Oscar bit suddenly down on a lemon drop. His eyes bulged. “Do you mean to say you’re going to grow cactus in a garden? What’s the good of that? It grows wild all over around here.”
Jones laughed shortly. “That’s one thing I’ve discovered people hereabouts don’t realize—that they’ve one of the most striking cacti displays in the Western Hemisphere, right at their doorsteps, you might say. Not appreciated as it should be, not at all. The value of a garden such as we plan will be great to collectors—they can study firsthand specimens many of them will never have an opportunity to see otherwise.”
Oscar’s jaw dropped. “Collectors?”
“Certainly.” Jones sounded a bit irritated. “People collect books, stamps, coins—why not cacti? All over the world there is a rapidly growing interest in cacti.”
Oscar seemed stunned by the thought. He crammed a lemon drop into his mouth. To keep the conversation going Lance said, “I suppose Europe and Asia have different forms of cactus like in the United States?”
“Not at all, not at all. There are no cacti at all in the Eastern Hemisphere—that is, native cacti. Africa, of course, has its own form of succulents, but the Western Hemisphere is the only place—true cacti—to be found. Anything in Europe or Asia—matter of propagation—transplanting.”
“These collectors”—Oscar had somewhat recovered from his surprise—“where do they get their cactus?”
“Cactus nurseries and companies, of course. It’s a growing business. Out in California one company has been in business since the early seventies—just furnishing—Eastern trade.”
Oscar burst into laughter. “Haw-haw! First time I ever heard of a cactus needin’ a nursery.”
Jones turned half impatiently away. Struck by a sudden impulse, Lance withdrew from his shirt the mezcal button. “You seem right well posted on cactus, Professor. Maybe you can tell me what sort of plant this is?”
Jones stiffened suddenly at sight of the plant. A warm glow entered his eyes. “Why, bless me! A
“What did you call it?” Oscar looked narrowly at Jones. “Loafer-for-William? Is that what you said?”
Lance smiled. “We generally call it a peyote or mezcal button.”
“True, true,” Jones jerked out. He had the plant in his hand now, examining it. “I’ve heard those names. It’s one of many forms—known as ‘dumpling cacti.’ I say, have you ever——?”
“Dumpling cactus?” from Oscar. “There’s no spines on that——”
“Several species—cacti—practically no spines.” He turned impatiently back to Lance. “I’ve heard—Indians of certain tribes—eat these. Some sort of narcotic effect—delusions of grandeur—fantastic, colorful visions—trances —all that sort of thing. Is it true, do you know?”
“I’ve never tried eating ’em myself.” Lance smiled. “But I know it’s done. Those peyotes are first cut in sections and dried, of course, before being eaten. The whole practice has been pretty well stamped out nowadays. It’s forbidden, you know.”
“It is possible then.” Jones was intensely interested. “I understood that a Doctor—Doctor—the name escapes me at present—had isolated certain alkaloids—analysis of this genus. You say you didn’t find it in this region?”
“I found it,” Lance said cautiously, “but not growing. I don’t know just where it came from.”
“May I?—I’d like to have this specimen—interested in studying it—if you don’t mind——”
“Sure, take it along.” Lance scarcely knew what else to say at the moment. He decided right then, however, to see more of the professor.
Jones was shaking hands again. “Delighted if you’d come to my hotel—meet my niece—tell me more of the Indians who make—practice—becoming intoxicated—on peyote—pleasure—assure you.” He shook hands again and departed, walking swiftly along Main Street.
Oscar heaved a long sigh. “There goes your Loafer-for-William,” he chuckled. “Me, I can’t figure whether the professor is a nut or just plain cuckoo. Imagine, trying to make us believe folks grow cactus gardens.”
“Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions, Oscar,” Lance advised thoughtfully. “He may be a nut, but I figure there’s more to Jones than shows on the surface.”
They had progressed along Main Street and were just turning the corner at Laredo Street when an angry shout reached them from across the roadway. George Kilby had emerged from the doorway of a building which bore the sign of the Pozo Verde Saloon.
“I may get balled up on cactus,” Oscar said with some satisfaction, “but here comes something I do understand. Kilby looks like he’s heading for trouble, and we’re in his path!”
IV Lance Hits Hard
It was evident to Lance and Oscar that Kilby had been imbibing rather heavily at the bar of the Pozo Verde Saloon. The man approached them from across the street, walking with a decided lurch. His eyes were bloodshot and angry, and liquor, or some liquid, had been spilled down the left leg of the brand-new overalls he was wearing.
He was halfway across the roadway when another torrent of angry words spilled from his lips, ending with, “Travelin’ with murderers now, eh, Deputy Perkins?”
Oscar muttered, “I’m sure going to have to bend a gun barrel across that hombre’s Stetson. I wonder how much he can stand.”
“Wait, let me handle this,” Lance said quickly. “It’s me his words are aimed at.”
Oscar shrugged. “Go to it, but watch yourself.”
Kilby’s step was a trifle uncertain as he confronted Lance. “Pretty lucky, you are, Mr Lancelot Tolliver. Only for the law being on your side we’d have the sidewinder who bumped off my good old pal, Bowman.”
“I figure you’re wrong, Kilby,” Lance replied quietly. “Look, you’ve had a couple of drinks too many. Why don’t you go away and sleep it off?”
“Tryin’ to get rid of me, eh?” Kilby sneered. “Well, it don’t work. We’re going to put the bee on you yet. We’ll bust that alibi of yours wide open. You know what? Chiricahua, hisself, has gone ridin’ down to Tipata. He’s goin’ to find out if you stayed there that night or not. I say not, but Chiricahua is checking you up. We was both going, only——”
“Only,” Oscar drawled, “it looks to me like you was too drunk to ride at leaving time. Well, Cherry-Cow Herrick will find out that Lance’s alibi holds water—which same you’d be better off if that’s all you held.”
Kilby teetered gravely back and forth a moment, owlishly eying the deputy. He lifted one admonishing finger. “Now I ain’t got no—hic!—quarrel with you, Oscar. It’s this Tolliver hombre I’m aimin’ to——”
“Forget it, Kilby.” Lance laughed good-naturedly. “Go get yourself some sleep.” He talked to the man as one would to a child. “Look, you’ve spilt some whisky on your nice new overalls. You’d better go wash them——”
“What do you know about my overalls?” Kilby’s eyes had narrowed. For some reason Lance’s words appeared to have a somewhat sobering effect on the man. He straightened up and came a step nearer, curses tumbling from his thick lips.
“Cut it out, Kilby,” Lance said sternly.
Kilby rushed on, heedless of the warning. He called Lance a name no fighting man will take. Lance didn’t want to hit him, but there seemed nothing else to do. His fist shot out—not too hard—and Kilby went stumbling awkwardly off the sidewalk to sprawl on his back in the dust.
That completely sobered the man without knocking any sense into his head. He came struggling up from the roadway, one hand clawing at his gun butt.
Lance took two quick steps forward. His left fist sunk to the wrist in Kilby’s middle; his right crashed against the side of Kilby’s jaw. An explosive grunt was expelled from Kilby’s lips, and he commenced to sag. For a moment he stood bent over, arms dangling limply at his sides. Then slowly he sank to his knees and rolled on his back. His eyes were closed, and he was dead to the world.
“The old one-two,” Oscar said approvingly, calmly stuffing a lemon drop into his mouth. “Very nice. I don’t think I could’ve done better myself.”
A crowd had commenced to gather. Lance said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Oscar told a couple of men in
