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

wasn’t about a job as a guide you wanted to see him?”
    Lance shook his head. “Why should I?”
    Fletcher laughed. “No reason at all,” he replied. “I just thought you were after that job Bowman had before his death. Just in case you were, I can tell you now it’s not open.”
    â€œThe professor decide he doesn’t need a guide any more?”
    â€œHe actually doesn’t, of course, around here, but he had hired Bowman to take him down into Sonora.”
    â€œI see.” Lance nodded. “Has Professor Jones given up the Mexico trip?”
    â€œJust about,” Fletcher answered. “I’ve been against it from the first, of course. I think he’ll take my advice.”
    â€œThere’s nothing final been decided yet, then?”
    â€œIt’s practically settled.”
    â€œWhy have you advised against the trip?”
    â€œMexico is pretty wild country,” Fletcher explained. “I don’t think it any place to take a girl—atleast, a girl like Professor Jones’ niece. There are a large number of Yaquente Indians through the section in which Jones wants to travel. The Yaquentes are peaceful enough now, but”—Fletcher shrugged his shoulders—“a man never knows what may turn up.”
    â€œYou certainly said something then,” Lance agreed. He turned to leave. “Well, much obliged for the information. If you’ll tell the professor I called——”
    â€œI’ll tell him,” Fletcher said, “though there’s no chance of you getting that job even if you knew that country down there. I hope you see how it is.”
    â€œI reckon,” Lance said noncommittally. He nodded to Fletcher and left the hotel. On the street he said to himself, “I’m not sure if I do see how it is. I wonder who that Fletcher hombre is, and is he making all decisions for Jones? For some reason he’s none too keen for Jones to head down into Mexico. Oh well, I’ll see Jones later. Maybe a mite of conversation will bring out something.”
    Lance next bent his steps in the direction of the railroad depot. As he entered the station old Johnny Quinn glanced up and grunted sourly. “You agin, eh?” he squeaked. “Well, I ain’t remembered no more than I did this mornin’, so ye’re wastin’ my time and yours if ye insist on hangin’ round——”
    â€œThere’s no law against sending a tele gram, is there?”
    â€œA telygram?” Johnny Quinn stiffened like a soldier coming to attention. “Ye want to send a telygram? Whyn’t ye say so in the first place? Here’s a pad o’ paper. Write ’er out plain, and I’ll shoot ’er off.”
    Lance smiled inwardly and proceeded to “write ’er out plain.” When he had finished he shoved thepaper across to old Quinn. Quinn snatched at the paper and started to read it. He got as far as the address, then glanced up over his spectacles at Lance, saying, “You’re sendin’ this to Washington, D.C., hey? Hmmm. Thet’s where the President of these United States lives.”
    Lance nodded. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect before. Howsomever, it isn’t being sent to him.”
    â€œShucks all tarnation!” Old Quinn sounded exasperated. “I know thet much.” He started to read on, then stopped. A frown gathered on his forehead. He squinted through his spectacles, took them off, wiped them on his bandanna, replaced them, took them off again. Finally he gave up. “Are ye drunk?”
    â€œHaven’t had a drink today.”
    â€œThere’s somethin’ wrong with ye!” Quinn snapped. “I can read your words separate, but they don’t make no sense strung out in a line. Can’t make head ner tail what ye’re aimin’ to send.”
    â€œYou can send the words just as they are, can’t