The Battle At Three-Cross

by William Colt MacDonald

  “I may get balled up on cactus,” Oscar said with some satisfaction, “but here comes something I do understand. Kilby looks like he’s heading for trouble, and we’re in his path!”

  IV

  Lance Hits Hard

  It was evident to Lance and Oscar that Kilby had been imbibing rather heavily at the bar of the Pozo Verde Saloon. The man approached them from across the street, walking with a decided lurch. His eyes were bloodshot and angry, and liquor, or some liquid, had been spilled down the left leg of the brand-new overalls he was wearing.

  He was halfway across the roadway when another torrent of angry words spilled from his lips, ending with, “Travelin’ with murderers now, eh, Deputy Perkins?”

  Oscar muttered, “I’m sure going to have to bend a gun barrel across that hombre’s Stetson. I wonder how much he can stand.”

  “Wait, let me handle this,” Lance said quickly. “It’s me his words are aimed at.”

  Oscar shrugged. “Go to it, but watch yourself.”

  Kilby’s step was a trifle uncertain as he confronted Lance. “Pretty lucky, you are, Mr Lancelot Tolliver. Only for the law being on your side we’d have the sidewinder who bumped off my good old pal, Bowman.”

  “I figure you’re wrong, Kilby,” Lance replied quietly. “Look, you’ve had a couple of drinks too many. Why don’t you go away and sleep it off?”

  “Tryin’ to get rid of me, eh?” Kilby sneered. “Well, it don’t work. We’re going to put the bee on you yet. We’ll bust that alibi of yours wide open. You know what? Chiricahua, hisself, has gone ridin’ down to Tipata. He’s goin’ to find out if you stayed there that night or not. I say not, but Chiricahua is checking you up. We was both going, only——”

  “Only,” Oscar drawled, “it looks to me like you was too drunk to ride at leaving time. Well, Cherry-Cow Herrick will find out that Lance’s alibi holds water—which same you’d be better off if that’s all you held.”

  Kilby teetered gravely back and forth a moment, owlishly eying the deputy. He lifted one admonishing finger. “Now I ain’t got no—hic!—quarrel with you, Oscar. It’s this Tolliver hombre I’m aimin’ to——”

  “Forget it, Kilby.” Lance laughed good-naturedly. “Go get yourself some sleep.” He talked to the man as one would to a child. “Look, you’ve spilt some whisky on your nice new overalls. You’d better go wash them——”

  “What do you know about my overalls?” Kilby’s eyes had narrowed. For some reason Lance’s words appeared to have a somewhat sobering effect on the man. He straightened up and came a step nearer, curses tumbling from his thick lips.

  “Cut it out, Kilby,” Lance said sternly.

  Kilby rushed on, heedless of the warning. He called Lance a name no fighting man will take. Lance didn’t want to hit him, but there seemed nothing else to do. His fist shot out—not too hard—and Kilby went stumbling awkwardly off the sidewalk to sprawl on his back in the dust.

  That completely sobered the man without knocking any sense into his head. He came struggling up from the roadway, one hand clawing at his gun butt.

  Lance took two quick steps forward. His left fist sunk to the wrist in Kilby’s middle; his right crashed against the side of Kilby’s jaw. An explosive grunt was expelled from Kilby’s lips, and he commenced to sag. For a moment he stood bent over, arms dangling limply at his sides. Then slowly he sank to his knees and rolled on his back. His eyes were closed, and he was dead to the world.

  “The old one-two,” Oscar said approvingly, calmly stuffing a lemon drop into his mouth. “Very nice. I don’t think I could’ve done better myself.”

  A crowd had commenced to gather. Lance said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Oscar told a couple of men in the crowd to get Kilby’s unconscious form off the street, then followed Lance down Laredo Street in the direction of the railroad station.

  “Dammit!” Lance growled when Oscar had caught up. “There wasn’t any other way out of it, but I do hate to hit a hombre that’s been drinking heavy.”

  “Mebbe so,” Oscar said judiciously, “but they go out quicker in that condition. Now if you’d just get a mite more snap into your wrist as you hit——”

  “Let’s forget it,” Lance cut in.

  “You’re upset.” Oscar thrust a paper sack toward Lance. “Here, have a lemon drop. It ’ll soothe your nerves.”

  Without realizing what he was doing, Lance thrust a lemon drop into his mouth.

  “Ah, another convert,” Oscar chuckled. “You’ll be an addict in no time.”

  Lance started to smile, then laughed. “Like I say, I hate to hit a drunk, but I was thinking about something else. It seemed to make Kilby madder ’n ever when I mentioned his new overalls. Danged if I understand why. I was speaking as friendly as possible.”

  “Drunks are sensitive on queer points sometimes,” Oscar drawled. “I’ve known ’em to fight at the drop of the hat at the mention of a new one.

  “New what?” Lance asked absent-mindedly.

  “Hat. Don’t you know what we’re talking about?”

  “I was thinking about overalls.”

  “I certainly pick intelligent company this mornin’,” Oscar commented. “One talks about spiny plant life and t’other about everyday clothing. Forget it. Here’s the depot.”

  They had reached the T.N. & A.S. railroad tracks that paralleled Main Street a block back. Beyond the tracks were scattered a line of Mexican adobe houses, strung along a rather crooked roadway. Between the tracks and the single line of buildings fronting Main were heaps of old rubbish, tin cans, littered papers. Oscar led the way toward the railroad station, a small frame building, painted red, with the T.N. & A.S. sign erected on its roof. The station stood about five feet above the earth on a platform constructed of heavy planks.

  Oscar led the way up the short flight of steps to the platform. From inside the station came the clattering taps of a telegraphic instrument. Abruptly the sound ceased, and a fuzzy little old man appeared in the doorway.

  “No, Oscar Perkins, I don’t want no lemon drops,” he stated in a cantankerous voice before Oscar had had an opportunity to say a word. He wore faded overalls with bib attached, and on his scanty gray hair was a stiff-peaked cap bearing the letters: “T.N. & A.S.R.R.” Spectacles rested on his sharp nose.

  “Ain’t asked you to have one,” Oscar stated calmly. “Johnny Quinn, shake hands with my friend, Lance Tolliver. You know”—to Lance—“Johnny just about runs the T.N. and A.S. He’s the combination station agent, freight agent, telegraph operator, swamper, train dispatcher——”

  “There’s more truth ’n poetry in them remarks,” Johnny Quinn squeaked. He gave Lance a limp hand, then turned back to Oscar. “What ye want?”

  “Don’t want nothing,” Oscar said quietly. “Lance is new to town, and I was just showing him the sights. We didn’t want to overlook your depot.”

  “I can ’preciate thet.” Johnny Quinn nodded. He seemed more friendly now. “Ye’d be surprised now to l’arn just how much freight was put off at this little depot. By the way, Oscar, ye didn’t catch them thieves whut took my bills, did ye?”

  “Sheriff Lockwood is running down a hot clue on that right now,” Oscar said without batting an eye.

  Lance said, “Oscar was saying you found your window open yesterday morning and certain of your papers missing.”

  “Valyble papers they was, Mister Tolliver. I been a-maintainin’ right along we should have a night man on duty in the depot, but them brass hats back East won’t pay me no ’tention. Someday I’ll up and quit ’em, then they’ll see whut’s whut! And we should have better law enforcement in this town, too, whut with hoodlums spillin’ cre’sote all over my platform—right after I’d mopped the office, too—and it got tracked inside.”

  “Where was the creosote spilled?” Lance asked.

  Old Quinn led the way to a place near the edge of the platform where a dark brownish-black stain had seeped into the heavy planks. “Lucky they wa’n�
��t much cre’sote in thet bucket. It ’d made a fine mess! I’m a-keepin’ thet bucket and next time when them section hands come back and ask for it I aim to give ’em Hail Columbia! Bein’ wasteful with company property is bad enough, but—and another thing”—Johnny Quinn was warming to his subject now—“if them hoodlums whut tipped over the cre’sote come back a-whinin’ for their cold chisel I ain’t a-goin’ to give it to ’em——”

  “Was a cold chisel left here?” Lance asked.

  Old Johnny nodded indignantly. “It’s my opeenion,” he said confidentially, “thet they figgered to pry open some of the boxes of freight and steal some-thin’. Yes sirree! But I reckon nothin’ was left for ’em. Folks usually come here and collect whut freight’s due, and I ain’t had no complaints ner an inquiry ’bout anythin’ that didn’t come when it should.”

  “You mean,” Lance asked, “that folks just come and collect their freight when it arrives without signing for it?”

  “Sartain, I know everybody here. I bring ’em the bills at the end of the month, and they sign ’em then. Only, this time I’ll be minus them bills thet was stole.”

  “Can’t you check up and get duplicate bills?” Lance asked.

  Quinn nodded. “It ’ll take a mite of time, though. I figure to get at thet right soon.”

  “I take it,” Lance said, “that the same folks get freight shipped in right along.”

  “Same folks,” Johnny said. “Cases of liquor for the saloons, canned goods for the general stores, small boxes for the barber shops and so on. Folks jest come down and pick up their stuff when it’s put off’n the train. Anything unusual is put off, I notice it, ye betcha!” He paused, then his mouth sagged a trifle. “Come to think on it,” he said slowly, “there was one box I never noticed before. From a company strange to me. Now I wonder who got thet?” He removed his cap and scratched his scanty hair in perplexity. “Shucks! Reckon it don’t make no difference. Whoever it b’longed to picked ’er up, or I’d had a complaint. Thet’s the trouble, with my bills missin’——Whut’d ye find, Mister Tolliver?”

  Lance had suddenly stooped and retrieved from between two planks, clogged with dirt, a small pine splinter. There were two or three other splinters near by. Lance said, “Only this,” and held up the splinter to the old man’s view, after which he calmly commenced picking his teeth with it.

  “Oh,” Johnny grunted, “I thought ye’d found somethin’ valyble.”

  Lance laughed. “It might be to some people. You were talking about a box of freight that looked strange to you, Mr Quinn. What kind of a box was it?”

  “Jest an ordinary pine box,” Quinn sniffed, “like freight is usual shipped in. Whut did ye expect?”

  “I mean,” Lance said easily, “how big was it?”

  “Oh, I dunno.” Quinn was vague in his ideas. “ ’Bout so big, I reckon.” With his skinny arms he mea sured the size of the missing box in the air. Lance judged the box to have been approximately one by one by two feet in size.

  “Pretty heavy?” Lance asked next.

  “Not turrible,” Quinn said, frowning. “I just remember puttin’ it on my truck with some other boxes and wheelin’ ’em over to stack ag’in’ the depot wall. Hefty enough though.”

  “You don’t remember who it was for?”

  “Consarn it,” Quinn said angrily. “Ain’t I told ye I don’t know? Now ye’ve got me thinkin’ on thet ye’ve spoiled my hull day.” His frown deepened. “I jest remember seein’ the label pasted on the box, tellin’ who it was from and where it was a-goin’. Folks was all around me, already pickin’ up their shipments. Thet address was writ in pen an’ ink. I didn’t have no time to stop and decipher writin’——”

  “Was the whole address label in writing?” Lance asked.

  “No, I rec’lect that was in print, like most labels.”

  “Think hard,” Lance urged. “Where was it from?”

  “Tarnation an’ damnity!” Johnny Quinn squealed angrily. “Ain’t I a-thinkin’? I’m concentratin’ like all get out and——” He paused suddenly, then, “Wait, wait—thet box had been shipped from——Cracky! I can see thet label plain’s day, only I don’t remember——It was shipped from—from—some sort of Southwest Something Company. I wish I could think of that middle word. All’s I can think of is cactus. Wouldn’t that be the consarnedest idea? Southwest Cactus Com pany. Hee-hee! Like if there was a company org’nized to sell something that grows wild all over——”

  “Cactus?” Lance said quickly, breaking in on the oldster’s gleeful cackling.

  Quinn paused from lack of breath. “I do get th’ most redickerlous idees sometimes,” he panted. “No, it sartainly couldn’t have been cactus. Must have been somethin’ else.”

  “Do you remember where it came from?” Lance queried.

  Quinn concentrated. “Texas,” he said at last—“El Paso, Texas. Nope, I’m wrong! It was some place in New Mexico. Or was it Texas? Come to think on it, seems like I rec’lect readin’ Colorady on thet box.” He removed the cap and scratched his head some more. The harder he concentrated the angrier he became. Suddenly he exploded heatedly, “I don’t know why it should make any business of yours where my freight comes from. You come around here askin’ questions like a brass hat and a-wastin’ of my time. Valyble railroad company time! If ye’re figgerin’ to ship anythin’ or if ye expect freight to arrive I’ll be pleased to take care of ye. Otherwise, I’m too busy for more lallygaggin’!”

  He spun angrily about, entered his office. At once the telegraph instrument commenced rattling at a furious rate.

  Lance looked at Oscar. Oscar looked at Lance. “I reckon we might as well leave.” Oscar sighed. “I know that old coot, and he won’t talk to us no more today. But, Lance, do you reckon a box did come from the Southwest Cactus Company—if there is such a company? And how does it all fit in? What’s the creosote got to do with it? That’s the first I’ve heard of a cold chisel too. And that pine splinter you picked up——”

  “Whoa!” Lance laughed. “Maybe we got more out of that conversation than you figure.” They slowly descended the steps to the cinder-packed earth around the platform. Lance surveyed the ground for “sign,” but it was too tracked up to furnish any fresh information. Oscar remained silent while they walked slowly back toward the center of town.

  Finally Lance spoke. “I’m going to do a little supposing and speculating and see if I can reconstruct a picture of what happened to Frank Bowman. I may be miles off in my guess, but here’s the way I see it. As you know, Bowman was here as one of our operatives—I’ll explain why at another time. Anyway, we’ll say he hit on some sort of clue here. I don’t know just what, but it was hot. I’ve a hunch it was connected with peyotes——”

  “Basing that on the fact he had one in his hand when you found him?”

  “Exactly. We’ll say Bowman was watching a certain man. Now, mezcal buttons don’t grow hereabouts, so this certain man had a supply of the plants shipped here from some cactus company. Let’s suppose Bowman saw that box of cactus plants and got suspicious, though he wouldn’t know for sure there were peyotes inside. He watched, and no one called for it. Maybe the guilty man knew Bowman was watching the box. When no one called for the box Bowman decided to open it and learn what it contained. With a cold chisel he pried off the top of the box——”

  “There’s the cold chisel Johnny Quinn found!”

  Lance nodded. “We’ll say the box top splintered when it was forced off. I saw splinters on the station platform, remember, and picked one up. With the box open, Bowman stuck his hand inside and got a peyote. A loose splinter at the edge of the box stuck in Bowman’s shirt sleeve.”

  “Could be, could be!” Oscar had lost his indolent manner.

  Lance continued, “Now Bowman has his peyote evidence. He knows who the box is shipped to. But that person or some of his gang are watching Bowman. They see him break into the box. Remember this is around midnight; it’s dark. Bowman doesn’t see h
is assailant approach. Just as Bowman straightens up from the box someone comes running toward the platform. It’s too late for Bowman to pull his gun. The killer’s bullet strikes at a sharp angle—proving the killer was on the earth below the platform. He may even have been hiding under the platform. Bowman falls, and as he goes down his right hand strikes that bucket of creosote standing near, tipping it over. The creosote floods out over Bowman’s hand, accidentally painting it black.”

  “Lance, you’re sure knocking the mystery out of this.”

  “When a man hasn’t the facts,” Lance said grimly, “he has to work his imagination overtime…. Let’s get on. Somebody takes away the box of peyotes. Somebody gets through Johnny Quinn’s office window and steals the bill of lading so the shipment of cactus can’t be traced to the guilty man—right off at least. Now, remember, it was Doctor Drummond’s opinion that Bowman, while unconscious, didn’t die at once. Something had to be done with the body. The killer didn’t dare risk firing more shots for fear of attracting attention. And he didn’t dare leave the body there for fear it might be found and Bowman, regaining consciousness, make some sort of dying statement——”

  “So they took the body out to that wash where you found it.”

  Lance said, “That’s my idea. They threw the body across the saddle of Bowman’s horse and lit out pronto. I figure it took two to lift him to the saddle, one at the shoulders, one at the feet. Maybe Bowman’s spur rowel caught on one man’s shirt. That accounts for the woolly threads I found on Bowman’s spur. Remember, this is largely guesswork.”

  “Damn good guesswork,” Oscar said admiringly.

  “Meanwhile,” Lance continued, “in the darkness the killers had failed to notice that Bowman clutched that mezcal button in his hand. Bowman was a man of great determination, strong will. Probably his last conscious thought was to hang onto that bit of evidence at any cost. So he was still gripping that button when they dumped him off his horse out in that dry wash. As he died and grew cold his fingers stiffened rigidly about the plant—and didn’t release it until I took it from his hand.”