Oscar groped in a pocket for his sack of lemon drops. “Me, I never believe in givin’ a sidewinder a second chance—but maybe you know best, Lance.”
“I’m hoping I do. After all, Herrick didn’t do me any damage—thanks to your quick work. Maybe, if we let him run loose, I’ll meet him again with drawn guns. I have a hunch I will—and the sooner, the better!”
XII
“You’re Covered!”
The remainder of the morning was consumed by Lance, Lockwood and Oscar in an attempt to discover some clue regarding the person who had fired the rifle, ending George Kilby’s life. Men on the street were interviewed, shop-and storekeepers talked to, but without result. Lance made another more thorough examination of the earth back of the rear entrance to the hotel, but without success. It was nearing noon when Lance made a trip to the railroad station to learn whether or not an answer to his telegram had arrived, but Johnny Quinn had nothing to give him as yet. Quinn would have liked to detain Lance to discuss Aunt Minnie, but Lance managed to break away and directed his steps toward the Pozo Verde Savings Bank.
At the bank, after waiting a few minutes, he was admitted to the private office of Gillett Addison, owner of the bank. Addison was of medium height, fat and bald, with small, squinty eyes. He appeared to be very busy, and Lance gained the impression that Addison felt valuable time was being wasted on the inquiry.
“No, no—sorry, I can’t help you,” Addison said brusquely. “I wouldn’t have any idea of the direction from which that shot was fired. Matter of fact, I wasn’t paying too much attention when the shot came. Oh yes, I was out on the steps of the bank, watching the excitement. To be frank with you, Tolliver, if I had to place a bet on the matter—though I want you to understand I’m not a betting man—I should say the shot came from over near the railroad tracks somewhere.”
“And,” Lance said dryly, “the bullet passed right through the Pozo Verde Saloon building, I suppose, and struck Kilby in the chest. Kilby, of course, was stretched on the ground when the shot came.”
“I’m not arguing the matter,” Addison said stiffly. “I’m simply giving you my impressions. Perhaps the shot came from the saloon.”
Lance said ironically, “Thanks a lot,” and, after a few more words had been exchanged, left the banker’s private office, closing the door behind him.
On the way through the bank proper he stopped at the cashier’s window. Behind the grill was a tall, thin young fellow with a pale complexion. Lance approached the cage. “You’re Elmer Manley, I take it. Sheriff Lockwood was telling me about you——”
“I’m Manley, Deputy Tolliver.” The young fellow smiled. “I hope you or the sheriff aren’t after me for anything?”
“Not at all.” Lance laughed. “I’m talking to as many folks as possible, trying to get an idea from which direction the shot was fired that killed George Kilby. Did you happen to be on the street when that happened?”
Manley nodded. “It sounded to me as though it came from the direction of the hotel. Of course, I couldn’t be certain. I’m not supposed to leave my cage here at all but I did dash out to take a look for just a second. Just as I reached the doorway I heard the shot. I really haven’t much idea of what happened, except what I’ve gathered from others…. You don’t remember me, do you, Mr Tolliver?”
“Should I?” Lance scrutinized the man more closely. There was something vaguely familiar about Manley’s features.
“Think back about five years,” Manley suggested. “The Dankerker counterfeiting case in St Louis——”
“Sure enough,” Lance exclaimed, his brow clearing. “You were a witness for the prosecution. You helped us convict——” He paused suddenly. If this man knew him…
“Trust me, Mr Tolliver,” Manley said. “I’ve an idea what brought you here and what brought Frank Bowman here. I haven’t said a word to anyone—and I don’t intend to.”
“That’s a relief,” Lance said ruefully. “You could upset a lot of plans.”
“I don’t intend to,” Manley repeated, and somehow Lance felt he could put faith in the man. Manley went on, “You wouldn’t want two five-dollar bills in exchange for a ten, would you?”
“I might at that,” Lance said slowly. What was the fellow up to? Lance drew a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and passed it through the grill.
Manley reached below his counter and secured two fives which he exchanged for the ten. Lance glanced at the numbers on the bills. Then he looked up, his eyes meeting Manley’s. Manley nodded slowly. Lance tensed. “Where ’d you get these?” he demanded.
“I can’t talk now,” Manley said, low voiced. “If I could meet you someplace after work——?”
“Anywhere you say. How about the sheriff’s office?”
Manley shook his head. “Somebody might see us. I wouldn’t be able to meet you until to night. It’s getting along toward the end of the month, and I’ll have to work fairly late. Do you know where Tony Pico’s saloon is? How about meeting me there? That’s the last place anybody would expect to see me——”
“Who do you mean by anybody?”
“Can’t tell you now. I’ll see you there to night around nine o’clock——” He stopped abruptly.
The door of Gillett Addison’s office had opened suddenly, and the banker emerged with his hat on. He frowned upon seeing Lance at Manley’s window.
“I doubt Manley can tell you anything, Tolliver,” he stated coldly, crossing over. “He scarcely stuck his head out the door.”
“I just learned that much, Mr Addison,” Lance said quietly. He still held in his hand the bills Manley had given him.
Addison spied the bills. His features tightened a bit, then he forced a cold smile. “Transacting a little business?”
Lance laughed. “Two-dollar bills are bad luck. I was just exchanging one for a couple of aces.” By this time Lance had thrust the two fives out of sight. He said much obliged to Manley and started toward the door with Addison by his side.
Addison said, “I’m just going out to my dinner. Have you tried the hotel yet? I’d be glad to have your company. I’d like to get better acquainted with the town’s new deputy.”
“Thanks, no,” Lance refused. “Some other time. I’m going to be right busy for a spell.” He wondered what had made the banker suddenly grow so genial. Probably the man wanted to question him, pump him. Or maybe it was just his imagination, Lance considered. On the street he said good-by to the banker and headed toward the sheriff’s office.
Lockwood and Oscar were waiting there when he arrived.
“Looks like you didn’t learn anything new?” Lockwood said.
“Regarding that shot, I didn’t,” Lance replied. “Did you two?”
“Nary a thing,” Lockwood stated gloomily.
Oscar shook his head. “From the various yarns I’ve listened to, I’m commencin’ to think that shot come down from the clouds.”
Lance asked, “Ethan, who is Elmer Manley? I know he’s cashier at the bank, but what do you know about him?”
“We-ell,” Lockwood said slowly, “I always figured Elmer was a right nice hombre. I can’t say I know much about him. He came to Pozo Verde about four years back—came out here for his health, he claimed. I reckon he was by way of becoming a lunger back in St Looie. That was his home. He told me one time he used to work for the First National Bank there. I’d be willing to take his word for that.’ Bout the time he arrived out here Gill Addison needed a cashier. Elmer landed the job. I don’t figure Gill pays him much, but I do think Elmer does most of the work around that bank. That bookkeeper they got in the bank—well, Elmer just about taught him to run the books from what I’ve heard. Yep, I figure Addison would miss Elmer was the boy to leave sudden. What about him?”
“He knows who I am.”
Lockwood whistled softly and in some consternation. He said finally, “What’s he going to do about it?”
“Manley says he doesn’t intend to reveal the information. I hope
I can trust him. He wants to see me. I’m to meet him to night in Tony Pico’s saloon.”
Oscar chuckled. “That ’ll be a surprise all around. I don’t reckon Elmer knows what the inside of a bar looks like—let alone Tony Pico’s place, which is patronized almost solely by Mexes.”
“I’m betting,” Lockwood stated seriously, “that Elmer has something important to tell you. Me, I’d trust that fellow.”
“You sound encouraging, anyway”—Lance smiled—“so my stomach will probably enjoy that dinner it’s been craving. Either of you ready for chow?”
“Both of us already et,” Oscar said, “before we come back to the office. Figured you might do the same.”
“Shucks”—Lance laughed—“if I’d known I wasn’t going to have company I’d have taken Banker Addison up on his offer. He asked me to eat with him at the hotel.”
Oscar choked on a lemon drop. “By cripes,” he gulped, “I never knew that tightwad to buy anything for anybody before. There must have been a catch in it someplace.”
“If Gill Addison offered to buy your dinner”—Lock-wood frowned—“you can depend on it he had something in mind. He always gets double value for whatever he gives.”
“Maybe I made a profit by refusing then.” Lance laughed. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t urge me very hard…. By the way, Ethan, you’re going to have to get along without one of your deputies this afternoon. I’m going with Professor Jones, you know—though I don’t know how much good it will do me.”
“You’ll probably get stuck on one of two things,” Oscar prophesied: “cactus spines—or a girl with yellow hair. One nice thing about cactus spines—you can recover from their wounds.”
Lance flushed. “I doubt very much that Miss Gregory will go with us.”
“T’hell she won’t,” Oscar denied. “She’s a secretary, ain’t she? She usually does go riding with him.”
“In that case”—Lance grinned—“maybe the afternoon won’t be a total loss. Well, I’m going to hunt me a flock of food. See you later.”
He left the sheriff’s office and walked down Main Street to the Chinaman’s restaurant. Twenty minutes later he emerged and started toward the Lone Star Livery where his horse was stabled. He was still a couple of doors east of Laredo Street when he saw Chiricahua Herrick standing before the Pozo Verde Saloon talking to a Yaquente Indian. The two were having an argument of some sort. Lance paused and stood before a store window watching. The Yaquente appeared to be stubbornly insisting on something to which Herrick violently shook his head in the negative. Once Herrick raised his clenched fist with the quirt dangling from his wrist, but the Indian refused to give ground.
Lance mused, “Now I wonder what palaver Herrick. could be having with a Yaquente….”
At that moment Herrick broke into a fit of cursing. Toward the end of a savage tirade Lance caught a few words: “… and I told you last night you couldn’t have any bullets. Understand, you low-down, flat-faced, greasy son of a bustard! I meant what I said! Now you get outa town and stay out….”
Herrick’s fist suddenly shot out and caught the unsuspecting Yaquente alongside the head. The Indian’s huge straw sombrero tumbled off. He staggered back, tripped and fell flat on the sidewalk. Instantly Herrick was on him with tigerish ferocity. Twice the quirt at the man’s wrist cruelly rose and fell, and each time it left a livid streak across the Yaquente’s face. Lance could hear the whistling hiss of the split leather, metal-pointed end of the quirt as it swished through the air. The Indian covered his face with his arms. Herrick shifted his sadistic attack to the man’s body. Crimson streaks appeared on the Yaquente’s thin cotton shirt.
“I’ll teach you, you——” Herrick was snarling as Lance closed in. The quirt was just raising in the air when Lance seized Herrick’s wrist and forced it down.
“Better take it easy, Herrick,” Lance snapped.
Herrick stiffened, twisted his head to see who had stopped him. Then as he recognized Lance a look of extreme malevolence appeared in his bloodshot gaze. He jerked savagely free from Lance’s grasp, fell back three paces. Swiftly his right hand dropped toward his holster.
“Hold it, Herrick!” Lance’s tones were like chilled steel. His six-shooter was already out. “You’re covered!”
Herrick paused with his gun half clear of holster. He tried to keep his eyes steady on Lance’s, but something in Lance’s piercing gaze sent chills coursing down Herrick’s spine. He could see tiny, flickering, angry blue flames in the relentless eyes, warning him that this tall, redheaded deputy had the law on his side—more: that Lance Tolliver, if pushed to the limit, might prove as much of a killer as Herrick himself. Herrick’s eyes widened at this discovery. Involuntarily he commenced to back away. The fingers of his right hand spread, relinquishing their hold on the gun butt, and dropped to his side.
“Reach!” Lance jerked out. “Reach high, you scut!”
Herrick’s hands came into the air above his Stetson. A shiver flashed along his backbone. He felt something jab, hard and sudden, into his middle. Looking down, he realized that Tolliver’s gun muzzle was boring in between his ribs.
Lance’s left hand moved forward, jerked the six-shooter from Herrick’s holster. Then he stepped back. “This seems to be your day for getting jammed up, Herrick,” Lance commented coldly as he thrust the captured gun into the waistband of his overalls. “First thing you know, you’re going to get into trouble—and I mean trouble! Beating up a helpless Indian seems to be just about your speed. I’m warning you not to go too far.”
“By God, Tolliver!” Herrick flamed. “I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do——!”
“You had your chance,” Lance snapped, “but you lacked the nerve. I figure you’re yellow clear through!”
A small knot of men had collected. Ordway, Anvil Wheeler, Ridge and two or three others of Herrick’s gang had appeared on the porch of the Pozo Verde Saloon. Lance watched them warily while still keeping an eye on the fuming man before him. None of the gang attempted to take a hand in the affair.
The Yaquente had by this time climbed to his feet and stood stolidly by, blood running down from the angry lashes across his face. More blood was seeping into his clothing.
Lance glanced at the man and felt a sharp anger run through his body. For a brief moment his gun barrel raised a trifle toward Herrick. Herrick quailed back. “My God! You wouldn’t shoot a defenseless man!” he exclaimed in terror.
Lance laughed shortly. “Yellow clear through,” he repeated. “No, Herrick, I’m not aiming to shoot you, though you deserve just that.”
Herrick glanced at his gang on the porch at his rear and could see the beginning of a certain contempt in their eyes. He gathered his fleeing remnants of courage and forced himself to meet Lance’s angry gaze. “Sometime,” he grated, “I’ll show you if I’m yellow or not. Don’t think you got me bluffed, Tolliver. Right now my hands are tied.” This for the benefit of his friends on the porch. “But my time will come. The time just ain’t ripe yet. But you’ll see. I’ll blast you so wide open that——”
“Cut it,” Lance said sharply. “Cut out your boasting and tell me what all this is about. What’s the idea of beating this Yaquente?”
“None of your damn business,” Herrick snarled.
“Maybe”—Lance’s gun tilted threateningly—“you’d like me to make it my business.”
Fear appeared in Herrick’s face. “All right, if you got to know,” he said sullenly. “This flat-faced Yaquente was begging ammunition from me. I told him I wouldn’t give him none. He made a blasted nuisance of himself, hanging around.”
“Is that straight?” Lance asked.
“Hell!” Herrick jerked one angry thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t need to take my word. Ask any of them fellers. They heard the whole thing—how this Yaquente has been hanging around all day——”
“That’s right,” Herrick’s pals chorused. “Chiricahua’s throwing a straight loop, Tolliver
.”
Lance glanced scornfully at the knot of men on the porch, then turned to the Yaquente standing near. “You understand this, hombre?”
The Yaquente burst into a guttural flow in his own tongue.
“Whoa, whoa!” Lance exclaimed. “Hold it, Injun. Now, listen careful.” Lance tried the man with a few Spanish words and saw his face light up. “You understand that, eh?” Lance asked. The Indian nodded. It appeared after a moment that he also had a few words of En glish. “All right, we’re getting straightened around now,” Lance said. He repeated certain words.
Again a volley of Yaquente verbiage mingled with Spanish and a spattering of En glish assailed Lance’s ears. He turned to Herrick. “The Injun says you promised him some ammunition for a gun.”
“He’s a goddam liar,” Herrick growled.
“How about it, Yaquente?” Lance asked.
The Indian glanced at Herrick’s friends on the saloon porch, next at Herrick. Something in their eyes made him change his mind, apparently. He finally grunted, “Forget eet, señor. Ees not’ing.”
Lance shrugged his shoulders. Time was passing. “What’s your name?”
The Indian replied promptly. Lance smiled. “Maybe you’re right, but it sounds like Horatio to me.”
“Ees good name.” The Yaquente showed white teeth from his bloody countenance.
Lance took a half-dollar from his pocket and gave it to the Yaquente. “Here, go get your face washed and a bellyful of chili. Then you’d better light out for home, savvy?”
“I’m—savvy. Gracias, señor.” Obediently the Yaquente turned the corner and stalked off in the direction of the railroad tracks.
Lance turned to Herrick. “You’d better keep off my path for a spell, Herrick. I won’t be pushed much farther.”
“I want my gun——” Herrick commenced.
“Want and be damned,” Lance said wrathfully. “You can have it when you learn how to act civilized. Just remember what I’ve told you. Don’t cross my trail any more than you can help.”
The Battle At Three-Cross Page 11