scot free. Not only that—he had all the money. The gang hadn’t had an opportunity to divide the spoils. Luckily, the numbers of the stolen bills were on record and a warning sent out. The first bill showed up in New Orleans. My Denver office sent me to New Orleans to trace it down. From there the chase took me to Tampico, in Mexico, then up to Chihuahua City. I worked out of Chihuahua City a spell, trying to find something. No luck. I returned to Chihuahua after a month and found a letter for me saying some of the stolen money had showed up in Pozo Verde and that Frank Bowman had already been sent here. I was ordered to come here also.”
“And on your way here,” Oscar put in, “you found Bowman’s body.”
Lance nodded. “Now you know about as much as I do.”
Lockwood asked, “Who in Pozo Verde reported the bills?”
“A traveling salesman passed them in Saddleville. He claimed that he’d got them from your local bank. The cashier here said he thought he remembered the bills but he’d never seen a list of the recorded numbers, so he couldn’t be sure. The president of the Pozo Verde bank insisted his cashier was mistaken. Anyway, Bowman was sent on to investigate. Incidentally, the traveling salesman was released; he proved to be an honest man.”
Lockwood looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t say our local banker was particularly bright. On the other hand, Elmer Manley, the cashier, is quite a smart boy.”
Oscar said, “I suppose the bank would have a list of the numbers.”
“Every bank in the country has them,” Lance replied.
“Do you happen to have a description of Matt Foster?” Lockwood asked. “Or any idea what he looks like?”
“We have a description from his pards we captured,” Lance replied, “but it’s the sort of description that fits any number of men. One of the captured gang had a photograph on him that helps some, but not much. Before they pulled that Kansas City job they’d been operating up in Wyoming. They held up a small bank there. Later, when they got down as far as Nebraska, they went on a wild party with the stolen money and ended up in a photo gallery where they had a group picture taken. Trouble is, Matt Foster was at the back of the group and he was wearing a heavy crop of whiskers——”
“And he’s probably clean shaven now, eh?” Lock-wood said.
“That’s the way I figure.” Lance drew out of one pocket a small photograph of five men seated in the typical photographer’s gallery of the time, replete with palms, wicker furniture and a painted background. The five men all wore derby hats; their clothing looked new; wide watch chains stretched across each fancy vest. Apparently they had gone on a wild buying spree with their ill-gotten gains. Four of the men wore heavy mustaches; the fifth, only his head showing in the background, had a thick, dark beard that nearly covered his face.
Lance pointed out the bearded man. “That’s Matt Foster. He doesn’t look familiar to you, I suppose?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Never saw him so far as I know. With only his head showing that way and with that beard you haven’t much to go on. I figure this Matt Foster had a mite more sense than the rest of the gang and didn’t want his face seen no more than could be helped.”
“That’s the way I figure him,” Lance agreed.
Oscar studied the picture for a time, but Foster’s face wasn’t familiar to him either. The men talked a few minutes more, then Lockwood said, “I’ll be busy on these reports for a mite yet. Why don’t you two go get your dinner, then relieve me when you’re finished?”
On the street Lance said to Oscar, “Where do we eat?”
“There’s three or four good restaurants in town. There’s a chili joint across the street there. The New York Chop house serves good grub. I like the hotel dining room, too, only they take longer to serve. There’s a Chink down the street a couple of blocks has right good chow.”
“Let’s make it the Chink’s. A couple of blocks’ walk will give me a chance to see your town.”
They sauntered along, their high-heeled boots making hollow, clumping sounds on the raised plank sidewalk from which, in places, the broiling noon sun was drawing spots of pitch. As they crossed Laredo Street Oscar pointed out the Pozo Verde Savings Bank at the northeast corner of Main. As Lance glanced across the street Chiricahua Herrick, accompanied by a middle-aged fat man in a white shirt, was just emerging from the bank doorway. The fat man was mopping perspiration from his bald head with his handkerchief.
“That fat feller is Gillett Addison, owner of the bank,” Oscar commented.
“Queer bedfellows,” Lance said.
“Huh?”
“I mean it’s rather surprising to see a man like Herrick consorting with the owner of a bank.”
“I reckon they weren’t together. Probably just came out the door at the same time. See, Addison is walking down the street alone. Probably headed for the hotel. He always eats his dinner there.”
“And Herrick,” Lance added, “is heading out toward the hitch rack. It sure looks like his pony had been pushed hard. Look at the poor beast. It’s flecked with foam all over its forequarters. I reckon Kilby was speaking straight when he said Herrick had gone to Tipata to check up on my alibi. But why should he go direct to the bank?”
“You tell me,” Oscar suggested.
“I wouldn’t know. Though generally a man like Herrick don’t have many dealings with a bank. I was just wondering if he had gone there to report that my alibi was airtight.”
“Report to who?”
“That’s something else I wouldn’t know.”
“Gosh, you’re sure suspicious, Lance, when you start picking on one of Pozo Verde’s leading citizens.”
“I didn’t say he’d reported to Banker Gillett. But in my game you have to be suspicious of everybody.”
They walked on until they came to the Chink’s restaurant. Across the windows of the building was painted the words: “Jou Low—Restaurant.” They passed inside and found seats at a long counter, where presently they were served with roast beef, pie, potatoes, bread and coffee. They were half through the meal when Chiricahua Herrick entered. Spying Lance seated at the counter, Herrick stiffened suddenly, then, noting the deputy sheriff at his side, relaxed again. He nodded shortly to Oscar and spoke coldly to Lance:
“I want to see you, Tolliver.”
Lance glanced over his shoulder at Herrick. “You see me, hombre. What’s on your mind?” His eyes drilled into Herrick’s.
Herrick opened his mouth to speak; his eyes fell momentarily before Lance’s steely gaze. Finally he turned away muttering, “I’ll see you later,” and passed down the counter to find a seat farther on.
“I wonder what’s eating him?” Lance commented to Oscar.
“He’s prob’ly got liver trouble,” Oscar grunted between bites of food. “He should eat more lemon drops.”
They finished their dinners, drained coffee cups and left the restaurant. On the sidewalk once more, Oscar said, “I’ll get back to the office and see can I help out on the sheriff’s reports. What you going to do?”
“I’m going to stay here until Herrick comes out,” Lance said quietly. “He opened a topic of conversation he didn’t finish. I aim to learn what’s on his mind.”
“In that case,” Oscar drawled, “I reckon the sheriff’s reports can wait a spell longer. I don’t think you’ll start trouble, but you might have it forced on you. It’s my duty to keep the peace when possible.”
“Suit yourself.”
They rolled and lighted cigarettes and stood leaning against the tie rail, waiting for Herrick to put in an appearance. Within a short time he emerged from the restaurant doorway, picking his teeth. His face flushed a trifle as he noted Lance and Oscar standing at the hitch rack, but he made no move to stop.
“Hi yuh, Cherry-Cow,” Oscar said cheerfully. “I hear you been ridin’ across the line to Tipata to check up on Tolliver’s alibi—and incident’ly on Sheriff Lockwood’s word. He already told you where Tolliver was the night Bowman was killed.”
Chiricahua Herrick paused, spun about and crossed the sidewalk directly to face Oscar and Lance. “Who told you I’d been to Tipata?” he growled.
Lance took up the conversation. “I encountered your friend, Kilby, this morning. He spilled the beans.”
Herrick’s swarthy features twisted angrily. “I heard something about that encounter, Tolliver. Taken to beating up fellers when they’ve been drinking, eh? Is that your idea? Get ’em when they ain’t steady on their pins?”
“Frankly,” Lance said quietly, “I didn’t want to do it. I wasn’t looking for trouble. I wasn’t side-stepping any that was forced upon me either. I couldn’t do anything else——”
