Perkins produced a small paper sack from a hip pocket. “Would you like a lemon drop?”
“A what?” After the day’s experiences, Lance could scarcely believe his ears. It sounded too mild to be true.
“A lemon drop.” Perkins thrust the bag toward Tolliver.
“Not right now, thanks. I’ll finish my supper first.”
“Uh-huh. Lemon drops is right good for indigestion.” Perkins seated himself across the cell with his back resting against the wall. He shoved a couple of lemon drops into his mouth and made loud sucking noises while he watched Tolliver eat. “Fact is,” he added after a time, “lemon drops is good for nigh any ailment. They offset the acidity in one’s stomach.”
Tolliver gulped. “Did I hear you right?” he ventured.
“Reckon you did. Anyway, that’s what a sawbones in Kansas City told me one time. I always remembered just how he said it. Sounds genteel like, don’t it?”
Lance swallowed some more coffee. “Sort of,” he admitted. He changed the subject. “Seems to me like I’m the only prisoner in your jail.”
“Y’are. Every crime wave in this town has been washed out for a long spell. Folks don’t start things with Ethan Lockwood enforcing the law like he does. You’re the first prisoner we had to entertain in a year of Sundays, seems like.” He crunched a lemon drop between his teeth and went on, “That’s just the trouble. With crime at a minimum, the taxpayers can’t see why a deputy is needed here. I reckon they figure Ethan can handle it all—and I reckon he can. Eventually I’m going to commence to begin looking around for another job. Say, you don’t look like a murderer.”
“Much obliged,” Lance said dryly. “Same to you. Did the sheriff tell you I was a murderer?”
Deputy Perkins shook his head. “Not for certain. As a matter of fact, after he told me to come down here and feed you—he found me in the general store getting some lemon drops—he tipped me off I was to treat you like a guest. Didn’t think I heard him right at first. First time I ever knew him to act that-a-way. Y’ain’t got anything on him, have you?”
“Not yet,” Lance commenced grimly “But hope——”
The door between the sheriff’s office and the jail corridor opened. The deputy said, “Here comes Ethan now.” He scrambled to his feet, still holding the bag of lemon drops.
Lance glanced at the open cell door and wondered what the sheriff would have to say regarding that oversight. Apparently Lockwood was accustomed to such happenings. He strode into the cell, saying, “Oscar, there’s a lot of noise coming out of the Red Steer Saloon.”
“There won’t be long.” The deputy nodded. “I’ll go down and see can I quieten ’em a mite. See you later, Tolliver.” He popped a lemon drop into his mouth, thrust the paper sack into a hip pocket and sauntered leisurely out along the corridor.
“And how he’ll quiet ’em,” Lockwood chuckled. Lance had left his seat on the bunk now. The sheriff came nearer, one hand outthrust. “Reckon I owe you an apology, Tolliver.”
Lance took the hand but said cautiously, “Thanks. You must have discovered I didn’t have anything to do with the murder.”
Lockwood laughed. “I knew that right along. You see, Tolliver, I had a letter from your outfit a couple of days back telling me to be on the lookout for you and give you all assistance possible. The instant you told me your name today I realized who you were. Didn’t know just what you were after but figured it might be as well to put on an act for the benefit of Chiricahua Herrick and those others.”
Relief flooded through Tolliver. He grinned a bit wryly. “You’re one good actor, Sheriff. You had me feeling I was in a tight for a spell. It all came as a bit of a surprise, particularly as I’d been given to understand that Sartoris County had an honest peace officer on the job.”
They sat down together on the bunk and rolled cigarettes. “Never suspected you for a moment, of course,” Lockwood was saying. “But I’m not so sure that some of that gang that rode out with me today don’t know more about that murder than they were letting on. Bowman’s horse came wandering back to town about noon and ——”
“That explains,” Tolliver said, “how one of the three horses left after the others. I read that much from the sign.”
Lockwood nodded. “Herrick, Kilby and a couple of others came running to me with the news that their pal, Bowman, was missing. We followed the hoofprints back toward that dry wash where we met you.”
“I figured something of the kind might have brought you out,” Lance said, “providing you were on the square. At the same time I wasn’t sure but what you and your riders might be looking for somebody to frame.”
“Not
“What was Bowman doing here?” Lance asked.
“Not much of anything,” Lockwood replied, “until recently. Last week or so he’s been acting as a guide to a professor who’s been riding the near-by hills.”
“Guide, eh?” Lance frowned. “Wonder what was back of that play. Confidentially, Frank Bowman was one of our best operatives.”
“T’hell you say!” Lockwood’s jaw dropped. “It must have been considerable of a shock finding him dead that-a-way.”
“Worse than that,” Lance said grimly. “All I ask is to meet the man who did it. Who is this professor you mentioned?”
“Name’s Ulysses Z. Jones. Claims to be working out of the Jonesian Institute of Washington, D.C. Ever hear of him?”
Lance shook his head. “What’s his game?”
“Cactus. He rides——”
“Cactus?”
Lockwood shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just telling you what he claims. It sounds crazy to me, but he says he’s making a study of the flora—I think that was his word—of the Southwest. He’s staying at the hotel. His niece is with him acting as secretary. Her name is Gregory——”
“One minute. Is this Professor Jones a big man, dark, around thirty or thirty-five?”
“Nothing like that at all. He’s——”
“Never mind. I’ll see him eventually.” Lance’s frown deepened as he drew meditatively on his cigarette. “I can’t understand Bowman acting as his guide unless he ties into the situation——”
“Do you mind telling me what, or who, you’re looking for?”
“Anybody by the name of Matt Foster in town?”
Lockwood considered, then shook his head. “Not that I know of. The name isn’t familiar.”
“Probably he’d change his name anyway. I’ll give you more of the story later, Sheriff. Meanwhile, what of those hombres who were with you this afternoon? Who are they? What do they do?”
“Chiricahua Herrick is the leader of that gang. Frankly, I don’t know what they do. They’ve been hanging around Pozo Verde for quite a spell now—that is, Herrick, Kilby, Johnson and Ridge have. Those four are right thick. Ordway is a local man. Never amounted to much. Lately he’s been tagging after Herrick and the others. If he’s considered one of their gang I don’t know it. Fact is, I’d like to know more about that crew myself but I haven’t anything to go on. They don’t break any laws that I know of. I haven’t any legal excuse for bopping down on ’em.”
Lance smiled. “I understood from your deputy that you ruled with an iron hand here and that there wasn’t any crime.”
“You can give Oscar the credit for that.”
Lance showed his surprise. “You mean that—that——?”
“Yeah,” Lockwood chuckled, “that sleepy-looking, lemon drop-devouring, lengthy bag of bones that brought you your supper. But don’t you make any mistake about Oscar Perkins. He’s the one who keeps this town on the straight-and-narrow path.”
Lance said skeptically, “I’d sure like to know how he does it. Has he got a rep for a fast draw or
