by Noel Loomis
Quist grinned. “No, I didn’t come in to buy a bonnet—especially one with violets on it. Last night you refused to let me buy your supper. I wonder if you’d change your mind tonight?”
The girl came farther into the room, hesitated, “Well, er—”
Quist said, “You asked me if I learned anything concerning you, to give you a chance to explain.”
The girl’s color heightened, her blue eyes were round and wide. “What—what—?”
“What about supper?” The girl nodded nervously. Quist went on, “Shall I come here for you in, say, a half hour—?”
“Suppose I meet you in the hotel lobby,” Ellen suggested. She smiled bravely. “And no matter what you have to talk about, please remember that I told you I’d never fired a shotgun in my life.”
“I’ve not forgotten it,” Quist smiled, doffed his sombrero and left.
But a moment later, strolling back toward the hotel he mused, “Though many a woman has persuaded a man to use a gun on her behalf.”
Twenty-five minutes later when he descended from his room to the lobby there was an intense frown on his forehead. Ellen hadn’t arrived yet, so he stepped to the desk and asked the clerk to send a message to Doctor Ingram asking him to come to the hotel as soon as possible. The clerk looked alarmed. “Are you sick, Mr. Quist?”
“Not yet, anyway,” Quist smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s just a matter of business.”
The clerk promised to send the message at once. At that moment Ellen entered the lobby and Quist escorted her into the dining room. It was early and they had no trouble in getting the same corner table they’d dined at the previous night. Despite Ellen’s questioning, Quist refused to satisfy her curiosity until the food was eaten and they were finishing their coffee. He finally confessed that he hadn’t wanted to spoil her dinner with serious talk. Finally he could put it off no longer. Drawing from his pocket one of the telegrams he’d received that day, he passed it across the table to her.
Nervously, Ellen read the wire. For an instant all the color left her face. Then she faced Quist directly. “Didn’t take you long to learn about it, did it?” she said bravely.
“It wasn’t difficult,” Quist confessed. “You told me last night you’d been raised in San Antonio. I sent a telegram to our company investigator there. We have ways of getting information faster than the average person. I don’t imagine your case proved difficult.”
The girl passed back the telegram and sat twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “Have—have you told Gene—?”
Quist shook his head. “And I can see from your manner, you’ve never told him either. So now I’ll leave that job to you. Miss Bristol, how long were you married to Lloyd Porter?”
“I left him after a month. I was only seventeen at the time.”
“Why did you leave him?”
“We didn’t get along. I was young enough to want romance. It had meant instead that I went to work to provide food. I gave him money at first. He lost it gambling. Other women interested him. The instant I received an annulment I left San Antonio and came here to make a new start. I’d hoped never to see him again. I became acquainted with Gene. I was—was afraid if I told him—”
“You were very foolish,” Quist stated. “You should have told Kate too.”
“I didn’t know Kate too well at the time. I didn’t know how she’d receive such news. Oh, I know now I was very wrong. I considered telling her before they were married, but I kept putting it off. And then suddenly they got married—and it was too late. You see, Lloyd Porter threatened me from the first that if I told I’d been married to him, he’d ruin my reputation in town—”
“But he couldn’t have done that.”
“I was afraid he could. He was quite popular when he first came here. I wasn’t yet known too well. He swore if I said anything, he’d—he’d swear he knew me in San Antonio when I was—was living a fast life. And those days I think his word carried more weight than mine. And I didn’t know how Gene would react to such a story. And so I kept my mouth closed and Lloyd Porter would drop in here every so often to get the money—”
“What money?” Quist said quickly.
“That was part of the bargain for keeping my mouth closed. Every so often he’d lose money at poker or some other way, and he’d come to me for some…” Ellen fell silent.
Quist felt his ire rising, but held his voice quiet, “So Porter was a blackmailer as well. Nice hombre. Miss Bristol, I understand you kept company with Damaret Gilmore at one time.” The girl inclined her head. Quist continued, “Did you ever tell him of your marriage?”
“No,” Ellen replied, “but I’ve sometimes thought he might have heard of it. He has relatives in San Antonio and visits there occasionally. However, he never said anything about it, so I don’t know.”
Quist questioned her regarding Porter’s business activities, but she appeared to know nothing of them. Finally the supper was concluded and they rose from the table. As he accompanied the girl from the lobby he said, “I’m sending a messenger to Gene tonight, saying you want to see him the first thing in the morning. Then, when he gets here, you tell him what you’ve told me—”
The girl shook her head. “No, I will send that message to Gene. It’s about time I started showing some initiative. And I’m so glad that—that you—well, I don’t know how to thank you—”
Her thanks were cut short by the appearance of Doctor Ingram in the lobby. He looked somewhat relieved at seeing Quist in good health. “I thought—I—”
Quist chuckled. “No, nobody’s shot me—yet, Doc.” He procured his room key from the desk and handed it to the doctor. “I’ll be back in five minutes or less, Doc. Go on up. I’ve got something to show you.”
Ellen insisted she could return to her shop alone, but Quist insisted on escorting her. It was nearly dark on the street now. Lights shone along the way. Quist unlocked her door for her, accompanied her inside and lighted an oil lamp. Then, cutting short further thanks, he said goodnight, and turned back toward the hotel.
“Women,” he grunted as he strode along, “if they don’t—” He broke off, “Anyway, her mind is a lot easier tonight than it has been in a long time.”
The doctor had the lamp lighted by the time Quist entered his room. He chuckled as Quist closed the door. “What’s wrong with you, Greg, you got female complaint, or something?”—gesturing toward the bonnet trimmed with violets on the table.
Quist’s color reddened. “No, that’s—that’s—” He grinned sheepishly. “Look, cut out the ribbing. I wanted to see you about something serious—”
“Then tell her not to forget her hat next time,” Ingram said dryly.
Quist laughed, “I could wish that—” He broke off. “Blast it, let’s forget that bonnet. Sit down and listen.” He went on, “You’ve heard about those missing cans of jams. Today I was out to Shoulder Bluff and I found two cans labeled strawberry that had been lost from the shipment. There’s been a hell of a lot of fuss made over that missing jam. The consignor is threatening to sue my company for a damn’ sight more than the stuff is worth—I thought. Before going down to supper tonight I got to wondering what made this particular jam so precious. So I got out my knife and opened a can. Damnedest strawberry jam I ever saw. I’ve got my own suspicions, but I’d like you as a doctor with more experience along such lines to confirm what I’m thinking.”
He rose from his chair, went to the dresser and returned with the opened can. Ingram took it, pushed back the raggedly-cut tin top and inspected the contents by the light of the lamp. The can contained a dark brown tarry substance of about the consistency of moist adobe mud. Ingram grunted and sniffed at the can’s contents. Next he took a tiny particle on one fingernail and tasted it. After a moment he lifted his eyes and stared at Quist. Quist waited, tense.
Ingram said, “While I’m better acquainted with its derivatives, morphine, laudanum and so on, than I am with the product in this raw state, I’m ready
to swear this can contains opium. Lord, Greg—”
“Opium,” Quist nodded triumphantly. “I thought so; wasn’t sure. Saw some once before, but it was darker in color.”
“This is probably more refined. Opium’s a great pain killer. In the hands of the right people, it’s a blessing in disguise. But of late years the wrong people have been trafficking in it. And that has led to a lot of crime. Some men, y’know, will do anything for money.”
Quist indicated the can. “I reckon that particular ‘Drum Brand Strawberry Jam,’ is the real Devil’s Drum in this section, eh, Doc?”
“If it get into the wrong hands. As a doctor I’ve learned our government is considerably alarmed over the increasing number of drug addicts. Washington hasn’t yet legislated proper laws to combat the use of opium by crooks, but it’s working steadily on the proposition, endeavoring to turn its import into only the proper channels. But smuggling continues despite the best work of the Customs officials. The stuff was being brought up through Mexico. Less than two years ago, one smuggling ring was broken up, and with the help of Mexican officials less than fifty miles south of here, but the ringleaders weren’t caught. Now apparently they’re getting the stuff through again. I happen to know government agents are watching out for shipments from California at present, as the stuff is landed on the West Coast from the Orient and—”
“And so, to evade agents at the California line, the opium is being shipped as jam,” Quist put in. “Doc, what’s this stuff worth?”
Ingram frowned. “I’m not sure exactly, but I’d say anyway it would sell between ten and twelve dollars an ounce. Roughly, this can holds about one-hundred-forty dollars worth of opium, for certain people. The price may run lower or higher—but not much lower.”
Quist made mental calculations. He gave a sharp whistle. “Cripes! There were four-hundred-eighty cans labeled strawberry. That runs to around seventy thousand dollars. Somebody was playing for damn’ high stakes, knew the shipment was coming through and highjacked it. And he didn’t let a little killing stand in his way—”
“Didn’t I hear there were cans labeled plum and peach as well as strawberry?” Ingram asked.
Quist nodded. “Every one of the plum and peach cans were recovered, so I’m figuring they contained just what the label said. It’s my hunch they were sent along to make the shipment look good—but the highjacker had to get all the cans from that freight train to make sure he got all the strawberry.”
Ingram nodded. “Looks that way. Do you think Lloyd Porter or that man named Leftwick had anything to do with this opium business?”
“I’m thinking more that way every minute.” Quist nodded. “Doc, you keep these cans for me until they’re needed for evidence, will you? I’ve got to be away for a day or so, and they might be safer in your hands if anybody learned that I’d found them.”
Ten minutes later, Quist said good-bye to the doctor and headed toward the White Star Livery. As he strode along the darkened street, lighted here and there by a few lamps in windows, he spied Gilly Deray on the opposite side of Main, just emerging from the Warbonnet Saloon. Upon seeing Quist, Deray paused on the saloon porch, then stepped back into shadow. Quist hadn’t missed the movement, but he had no time now to stop and talk to Deray.
He continued on to the livery, saddled up the buckskin and mounted. Turning down San Antonio Street, he headed for the railroad station and dismounted. Here he sent a telegram to Jay Fletcher which read:
SUGGEST YOU EXPEDITE ARREST OF CONSIGNOR AND CONSIGNEE ON CHARGE SMUGGLING NARCOTICS. HAVE PROOF.
SECURE AID FEDERAL AUTHORITIES.
As he remounted his pony, Quist muttered savagely, “And put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mister Jay Fletcher. I’ll teach you to wire me to expedite search for strawberry jam. All right, it got expedited. We’ll see how you like it.”
Then he turned his horse and rode due south across the T.N. & A.S. tracks. Three-quarters of an hour later he had reached the Rio Grande and though the river was nearly a hundred yards wide at that point, he located a flat and shallow place to ford, and climbed the opposite bank into Mexico. He kept going until a light in a small Mexican farmhouse suggested a place to get something to eat and bed down for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER 16
ROARING GUNS
The way to Ventoso was easy to follow as it led between low rocky hills, dotted with saguaro and barrel-cactus. The sun broiled down, and there was a continual sirocco-like wind bringing fine particles of dust to sting eyes and clog nose and throat. Quist had drawn his bandanna up across the lower part of his face to avoid the dust. Far ahead he could see the rugged grayish-purple peaks of distant mountains, looking as though they had been cut flatly from cardboard and stuck up against the cloudless sky. A few buzzards soared and wheeled and dipped against the wide blue expanse.
As he rode, Quist’s thoughts dwelt on the events of the past days. He thought of Kate Porter, and then his cogitations shifted to Ellen Bristol. She had acted foolishly, that was certain, and yet he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the girl. He wondered if Damaret Gilmore knew of her marriage to Porter. “A man as hot-tempered as Gilmore,” Quist mused, “would be capable of killing Porter, if he had heard of that marriage. He might be fool enough to think that getting rid of Porter would install him in Ellen’s good graces, and he could gain the inside track against Gene. But I reckon Ellen’s choice is Gene, no matter what she may have thought of Gilmore at one time or another. For that matter, Lish Corliss made threats. He, too, could profit from Porter’s death…” He pushed steadily ahead, not forcing the buckskin to any great speed in this heat.
Ventoso, when he arrived, looked like dozens of other small Mexican hamlets he had seen. Small scattered adobe houses, nearly all of which had a few flowers growing about; two or three patched corrals, holding a pony or a mule. Goats grazing in front yards. Chickens picking in the roadway. A few ragged or entirely naked children playing in the dust. A yelping dog or two. At the second house he came to, a courteous Mexican saw that he got water for his horse, and protested in hurt tones when Quist tried to pay him, even though water in Ventoso wasn’t plentiful. A good people, Mexicans, Quist considered, as he rode toward the center of town.
The Cantina of Golden Wine was located without difficulty. Quist left his horse in the shade of one wall and entered. There were three of the local inhabitants at the bar drinking pulque, men in loose white garments and huge straw sombreros, dawdling away an hour while their women folk were at home preparing the tortillas, chili and frijoles. All of the men nodded pleasantly as Quist came in. Quist returned the greetings and made his way to the scarred pine bar, his spurs making jangling sounds as he crossed the rough floor. The stocky young proprietor put down his charcoal and paper and surveyed Quist with interest. “Buenos dias, señor. I can be of the service, no?”
“You sure can,” Quist said. “I’ll take a beer.”
An expression of regret crossed Diego Cubero’s round face. “Of the cerveza, I no got, señor.” Then hopefully, “Pulque?” Quist made a grimace. Cubero said, “You no like the pulque?”
Quist quoted in Spanish:
“I have heard of the pulque,
“With its flavor benign,
“Which the Aztec gods quaff
“When they have no fine wine.”
He added, “But I’m no Aztec god. You have, perhaps, tequila?”
The old Mexican verse, the use of the native tongue, Quist’s denial of godlike existence, brought laughter from the customers and proprietor, and an air of friendliness invaded the small cantina. The customers moved a little closer as Cubero set out a saucer containing salt and a slice of withered lemon, and then poured tequila into a small glass. Quist put a pinch of salt on his tongue, downed the fiery tequila, and then drew the slice of lemon between his teeth. He took out his tobacco and papers and rolled a cigarette. While he smoked he gazed around the walls at the drawings hung there. Already Cubero had moved farther along the bar an
d was busy with charcoal and paper on this fresh model. Beyond the coolness of the interior the roadway was a white glare under the broiling sun.
Cubero glanced up once at Quist, “You do not object, señor?”
“Not if it affords you pleasure,” Quist replied.
A few minutes later, Cubero passed the paper with Quist’s likeness along the bar. Quist looked at his picture and marveled at what the man accomplished with few lines. “It is very good,” Quist complimented him. “I should like to pay for this, señor.”
Cubero beamed. “I shall be honored if you accept it as a gift.”
Quist made the usual protests before accepting with thanks. He said, “I have a friend in Clarion City who says Diego Cubero is a very great artist. He plans to come and visit with you in the future. He had much praise for your work.” Enthusiastic words of agreement came from the three customers. Cubero’s wide mouth was a smiling pattern of even white teeth. “It is in connection with this I have come to see you.”
The customers were quick to take a hint. Ah, this was a matter of business between their good Diego and the gringo—a very pleasant gringo for all that—and it could result in many pesos for Diego. Smiling and with many pleasant nods, the customers departed, leaving the cantina to Quist and Cubero. Cubero requested the name of Quist’s friend. Quist mentioned Gene Thornton and his work with water color. Cubero said thoughtfully, “I do not think I know the Señor Thornton.”
“Once you gave one of your so fine sketches to a man named Porter. He gave it to Thornton.”