have to go after Bowman’s job, after all.”
“Fletcher, I never intended going after Bowman’s job. I got this badge for the purpose of arresting Bowman’s murderer. That part is accomplished. Somebody killed Kilby——”
“Who is Kilby?”
Lance stopped. “Kilby is the man who finished Bowman—just in case you don’t know.”
“Surely you’re not suspecting me of having a hand in the affair?”
“I’m suspecting damn near everybody until I get to the bottom of things. Just where were you before that shot was fired?”
“Which shot—yours or the one that got Kilby?”
“Mine got him first,” Lance growled, “but you know damn well I’m talking about the shot afterwards—the one that came from the direction of this hotel.” Lance felt himself growing angry.
“Oh, I see.” Fletcher looked amused. “In other words, you want to know what I was doing at the time and so on.”
“Exactly.”
“Here goes. I had finished my breakfast and was sitting in my room when I heard some shooting. I looked out of the window and saw one man down and you running toward him with your gun in your hand. I jumped up, ran downstairs and went out to the street——”
“Wait a minute.” Lance turned to the hotel clerk. “Did you see Fletcher leave?”
The clerk shook his head. “But that doesn’t mean anything. I ran outside, myself, when I heard the shot. Naturally I’d——”
“All right,” Lance cut in, turning again to Fletcher, “all right, you’re out on the street now. What happened?”
“I saw another man try to shoot you,” Malcolm said coolly. “Herrick, I understand, is his name. But that other deputy prevented that. Later you’d started to talk to Kilby when that shot came from down the street——”
“From down the street?” Lance frowned. “From this direction, you mean.”
Smiling, Fletcher shook his head. “No, I don’t. That sound seemed to come from west of here, say, in the direction of the bank building. Of course, I couldn’t say for sure.”
“You probably couldn’t,” Lance said ironically. “Then what?”
“I saw you come running over here. I hung around down on the street for a while, then decided to come back to my room. I’d just entered the lobby when you grabbed me and started to ask questions. Now you’ve got it, what are you going to do with it?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Lance replied quietly. He brushed past Fletcher and the hotel clerk and stepped out to the street once more. A few minutes later he found Oscar.
Oscar said, “Learn anything?”
Lance shook his head. “All I know is somebody could have fired that shot from one of those hotel rooms, closed the window—it wouldn’t have to be open very far—and made a getaway down the back stairs of the hotel. Did you pick up anything?”
“Nothing but confusion,” Oscar said wearily. “No two men in the crowd have the same idea regardin’ the direction that shot came from—east, west, north or south. There’s them that claim somebody in the crowd did the shooting. I can’t see that. It sounded like a rifle to me, and a rifle would be noticed pronto. Hell! It all happened so quick! We were all watching you and Kilby.”
“It sounded like a rifle to me too. I talked to Fletcher in the hotel, and he thinks—or claims to think—that the shot came from near the bank building or even farther west.”
“There y’are. Nobody can agree on it.” Oscar scratched his blond head and glanced toward the bank building. “Maybe so,” he commented dubiously, “but I’d bet against it.”
“We’ve got to admit it was damn accurate shooting, anyway,” Lance said ruefully. “I’ve a hunch it was done to keep Kilby from spilling what he knew.”
“Maybe you’ve hit it. By the way, Kilby died almost instanter. Never recovered consciousness. It’s a tough break.”
Lance nodded agreement. He and Oscar joined the sheriff standing near Kilby’s lifeless form. Lock-wood glanced at Lance’s face, saying, “I figure you didn’t have much luck.”
“Not any,” Lance replied. “Jeepers! One minute I thought we had this case all sewed up. The next, it blew wide open.”
“It’s not a total loss, anyway,” Oscar reminded. “Kilby confessed to Bowman’s murder. That’s one scut out of the way.”
Lockwood nodded, then said, “I reckon we’d better get this body off’n the street so the crowd can go about its business. Lance, it looks like Herrick has come to life again. What charge you want placed against him? He might have killed you.”
Lance glanced across the street. Herrick was seated at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the Pozo Verde Saloon holding his head and taking but little interest in his surroundings. Lance smiled. “Oscar, you sure take the fight out of ’em when your gun barrel lands.”
“It takes more than one jolt to take the fight out of Herrick’s breed,” Lockwood growled. “Oscar just softened him up temporary. Wait until we get him in a cell——”
“Ethan,” Lance proposed, “let’s not arrest Herrick. I’ve got a hunch we may learn more by letting him run loose. You know, give a man enough rope and he’ll hang himself.”
Lockwood looked surprised. “We-ell, sure, if you want it that way. But s’help me I’m going to give him a talking to and warn him that next time…” Muttering angrily, the sheriff started toward Herrick.
Oscar groped in a pocket for his sack of lemon drops. “Me, I never believe in givin’ a sidewinder a second chance—but maybe you know best, Lance.”
“I’m hoping I do. After all, Herrick didn’t do me any damage—thanks to your quick work. Maybe, if we let him run loose, I’ll meet him again with drawn guns. I have a hunch I will—and the sooner, the better!”
XII “You’re Covered!”
The remainder of the morning was consumed by Lance, Lockwood and Oscar in an attempt to discover some clue regarding the person who had fired the rifle, ending George Kilby’s life. Men on the street were interviewed, shop-and storekeepers talked to, but without result. Lance made another more thorough examination of the earth back of the rear entrance to the hotel, but without success. It was nearing noon when Lance made a trip to the railroad station to learn whether or not an answer to his telegram had arrived, but Johnny Quinn had nothing to give him as yet. Quinn would have liked to detain Lance to discuss Aunt Minnie, but Lance managed to break away and directed his steps toward the Pozo Verde Savings Bank.
At the bank, after waiting a few minutes, he was admitted to the private office of Gillett Addison, owner of the bank. Addison was of medium height, fat and bald, with small, squinty eyes. He appeared to be very busy, and Lance gained the impression that Addison felt valuable time was being wasted on the inquiry.
“No, no—sorry, I can’t help you,” Addison said brusquely. “I wouldn’t have any idea of the direction from which that shot was fired. Matter of fact, I wasn’t paying too much attention when the shot came. Oh yes, I was out on the steps of the bank, watching the excitement. To be frank with you, Tolliver, if I had to place a bet on the matter—though I want you to understand I’m not a betting man—I should say the shot came from over near the railroad tracks somewhere.”
“And,” Lance said dryly, “the bullet passed right through the Pozo Verde Saloon building, I suppose, and struck Kilby in the chest. Kilby, of course, was stretched on the ground when the shot came.”
“I’m not arguing the matter,” Addison said stiffly. “I’m simply giving you my impressions. Perhaps the shot came from the saloon.”
Lance said ironically, “Thanks a lot,” and, after a few more words had been exchanged, left the banker’s private office, closing the door behind him.
On the way through the bank proper he stopped at the cashier’s window. Behind the grill was a tall, thin
