run up to his room and——”
“But, Deputy Tolliver——”
“Never mind your ‘buts,’” Lance snapped. “Do as I tell you——What!!! He’s not here?”
“If you’d listen to reason,” the clerk said in chilly accents, “instead of rushing in like a mad bull, you’d understand what I’m trying to tell you. At my last hotel in Boston such an attitude would never be tolerated ——”
“Never mind Boston,” Lance fumed. “Where’s Fletcher?”
“I haven’t the least idea. He checked out last night—I should say, early this morning, around three o’clock. Roused me out of my bed to settle his account. He left a note for Professor Jones. Perhaps the professor may know of his whereabouts. I’m sure I don’t. And furthermore…”
What more the clerk said Lance didn’t hear. He was already hurrying out of the lobby and down to the sidewalk. A look of relief crossed his features when he saw Jones still mounted at the hitch rack.
“Why didn’t you tell me Fletcher left?” Lance demanded.
“You didn’t ask.” Jones appeared slightly amused at something in Lance’s attitude. “Had an idea you—looking for Fletcher. Waited to see——”
“You know where he went?” Lance commenced to cool down.
“Faint idea at least. Left note for me. Note explained—Fletcher reconciled to idea—our trip to Mexico. He’s left to prepare Three-Cross ranch house—for visitors. Note stated—considerable cleaning up necessary—that sort of thing.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“Oh, quite likely.” Jones smiled cheerfully. “Enjoy yourself first, though—what? When I see Fletcher—tell him you were sorry—miss him—all that sort of thing.”
“Dang right I am,” Lance said coldly. “I wanted to ask him why he’s been having mezcal buttons shipped in.”
The smile left Jones’s face. “What’s that?” he cracked out.
Lance repeated the words, closely watching Jones’s face meanwhile. “Certain shipments have been traced direct to Fletcher,” he added. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Jones’s eyes had a narrowed, faraway look. A frown creased his forehead. His horse shifted weight suddenly, jogging Jones’s mind back to the present. He smiled thinly down at Lance. “It means one thing, Lance,” he said slowly. “Your information places me in the clear.”
Lance looked startled. “What do you mean—places you in the clear?” he demanded.
“Surprised,” Jones murmured absent-mindedly, “Fletcher didn’t—cover tracks better.”
Lance repeated his demands.
“It’s this way,” Jones replied. “Now you’ll no longer suspect me——No, wait! Don’t deny it. Natural thing. Peyote cacti shipped here. Only normal for you—assume—I’m guilty party. Admitted?”
“Admitted,” Lance said sheepishly.
“Thought so.” Jones smiled. “Better friends now, what? By the way, Fletcher has gone to Mexico. If you must see him—make the trip, eh? Still need that guide, y’understand.”
Lance laughed softly. “Professor, you’ve hired a hand—providing I can pick my own crew.”
“What!” Jones’s face beamed. “Excellent! Must tell Katherine. Good news.” He got down from his horse and gripped Lance’s hand, then started toward the hotel entrance. At the doorway he paused, looked back. “Pick your own crew—naturally. Suit yourself.”
Lance said, “If you’re going after cacti I suppose you’ll want men who ’re handy with shovels.”
“Talk it over with me—tonight. Already—wasted part of the day. And—er—er—you mentioned shovels. Not so important. Prefer men—thoroughly familiar—six-shooters.”
And with such surprising statement Jones disappeared through the hotel doorway.
“Now what in the devil”—Lance frowned—“did he mean by that?”
He turned and hastened back to the sheriff’s office. Oscar and Lockwood were seated in straight-backed wooden chairs, tipped back against the wall of the building. Lockwood said, “Did you see Fletcher?”
Lance shook his head and told them about Fletcher leaving during the night.
Oscar said, “I’d just like to know if he took Herrick and his gang with him. I haven’t seen one of that crowd this morning.”
“Maybe I’ll find out soon,” Lance replied.
“What do you mean?” Oscar asked.
“I’ll tell you in a few minutes. Oscar, did you learn anything about Manley?”
Oscar shook his head. “I talked to a lot of folks. Nobody saw him leave town. The bookkeeper at the bank didn’t know anything about it. He’d stepped out for his supper a short time before Manley left. After supper the bookkeeper worked an hour or so on his books. Then he ran into some sort of a snag that Manley wasn’t there to explain. So the bookkeeper went home.”
“I reckon we’ll have to leave further work to Ethan—so far as the Manley case is concerned. Ethan, I’m resigning from my deputy job.”
“Didn’t expect you to continue on with it. You leaving Pozo Verde?”
Lance nodded. “I’m going to guide Jones on that trip into Mexico. Bowman must have expected skulduggery from that direction. I’m going to see if I can pick up where he left off.”
“Maybe you’ve got the right hunch.” Lockwood nodded.
“We’ll sure miss you, feller,” Oscar said sincerely.
“Maybe
Oscar’s chair bumped down suddenly on all four legs. A wide grin spread over his features. “If I’ll take the job?” he exclaimed. “Man alive! All you got to do is let me have lemon drops on my expense account, and I’ll follow you to hell and back.”
“It ’ll be a relief to get rid of him”—Lockwood laughed—“I get so damn tired of that crunch-crunch-crunch of lemon drops all the time.”
“When do we start?” Oscar asked.
“Two, three days, I figure,” Lance said. “We’ve got to buy equipment, hire men and so on. Oscar, you should know a few cow hands hereabouts who’d like a trip down into manana land.”
“Yeah, I do—several,” Oscar said warily, “but they’d be fighting men. They wouldn’t take kindly to breaking their backs with a shovel in a cactus pasture.”
Lance laughed. “What the professor wants is men who can handle six-shooters.”
Oscar’s jaw dropped. He slumped down on his chair. “Well, may I be hung for a tobacco-eatin’ sheepherder,” he said weakly.
Lockwood frowned. “Men who can handle six-shooters? Hmmm! Must be Jones is expecting trouble down in Mexico.”
“Well”—Lance smiled thinly—“I never yet heard of anybody shooting cactus out by the roots!”
XVI Captured!
Mexico. Land of sun and dust and soaring-buzzard shadows across alkali wastes, of purple mountain peaks and broiling deserts and coppery skies. A country of romantic laughter and music and wood smoke under starry nights. A gargantuan arena running crimson with the blood of revolution. A vast region of the oppressed; an indolent realm of soft laughter. A paradoxical land of dreamers and noble warriors, of poets and seraped centaurs. Manana land. Land of tomorrow. Mexico: a saddle for
