“I don’t know how sure they are. Being in Sonora, the whole business was up to the Mexican authorities, you know. What they ever did, if anything, I haven’t heard. It was out of my jurisdiction, of course——Say, speaking of Yaquentes—there’s a couple of ’em now across the street.”
Lance’s gaze followed the sheriff’s pointing finger and saw the two Indians. They were well setup men, clothed in loose, flopping cotton garments, with huge straw sombreros on their heads. One was in his bare feet; his companion wore crude leather sandals. They looked much like the peons to be found throughout Mexico, though there was an air of independence about the two men that almost smacked of belligerence.
“Right peaceful-looking hombres,” Lockwood muttered grimly, “but they’re sure hell on wheels when it comes to fighting. You give them two a six-shooter and a carbine and a bandoleer of ca’tridges and you’d be surprised how it ’d transform ’em. I know; I fought ’em some about fifteen years back. The Mex Government has got ’em held down to some extent at present, but no man can say they were entirely conquered.”
“What do you suppose those two are doing in Pozo Verde?”
“They cross the line and come to town every once in a while,” Lockwood replied. “A small bunch of ’em get a few pesos and come up here for a buying spree every so often. We never have no trouble with ’em. They never do any drinking here—mostly they’re satisfied to buy some beads or knives or bolts of colored cotton——”
“Here’s three more of ’em,” Lance interrupted, “coming along the street on this side.”
The sheriff didn’t seem greatly concerned. The three Yaquentes, dresed approximately the same as the first two Lance had seen, passed them swiftly and turned in at Parker’s General Store.
Lance laughed. “I hope somebody in that store can speak Yaquente.”
“He can’t,” Lockwood said dryly. “Nobody speaks Yaquente but a Yaquente. But they get along all right. Some of those Indians can
Lance parted from the sheriff at the corner of Laredo Street and crossed diagonally to the steps of the San Antonio Hotel which stood at the intersection of the two thoroughfares. As he mounted the steps to the hotel porch which stretched across the front of the building’s lower floor, fronting on Main, Lance glanced along the street in either direction. From this higher point of vantage he had a clear view both ways. His eyes narrowed a trifle as he noticed on the sidewalks still more Yaquente Indians.
“Knowing what I do of Yaquentes,” Lance muttered, “I sure wouldn’t feel too good about ’em coming over here. Howsomever, they’re peaceful now, and I reckon Ethan Lockwood knows his business.” Dismissing the thought from his mind, he passed on into the hotel.
The hotel lobby reached the length of the front of the building. To the left as one entered was a doorway into the hotel bar. At the opposite end of the lobby was a staircase ascending to the rooms on the second floor. Midway between the two was a small oaken desk with behind it a series of pigeonholes for room keys and letters. Several men were seated about the lobby. Most of them, Lance decided after a brief glance, were drummers for liquor or hardware houses or cattle buyers in Pozo Verde to make contacts with the neighboring ranches.
Lance negotiated for a room and secured one on the second floor, facing Main Street. “I’ll see it later,” he told the clerk who wanted to show the room. “My bedroll is with my horse over at the Lone Star Livery. I’ll bring over what dunnage I need later on.” He signed the register, then asked, “By the way, Professor Jones is staying here, isn’t he?”
The clerk nodded. “Oh yes. His room is just down the hall from the one you’ve taken…. No, I’m afraid you can’t see him now. He’s out, I believe, riding with his niece. You know, studying cactus——” The clerk smiled a bit superciliously. “Why anyone should bother with such plants is more than I can understand. Now, a nice geranium in a window pot—that’s different——”
“Everybody to his own taste, I reckon,” Lance commented. “The professor goes in pretty heavy for cactus, eh?”
“More than seems reasonable.” The clerk nodded. “He’s already packed three boxes with plants and has them stored in our storage room until he leaves.” The clerk whirled the register around and read Lance’s name. “Oh, Mr Tolliver. You’re the one who found that murdered man, aren’t you?—Frank Bowman?”
Lance nodded and started to turn away. “Tell the professor I dropped in, will you? I’ll be back later on ——”
He stopped short as a new voice broke in, “I’m a friend of Professor Jones’. Perhaps I can help you out if you’ll let me know what you want. It may save you a trip back here. I’m Malcolm Fletcher. Did I understand you to say you’re Tolliver?”
“I’m Tolliver.” Lance shook hands with Fletcher, whom he’d noticed seated at the far end of the hotel lobby. Fletcher was a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped man with a lantern jaw, piercing eyes and brown hair, somewhere in the vicinity of thirty or thirty-five years of age. He wore high-heeled boots and corduroy trousers. A black sombrero was shoved to the back of his head. He had the appearance of a cowman, though Lance felt he hadn’t worked at that trade for some time. There was an air of affluence about Fletcher.
“… and if you care to state your business,” he was saying, “I may be able to help you out.”
“No particular business to state.” Lance smiled. “I just met the professor on the street this morning, and he asked me to call. I’ll see him later.”
“It wasn’t about a job as a guide you wanted to see him?”
Lance shook his head. “Why should I?”
Fletcher laughed. “No reason at all,” he replied. “I just thought you were after that job Bowman had before his death. Just in case you were, I can tell you now it’s not open.”
“The professor decide he doesn’t need a guide any more?”
“He actually doesn’t, of course, around here, but he had hired Bowman to take him down into Sonora.”
“I see.” Lance nodded. “Has Professor Jones given up the Mexico trip?”
“Just about,” Fletcher answered. “I’ve been against it from the first, of course. I think he’ll take my advice.”
“There’s nothing final been decided yet, then?”
“It’s practically settled.”
“Why have you advised against the trip?”
“Mexico is pretty wild country,” Fletcher explained. “I don’t think it any place to take a girl—at least, a girl like Professor Jones’ niece. There are a large number of Yaquente Indians through the section in which Jones wants to travel. The Yaquentes are peaceful enough now, but”—Fletcher shrugged his shoulders—“a man never knows what may turn up.”
“You certainly said something then,” Lance agreed. He turned to leave. “Well, much obliged for the information. If you’ll tell the professor I called——”
“I’ll tell him,” Fletcher said, “though there’s no chance of you getting that job even if you knew that country down there. I hope you see how it is.”
“I reckon,” Lance said noncommittally. He nodded to Fletcher and left the hotel. On the street he said to himself, “I’m not sure if I do see how it is. I wonder who that Fletcher hombre is, and is he making all decisions for Jones? For some reason he’s none too keen for Jones to head down into Mexico. Oh well, I’ll see Jones later. Maybe a mite of conversation will bring out something.”
Lance next bent his steps in the direction of the railroad depot. As he entered the station old Johnny Quinn glanced up and grunted sourly. “You agin, eh?” he squeaked. “Well, I ain’t remembered no more than I did this mornin’, so ye’re wastin’ my time and yours if ye insist on hangin’ round——”
“There’s no law against sending a tele gram, is there?”
“A telygram?” Johnny Quinn stiffened like a soldier coming to attention. “Ye want to send a telygram? Whyn’t ye say so in the first place? Here’s a pad o’ paper. Write ’er out plain, and I’ll shoot ’er off.”
Lance smiled inwardly and proceeded to “write ’er out plain.” When he had finished he shoved the paper across to old Quinn. Quinn snatched at the paper and started to read it. He got as far as the address, then glanced up over his spectacles at Lance, saying, “You’re sendin’ this to Washington, D.C., hey? Hmmm. Thet’s where the President of these United States lives.”
Lance nodded. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect before. Howsomever, it isn’t being sent to him.”
“Shucks all tarnation!” Old Quinn sounded exasperated. “I know thet much.” He started to read on, then stopped. A frown gathered on his forehead. He squinted through his spectacles, took them off, wiped them on his bandanna, replaced them, took them off again. Finally he gave up. “Are ye drunk?”
“Haven’t had a drink today.”
