Chiricahua Herrick, followed by several other men, suddenly took form in the darkness. He jerked out a few low words of greeting in Spanish to the waiting Yaquentes, unlocked the door of the rock-and-adobe building and stepped inside. The Indians made no move to follow. Chiricahua found a bottle with a candle stuck in one end and touched a match flame to the wick, filling the room with soft light. Chiricahua spoke to two of his followers, and burlap sacks were fastened at the two windows of the single-room building which was furnished only with a table and a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs.
Chiricahua went to the doorway. “Johnson,” he said softly, “you and Ordway stay out there and keep those Injuns quiet. Tell ’em they won’t have to wait long and keep your eyes peeled to tip us off if anything goes wrong—though I don’t reckon it will. Anvil should be along pretty soon.”
He shut the door and sat down at the table. George Kilby took a chair by his side, and Bert Ridge found a seat on the floor with his back to the wall. Cigarettes were rolled and lighted.
Chiricahua said, “George, where’d you put that box?”
“Right behind you,” Kilby said, “where it will be within easy reach.”
Herrick laughed a bit uneasily. “For a moment I thought you’d forgotten it.”
“Not that box,” Kilby stated definitely. “I might have forgotten one in the past, but that damn box of buttons caused us too much trouble to be forgotten easy.”
“By Jeez!” Ridge commented. “That was once we nearly got caught. That damned Bowman would have had us dead to rights——”
“That reminds me.” Chiricahua Herrick frowned. “I think that blasted Oscar Perkins has something in mind——”
“If it’s anything but lemon drops”—Kilby grinned—“I’ll be a heap surprised.”
“Don’t you grade Perkins down none.” Herrick frowned. “That deputy has more sense than we give him credit for, unless”—he paused suddenly, struck by a new idea—“unless that Tolliver hombre is back of it——”
“Back of what?” Ridge asked.
“This afternoon,” Herrick explained, “the barkeep of the Pozo Verde Saloon told me Perkins had been in asking questions.”
Kilby asked, “What sort of questions?”
“Perkins wanted to know if there was any shooting heard out back of the saloon the night Frank Bowman was killed——”
“My Gawd!” Kilby exclaimed, and some of the color left his face. “That comes pretty nigh to hit-tin’ the bull’s-eye. The railroad station ain’t much more than good spittin’ distance back of the saloon.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ about that, too,” Herrick growled. “I don’t like it——”
“Look,” Ridge broke in, “did the barkeep hear anything that night?”
“We got a break,” Herrick said quietly. “Don’t you remember, day before yesterday was payday for the Bar-L-Bar outfit? The whole crew was celebrating. The barkeep tells me they made plenty noise. Some of ’em was even shooting holes in the clouds. So,” and he smiled craftily, “the shot that got Bowman was never noticed.”
Kilby gave a long sigh of relief. “That is a break.”
“It’s too damn bad,” Ridge commented, “that we couldn’t have fastened that job on Tolliver.”
“Tolliver will get his yet,” Herrick promised darkly. “Only that I got orders from the chief not to start anything I’d slung a slug through Tolliver this morning.”
“Why’d the big boss give orders like that?” Kilby asked.
Herrick shrugged his shoulders. “He gives orders, and I take ’em. I’m paid well, so I don’t kick. Howsomever, he probably don’t want any of us mixed into any shooting scrapes until things are all set. We don’t want to attract no more attention than possible.”
“I’d like a chance to put a fortyfour right through Tolliver’s belly,” Kilby snarled. “I got to get even for the wallop he give me this mornin’——”
“I reckon you had that coming,” Herrick said coldly. “Only for you getting crocked and talking more than you should nobody would ever have known I rode to Tipata to check on Tolliver’s alibi. Yep, sometimes I could almost wish Tolliver had plugged you——”
“Aw, hell, Chiricahua,” Kilby protested, “I told you I didn’t know what I was doing. I made a mistake—I admit it.”
“It’d be your neck if I told the boss,” Herrick snapped. “I reckon you wouldn’t last long if he knew——”
“Is that right?” Kilby said, bristling. “I wouldn’t advise this boss you’re always takin’ orders from to get too hard with me. I know too much.”
Herrick nodded coolly. “I know you do, George. There was a couple of other fellers just like you—they knew too much. That’s why we had to get rid of ’em. And we didn’t just tell ’em to get out of the gang. Do you see what I mean?”
Kilby gulped and shivered a little. “I see what you mean,” he said shakily, and fell silent.
“Don’t forget it then,” Herrick said cruelly. “There’s no place in our gang for hombres who run off at the head. There’s more ’n one way to keep a feller from talking—but there’s only one sure way.”
“Sure, Chiricahua,” Kilby said placatingly. “I know what you mean.”
There was silence for a few moments. Kilby produced a flask and drank deeply. Herrick was restored to good humor again. “Going to keep that all to yourself?” he demanded. “Me ’n’ Bert could stand a drink.”
The flask was passed around until it was empty. Then Herrick said, “I don’t know just what to think of Tolliver.”
Ridge asked, “Why?”
Herrick shrugged. “I don’t know. I got a feeling I’m due to cross guns with him. Well, the sooner the better.”
There was another silence before Kilby said, “Anvil’s later than usual, seems like.”
“I reckon not,” Herrick replied. “You’re just nervous, George.”
“Maybe I got a right to be,” Kilby said. “If anybody ever stumbled onto us we’d have some fast explanations to make. I don’t see why the big chief doesn’t take the stuff over into Sonora instead of having those Yaquentes come here for it.”
“The big boss isn’t running any more risk than necessary,” Herrick said. “The Mexican Government don’t cater to those Yaquentes having guns, or buttons either. Suppose some of us got picked up in Mexico—running that stuff into the country? Anyway, don’t you worry, George. I reckon this will be the last for a spell. We should have enough stuff over there now to outfit a young army.”
“I still don’t get the idea of the mezcal buttons,” Ridge put in. “Guns, yes, that’s clear, but——”
“A Yaquente will do anything for anybody that gives him a button he can dry and eat,” Herrick said. “The tribe has just about cleaned out the hills in their own neighborhood and they don’t like the idea of traveling farther south to get the buttons for their ceremonies——” He paused suddenly.
Outside could be heard the sounds made by an arriving team and wagon, then loud tones as the wagon was tooled into place near the building.
“There’s Anvil now.” Kilby looked relieved.
“And noisier ’n hell!” Herrick said angrily. “Whoever named him Anvil sure called the turn. Loud and hard!” He jerked open the door and snapped, “Cut out the noise, Wheeler. You’ll have the whole town down on us. Ridge—Kilby—get out and help Ordway and Johnson bring in them boxes.”
Kilby and Ridge hurried outside. Anvil Wheeler jumped down from the wagon he had been driving and strode into the ’dobe building. He was a big, powerfully built man with a hooked nose and wide spreading mustaches. A tattered, roll-brim sombrero was yanked down on one side of his head.
Herrick said, “You’re late.”
“Hell’s bells!” Anvil Wheeler replied. “I pushed that team right along. After all, it’s quite some miles to Saddleville and back——”
“Have any trouble?” Herrick asked.
“Not none.”
“Al
l right, get them boxes open when the boys bring ’em in. Get Kilby to help you.” From the doorway Herrick gave further orders. “Get them Injuns lined up, Johnson. Keep ’em quiet and keep ’em moving. We want to get away from here as soon as possible.”
Pine boxes were carried into the building. Johnson and one of the other men were getting the Indians in line. There was little talking now. Anvil Wheeler and Kilby were removing covers from the boxes, Kilby with tools, Wheeler with main brute strength much of the time.
Finally all was in readiness. Herrick sat at the table again, the box of mezcal buttons within easy reach. Kilby and Wheeler stood near the boxes of rifles and six-shooters. Johnson entered from outside. He was grinning. “Them Yaquentes are ready for their ‘peestols,’” he announced.
Herrick chuckled. “Damn Injuns call all shootin’ irons pistols. Makes no difference if it’s a rifle or six-gun. All right, let ’em come.”
The Indians started entering the building. The first dark-skinned, flat-faced Yaquente came to the table at which Herrick sat. Herrick said, “What you want, hombre?”
The Yaquente’s teeth flashed whitely. “Un peestol—peyote,” he said gutturally.
“Here’s your peyote.” Herrick’s hand dipped into the near-by box and came up with a mezcal button which he passed to the Indian. The Yaquente clutched it avidly. Herrick jerked one hand over his shoulder toward Kilby who stood near a box of six-shooters. “That hombre will give you your peestol,” he said.
The Indian passed on to receive his six-shooter. Others came behind to receive six-shooters and peyotes. Every fifth man received a rifle in addition to his six-shooter. The Yaquentes circled the table, then departed by the open doorway.
Suddenly there was a slight commotion at the doorway. One of the Indians was arguing with Larry Johnson. Herrick growled, “What’s eatin’ that hombre?”
Johnson replied, “He wants the ammunition to go with his gun.”
Herrick shook his head. “Tell him we’ll bring the ca’tridges later. No bullets now—no slugs—no bang-bang. Savvy, hombre?”
“Savvy,” the Indian grunted, and disappeared through the doorway. Once more the passing line of Indians got under way.
Finally the line came to an end. There were still a few guns and mezcal buttons remaining in the boxes. Herrick said, “Take these leftovers out and divide ’em up.” When this had been done the door was once more closed. Herrick rose to his feet and stretched wearily. “A good night’s work,” he announced. He glanced at the empty boxes, then smiled at the words painted on them. “Canned tomatoes, eh? Must be you’re going into the grocery business, Anvil.”
Wheeler’s loud laugh shook the raf ters of the room. “That’s what the freight agent in Saddleville wanted to know. What gets that hombre is that he don’t know where I take all these canned goods he delivers to me.”
“It’s a damned good thing he don’t know,” Herrick said shortly. “Ordway, get outside and see if those Yaquentes are gone yet. If they ain’t tell ’em to vamoose and get over the line as soon as possible. We don’t want any slip-up at this stage of the game.”
Ordway stepped outside. Within a few minutes he was back. “Not a Yaquente in sight,” he announced. “They’ve plumb faded. Aces to tens they’re halfway to the border already.”
“I don’t reckon it will be many more days before we’re headed that way ourselves,” Herrick said. He blew out the candle. “All right, get going. Scatter! We’ll meet at the Pozo Verde Saloon and drink a long one to crime and easy money.”
VIII
Another Clue
Meanwhile, after having eaten supper with Sheriff Lockwood and his deputy, Lance returned to the sheriff’s office with the two peace officers to smoke a couple of cigarettes before going back to the hotel in search of “Professor Jones”—as he called himself.
“Those Yaquentes,” Lance commented, “seem to have disappeared from the streets. I haven’t seen one since suppertime.”
Lockwood nodded. “They don’t often stay in Pozo Verde after dark. I noticed a small bunch of ’em crossing the railroad tracks shortly before we went to eat. They’ll probably travel all night and keep going, with but little sleep, until they strike their own country. They’re tough travelers and tough fighters. They can move through a country where an animal couldn’t find forage and be ready to tackle their weight in puma cats at the same time.”
Oscar Perkins fumbled with his sack of lemon drops, thrust it back into his pocket and then rose and lighted two oil lamps resting in their brackets on the walls of the sheriff’s office. Velvety darkness settled softly along Main Street. Occasionally the clump-clump of heavy boots could be heard passing along the raised plank sidewalks. Now and then a rider loped his pony through town, raising dust from the roadway. Across the street from the sheriff’s office small knots of Mexican girls and men congregated before the chili restaurant. At the rear of the restaurant, where a dance floor was located, a string orchestra could already be heard tuning its instruments.
Lance rose and donned his sombrero. “I reckon I’ll drift down to the hotel and see can I find Professor Jones. He should be through his supper by this time.”
Lockwood asked, “Are you going to tell him you discovered there wasn’t any Jonesian Institute in Washington?”
“And that they don’t even know of a Professor Jones there?” Oscar put in.
Lance smiled and shook his head. “I won’t tip my hand in that direction until I have to.”
He said “S’long” to Oscar and the sheriff and sauntered along Main Street past the rows of shops and stores and saloons, many of which were brightly lighted; others were closed and dark. He crossed diagonally at the corner of Laredo Street and entered the San Antonio Hotel. There were several men lounging about the lobby when he came in. There were two women in sight. One, whom he judged to be the wife of the local minister, was carrying on a discussion with an elderly man regarding the sermon of the previous week. The other, a girl with yellow hair, in a blue dress, was seated at the far end of the lobby conversing with Malcolm Fletcher. Fletcher was talking earnestly to his companion, but the girl was smiling and shaking her head. Whatever the conversation, Lance judged Fletcher wasn’t making any headway.
Looking at the girl with Fletcher, Lance paused and felt a small twinge of envy. The girl glanced up; her eyes met his. She said something to Fletcher. Fletcher frowned impatiently and glanced around. His frown deepened as his gaze fell on Lance.
“You’ll find the professor in the hotel bar, Tolliver,” he called tersely, “if you still want to see him. If it’s a job, though, it won’t do you any good.”
Lance said, “Thanks,” and turned toward a doorway at his left, but not before he had seen Fletcher swing abruptly back to the girl. Passing through into the hotel bar, Lance saw Ulysses Jones seated at a corner table with a bottle of beer before him. At the professor’s elbow was a small cactus plant, and he was busily engaged in transferring certain penciled notes from a small notebook to a larger memoranda book. Lance glanced along the bar. Some half-dozen men were engaged in desultory conversation. The bar keep was polishing glasses. A couple of the men at the bar glanced at Lance when he entered, then turned back to their drinks.
Lance approached Jones’s table. “Howdy, Professor.”
Jones lifted his thin face. His vague eyes settled on Lance with a sort of irritated expression. They cleared suddenly, sharpened; a smile crossed his lips. “Ah, it’s Mr Tolliver—right? Glad to see you. Sit down. Drinking beer myself. Suit you? Right!” He raised his voice. “Pat, two more of the same.”
“Be right with you, Professor.” The bartender nodded.
“… thought I’d drop in and get acquainted,” Lance was saying. “How’d the cactus digging go today?”
“Little digging,” Jones jerked out. “I only take the rarer specimens—y’know, the unusual—that sort of thing. Mostly study soil—growing conditions—whether in full sun or shade—surrounding brush—
so on.”
“The hotel clerk was telling me you already had three boxes packed in his storeroom.”
Jones nodded. “Not full, y’know—not entirely. Packed in wood shavings. Nice specimens—not rare, all of them. Certain plants—necessary to complete my—our—Jonesian Institute collection….”
The bartender arrived with the beer and glasses and removed Jones’s empty bottle. Jones drank deeply of the foamy amber liquid, set down his glass and resumed: “You say—clerk—told you of my boxes?” Lance nodded. Jones smiled. “Fortunate I’m not trying—smuggle anything. Done, you know. Great Christopher, yes! Rare plants—smuggled one country—to another. Clerks—great source—information.”
“I wasn’t particularly looking for information,” Lance said, “at least along those lines.” He chuckled. “Fellow named Fletcher who said he was a friend of yours had an idea I was looking for Bowman’s job. He told me it wasn’t any use.”
“Aren’t, are you?”
Lance shook his head. “I saw him in the lobby when I came in to night. He said the same thing again.”
Jones frowned. “Fletcher takes a great deal on himself,” he said more slowly than usual, running long fingers through his dark, gray-streaked hair. “He has no right to make decisions for me just because he doesn’t favor my trip down into Mexico. Was Katherine with him?”
“Who?” Lance asked.
“Katherine Gregory—my niece—secretary.”
“I saw him talking to a girl——”
“Fletcher didn’t introduce you?”
Lance smiled. “Maybe he didn’t think of it.”
Jones laughed shortly. “More likely—wanted Katherine—to himself. Selfish brute!” His eyes twinkled. “Think Fletcher’s—badly smitten. Do, for a fact.”
Lance changed the subject. “So you’re still planning the trip into Mexico?”
Jones nodded. “Some extent—Sonora—Chihuahua. Certain specimens—wish to study firsthand. Incident’ly”—he picked from the table the small cactus plant at his elbow and placed it before Lance—“found this today. Beautiful specimen—what?”
The Battle At Three-Cross Page 7
