against his mouth.
For moments he held her like that, then abruptly she was fighting like a wildcat to release herself, eyes again blazing, in anger at herself. “Go away from here, Greg Quist,” she stormed. “I hate you—hate you—”
Turning, she rushed inside the house.
Quist stood gazing at the empty doorway a moment, then, scowling, he went to his horse, mounted and turned it away from the house in a swift lope.
Once away from the house, he slacked to a slower gait. He glanced up once. The Devil’s Drum seemed nearer now, almost towering overhead. He’d not been riding more than three-quarters of an hour, before he caught the sound of rapidly-beating hoofs from the rear. Twisting in the saddle he glanced back, and saw Kate riding hard and fast to overtake him. The girl was bent low over the saddle, the quirt on her right wrist, swinging methodically from right to left and back again to flick the pony into swifter ground-devouring strides. Dust boiled up at her rear and traced a long curving arc on the range behind until swept away by the wind.
Quist slowed to a walk to allow the girl to catch up to him, thinking, “Lord, she must have changed fast.” Again the girl wore the divided corduroy skirt and boots, the mannish flannel shirt with bandanna at the throat, the stiff, broad-brimmed flat-crowned sombrero. There was a holstered six-shooter at her right hip. The panting pony drew even with Quist’s horse. Kate said harshly, “Thought I’d better come along and show you the way up to Devil’s Drum. There aren’t many know it. You’d waste all day getting up there.”
Quist said, “Thanks.”
They walked the po
nies side by side, neither speaking. Kate finally said, “Greg, I’m sorry. You were right. I said I hated you. I don’t. I don’t love you either—that is”—glancing sidewise at Quist—“I don’t think I do. It was just—well, for a moment all bars were down—”
“I think I understand,” Quist said gravely.
“I’m not regretting it either,” she said, “Maybe I’m glad—I know I am. You made me realize—well, gosh, Greg, if there are any more questions you want to ask—”
“I think you’ve answered most of them,” Quist said dryly. There ensued another long silence, while the ponies forged ahead. Quist said irritably, “But I’m still wondering why you ever married Porter, instead of Corliss.”
“I don’t think I knew my own mind,” Kate said. “I’d been going with Lish. I thought I liked him a lot. He was steady—maybe that was the trouble. He talked of his prospects and of how he’d saved. He was planning for years ahead for us, and it was all very secure and safe—and it seemed a bit dull. A girl wants more than she’s—well, then Lloyd Porter came along and he had certain ways about him, was full of fun, and had a smooth line of talk. He made a girl think of romance. And then I went on a drive to deliver some cows, with three of the hands. There was talk—”
“I heard something about that.”
“Lish thought he could stop the talk by marrying me at once. I didn’t like the thought of letting the town run my life. I refused him. We quarreled. Then Porter asked me to marry him. I was just mad enough—and fool enough—to say yes. I knew I’d made a mistake, even before we were married, but—”
“You’d given your word and went through with it.”
“Something like that.” More silence, then, “Greg, we’d better speed up these ponies. It’s quite a ride up to Devil’s Drum.”
The horses were sent into a swift lope and within a short time they were through the foothills, with Devil’s Drum rising precipitously above their heads. Kate led the way to one side and drove her horse up a stiff incline. Quist followed. The ponies’ hoofs scrabbled and slipped on gravelly soil, slid back, dug forward again. Finally, breathing hard, they emerged on relatively level terrain. Here the riders paused to rest the mounts. Kate said, “A mile farther on there’s an easier way to get up here—even a wagon and team could make it—but this way saves time.”
