“Oscar, you’re smart,” Lockwood said.
“Lance is the smart one,” Oscar said indolently. “I just recognized what was pointed out to me.”
“And when they took the body out to that dry wash,” Lance continued, “they may have put Bowman down on his side. That would account for blood running in the other direction, though there wasn’t so much of it by that time. Maybe he was just left out there on his horse and fell off after a time. That part’s not so important. But I think I’ve proved that Frank Bowman’s shooting didn’t take place in that dry wash.”
“By cripes!” Lockwood exclaimed, “you certainly have.” He paused, then: “That still doesn’t explain what he was doing with that mezcal button.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Lance admitted. “But I picked up a couple of other clues out in that dry wash before you arrived, Sheriff, that I haven’t mentioned before. I call them clues—maybe they don’t mean a thing.” He ceased talking to produce a small notebook from between the pages of which he extracted a tiny splinter of pine wood and a few threads of dark woolen cloth.
“What are those?” asked the sheriff.
“This bit of pine splinter was sticking to Bowman’s sleeve on the arm that held the mezcal button. Those twisted wool threads I picked off his right spur. Apparently his spur had caught in a piece of cloth at some time or other.”
“What do they tell you?” Lockwood asked.
“Not a great deal,” Lance confessed. “They’re not objects that would ordinarily be found in a dry wash, of course. Particularly these threads of wool I picked from Bowman’s spur. A man couldn’t walk far without losing those threads, so I figure he must have picked ’em up about the time he was shot.”
Oscar Perkins put in, “There wasn’t any chance that Bowman did a little peyote chewing, was there?” He paused, then added, “Ethan was telling me about finding that mezcal button.”
“Not a chance,” Lance said definitely. “In the first place, that button hadn’t been dried. In the second place, I knew Frank Bowman. He was in the organization long before I joined and he had a right good reputation. No, we’ll have to leave that peyote-eating habit to certain of the Indian tribes and their ceremonies. You haven’t heard anything of the kind around here, have you?”
Lockwood shook his head. “The Indians hereabouts gave up that sort of thing long ago—if they ever did anything like that.” The sheriff paused, then, “There’s a small tribe of Yaquente Indians down below the border that might go in for peyote eating. Come to think of it, I’ve heard they do.”
Lance nodded. “I’ve heard of the Yaquentes. Pretty fierce fighters at one time, though they’ve made peace with the Mexican Government——”
“A sort of armed peace.” Lockwood nodded. “The Mexican Government never did entirely subjugate them. Howsomever, those Yaquentes I mentioned haven’t kicked up any trouble in years. Small bunches of ’em come to Pozo Verde now and then. They seem civilized enough.”
“Maybe they dropped peyotes in favor of lemon drops,” Oscar drawled.
“Come to think of it,” Lockwood put in, “some Indian tribal ceremonies call for painting parts of the body. Do you suppose there’d be any connection between that and Bowman’s hand being painted black——?”
“Jeepers!” Oscar exclaimed. “That’s an idea.”
Lance shook his head. “I don’t think so, Sheriff. That wasn’t regular paint on Bowman’s hand. I examined it right close—even smelled it. It had a sort of creosote odor.”
“Creosote?” Oscar pricked up his ears. “Wait—where did I hear about creosote? Oh, yeah, I remember. There was a section gang working down near the
T.N. & A.S. depot, replacing a couple of railroad ties. They painted the new ties with creosote. When the gang left they forgot a bucket with some creosote in it, standing on the depot platform. Night before last somebody tipped the bucket over. Old Johnny Quinn, the station agent, was madder ’n a wet hen. Seems like he stepped into the creosote that had been spilled and then tracked it into his office. He’d just mopped the office the day before. You know what an old woman Johnny is, Ethan.” “When did this happen?” Lance said quickly. “The same night Bowman was shot?”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah, night before last. Yesterday was one tough day for old Johnny Quinn. On top of being peeved about that spilled creosote, Johnny claimed somebody had broke into his office and stole his bills of lading for what freight came in day before yesterday. He probably lost ’em and had to blame somebody. You ’member, Ethan, I mentioned it to you?”
The sheriff said he remembered. “Johnny Quinn is always finding fault with something. S’far as concerns his office being broke into, all’s he had to base that on was the fact his window was open when he come to work. Nothing else was missing except his bills of lading. It’s my opinion he forgot to close his window the night before, and his bills blew away.”
Lance had finished his breakfast by this time. He rolled and lighted a cigarette, rose and donned his sombrero. “I reckon I’ll walk over to the railroad station and see where that creosote was spilled. Can’t tell, I might pick up something.”
“Want I should go with you?” Lockwood said.
“Not unless you feel like it. If you’re busy——”
The sheriff made a wry face. “I ain’t made out my expense report for last month yet and I’ve got to get to it. Take Oscar along with you. By the way, that’s your gun and belt hanging on that hook across the room. Might be a good idea to put ’em on.”
“I’ll feel more comfortable anyway.” Lance smiled.
A few moments later Lance and Oscar were walking east along Main Street. They passed shops and stores of various commercial enterprises, nearly all of which had built-out wooden awnings over the plank sidewalk to protect pedestrians from the broiling sun baking the dusty roadway. Oscar nodded or spoke to several townspeople he met. He and Lance were just passing Lem Parker’s General Store when a man in riding breeches and knee-laced boots emerged from the doorway.
“Hi yuh, Professor?” Oscar said.
An irritated, vague look disappeared from the man’s eyes as they focused on the deputy. “Ah!” He smiled suddenly. “It’s my lemon-drop friend. How’s everything this morning? I’ve just been trying to get a trowel in the general store. It seems they don’t stock such implements.”
“Try Herb Rumler’s General Store,” Oscar suggested. “He carries a line of such tools, rakes, and so on to accommodate some of the ladies in town who go in for raisin’ garden sass and such. By the way, shake hands with my friend, Lance Tolliver—Professor Jones. It was Lance who found Frank Bowman’s body.”
Professor Ulysses Z. Jones was probably forty-five or fifty years old, with thick, gray-streaked, dark hair. He was of medium height with a bony frame and an energetic bearing. His face was thin, accenting the contours of rather high cheekbones, although healthily tanned. He was smoothly shaven. His gray eyes had a manner of suddenly taking on a vague expression, as though the man were chary of revealing innermost thoughts, though at times they could be unusually keen. Almost instantly Lance gained the impression that Professor Jones’s mind concealed far more knowledge than was put into words. Despite the heat of the southwest sun Jones wore a necktie and loose-fitting tweed jacket. His hat was a soft gray felt with a fairly wide brim. There was something trim, neat, compact about the man, and he displayed a sort of ner vous, driving energy in every movement.
Jones was commenting on the Bowman killing: “… I was most distressed… very sad affair … I like Bowman … excellent chap. Great shock to you … presume … Tolliver. Acquainted … by any chance?”
“We had mutual friends,” Lance evaded. “I felt as though I knew him.”
“Sincerely hope … authorities … bring murderer to swift justice.”
“I understood,” Lance commented, “that Bowman was working for you. Would you have any idea of what he was doing the night he was killed?”
“Not the slightest,” Jones replied instantly. “I had hired him to guide me through the hills near by. He knew this country. Later we planned going down into a section of Mexico with which he claimed to be thoroughly familiar. I’ll miss him no end.”
Lance said, “Oscar tells me you’re on some sort of expedition for the Jonesian Institute.”
“Right, right, quite right.” Jones spoke jerkily. “Our board of directors decided I was the man to go. You see, we’re planning a rare plant garden—all under glass, of course—you understand, cacti deserves its place—will be one of our largest exhibits, in fact. I’m looking for rare specimens—studying distribution—type locality—that sort of thing—really a splendid vacation for me.”
