Lance threw himself swiftly across the stretch of sandy soil intervening between himself and Katherine, threw one arm around her waist and forced her to the earth. Then he half dragged, half carried the girl behind the shelter of an upthrust of granite rock. Even as he moved another leaden missile scattered dust and gravel close to his body.
“You stay there—down, out of sight!” Lance snapped.
Turning, he sprang to his pony, gathered the reins and leaped into the saddle without touching stirrup. The roan gelding needed no more than a touch of the spur to get into motion.
“Lance,” Katherine wailed. “Come back! You’ll be hit!”
“You stay out of sight,” Lance yelled back over his shoulder.
He was riding low in the saddle, crouched behind his horse’s head. Those shots had come from an easterly direction, and Lance was heading toward a brush-covered ridge from which he calculated the shots had been fired. It wasn’t easy going. There was too much brush and cacti barring the way.
“Damn cactus!” Lance growled, and touched the gelding again with his spurs.
He was nearing the side of the ridge now, momentarily expecting to ride straight into a hail of rifle fire. Lance’s six-shooter was out, but he could see nothing at which to shoot. His eyes were intent on the ridge ahead. No further shots were forthcoming. Lance wondered if the hidden assailant was holding his fire for close-up work. The tough little gelding dug in its hoofs and scrambled, panting, up the side of the steep slope.
It was slow going, but finally horse and man reached the crest. From this position Lance had a wide view of the surrounding country, but there was nothing to be seen except a vast sea of mesquite, paloverde trees, creosote bush and cacti, with the hot sun making shimmery waves of the distant landscape.
Suddenly a dark, racing figure caught Lance’s eye. It disappeared behind tall brush, again came into view farther on and once more disappeared, moving fast. It was a rider, all right, but too far away to be recognized. Lance swore softly under his breath. “That coyote is heading for Pozo Verde but he’s got too much of a head start for me to overtake him before he gets there. Cripes! Once in town, he’d quickly lose himself. I reckon I’d better go back. This might be a trick to draw me off. After all, that first shot came a heap closer to Katherine than it did to me. I wonder which one of us that sidewinder was aiming to get. Maybe both. It was dang good shooting, at that. Blast the luck! There are too many good riflemen not getting caught.”
He turned his pony back down the ridge and started toward the spot where he had left Katherine. The sun was swinging wide to the west by the time he returned. The girl was waiting anxiously, and a look of relief swept across her face as his pony moved out from the tall brush.
“Lance!” she exclaimed. “Thank heaven you didn’t get hurt. Who was it?”
Lance shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t find anybody. Probably just some fool hunter trying to get a brace of quail for supper——”
“Lance! You know that’s not so. People don’t hunt quail with rifles—not generally. I’ve hunted enough to know that much. Somebody was trying to shoot you.”
“Anyway, he didn’t succeed, so there’s nothing to worry about. The professor not back yet?”
Katherine shook her head. “He’s probably neck-deep in cacti someplace. Even if he’d heard those shots he’d be so interested in his notes they wouldn’t register on him. He should be along soon though. The afternoon’s going.”
Jones put in an appearance in a few minutes though. He looked somewhat relieved at seeing Lance and Katherine. “I thought I heard some shots a time back,” he said. “Probably mistaken—what?”
“You’re not mistaken.” Lance shook his head. “Some hunter was potshooting around. Anyway, it’s about time to start back, I reckon.”
“Confound that hunter!” Jones exclaimed crustily. “I thought—something wrong. Very awkward. I’d just discovered—beautiful Echinocereus fendleri—very unusual—late for bloom, y’understand—but just covered—magnificent magenta flowers. But, Katherine, you’ll never believe it”—Jones’s tones took on enthusiasm—“I found an almost perfect specimen of Homocephala texensis—most unusual—these parts. That spot down there—veritable botanical garden. I’ve brought with me an Echinocereus rigidissimus and a Neomammillaria macdougalii—just seedlings—y’understand. Must return—tomorrow. Be no end interesting—stay beyond nightfall—any number Penicereus greggii—due for blooming. Night bloomer, Lance—y’understand——”
“Uncle,” Katherine said impatiently. “Lance is not telling the truth. Somebody was shooting at us.”
“What, what! Bless me—can’t believe it. No. I——”
“I wouldn’t say for sure they were shooting at us, whoever it was,” Lance said quietly. “Howsomever, I figure we’d better be getting back.”
Jones was considerably upset at the news. Saddle cinches were tightened. Jones gathered his papers and specimens into saddlebags, and they mounted and turned the horses’ heads toward Pozo Verde.
A mile or so was covered in silence before Katherine spoke. “It wasn’t any go, Uncle Uly,” she said. “Lance refuses to take the job as our guide down into Mexico.”
“Ridiculous,” Jones snapped. “Nothing else to do—far as I can see. Is there, Lance? Any number men—for deputy jobs. You’ll reconsider?”
Lance, smiling, shook his head. “No can do. I’m no guide——”
“Great Christopher! No need of a guide. I can get into a saddle and ride. Need a man to—hire crew—wagons—buy supplies—that sort of thing. We need you——”
“Sorry, Professor.” Lance shook his head. “I’m not so sure Katherine should go down there either.”
Katherine said “Fiddlesticks!” Jones continued to insist. Finally, to get his mind off the subject, Lance pointed to a tall, polelike cactus some short distance off. “I suppose you’ll be telling me that’s not an organ-pipe cactus. The Mexes call it pitahaya dulce, meaning ‘sweet fruit’ or something of the kind.”
Jones glanced briefly at the plant in question. “Only one of the organ pipes,” he jerked. “That one—Lemaireocereus thurberi. Now when we get down into Mexico I hope to show you a Pachycereus marginatus—some term it—true organ pipe——”
“But I’m not going to Mexico,” Lance insisted.
Jones fell into a moody silence, for once, apparently, not content to discuss cacti. Four or five more miles drifted to the rear. Abruptly Jones broke the silence. “I still don’t understand”—he appeared to be choosing his words with care—“that man Kilby not having time to tell you a few things about his gang before he died. You’re quite sure, Lance, he didn’t reveal anything of import?”
“Darn little.” Lance’s irritation showed in his words. He hated to be questioned. He considered. Something might turn up if he told the professor what Kilby had said. “Kilby refused to talk about the gang at first,” Lance continued. “He confessed to killing Bowman and taking the body out to that wash. I remember Kilby mentioned something about it being too dark to notice the peyote in Bowman’s hand——” Lance paused, struck by a sudden thought.
“What’s that you said?” Jones pounced on Lance’s words. “Too dark to notice—peyote in—Bowman’s hand?”
Lance nodded. “And that’s queer, too,” he said slowly. “There’s been so much action today, I reckon my mind isn’t working straight. I never thought of that until now——”
“Great Christopher, yes!” Jones exclaimed. “How many men knew that you found that peyote in Bowman’s dead hand?”
“Sheriff Lockwood, Oscar Perkins,” Lance said, “Katherine and yourself.”
Jones interrupted, “Fletcher overheard you telling me last night. Remember how he hurried from the hotel bar?”
“I’m thinking of it now,” Lance said ruefully.
Jones said quickly, “Only five people knew—one of them—told Kilby. Which one?”
Katherine put in, “It looks like Fletcher to me.”
“Couldn’t be—anybody—else,” Jones said.
Lance nodded. “Let’s push along. I’m aiming to talk to Fletcher when we get back——” Again he paused, wondering if he was telling Jones too much. After all, Kilby had confessed that somebody was supplying peyotes to the Yaquentes. Peyotes came from a cactus company. The professor could order those peyotes with immunity, so far as being suspected was concerned.
Jones said shrewdly, “Guilty conscience, what? Wondering if you’ve—revealed secrets—to me?” He laughed shortly. “Can’t say—much interested in peyote cactus—that standpoint.”
“Whatever I’m thinking”—Lance smiled—“I’ve got to admit this much. Maybe you haven’t improved my brain so far as cactus is concerned this afternoon but you sure started it working in another direction. That’s twice I’m indebted to you.”
“Perhaps”—Jones returned to the old subject—“make further improvement—if you decide—come to Mexico with us. Mutual improvement, what?”
“Sorry.” Lance’s lips compressed tightly. “I’m not going to Mexico. That’s out, Professor.”
Jones sighed. He didn’t press the matter further. The remainder of the ride to town was made in quick time. Arriving in Pozo Verde, Jones and Katherine offered to take Lance’s pony to the livery while Lance went directly to the hotel in search of Fletcher.
“Sorry,” the clerk informed Lance, “Mr Fletcher isn’t in. No, I can’t say where he went. I saw him riding a horse earlier today. If he’s returned, I couldn’t say. I haven’t seen him. He may be eating his dinner.”
Lance left the desk and went to the hotel dining room. There was no sign of Fletcher there. He returned to the street and visited all the restaurants in town, then the saloons. He kept a sharp eye for those passing along the street, but of Fletcher there didn’t seem to be any sign. Lance finally gave up the search and ate his own dinner. It was dark now. He finished his food and went to the sheriff’s office. Oscar and Lockwood were there.
“Ah, the return of the cactus hunter.” Oscar grinned. “Did you get your itsy-bitsy hands full of nasty old spines?”
“No, but I dang nigh got my carcass full of lead,” Lance said.
“You don’t say!” Lockwood sat straighter at his desk.
“Somebody tried to dry-gulch me—or Miss Gregory,” Lance said grimly. “I’m not sure which. I just know the slugs were too close to both of us to be comfortable.” He told the rest of the story, ending with, “And now I want to talk to Fletcher.”
Lockwood frowned. “If Jones has got a tie-in with Fletcher why in the dev il does he suggest things that make you suspicious of Fletcher?”
“For that matter,” Oscar put in, “it was Jones suggested you look for creosote on the overalls of Bowman’s killer. What’s his game—if any?”
“You got me.” Lance shook his head. “Maybe he’s just what he says he is. Somehow I’ve got a hunch to the contrary but I’m damned if I can put a finger on anything definite. Of course, there was that remark he made last night about a gang getting rid of careless members, or something of the sort. Incidentally, have you hombres seen anything of Fletcher this afternoon?”
Oscar said, “I saw him mounted, riding west along Main, a short time after you pulled out with the professor. I don’t know where he went though.”
“I might make a guess,” Lance said darkly, “but I’ve no proof to back it up. At any rate he’s not back yet, according to the hotel clerk.”
“Cripes!” Lockwood growled, “that wooden-faced hotel clerk don’t know what’s going on anyway.” He paused, then: “By the way, Lance, I checked up with Johnny Quinn as you asked me to. There’s no answer to your tele gram yet. Johnny’s quite put out about the whole business. Says he had a notion not to close the depot until he learned just what was to happen to your aunt Minnie.”
Lance smiled. “Thank your stars there’s something left in this world to laugh at. Things are so muddled in my brain that I can’t seem to figure anything out. F’rinstance, why in the dev il is Jones so anxious to have me guide him down into Mexico?”
“Maybe he figures there isn’t so much law down there.” Oscar chuckled. “Up here, in the States, we sort of enforce the law concernin’ assault and battery. What I want to know, where does Jones’ niece fit into the picture?”
“I’m betting that girl’s straight,” Lance said earnestly.
“You would.” Oscar grinned. “I know—pure as the lily in the dell. But a lily might get the wool pulled over her eyes.”
“By the way,” Lockwood put in. “I was passing Smith’s Gun Shop this afternoon. I glanced through the window. Chiricahua Herrick was looking at six-shooters. I reckon he figured I wouldn’t give him back that weapon you took off him, Lance.”
“That reminds me of something else,” Lance said gloomily. “I’ve been thinking I should have held that Yaquente that Herrick was beating up today. I let him go, at the time thinking it wouldn’t be much use questioning him, but I should have tried.”
“It wouldn’t have done you any good.” Lockwood shook his head. “I know those hombres. They don’t talk unless they feel like it, and wild horses couldn’t drag any information out of ’em.”
Lance nodded. “Just about what I was afraid of. This whole damn business is a puzzle. I’m just hoping when I meet Elmer Manley to night he’ll have something to say that will give me a lead. By the way, where is Tony Pico’s saloon?”
Oscar jerked one thumb toward the doorway. “That Mex joint across the street. You won’t have far to go. You weren’t to meet Manley until nine o’clock, were you?”
“Nine,” Lance said. “What sort of joint does Pico run?”
“Tony’s all right,” Lockwood said. “He obeys the closing law on time. There’s never any fights in his place. By Hanner! If all of the people in this town was as law-abidin’ as our Mex population we wouldn’t have any trouble.”
Shortly before nine o’clock Lance crossed the street to Pico’s saloon. Oscar went with him. Pico proved to be a round-faced, grinning Mexican who immediately insisted on buying drinks for Oscar and Lance. Oscar didn’t drink. This didn’t at all stop Tony. Grinning widely, he reached to his back bar and handed Oscar a paper sack of lemon drops. “I’m know someday you come een my bar, Os-cair, so I’m prepare’ for any emergen-cee.”
“By cripes, Tony”—Oscar laughed—“you’re a man after my own heart. Take care of my friend, will you? He’s aiming to meet somebody here.”
Oscar departed. Lance waited. A few Mexicans strolled in from time to time and drank beer or tequila. Lance carried on a desultory conversation with Pico. Pico happened to mention that a great many Yaquentes were being seen in Pozo Verde the last few months. Lance pricked up his ears and asked Pico if he knew the reason. Pico shrugged. Apparently he knew nothing much about it. “Good fightairs, those Injun,” he commented.
“So I hear.” Lance nodded. He ordered another bottle of beer. By this time it was nine forty-five, with no sign of Elmer Manley. Ten o’clock came and passed, then ten-thirty. There were more Mexicans in the saloon now; the place was filled with smoke. Lance stepped out to the sidewalk in front to get a breath of air. He wondered why Manley failed to put in an appearance, and there was growing concern in the thought.
A few lights, here and there, still shone along Main Street. Across the roadway oil lamps burned in the sheriff’s office. Now and then Lance could hear Oscar’s laugh. Lance breathed deeply of the cool night air. Footsteps sounded along the sidewalk. A familiar figure took form.
“Why, hello, Lance.” It was Professor Jones. “Waiting for somebody?”
“Just enjoying the cool of the evening,” Lance evaded.
“Looking for you—you know,” Jones went on. “Intended visiting—sheriff’s office——”
“Now, look, Jones,” Lance said wearily. “I’m not going down into Mexico with you.”
“Quite so, quite. Great disappointment. Not what I wanted to see you about—at all. Fletcher not back—yet. Thought perhaps—you’d be—interested.”
“Fletcher hasn’t come in yet?”
“Not yet. Strange, what?” Jones puffed smoke from his brier, and the glow from the bowl lighted his face. “Thought you would care to know.”
“Well, yes, much obliged.”
The professor appeared to want to talk further but when Lance showed no inclination to continue the discussion he said good night and turned back toward the hotel. “Now what”—Lance frowned, looking after the professor’s disappearing figure—“did you want? Or are you just being friendly? I don’t know whether to be ashamed of myself or not.”
It was after eleven o’clock by this time. Oscar came across from the sheriff’s office and stood talking to Lance awhile. Lance told him about the professor. Oscar said, “Damn! I wish I could figure that coot out. Looks like Manley isn’t going to show up either. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Lance. I know where Manley lives. I’ll go see if he’s home. You wait here in case he shows up.” Oscar hurried off down the street.
Within fifteen minutes he was back. “Manley has plumb disappeared,” he announced. “About six o’clock he hired a horse and buggy at the Lone Star Livery.”
“Did he happen to say where he was going?” Lance asked quickly.
“Not definitely. Just told the livery man he wanted a horse and rig that could make a quick trip to Saddleville.”
“How far is Saddleville?”
“About eighteen miles. I went to his boarding-house first. They hadn’t seen him since breakfast.”
“How’d you happen to go to the livery?”
“Dropped in there on my way back to see if Fletcher had put in an appearance. He hadn’t. Fletcher got his horse this afternoon and hasn’t been back since.”
“I wonder if there’s any connection between the two?” Lance frowned. “Oh hell, nothing works out right. I’m going to bed. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow——”
“Wait,” Oscar interrupted. “Here’s the rub. The horse and buggy Manley hired is back. The horse came wandering in about an hour ago. But Manley wasn’t with it. There’s a suitcase in the rig. That’s all.”
“Nope, I’m not going to bed,” Lance said wearily. “I reckon we’d better saddle up and see if we can find Manley along the Saddleville Road. There’s no rest for the wicked, Oscar.”
“You mean,” Oscar pointed out, “the wicked don’t seem to give us any rest. All right, let’s go.”