Free The Battle At Three-Cross by William Colt MacDonald

Indians can
habla
Spanish right well.”
    Lance parted from the sheriff at the corner of Laredo Street and crossed diagonally to the steps of the San Antonio Hotel which stood at the intersection of the two thoroughfares. As he mounted the steps to the hotel porch which stretched across the front of the building’s lower floor, fronting on Main, Lance glanced along the street in either direction. From this higher point of vantage he had a clear view both ways. His eyes narrowed a trifle as he noticed on the sidewalks still more Yaquente Indians.
    â€œKnowing what I do of Yaquentes,” Lance muttered, “I sure wouldn’t feel too good about ’em coming over here. Howsomever, they’re peaceful now, and I reckon Ethan Lockwood knows his business.” Dismissing the thought from his mind, he passed on into the hotel.
    The hotel lobby reached the length of the front of the building. To the left as one entered was a doorway into the hotel bar. At the opposite end of the lobby was a staircase ascending to the rooms on the second floor. Midway between the two was a small oaken desk with behind it a series of pigeonholes for room keys and letters. Several men were seated about the lobby. Most of them, Lance decided after a brief glance, were drummers for liquor or hardware houses or cattle buyers in Pozo Verde to make contacts with the neighboring ranches.

    Lance negotiated for a room and secured one on the second floor, facing Main Street. “I’ll see it later,” he told the clerk who wanted to show the room. “My bedroll is with my horse over at the Lone Star Livery. I’ll bring over what dunnage I need later on.” He signed the register, then asked, “By the way, Professor Jones is staying here, isn’t he?”
    The clerk nodded. “Oh yes. His room is just down the hall from the one you’ve taken…. No, I’m afraid you can’t see him now. He’s out, I believe, riding with his niece. You know, studying cactus——” The clerk smiled a bit superciliously. “Why anyone should bother with such plants is more than I can understand. Now, a nice geranium in a window pot—that’s different——”
    â€œEverybody to his own taste, I reckon,” Lance commented. “The professor goes in pretty heavy for cactus, eh?”
    â€œMore than seems reasonable.” The clerk nodded. “He’s already packed three boxes with plants and has them stored in our storage room until he leaves.” The clerk whirled the register around and read Lance’s name. “Oh, Mr Tolliver. You’re the one who found that murdered man, aren’t you?—Frank Bowman?”
    Lance nodded and started to turn away. “Tell the professor I dropped in, will you? I’ll be back later on——”
    He stopped short as a new voice broke in, “I’m a friend of Professor Jones’. Perhaps I can help you out if you’ll let me know what you want. It may save you a trip back here. I’m Malcolm Fletcher. Did I understand you to say you’re Tolliver?”
    â€œI’m Tolliver.” Lance shook hands with Fletcher, whom he’d noticed seated at the far end of the hotel lobby. Fletcher was a broad-shouldered, slim-hippedman with a lantern jaw, piercing eyes and brown hair, somewhere in the vicinity of thirty or thirty-five years of age. He wore high-heeled boots and corduroy trousers. A black sombrero was shoved to the back of his head. He had the appearance of a cowman, though Lance felt he hadn’t worked at that trade for some time. There was an air of affluence about Fletcher.
    â€œâ€¦ and if you care to state your business,” he was saying, “I may be able to help you out.”
    â€œNo particular business to state.” Lance smiled. “I just met the professor on the street this morning, and he asked me to call. I’ll see him later.”
    â€œIt