“By cripes!” Oscar exclaimed, “maybe you’ve hit on something.”
“It’s no good without the missing overalls,” Lance pointed out. “Besides, it wasn’t me hit on it. Give Professor Jones credit for that.”
“Who?” Lockwood frowned. “Did you say Jones?” Oscar’s eyes widened.
“I said Jones.” Lance smiled. “I took a chance last night and told him part of the story—confidentially. Maybe he’ll keep it to himself, maybe he won’t. I don’t much care. I just wanted to watch his reactions, and damned if he didn’t suggest overalls to me. Pointed out that a man who would leave part of his clothing on Bowman’s spur might make other mistakes. That Jones is one shrewd customer whether we like him or not, and I’ve got to admit to a sneaking liking for him.”
Oscar drawled, “His niece wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would she?”
“Not a thing.” Lance felt his face color. He went on, “I had a hunch that Kilby might have left his old overalls wherever he bought the new ones. He’d want to get rid of the old ones as soon as possible. By the same reasoning he wouldn’t want to be caught carrying them down the street when he was wearing the new overalls. That might attract attention.”
Lockwood cut in, “Speaking of Jones reminds me of that friend of his—Fletcher. Last night I was walking along Main, seeing that all was quiet, when Fletcher came tearing out of the street entrance of the hotel bar. He was in a hell of a hurry, looked like——”
“What time was this?” Lance asked quietly.
“ ’Tween eight and eight-thuty, I should say.”
Lance’s gray eyes hardened. “That’s just about the time he overheard me tell Jones about finding that peyote in Bowman’s hand. He didn’t even ask about the rest of the story. Maybe he didn’t think there ’d be more. Anyway, he lit out of the bar like a bat out of hell. Where ’d he go, Ethan?”
“Down to the Pozo Verde Saloon. He was almost running by the time he got there. I dropped in a few minutes later and looked around. Fletcher was standing at the bar alone, drinking whisky. He looked worried and didn’t even hear me when I spoke to him.”
Oscar said, “Herrick and his gang usually hang out in the Pozo Verde Saloon—if that means anything.”
“It might,” Lance said, “again, it might not.”
Lockwood continued, “Fletcher stayed in the Pozo Verde for some time. I know because I kept an eye on the place. Quite a while after Fletcher went in there I saw Chiricahua Herrick go in. Well, it was about second-drink time of the evening anyway, so I followed. When I came in it looked like Fletcher suddenly broke off talking to Herrick, though I couldn’t swear to that. While I was in there the two men might have been total strangers as far as appearances went. Later Kilby and Ordway and some more of the gang came in, and I drifted out.”
Oscar leaped to his feet suddenly and exclaimed, “Dreben’s! Cripes! I forgot Dreben’s! If my brains was dynamite there wouldn’t be enough to blow my Stet hat off’n my head.”
“What you talking about?” Lance demanded.
“Ike Dreben’s Clothing Store,” Oscar explained. “Mostly he carries shirts and neckties and Sunday-go-to-meetin’ togs, but I just remembered he carries a line of overalls too. Don’t sell much. Hereabouts folks likes the regular brands, and Dreben stocks a kind of cheap line——” He broke off and dashed through the doorway, calling back, “I’m heading for Dreben’s plenty pronto!”
Neither Lockwood nor Lance said anything for a couple of minutes while they waited for Oscar’s return. Lance finally broke the silence. “I’ve been thinking something, Ethan.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Lance said slowly, “If Oscar does bring back Kilby’s overalls it looks like we’ve got the deadwood on him. Either he killed Bowman or he was an accomplice.”
“Right,” the sheriff agreed.
“That first day Bowman was found a lot of folks in this town reckoned I killed him. Herrick and his crew probably did their best to spread that report. What I’m getting at, I’d like the chance to make the arrest.”
Lockwood nodded. “I get your slant: but you don’t want to do it in your own official capacity. I reckon that can be arranged.” He drew out a drawer of his desk and fumbled among papers, pencils, a number of forty-five cartridges and other miscellaneous articles until he had found a couple of deputy sheriff badges. He polished the face of one on a pants leg, slid it across the desk to Lance and tossed the remaining badge back into his desk. “Hold up your hand,” he commenced. “Do you solemnly swear and promise to uphold and enforce the laws of Sartoris County to the best of your ability…?”
The sheriff had scarcely finished deputizing Lance when Oscar came rushing in, a newspaper-wrapped parcel under one arm. “We got ’er!” he announced jubilantly. “Dreben had——Hey, what you doing, Ethan? Swearing Lance in?”
Lance explained, “I’d like to make the arrest myself, if possible.”
“That’s fine. But if you can get lemon drops on your expense account that’s more than I’ve been able to do. Look here!” Oscar’s indolent manner vanished as he unrolled the newspaper-wrapped bundle to display a pair of very dirty overalls. “See these marks on the right knee?”
Lance seized the right pants leg, scrutinizing the brownish-black smear on the blue cloth. He held it near his nostrils, sniffed, nodded with satisfaction as he released the garment. “You can still smell the creosote. I reckon the evidence is tightening around Kilby—providing these are his overalls.”
“They are.” Oscar nodded eagerly. “He bought the new ones from Ike Dreben night before last just as Dreben was about to close up his store. I reckon Kilby must have looked himself over after he saw Bowman’s right hand. It’s plain why he went to Dreben’s, too: he wouldn’t want to go to either of the general stores where there’s always people hanging around. He changed into the new overalls in Dreben’s back room.”
“Did Dreben know why Kilby left the old pair?” Lance asked.
Oscar shook his head. “Kilby just told Ike he didn’t want ’em any more. He tossed ’em into Ike’s rubbish can and told Ike to burn ’em.”
“And Ike put off burning his rubbish, eh?” Lock-wood said.
Oscar grinned. “He burned his rubbish yesterday—but you don’t know Ike. Ike had hauled the overalls out of the rubbish can, looked ’em over and decided they was too good to burn. He was aiming to clean ’em up and get four bits from some customer. I gave him a dollar and told him to keep his mouth shut. I didn’t tell him why.”
Lance said, “Nice work, Oscar.” He looked thoughtful, then: “What color shirt would you say Kilby wore?”
Oscar considered a moment. “Sort of brownish red—kind of a plaid with black stripes—wool——”
“Maroon, maybe.” Lance nodded. “That’s as I remembered it.” He drew a small notebook from his pocket and took from between the leaves the woolly threads he had found on Bowman’s spur. This he held before Oscar’s eyes. “About this color, perhaps.”
Oscar and the sheriff both nodded. “Could be,” Oscar said.
“Ethan,” Lance asked, “do you reckon we’ve enough evidence to warrant an arrest?”
“Plenty.” The sheriff nodded. “Go get your man.”
Lance started toward the door. Oscar said, “Want I should go with you, Lance? Kilby might prove to be a tough nut to crack.”
“I’ll crack him when I get him in a cell,” Lance said grimly. “I figure to make him talk plenty. There’s more to this than just the murder of Frank Bowman. There’s a lot of things I want to know—and by the seven bald steers I’m aiming to get that information!”
He didn’t say any more, just shoved his holster a trifle nearer the front and strode through the doorway.
Lockwood and Oscar exchanged glances. Oscar said, “It looks like you’ve taken on a fighting deputy, Ethan.”
“He’s got the reputation as such,” the sheriff said quietly. “But he might have trouble making an arrest alone�
��not that I think he will, but you’d better trail along, just in case. I won’t be far behind you. Get going!”
X
Hide-out Weapon
After leaving the sheriff’s office Lance strode east along Main Street, unconscious of the fact that both Lockwood and Oscar were trailing him in the rear. Morning sun beat down on the dusty roadway. It was still a bit early for all the shops and stores to be open. Here and there a storekeeper could be seen sweeping out. A few pedestrians passed. There weren’t many ponies or wagons at the hitch racks along the way. A man standing in the open doorway of a bootmaker’s shop noticed Lance’s deputy badge and said, “Good mawnin’.”
Lance nodded pleasantly and passed on. He was considering now the best place to find Kilby. “Probably,” he mused, “I’d better try the Pozo Verde Saloon first. That seems to be a sort of hangout for Herrick and his crowd. If he’s not there I’ll have to make the round of the other saloons. Next the restaurants. Maybe he’s not out of bed yet. I wonder where he sleeps. Probably at one of the lodging houses in town.”
He strode on. A couple of more men spoke and wondered who the new deputy was. Lance said to himself, “Of course, there might be some trouble taking him if he’s with Herrick or some more of the gang. I don’t reckon so though. That crew hasn’t displayed much taste for open defiance of the law. Far as I actually can prove right now, they haven’t broken any laws. That’s why I’ve got to make Kilby do some talking. I hope he won’t put up a fight. I’d hate to have to shoot him. It isn’t always easy to just wound a man—particularly if he’s fast on the draw.” A smile crossed his features. “Maybe I should have accepted Oscar’s offer to help. I might have my hands full.”
He walked steadily on, arms swinging at his sides. It was sure hot this morning. Seemed like Old Sol was doing double duty. A hard rain would feel good. Lance’s eyes swept the turquoise sky. Not a fleck of cloud in sight. Just that great golden ball up there blazing down on Main Street. Golden! Yellow! Yellow hair! He wondered what Katherine Gregory was doing. Probably not out of bed yet. This afternoon. Going riding with Professor Jones. Lance smiled. Cactus hunting. That was a joke. “I’ll have to make my excuses for that date, I reckon,” Lance muttered. “Probably be busy with Kilby. He might break down fast though. Sometimes they do.” He strode on.
He was nearing the corner of Laredo Street now. On the northeast corner stood the San Antonio Hotel. On the southeast was located the Pozo Verde Saloon. From this distance Lance could see the swinging doors of the Pozo Verde swing apart as George Kilby stepped into view and started north along Main. At that moment Kilby’s eyes ranged down the street and spied Lance. Abruptly, he turned and started across the street to avoid meeting him.
“Just a minute, Kilby,” Lance called. “I want to talk to you.”
“Ain’t got no time now, Tolliver.” Kilby was increasing his gait. “I got some important business to ’tend——”
“You’d better make time pronto,” Lance snapped coldly.
Kilby was half across the street by this time, but something in Lance’s voice brought him to a slower pace. He stopped in front of the San Antonio Hotel and leaned against the hitch rack, with the sidewalk at his back. “Make it snappy, then,” he growled in surly tones.
“We won’t waste too much time,” Lance said easily. He stepped to the sidewalk and came around to the other side of the hitch rack. Kilby turned to face him.
At that moment Kilby caught sight of the deputy sheriff badge pinned to Lance’s open vest. “Jeez!” His face hardened. “When did you join the forces of law and order?”
“ ’Long about the time I decided to have a talk with you.”
“Well, get on with your habla, Tolliver. I’m in a hurry.”
Lance said, “Let me see your gun—and move easy.”
“What for?” Kilby demanded belligerently.
“Let me see your gun!”
Reluctantly Kilby drew the six-shooter from its holster and passed it across the tie rail, Lance watching him narrowly as he moved. Diagonally across the street Oscar Perkins stood peering around the corner of the Lone Star Livery entrance. Two doors farther west Lockwood stood watching from a doorway. Both breathed easier as they saw the gun surrendered without trouble.
Lance was examining the six-shooter. He flipped open the loading gate of the weapon, closed it, spun the cylinder while Kilby eyed him uneasily. “Hmmm,” Lance commented. “You use a forty-four, eh?”
“Any law ag’in’ it?” Kilby growled.
“Never heard of one,” Lance replied quietly. “Sometimes I wonder why more people don’t tote ’em. They make a nice pard for the .44-40 Winchester.”
“That’s my idea in carrying it. Same ca’tridges for both.”
“Oh, so you’re a rifle shot too?”
“I’m pretty good, if you want to know,” Kilby boasted.
“I’m glad you’ve still got a rifle.” Lance smiled thinly. “I’d sure hate to deprive you of all your weapons.” He stuck Kilby’s fortyfour into the waistband of his overalls.
“Hey, gimme that gun,” Kilby protested.
“Maybe you’ll get it, and maybe you won’t. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t try anything rash. Now we can have our talk peacefully——”
“What in hell’s got into you, Tolliver?” Kilby rasped. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“I was just thinking,” Lance said smoothly, “about the weight of a forty-four slug. You know, there’s only about fifty grains difference in the weights of a forty-four and a forty-five. Course, when Doc Drummond first probed that slug out of Frank Bowman everybody took it for granted it was a forty-five——”
“Hey, what you talking about?” A lot of the color had suddenly departed from Kilby’s face. “You mean they’ve weighed that slug and found out——? Oh hell! Suppose that slug did turn out to be a fortyfour? Lots of hombres use ’em. You can’t pin Bowman’s killing on me just because——”
“Why, Kilby”—Lance assumed a look of surprise—“I never said anything about weighing slugs. You just jumped to conclusions.”
Kilby clutched at his swiftly vanishing courage. He looked uneasily about. Across the street Chiricahua Herrick and Luke Ordway had appeared on the porch of the Pozo Verde Saloon and stood looking curiously at Lance and Kilby. They couldn’t hear what was being said but they saw that Kilby had surrendered his gun, so there didn’t seem any possibility of immediate gun slinging.
“Speaking of Bowman,” Lance was saying easily, “reminds me I wanted a look at your shirt.”
“My shirt?” Kilby looked blank. “What in hell’s got into you, Tolliver?”
“Turn around—slowly,” Lance ordered.
Kilby obeyed. As he faced the Pozo Verde Saloon he saw Herrick and Ordway and commenced to feel better. At least his friends were near. He made a complete turn and again faced Lance. “C’mon, cut it out,” he said cockily. “I ain’t no time for foolishness. Gimme my six-shooter, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Uh-huh,” Lance murmured, his eyes intent on Kilby’s right shirt sleeve where a couple of torn spots showed. Lance considered. A spur could have caught in one of those spots, especially where the material was worn thin. “Just a moment, Kilby. Don’t get impatient. I want to show you something.” He took out his notebook and from between the pages produced a few twisted threads of dark wool. These he held against the sleeve of Kilby’s shirt, then nodded with satisfaction. “Looks like the same material to me, Kilby. What do you think?”
“I think you’re cuckoo in the head,” Kilby snarled, losing his temper. “If you think you got something on me quit beating around the bush and come out with it. Otherwise, I’m leaving right now. I’ve wasted enough time.”
“I’ll come to the point then.” Lance replaced the woolen threads in his notebook and put it away. “Those threads were found caught on Bowman’s spur, Kilby. What do you know about it?”
Kilby looked startled. “Why—why, I don’t know nothi
n’ about it. You can’t prove them threads come from my shirt.” He backed away a step and stood ner vous ly scuffling one booted toe in the dust of the roadway. “Cripes, Tolliver! I don’t know nothin’ about that killing——”
“Or about creosote either, I suppose.” Lance’s voice had suddenly gone hard.
“Creosote! Creosote?” Kilby’s face was the color of ashes now.
“Yes, you know that stuff that was spilled at the station platform when Bowman went down. Remember? It spilled all over his hand, and when you lifted him to his horse you got some smeared on your overalls——”
“My Gawd! What are you talking about? I don’t know—know—anythin’—about——” Kilby’s tones sounded choked. He backed another step. “Hot—hot sun—here. Let’s get across in the shade.” He was still backing away, moving faster with every step.
“Stop, Kilby!” Lance snapped. “We got your old overalls from Ike Dreben. I’m arresting you for the murder of Frank Bowman. Stop, or I’ll have to shoot!”
Reluctant to draw, Lance vaulted over the hitch rack and started toward Kilby who was still backing away. Abruptly a look of hate flashed across Kilby’s fear-twisted features. His left hand ripped open his shirt, his right darting inside the shirt to the underarm gun hidden there. A burst of flame and smoke blossomed suddenly from Kilby’s right hand.
Lance heard the bullet thud into the tie rail at his rear. His hand stabbed toward holster, came up in a swift, eye-defying arc. Lead started to pour from the six-shooter muzzle the instant it left the holster. A leaden slug threw up dust at Kilby’s feet. Lance’s aim lifted higher. Kilby fired again. Lance thumbed his hammer once, twice, three times.
Kilby was flung violently sidewise by the impact of the heavy slugs. For a brief moment he swayed uncertainly, then his right leg buckled, and he pitched to the roadway. For a short interval he struggled to regain the weapon that had fallen from his hand then, as Lance closed in and kicked the underarm gun out of reach, Kilby shivered and slumped in the dust.
The Battle At Three-Cross Page 9
