The Battle At Three-Cross by William Colt MacDonald Page A

then up to Chihuahua City. I worked out of Chihuahua City a spell, trying to find something. No luck. I returned to Chihuahua after a month and found a letter for me saying some of the stolen money had showed up in Pozo Verde and that Frank Bowman had already been sent here. I was ordered to come here also.”
    â€œAnd on your way here,” Oscar put in, “you found Bowman’s body.”
    Lance nodded. “Now you know about as much as I do.”
    Lockwood asked, “Who in Pozo Verde reported the bills?”
    â€œA traveling salesman passed them in Saddleville. He claimed that he’d got them from your local bank. The cashier here said he thought he remembered thebills but he’d never seen a list of the recorded numbers, so he couldn’t be sure. The president of the Pozo Verde bank insisted his cashier was mistaken. Anyway, Bowman was sent on to investigate. Incidentally, the traveling salesman was released; he proved to be an honest man.”
    Lockwood looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t say our local banker was particularly bright. On the other hand, Elmer Manley, the cashier, is quite a smart boy.”
    Oscar said, “I suppose the bank would have a list of the numbers.”
    â€œEvery bank in the country has them,” Lance replied.
    â€œDo you happen to have a description of Matt Foster?” Lockwood asked. “Or any idea what he looks like?”
    â€œWe have a description from his pards we captured,” Lance replied, “but it’s the sort of description that fits any number of men. One of the captured gang had a photograph on him that helps some, but not much. Before they pulled that Kansas City job they’d been operating up in Wyoming. They held up a small bank there. Later, when they got down as far as Nebraska, they went on a wild party with the stolen money and ended up in a photo gallery where they had a group picture taken. Trouble is, Matt Foster was at the back of the group and he was wearing a heavy crop of whiskers——”
    â€œAnd he’s probably clean shaven now, eh?” Lock-wood said.
    â€œThat’s the way I figure.” Lance drew out of one pocket a small photograph of five men seated in the typical photographer’s gallery of the time, replete with palms, wicker furniture and a paintedbackground. The five men all wore derby hats; their clothing looked new; wide watch chains stretched across each fancy vest. Apparently they had gone on a wild buying spree with their ill-gotten gains. Four of the men wore heavy mustaches; the fifth, only his head showing in the background, had a thick, dark beard that nearly covered his face.
    Lance pointed out the bearded man. “That’s Matt Foster. He doesn’t look familiar to you, I suppose?”
    The sheriff shook his head. “Never saw him so far as I know. With only his head showing that way and with that beard you haven’t much to go on. I figure this Matt Foster had a mite more sense than the rest of the gang and didn’t want his face seen no more than could be helped.”
    â€œThat’s the way I figure him,” Lance agreed.
    Oscar studied the picture for a time, but Foster’s face wasn’t familiar to him either. The men talked a few minutes more, then Lockwood said, “I’ll be busy on these reports for a mite yet. Why don’t you two go get your dinner, then relieve me when you’re finished?”
    On the street Lance said to Oscar, “Where do we eat?”
    â€œThere’s three or four good restaurants in town. There’s a chili joint across the street there. The New York Chop house serves good grub. I like the hotel dining room, too, only they take longer to serve. There’s a Chink down the street a couple of blocks has right good chow.”
    â€œLet’s make it the Chink’s. A couple of blocks’ walk will give me a chance to see your town.”
    They sauntered along, their