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

high-heeled boots making hollow, clumping sounds on the raised planksidewalk from which, in places, the broiling noon sun was drawing spots of pitch. As they crossed Laredo Street Oscar pointed out the Pozo Verde Savings Bank at the northeast corner of Main. As Lance glanced across the street Chiricahua Herrick, accompanied by a middle-aged fat man in a white shirt, was just emerging from the bank doorway. The fat man was mopping perspiration from his bald head with his handkerchief.
    â€œThat fat feller is Gillett Addison, owner of the bank,” Oscar commented.
    â€œQueer bedfellows,” Lance said.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI mean it’s rather surprising to see a man like Herrick consorting with the owner of a bank.”
    â€œI reckon they weren’t together. Probably just came out the door at the same time. See, Addison is walking down the street alone. Probably headed for the hotel. He always eats his dinner there.”
    â€œAnd Herrick,” Lance added, “is heading out toward the hitch rack. It sure looks like his pony had been pushed hard. Look at the poor beast. It’s flecked with foam all over its forequarters. I reckon Kilby was speaking straight when he said Herrick had gone to Tipata to check up on my alibi. But why should he go direct to the bank?”
    â€œYou tell me,” Oscar suggested.
    â€œI wouldn’t know. Though generally a man like Herrick don’t have many dealings with a bank. I was just wondering if he had gone there to report that my alibi was airtight.”
    â€œReport to who?”
    â€œThat’s something else I wouldn’t know.”
    â€œGosh, you’re sure suspicious, Lance, when you start picking on one of Pozo Verde’s leading citizens.”

    â€œI didn’t say he’d reported to Banker Gillett. But in my game you have to be suspicious of everybody.”
    They walked on until they came to the Chink’s restaurant. Across the windows of the building was painted the words: “Jou Low—Restaurant.” They passed inside and found seats at a long counter, where presently they were served with roast beef, pie, potatoes, bread and coffee. They were half through the meal when Chiricahua Herrick entered. Spying Lance seated at the counter, Herrick stiffened suddenly, then, noting the deputy sheriff at his side, relaxed again. He nodded shortly to Oscar and spoke coldly to Lance:
    â€œI want to see you, Tolliver.”
    Lance glanced over his shoulder at Herrick. “You see me, hombre. What’s on your mind?” His eyes drilled into Herrick’s.
    Herrick opened his mouth to speak; his eyes fell momentarily before Lance’s steely gaze. Finally he turned away muttering, “I’ll see you later,” and passed down the counter to find a seat farther on.
    â€œI wonder what’s eating him?” Lance commented to Oscar.
    â€œHe’s prob’ly got liver trouble,” Oscar grunted between bites of food. “He should eat more lemon drops.”
    They finished their dinners, drained coffee cups and left the restaurant. On the sidewalk once more, Oscar said, “I’ll get back to the office and see can I help out on the sheriff’s reports. What you going to do?”
    â€œI’m going to stay here until Herrick comes out,” Lance said quietly. “He opened a topic of conversation he didn’t finish. I aim to learn what’s on his mind.”

    â€œIn that case,” Oscar drawled, “I reckon the sheriff’s reports can wait a spell longer. I don’t think you’ll start trouble, but you might have it forced on you. It’s my duty to keep the peace when possible.”
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    They rolled and lighted cigarettes and stood leaning against the tie rail, waiting for Herrick to put in an appearance. Within a short time he emerged from the restaurant doorway, picking his teeth. His face flushed a trifle as he noted Lance and