“That’s my opinion,” Tolliver said easily. “Maybe you’d better examine him yourself.”
“Exactly what I’m aimin’ to do,” the sheriff said, tight lipped.
The other men were talking now, all offering advice to the sheriff. He spoke sharply over one shoulder without removing his eyes from Tolliver and told them to shut up.
Tolliver said, “If you and your riders are coming down into this wash it might be a good idea to come on foot and move careful. You wouldn’t want to mess up the sign.”
“That’s good advice”—the sheriff nodded—“though I don’t know as I need it.”
He and the others dismounted and started down into the wash.
A new voice broke in. “I don’t reckon we’re going to waste time looking for sign. I guess we’ve got our man.”
The sheriff nodded. “You might be right, Chiricahua.”
Tolliver didn’t say anything, though he didn’t like the manner in which things were shaping up. He glanced at the man named Chiricahua and saw a well-built individual with a swarthy, hawk-like face and beady eyes. A beaded hatband encircled Chiricahua’s flat-topped sombrero, and he wore tight Oregon breeches. His lips were thin and cruel. A braided horse hair quirt dangled from his left wrist. The six-shooter at his hip looked as though it had received plenty of use. The remaining men, all dressed in cowboy togs, were an unprepossessing lot. All were armed.
Tolliver stepped back as the men approached to gather about the still form on the rock-littered floor of the wash. The sheriff lifted the bandanna from the face of the corpse, then after a moment replaced it and moved back. He seemed to be the only one of the group with sense enough to step carefully so as not to disturb any “sign” that might be present and voiced a warning to the others to walk prudently. “Mind what I’m telling you,” he added.
“Cripes!” one of the men said. “This wash is too sandy to leave much sign anyway. See?” He scuffed one booted toe across the loose, sandy soil. “Sheriff, this won’t hardly hold any sign. Hell! There ain’t no use trying to read tracks——”
“I’m the best judge of that,” the peace officer said shortly.
Tolliver put in, “Sheriff, your man has already messed up some sign. Suppose I tell you what I’ve found out…”
“What you already made up, you mean,” sneered the man who had scraped his foot through the sand. “It don’t go down, feller. I reckon we don’t need to search any farther for the killer.”
Tolliver ignored the man and continued to the sheriff, “I figure the killing occurred sometime last night. Three horses came out from the direction of Pozo Verde; three returned that way. There were some boot prints around the body, but nothing much could be made of ’em. However——”
“Exactly the point I’m making,” said the man who had messed up the boot prints. “Sheriff, we’ve got our man. The two of ’em probably had a fight, and this hombre gunned him out….”
“Kilby,” the sheriff interrupted sarcastically, “I’ve made to run Sartoris County a long spell now without any help from you. When I need any assistance or advice I’ll let you know.”
The man named Kilby reddened and fell silent.
“Hey,” Chiricahua discovered, “look at Bowman’s hand. It’s painted black!”
The sheriff grunted. “I already noted that. Don’t understand it no more than you do.” He wheeled abruptly on Tolliver. “I figure you’ll explain it.”
Tolliver shook his head. “I don’t know any more about that painted hand of Bowman’s—if that’s the dead man’s name—than you do.”
“If I’m convinced I ain’t saying so,” the sheriff snapped. “You might be speaking truth; again, you might not. Speaking of names, what’s yours?” He came a step nearer Tolliver.
“Tolliver—Lance Tolliver.”
“So?” the sheriff jerked out. His eyes hardened a trifle. “I suppose Lance stands for Lancelot.”
There was some laughter from the other men. Tolliver’s tanned features flushed a trifle. “You’re supposing correct,” he said quietly.
“Cowman, I take it,” the sheriff snapped.
“You’re right again.”
The law officer said dryly, “I usually am. Where you heading for?”
“Pozo Verde.”
“Why?”
“Figured to get a job with some cow outfit.”
The sheriff smiled thinly. “I reckon you might as well postpone that for a spell. What did you kill Frank Bowman for?”
“Now, look here, Sheriff,” Tolliver exclaimed, “if you think I had anything to do with this killing you’re mistaken——”
“What say we string the coyote up?” Kilby interrupted.
The sheriff nodded. “Maybe that’s a suggestion, but it will have to be done legal. Kilby, I told you once to keep out of my affairs. If you want to be useful you might remove this Tolliver’s—if that’s his name—belt and gun.”
Kilby jerked his own six-shooter and approached Tolliver. “Stick ’em high, hombre,” he growled. “I’m relieving you of your hardware.”
There was no use resisting. Fighting down the indignant words that rose to his lips, Tolliver remained silent. He didn’t put his arms in the air, merely held them well out from his sides, while Kilby unbuckled his cartridge belt, then, at the sheriff’s order, buckled it again and hung it over the sheriff’s shoulder.
The sheriff’s eyes were boring into Tolliver’s. “Where you been all day?” the sheriff demanded.
“On the trail, heading for Pozo Verde,” Tolliver replied. “If you want the whole story, I’ve been down in Mexico and——”
“What were you doing in Mexico?” the sheriff snapped.
“Just riding around, looking at country I’ve never seen before.”
“Humph!” The sheriff’s short grunt sounded skeptical. “I’d bet dollars to doughnuts you won’t be able to prove that.”
The sheriff’s manner was commencing to get under Tolliver’s skin. “Maybe I’ll do more than that when the right time comes,” he asserted coldly.
“Hah!” the sheriff jerked out. “Tough hombre, eh? I reckon we’ll have to take that out of you.”
“You’ll live to regret it if you try to take anything out of me,” Lance Tolliver said, steady voiced. “I’ve told you my business, given you my name. That’s more than you’ve done.”
The sheriff laughed sarcastically. “Asking for an introduction, are you? Well, Mister Tough Hombre, if you must know, I’m Ethan Lockwood, Sheriff of Sartoris County. These fellers with me are known as Chiricahua Herrick, George Kilby, Bert Ridge, Larry Johnson and Luke Ordway. Don’t expect ’em to shake hands with you. They don’t like murderers——”
“I tell you I didn’t kill Bowman——” Tolliver protested.
“Don’t lie to me,” Lockwood said savagely. “I want the truth. What was the idea? Did Bowman have some money you wanted? Come across. What was the quarrel between you two?”
“Hey, Sheriff,” Kilby suggested, “supposin’ I search him?”
“I’ll ’tend to that myself, later.” Lockwood scowled. “And I’ll do all the talking, too, so keep shut. One way or t’other we’re going to make this Lance Tolliver tell why he killed Frank Bowman. C’mon, feller—speak up!”
Lance smiled coldly. “I thought you were going to do
Lockwood’s features crimsoned. “Now don’t get too smart for your own good, Tolliver,” he advised ominously.
“A six-gun barrel bent over his conk,” Chiricahua Herrick growled, “might act as a primer on his talk. What say, Sheriff?”
Lockwood shook his head. “If there’s to be any gun whuppings handed out, I’ll do it myself. I just reckon we’ll take this murderin’ sidewinder into my jail and prefer the usual charges——”
“You’re not arresting me,” Lance snapped.
“Suit yourself,” Lockwood said coldly. “Put up a fight if you like and see what happens to you. Maybe that would be best. I always like to save my taxpayers the cost of a trial when it can be done. Now, are you coming
