He turned and hastened back to the sheriff’s office. Oscar and Lockwood were seated in straight-backed wooden chairs, tipped back against the wall of the building. Lockwood said, “Did you see Fletcher?”
Lance shook his head and told them about Fletcher leaving during the night.
Oscar said, “I’d just like to know if he took Herrick and his gang with him. I haven’t seen one of that crowd this morning.”
“Maybe I’ll find out soon,” Lance replied.
“What do you mean?” Oscar asked.
“I’ll tell you in a few minutes. Oscar, did you learn anything about Manley?”
Oscar shook his head. “I talked to a lot of folks. Nobody saw him leave town. The bookkeeper at the bank didn’t know anything about it. He’d stepped out for his supper a short time before Manley left. After supper the bookkeeper worked an hour or so on his books. Then he ran into some sort of a snag that Manley wasn’t there to explain. So the bookkeeper went home.”
“I reckon we’ll have to leave further work to Ethan—so far as the Manley case is concerned. Ethan, I’m resigning from my deputy job.”
“Didn’t expect you to continue on with it. You leaving Pozo Verde?”
Lance nodded. “I’m going to guide Jones on that trip into Mexico. Bowman must have expected skulduggery from that direction. I’m going to see if I can pick up where he left off.”
“Maybe you’ve got the right hunch.” Lockwood nodded.
“We’ll sure miss you, feller,” Oscar said sincerely.
“Maybe you won’t,” Lance replied. “Ethan, you said once that the taxpayers thought you could get along without a deputy in Pozo Verde. I’d like to take Oscar along with me—if he’ll take the job.”
Oscar’s chair bumped down suddenly on all four legs. A wide grin spread over his features. “If I’ll take the job?” he exclaimed. “Man alive! All you got to do is let me have lemon drops on my expense account, and I’ll follow you to hell and back.”
“It ’ll be a relief to get rid of him”—Lockwood laughed—“I get so damn tired of that crunch-crunch-crunch of lemon drops all the time.”
“When do we start?” Oscar asked.
“Two, three days, I figure,” Lance said. “We’ve got to buy equipment, hire men and so on. Oscar, you should know a few cow hands hereabouts who’d like a trip down into mañana land.”
“Yeah, I do—several,” Oscar said warily, “but they’d be fighting men. They wouldn’t take kindly to breaking their backs with a shovel in a cactus pasture.”
Lance laughed. “What the professor wants is men who can handle six-shooters.”
Oscar’s jaw dropped. He slumped down on his chair. “Well, may I be hung for a tobacco-eatin’ sheepherder,” he said weakly.
Lockwood frowned. “Men who can handle six-shooters? Hmmm! Must be Jones is expecting trouble down in Mexico.”
“Well”—Lance smiled thinly—“I never yet heard of anybody shooting cactus out by the roots!”
XVI
Captured!
Mexico. Land of sun and dust and soaring-buzzard shadows across alkali wastes, of purple mountain peaks and broiling deserts and coppery skies. A country of romantic laughter and music and wood smoke under starry nights. A gargantuan arena running crimson with the blood of revolution. A vast region of the oppressed; an indolent realm of soft laughter. A paradoxical land of dreamers and noble warriors, of poets and seraped centaurs. Mañana land. Land of tomorrow. Mexico: a saddle for el diablo, a sombero for the buen Dios. Where—it is said—nothing ever happens, and where life—and even death—is in a state of unceasing flux. A nation whose battle-drenched soil is all things to all men. Mexico: land of perpetual contradiction.
Thus the thoughts coursed through Lance Tolliver’s mind, entirely excluding that other Mexico to the far south, the Mexico of high plateaus and humid jungle lands. Here the country through which the little caravan passed was one of sand and spiny vegetation that marched solemnly through the undulating hills. Huge black rocks or massed phalanxes of Spanish bayonet broke the monotony from time to time, with always, overhead, that burning metallic sun. In the veins of man and beast and plant ran an unceasing desire for rain.
It was the fourth day out from Pozo Verde. It had required three days to outfit the expedition, during which no sign of Herrick or his gang had been seen. Nor had any news been received regarding the sudden disappearance of Elmer Manley who, by now Oscar had decided, had just lost his nerve and “run out” on his promise to talk to Lance, an opinion in which Lance Tolliver concurred not at all.
Meanwhile Lance and Oscar had been busy—the professor was too occupied in the hills near Pozo Verde to take any real part in the outfitting—though Lance had found it necessary on frequent occasions to consult Katherine Gregory, much to Oscar’s amusement. To Oscar had been delegated the job of hiring men and the two wagons that accompanied the expedition. Oscar’s idea it was that resulted in the employment of two ordinary cow-country chuck wagons. One was rebuilt to furnish sleeping quarters for Katherine Gregory, its tarpaulin-covered bows providing adequate shelter from early-morning suns or chill night winds. The remaining wagon was left “as was” and carried supplies, bedrolls for the men (who slept in the open), the professor’s notebooks and a pine box filled with wood shavings from the Pozo Verde Builders’ Supply Company—this last to be used to pack such rare specimens as the professor might find.
The men Oscar had picked were six, all of them lean, hard, weathered individuals who talked little unless they had something to say. To Cal Braun fell the job of driving the chuck wagon and preparing food, a task at which he was a master. Tom Piper drove Katherine’s wagon and looked after the horses. In addition to these two were Trunk-Strap Kelly, Hub Owen, Luke Homer and Lanky Peters. Lanky Peters was built like a fence rail and as tough as rawhide; he knew that section of Mexico to which the party was going and, most important and surprising, possessed a smattering of the Yaquente language, being himself of one eighth Yaquente blood—just about enough, as Lanky drawlingly expressed it, “to fill a whisky glass.” A dozen saddle horses accompanied the expedition, those not in use being tethered to the wagons.
Forage and water were none too plentiful along the dim trail they were following, but they managed to make out. A few squalid towns had been passed. Now on this, the fourth day of the journey, they were headed toward the town of Muletero, a few miles beyond which was situated the Gregory Three-Cross Ranch. It was expected to reach the ranch by night. Horses and men—and Katherine—were covered with dust, but everyone was in high spirits. Particularly the professor. Each day of the trip he had ranged ahead of the wagons and, accompanied by Katherine and one or two of the men, had made excursions along the hillsides in search of precious specimens or material for his notebooks. There hadn’t been any attempt to make speed on the journey.
It was still early, only half an hour after the morning start. Katherine, Jones, Oscar and Lance rode ahead. The others and the wagons were strung out behind. On either side—and often directly in front—huge sahuaro cacti raised gigantic heads above their surrounding vegetation. There seemed to be thousands of them growing in the coarse outwash soil swept down from the sheltering hills.
Oscar had been watching them for some time as his body moved easily to the motion of the horse. “The feller that named them sahuaros ‘Sentinels of the Desert’ sure said a mouthful, Professor. Watch ’em for a spell and you’d almost believe they were ready to come alive. They got personality, I claim.”
“Over in western Arizona,” Lance put in, “there’s a lot of those sahuaros. The Papago Indians up that way dry out the fruit and then grind the seeds into a sort of meal——”
“For a fact?” Jones demanded quickly. “Lance, why haven’t you told me this before? I must make a note——”
“You never asked me.” Lance grinned. “There’s quite a few things like that we Southwesterners know, but, Professor, you got us where we’re almost afraid to open our
mouths about cacti. You know too much for us. For instance”—pointing to a cane-branched opuntia a short distance from the side of the trail—“if I told you that was called a ‘tesajo’ you’d give me some other long, unpronouncable name.”
Jones glanced briefly at the plant in question. “I think you’re right—for once.” He smiled. “Cholla family, of course. Probably—opuntia emoryi. Not certain, of course, without closer observation.”
Katherine’s laughter joined Oscar’s. Lance said ruefully, “You see, I’m always being corrected.”
“Someday,” Katherine said, “when I build a house of my own, I’m going to plant a sahuaro in my garden.” She paused at exclamations from the others. “Lordy, no!” She smiled. “Not one of those huge things. I want one just large enough to give me those luscious creamy blossoms and have woodpeckers nest in it like they do in the desert.”
“Incident’ly”—Oscar frowned—“I don’t ever remember seeing a small sahuaro. They’re all full size by the time they come on view. I ain’t never seen a baby giant cactus.”
“Not likely to,” Jones said. “Hard to find—possess ability—hide among rocks and brush. Often—ten, twenty years old—before they push up above their surroundings. Grow rapidly—from then on.” He paused, then added, “Grew one from seed—five years ago. At two years it—looked like—small green ball—three-quarter-inch diameter. Long yellow spines…”
Horses and wagons moved on under the hot morning sky. Behind the riders listening to Jones’s dissertation on cacti there sounded the occasional squeak of a wagon wheel or the creaking of saddle leather. The way was leading into higher terrain now. The slopes on either side were spotted with ironwood and paloverde trees. There was more rock than seen on the previous day and the vegetation had a greener look. An occasional organ-pipe cactus appeared.
Jones pointed one out. “There, Lance—true organ pipe—Pachycereus marginatus.”
The procession moved around the shoulder of a rock-cluttered hill. Ahead and to the left a long, gradual slope lifted to dizzy peaked heights scarred with dark ravines and hollows. Jones eyed the scene with fresh interest. “Some timber up there,” he announced. “Think I’ll have a look. Come on, Katherine. We’ll pick up the wagons later. Want to come, Lance?”
Lance hesitated. Ever since he’d crawled from his bed at sunrise he’d had an uneasy sensation of being watched by unseen eyes. Just what it was he didn’t know, but some premonition of approaching danger warned him to go slow.
“We-ell, I don’t know.” He hesitated. “Why not pass up the cactus hunt for the day, Professor? I feel we should push along to the Three-Cross. We should get there to night. Once you’ve established your headquarters you can roam around this country to your heart’s content.”
“Maybe Lance has the right idea,” Katherine commented.
“Nonsense!” Jones said impatiently. “No time like the present. Such observations as I make along the way will save later repetition.”
“Suits me.” Katherine nodded. “Lance, it’s not really necessary you should go if you feel you should stay with the wagons. Oscar or one of the other men can go.”
“I’d better stay with the wagons,” Oscar said. He slid a paper bag from his pocket and put a lemon drop into his mouth. “You ought to take one of these. They’re sure good for cuttin’ the dust in your throat.”
They talked a few minutes more. Jones was intent on his cacti search and wouldn’t be swayed from his determination. Reluctantly Lance decided to go with them. He turned, frowning, to Oscar. “We’ll try to pick you up by dinnertime. Don’t go on until we show up.”
“You’ll pick us up by dinnertime,” Oscar scoffed, “providing the professor doesn’t forget the time like he did day before yesterday.”
“I apologize again”—Jones smiled—“for that tardiness. But—opportunity of lifetime—Astrophytum myriostigma—such variety—three-ribbed specimen—worth being two hours—late for dinner. You don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Oscar said dryly.
“Well, see you later.” Lance nodded. He put spurs to his roan gelding and pushed up alongside Katherine, who rode between him and the professor. They jogged along the ancient wagon trail for an hour where it wound between hills and around huge blocks of black basalt rock. The ponies climbed steadily. Once, looking back and down, Lance saw the wagons and riders of the expedition, tiny in the sun-drenched distance.
Finally the professor led the way from the old trail up a gradually ascending slope. He wound in and out among clumps of paloverde. There were no more of the big cacti to be seen now, though an occasional growth of prickly pear or cholla pushed up through the brush. In time they commenced to see stunted pine trees and scrub oak and piñon. Quail whirred out of the brush, and startled jack rabbits scurried frantically for shelter. Rocks the size of an ordinary house bulked huge in every direction. Here and there scarred watercourses, made by the rainy seasons’ runoff, cut deep ravines and gulleys. The trees grew taller too.
The riders pulled to a halt to rest their ponies. Lance said, “I’ve got to admit a mite of shade goes right good after the heat down on the level. But if it’s cacti you’re looking for, Professor, I’d figure there’s too much shade up here to furnish much success——”
Jones broke in impatiently, “Don’t know where people—get ridiculous idea—cacti need full sun. Only about fifteen per cent—various species—do without some shade.” He dismounted from his horse. “Wait here. I’ll cast about a bit and see—anything to be learned. If I want you—give a hail, what?”
Lance dismounted and helped Katherine down from the saddle. They found a smooth slab of rock to sit on. The professor moved slowly away, closely scrutinizing the earth in all directions. A trowel hung in a scabbard at his belt. Under one arm he carried a notebook, under the other a small roll of burlap sacking.
Katherine smiled. “Two bits to a dollar we don’t get back to dinner in time.”
Lance laughed. “The old bloodhound’s on the scent. He won’t quit until he finds something. Then we’ll have to listen to more big words.”
“He’s a dear, though,” Katherine said.
“He’s regular. But sure batty on the subject of cacti.” Lance rolled a cigarette. Blue smoke spiraled up to be lost among the branches of trees overhead. His eyes were still on the professor wending his way slowly through the brush. Finally Jones disappeared around a shelf of protruding rock.
Lance’s eyes darted continually here and there. He still had that feeling that someone was watching him from cover. Twice he arose and moved around. There was nothing unusual to be seen. He came back to the rock where Katherine waited. She commented on his uneasiness. He laughed that off and sat down again. His cigarette burned down. Finally he ground it under his toe. He was finding it difficult to make conversation, though more and more these days he found enjoyment in the girl’s company.
“Lance,” Katherine said suddenly. “You are uneasy about something. I can tell from your manner. To tell the truth, I’ve felt sort of queer today…. Oh, I don’t know. As if—as if someone were watching me all the time. Every time I glance around I half expect to see a pair of eyes peering from the brush—but there never are. I’ve had that feeling of someone following along at the side of our trail watching every move we make.”
“Maybe we’re not living right or something.” Lance laughed. “I wonder if lemon drops would help us. My gosh! You should have seen the stock Oscar laid in. He won’t run short. By the way, do you remember what sort of town Muletero is?”
Katherine shrugged her trim shoulders. “Not much of a town,” she admitted. “Just a typical Mexican settlement—a handful of shops and houses built of adobe. It’s less than five miles from the Three-Cross. We’ll be able to buy a few supplies there. But I think you’ll like the Three-Cross. Part of it is in the state of Chihuahua, you know. It’s good grazing country, Father claimed——”
Lance said suddenly, “What’s that?�
��
They both listened. Again came a startled, high-pitched cry. It seemed to come from some distance off.
“It’s Uncle Uly!” Katherine cried. “Something’s wrong!”
They leaped to their feet and dashed off in the direction from which the call had come. Prickly bushes caught at Katherine’s shirt. Luckily the denim overalls she had insisted on wearing didn’t impede her progress. Lance ran ahead to break trail. Once they raised their voices to call again. This time there was no answer. They plunged on.
Suddenly Lance and Katherine emerged into a small clearing. Lance saw the professor first. The man was crawling about on hands and knees closely studying the earth in all directions.
“What’s wrong?” Lance yelled. “Rattler?”
Jones didn’t even raise his head.
“Uncle Uly,” Katherine exclaimed sharply, “why don’t you answer us? Are you hurt? Quick! What’s the matter?”
Jones reluctantly gained his feet. “Hurt?” he queried vaguely, seemingly unable to comprehend. His thin features were ashen; his hands trembled with excitement. His knees quaked as he approached. “Katherine—Lance,” he stated solemnly, “this is the greatest day of my life. Look!” He led them to a spot a few yards away.
Lance looked. Katherine looked. The professor looked—with something of mingled awe and adoration in his gaze. There, at their feet, grew a globular-shaped cactus with many slightly waved ribs, each rib lined with black spines. It was about the size of a small orange, deep green, and from either side rose two deep blue, funnel-shaped flowers with yellow centers. Yellow, Lance thought, like Katherine’s hair.
Katherine gasped suddenly and went off into paroxysms of laughter. “D-do you mean to s-say this is what you g-g-got us so excited about? We thought you were hurt.” She dropped weakly to the earth, still laughing. Lance grinned with sudden relief.
“I’m admitting those flowers are plumb pretty,” he said, “but do you think it’s something to get worked up about?”
The Battle At Three-Cross Page 15
