The Battle At Three-Cross Read Free Page A

“Get down off’n that horse, hombre, and move right cautious. I’ll plug you if you try a getaway!”
    Lance slid down from his saddle. “How about taking care of my horse?” he commenced. “He’s covered a lot of——”

    Kilby sneered. “You ain’t goin’ to have no more need of a horse——”
    â€œShut up, Kilby,” Lockwood growled. “I’ll see your horse is watered and fed, Tolliver. Now you get on there!”
    The door to the sheriff’s office was open. Lance “got on there,” with the barrel of Chiricahua’s gun boring into his backbone.

II
Evidence
    There wasn’t any light in the cell. Lance heard the steel-barred door swing behind him, then the retreating steps down the corridor between the double row of cells. Kilby was talking again, saying something about hoping he’d have a chance to have a hand on the rope when they hung Tolliver. The door to the sheriff’s office slammed shut. A moment later the door to the street closed loudly. The voices died away, leaving Lance to his own thoughts.
    He fumbled around in the darkness, found a wooden bunk in which was a burlap sack filled with straw and sat down to roll a cigarette. He could thank heaven they hadn’t searched him nor taken away his tobacco and matches anyway. He struck a match, dragged deeply on the brown-paper cigarette, then held the match up and glanced around. The cell had one barred window in its outer wall. Lance saw that much and little more before the match flickered out.
    â€œThis,” he told himself, “is a hell of a note.”
    Not that he was unduly worried about the situation. His mind dwelled more on the dead man he had found that afternoon. And there was thatblack-painted hand. And the mezcal button. The plant still reposed inside Lance’s shirt.
    â€œThere’s something damnably queer about the whole setup,” he muttered.
    His cigarette had burned nearly to the end when he heard footsteps entering the office from the street. It suddenly occurred to Lance this was the first sound he’d heard since the sheriff and the other men had departed. It must be that all the other cells in the jail were empty. The door between the sheriff’s office and the jail opened now. Light shone along the corridor between cells, and a long shadow appeared on the floor.
    Lance caught the gleam of the deputy sheriff’s badge first, then he saw its wearer standing before the cell door holding in one hand an oil lamp and in the other a platter of food. The food was placed on the floor while the cell door was unlocked. Picking up the platter, the deputy kicked open the door and stepped inside. He handed the platter to Lance, set the lamp on the floor and turned back toward the corridor with the explanation that he had to go back for the coffee.
    Lance considered the matter while the deputy was gone. The man hadn’t bothered to close the cell door. Careless or—something else? Prisoners had been known to be allowed to escape just so they could be shot down when they emerged into the open. Lance decided not to take any chances.
    The deputy reappeared in a few moments bearing a pail of steaming coffee. Lance felt better as he commenced to eat the potatoes and roast beef and biscuits on the platter. Apparently the deputy hadn’t intended him to escape.

    â€œI understand your name is Tolliver,” the deputy said. “I’m Oscar Perkins.”
    â€œGlad to know you,” Tolliver said gravely. “This chow is sure welcome.”
    â€œI figured it might be.” Perkins nodded.
    There was something comical about the man. He had large, bony wrists that hung well below his shirt sleeves. His black sombrero’s brim was sadly tattered along one side. The skinny legs in corduroy trousers appeared to be badly warped. He had sleepy, indolent eyes, and a mild manner of speech. Looking at Oscar Perkins