something?”
“That ain’t been put to the test yet.” Lockwood laughed. “Ain’t been necessary. Oscar just hits ’em!”
“Oscar just what?” Lance’s eyes bugged out.
“Hits ’em. When a hombre starts misbehaving Oscar cracks him over the head with his gun barrel. If the fellow shows signs of coming back for more Oscar lets him have it with his fist. That always settles it. Talk about a mule’s kick!”
Lance grinned. “Maybe the lemon drops have something to do with it. I can’t think of anything else to explain it.”
“Oscar has fooled a heap of folks. Now, me, I used to slam the hell raisers in my cooler. They didn’t mind that so much in the long run, and my jail was always full. Howsomever, this town has discovered it would rather behave than be hit by Oscar. Consequently, Pozo Verde has tamed down a heap. So much so, in fact, that the taxpayers are commencing to say it isn’t necessary to maintain two peace officers here.”
“Bowman’s murder may cause them to change their minds.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. By the way, Tolliver, what do you make of Bowman’s hand being painted black?”
Lance shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me. Here’s something else that’s got my brain going in circles.” He drew the mezcal button from inside his shirt. “I found this clutched in Bowman’s left hand before you got there. Know what it is?”
Lockwood took the plant, said immediately, “Hell, yes! This is a peyote. I’ve heard it called ‘sacred mushroom,’ ‘piote bean,’ ‘hikuli’——”
“And ‘mezcal button,’” Lance interrupted. “Also ‘dry whisky.’”
“I’ve heard it called a lot of other names by people who tried to keep it away from the Indians.” Lock-wood frowned. “But it seems to be as hard to stamp out as the marijuana habit.”
“The question is”—Lance frowned—“what was Bowman doing with it? What did it have to do with his death —if anything?”
“In the first place,” Lockwood said slowly, “I wonder where it came from. I can’t say I ever noticed peyotes growing around here. When I was in Texas I used to run across ’em right often. There’s a lot of peyote growing down in Mexico too. You say you found this in Bowman’s hand?”
Lance nodded. “He was hanging onto it like he never meant to let go too. Cripes! I’ve got to get out of here and find out what it’s all about.”
“You’re free to go any time,” Lockwood said. “I did figure it might be a good idea for you to stay overnight, though, until we can cook up an alibi—that is, if you don’t mind. After that act I put on to impress Chiricahua Herrick and his gang——”
“I understand. I’m glad you acted as you did. I figure Bowman was killed sometime last night. If so, I’m alibied. About the time he was killed I was asleep in a little fonda in Tipata over across the line——”
“I know Tipata—and Moreles who runs the fonda over there. I’ll let on like I’ve sent someone to check up on you. If Bowman was taken out there and killed last night——”
“He wasn’t killed out there,” Lance interrupted. “He was taken out there after he’d been shot.”
“You got proof of that?” the sheriff said quickly.
“It’s what the evidence showed me,” Lance replied. “When his body is brought in you look careful at the blood——”
“His body was brought to Pozo Verde quite a spell ago. It’s over to Doc Drummond’s place. Doc’s going to hold the inquest to night.”
“As I see it, two riders took Bowman out there after he was shot. I don’t know why. They left him there dead and returned to Pozo Verde. Hours later, Bowman’s horse wandered back to town——”
“But you said he was shot before being taken out there. How could he ride his horse——?”
The sheriff paused, frowning. Oscar Perkins stood at the doorway of the cell. “Doc Drummond’s ready to start the inquest now, Ethan,” Oscar announced, sucking on a lemon drop. “You said you wanted to be there.”
“I sure do.” The sheriff rose from his seat on the bunk.
“I’d like to hear it myself,” Oscar said. “At the same time, if Tolliver wants me to remain and keep him company——”
“You go along, Oscar,” Lance said. “Both of you keep your ears open. You look at that blood careful, Sheriff. Maybe you’ll get what I’m driving at.”
“I’ll do that. And I’ll bring you word of the findings just as soon as a decision is reached.”
The sheriff and his deputy closed the cell door without locking it and made their way out of the building. Lance waited a long time for their return but when they didn’t put in an appearance he extinguished the lamplight and curled up on the bunk to get some sleep.
III The Cactus Man
Early-morning sunlight was streaming through Lance’s cell window when he awoke. Oscar Perkins was standing in the cell. Lance had slept the night through without interruption. He shoved his sombrero onto his head and got to his feet.
“Inquest kept going dang nigh all night,” Oscar was saying. “When a verdict finally was reached it was so late that Sheriff Ethan figured you might as well get your whole sleep in. Just as soon as you wash up there’s some breakfast waiting for you in Ethan’s office. He’d like to talk to you.”
“I’ll be right with you,” Lance said. “Much obliged.”
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar said politely, and withdrew.
Five minutes later Lance was sitting down to a tray of breakfast on Lockwood’s desk. Lockwood leaned back in his office chair and talked while Lance consumed food. Oscar slouched back on another chair and made inroads on his sack of lemon drops.
“We had quite a session,” the sheriff was saying. “Chiricahua Herrick and his crowd were there, along with a lot of other folks. Chiricahua insisted the murderer was already caught, meaning you, and the jury was some impressed. There were a lot of squabbles and arguments, Chiricahua insisting that the jury bring in a verdict against you. I stalled things along by telling them I had sent a man over to Tipata to check on your alibi.’ Bout two this morning I strolled down here to the office, stalled around a spell and then went back to the inquest with the word that my messenger had returned from Tipata and that your alibi was airtight——”
“And they took your word for that?” Lance asked.
“My word was good with everybody except Chiricahua and his crowd. They wanted to talk to my messenger personal and they asked a lot of other questions. Howsomever, I represent the law here, and they didn’t get no place. Doc Drummond gave his jury a talk. The jury retired for a spell and finally returned a verdict that Bowman had met his death at approximately midnight, night before last, at the hands of some person unknown. Doc had probed out the slug, of course. It was some battered but looked like a forty-five. It had entered below the right cheekbone and ranged up at quite a sharp angle. Doc says he thinks Bowman may have lived quite a spell after the bullet struck, though he’d be unconscious, of course.”
“Ranged up at a sharp angle,” Lance repeated slowly. “Bowman was a fairly tall man. He may have been shot by a shorter one or he may have been on his horse, and the killer on foot.”
Lockwood said, “You’re positive he wasn’t killed where you found the body?”
“Positive. Did you examine the blood on Bowman’s face?”
“Yes, I did,” the sheriff replied, frowning. “There was a streak of dried blood that had run across his nose. Another streak had run up across his forehead and into his hair——”
“There’s the point,” Lance quickly pointed out. “Blood doesn’t run up. See what I’m getting at? Bowman was shot, then the murderer threw the body across the saddle of Bowman’s horse and traveled out there where the body was left in the dry wash——”
“And if Bowman’s head hung down over the saddle”—Oscar had straightened in his chair—“the blood running from the wound would course down across his forehead and into the hair. That’s the way it looked——”
