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

you?”
    â€œ ’Tain’t usual!”
    Lance laughed. “It is back in Washington. That’s the way folks talk back there. If you’re interested I can tell you what the message is about. You see, my aunt Minnie is back there suffering from a bad case of hemoglobinuria and——”
    â€œWhat’s thet?” Quinn’s jaw sagged.
    Lance laughed suddenly. “Of course, of course. I might have known you’d had that disease some time or other, so there’s no need of me going into details about Aunt Minnie’s case. Probably you know more about the ravages of hemoglobinuria than I do. What’s that? You got it back in sixty-five? Well, well,imagine that! That’s the very year Aunt Minnie was took down with it. What? You don’t say so! A poultice of axle grease and horse liniment, eh? And it cured you? I’ll sure write Aunt Minnie about that if she doesn’t get well——What? A glass of bourbon three times a day prevents a recurrence of the disease? Sa-ay, it’s lucky I ran into you. Aunt Minnie will probably owe you her life.”
    Johnny Quinn’s eyes were glassy; his jaw hung open. He was gasping like a fish out of water. So far he hadn’t said a word, but Lance’s swift monologue had swept him from his feet. His brain swirled dizzily, and he was already convinced he had had the disease Lance mentioned.
    â€œâ€¦ and I’ll sure remember,” Lance flowed on, “to bring you a bottle of bourbon when I come back for the answer to my tele gram. I wouldn’t want you to come down with hemoglobinuria again. You see, when that answer comes through I’ll know if Aunt Minnie is recovering or not, so shoot my message off pronto. I’ll be back later for the reply—and I won’t forget your bourbon.”
    Five minutes after Lance had left the station old Quinn was still scratching his sparse gray hair and panting for breath. His brain whirled. “Lemme see,” he gulped, “was it in sixty-five I had that hemo disease?” His thin frame trembled. “By grab! I’d better get this telygram sent right to once. A case of life or death ain’t to be ignored.” He stumbled toward the sending apparatus muttering, “Life or death, life or death, life or death.”
    Lance was still laughing when he entered the sheriff’s office a short time later. Lockwood was back at his desk. Oscar Perkins had gone down to the generalstore for a fresh supply of lemon drops. “What you grinnin’ at?” Lockwood demanded.
    â€œI had a tele gram to send,” Lance chuckled. “It was in code, so I had to give old Johnny Quinn an explanation.” He related what had happened.
    The sheriff’s laughter merged with Lance’s. “Johnny’s always boasting about how many different diseases he’s had,” Lockwood said, “so I reckon it wa’n’t hard to convince him he had this here—uh—hemo—uh—what was that word? What’s it mean?”
    â€œHemoglobinuria.” Lance explained, “That’s just a more scientific name for Texas tick fever.” Lock-wood went off into renewed gales of laughter. When he had quieted Lance asked, “Say, who’s this Malcolm Fletcher staying at the hotel? I went to see Jones, but he was away digging cactus. Fletcher claims to be a friend of his.”
    â€œHe might be, at that,” Lockwood conceded. “I don’t know. He’s been right friendly with Miss Gregory—you know, Jones’ niece. The two of ’em have gone riding a lot. Anyway, I told you the girl’s father owned a ranch down in Sonora. Malcolm Fletcher was Jared Gregory’s pardner in the ranch. I meant to tell you all this today. Then we got talking about those Yaquentes we saw, and it slipped my mind.”
    â€œYou told me about Jared Gregory being murdered and brought in by the Yaquentes.”