gentle or aren’t you?”
Lance showed pale under his tan. His gaze shifted quickly about the half-ring of men confronting him. Three of them already had their hands on gun butts. The sheriff eyed him sardonically.
Lance relaxed. “All right, I’ll come without a fuss,” he said quietly, “but I’m protesting this arrest——”
“Protest, and be damned to you,” Lockwood sneered. “There ain’t been a killing in my county in six months, and I don’t aim to have any murderer escape me now. You’ll learn I have a rep for bringing criminals to justice and——”
Lance Tolliver interrupted, “If we’re headed for your billy-be-blasted jail, let’s go. I’m not honing to stand here and listen to a tinhorn po liti cal speech any longer than possible.”
“Still feeling hard, eh?” Lockwood snorted. “Once I get you in Pozo Verde you’ll get over that. That roan gelding over there yours?”
“That’s my horse.” Tolliver nodded.
“Get on it and don’t give me any of your lip,” Lockwood commanded. “Chiricahua, get a piggin’ string and tie his hands to the saddle horn. You, Ordway, you stay here with the body until the coroner can come out and view it. I’ll tell Doc Drummond as soon as we hit town. And don’t touch that body—not none. I want it left just the way it is until Doc gets here.”
Tolliver was roped into his saddle, then his pony was led up out of the wash.
With Sheriff Lockwood on one side and Chiricahua Herrick on the other, the start was made for Pozo Verde, Tolliver riding between the two. Kilby, Ridge and Johnson fell in at the rear, leaving the man named Ordway to stay with the dead body until the arrival of the coroner. Kilby filled the time with a loud mouthing of threats regarding what was to happen to Tolliver until even the sheriff could stand it no longer. In no gentle voice he ordered Kilby to “pronto quit that runnin’ off at the head before somebody slaps down your ears.” Kilby flushed and kept quiet from then on.
Tolliver remained silent during the ride to Pozo Verde though his mind was rife with speculation. Chiricahua Herrick on a couple of occasions insisted on Tolliver making a statement regarding his reasons for killing Bowman, but the prisoner just smiled coldly without answering.
“Lay off, Chiricahua,” Lockwood said finally. “Once I’ve got this hombre in a cell I’ll get the truth or know the reason why. You just leave it to me.”
By this time the sun was picking out crimson high lights on the distant peaks of the Saddlestring Mountains and the air had commenced to cool a trifle. Before long the riders reached a wagon-rutted trail running across the campo and ten minutes later, topping a low ridge of ground, they spied the roofs of Pozo Verde. Following the trail, they soon commenced to see blocky adobe houses on either side. The houses became more numerous. The smoke from mesquite fires was drifting lazily in the air, and here and there lights shone from windows.
Tolliver saw, when they reached it, that Pozo Verde was quite a sizable town. A double row of hitch racks before which stood a scattering of ponies and wagons stretched the length of Main Street, along which the riders were guiding their ponies. Yellow squares of light from store windows made rectangular patches on the dusty roadway; already it was too dark for passing pedestrians to notice that Tolliver was tied to his saddle. On either side were buildings with high false fronts. There were saloons, restaurants, a savings bank and a two-story brick hotel.
They had already crossed two intersections—Las Vegas Street and Laredo Street—and were approaching a third—Yuma Street. At the southwest corner of Yuma and Main stood a long, low building of rock and adobe construction before which swung a board sign bearing the words: “Sheriff’s Office & County Jail.” There was no light in the office.
“Dang it,” Lockwood grunted, “I suppose that deputy of mine has gone to his supper already.” He signaled the horses to a stop before the hitch rail. “Untie this gent, Chiricahua. He’s arrived at his steel-barred apartment.”
Chiricahua untied the rope that bound Tolliver’s wrists, then whipped out his gun. “Get down off’n that horse, hombre, and move right cautious. I’ll plug you if you try a getaway!”
Lance slid down from his saddle. “How about taking care of my horse?” he commenced. “He’s covered a lot of——”
Kilby sneered. “You ain’t goin’ to have no more need of a horse——”
“Shut up, Kilby,” Lockwood growled. “I’ll see your horse is watered and fed, Tolliver. Now you get on there!”
The door to the sheriff’s office was open. Lance “got on there,” with the barrel of Chiricahua’s gun boring into his backbone.
II Evidence
There wasn’t any light in the cell. Lance heard the steel-barred door swing behind him, then the retreating steps down the corridor between the double row of cells. Kilby was talking again, saying something about hoping he’d have a chance to have a hand on the rope when they hung Tolliver. The door to the sheriff’s office slammed shut. A moment later the door to the street closed loudly. The voices died away, leaving Lance to his own thoughts.
He fumbled around in the darkness, found a wooden bunk in which was a burlap sack filled with straw and sat down to roll a cigarette. He could thank heaven they hadn’t searched him nor taken away his tobacco and matches anyway. He struck a match, dragged deeply on the brown-paper cigarette, then held the match up and glanced around. The cell had one barred window in its outer wall. Lance saw that much and little more before the match flickered out.
“This,” he told himself, “is a hell of a note.”
Not that he was unduly worried about the situation. His mind dwelled more on the dead man he had found that afternoon. And there was that black-painted hand. And the mezcal button. The plant still reposed inside Lance’s shirt.
“There’s something damnably queer about the whole setup,” he muttered.
His cigarette had burned nearly to the end when he heard footsteps entering the office from the street. It suddenly occurred to Lance this was the first sound he’d heard since the sheriff and the other men had departed. It must be that all the other cells in the jail were empty. The door between the sheriff’s office and the jail opened now. Light shone along the corridor between cells, and a long shadow appeared on the floor.
Lance caught the gleam of the deputy sheriff’s badge first, then he saw its wearer standing before the cell door holding in one hand an oil lamp and in the other a platter of food. The food was placed on the floor while the cell door was unlocked. Picking up the platter, the deputy kicked open the door and stepped inside. He handed the platter to Lance, set the lamp on the floor and turned back toward the corridor with the explanation that he had to go back for the coffee.
Lance considered the matter while the deputy was gone. The man hadn’t bothered to close the cell door. Careless or—something else? Prisoners had been known to be allowed to escape just so they could be shot down when they emerged into the open. Lance decided not to take any chances.
The deputy reappeared in a few moments bearing a pail of steaming coffee. Lance felt better as he commenced to eat the potatoes and roast beef and biscuits on the platter. Apparently the deputy hadn’t intended him to escape.
“I understand your name is Tolliver,” the deputy said. “I’m Oscar Perkins.”
“Glad to know you,” Tolliver said gravely. “This chow is sure welcome.”
“I figured it might be.” Perkins nodded.
There was something comical about the man. He had large, bony wrists that hung well below his shirt sleeves. His black sombrero’s brim was sadly tattered along one side. The skinny legs in corduroy trousers appeared to be badly warped. He had sleepy, indolent eyes, and a mild manner of speech. Looking at Oscar Perkins Lance Tolliver was reminded of nothing so much as a tall, skinny, blond scarecrow. Even the gun belt at the deputy’s hips looked as though it might slip down around his knees at any instant.
