Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (11 page)

C
otton took off his hat, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then replaced the hat, tipping the brim down. He'd left Emily and Jack staring after him as he eased out onto the porch to be alone, to get away from having to launch into an explanation of his checkered past to the love of his life. He had no idea whether her finding out that he'd murdered a man several years back would have any effect on their relationship, but he wasn't eager to find out. The pain of such a consequence might kill him.

His own conscience didn't bother him over the “Lucky Bill” incident because the kid had deliberately attacked Cotton's younger sister, raped her, and left her for dead. He'd also knifed her husband, who bled to death trying to save his wife. Cotton had taken his revenge and shot the young man. Afterward, he turned in his badge and walked away. Killing a monster was something he could live with, although Judge Sanborn, the kid's father, had been unable to let it go, and he sent Thorn McCann out to bring his son's killer to justice. The old judge had put a price on
Cotton's head, even though doing so was illegal. The judge was merely a justice of the peace, without the authority to conduct a murder trial or direct a verdict of hanging.

Cotton's first encounter with James Lee Hogg had been equally justified, although Hogg obviously hadn't thought so. It happened on a ranch just outside Fort Worth several years back. At the time, Cotton was once again a deputy sheriff. He had gone to the ranch to talk over the owner's complaint about some missing cattle. When he got to the place, he found the rancher's ten-year-old daughter crying her eyes out, cradling a wounded dog. The dog was bleeding from a bullet wound.

He remembered asking the girl what had happened. Her story was unsettling to him. She'd described how this man had ridden up to the ranch house asking whether there might be a reward for the rustlers who'd stolen her father's cattle. The little girl didn't know, but said she would go inside and ask. She had, to that point, been carrying a small dog in her arms. When she turned to go inside to find her father, she put the dog down, skipped up on the porch, and disappeared through the door. She heard the dog barking but thought nothing of it until she heard a gunshot. When she ran back outside, her dog was lying on the ground, bleeding from a bullet wound. The man told her she best keep “that mangy mutt” away from him or the next time he'd kill it. He then rode off before the child's father could respond.

The distraught youngster told Deputy Cotton Burke in detail what had happened and described the man with a flat-brimmed hat and the horse he was riding, a dun mare. Cotton remembered seeing someone fitting the description in town. When he got back to town, he spotted the man outside the saloon, sitting in a rocker with a glass of beer in his hand. Cotton would never forget the conversation that took place that afternoon. He had walked up onto the porch and stood in front of the man, casting a long shadow across him. He stared through narrowed eyes at the evil seated before him.

“Somethin' I can do for you, Deputy?” the man asked, sipping from his glass as he glanced up.

“Uh-huh. You just ride in?”

“Been here a couple hours, I reckon. Why?”

“I just came from a ranch where a little girl's dog was shot by a man fittin' your description. You know anythin' about that?”

“I look like a dog-shooter to you?”

“Matter of fact, I'd have to say yes.”

“Words like those could get a man in a heap of trouble. Maybe you ought to rethink 'em.”

“Don't think I will. I figure you'd best be unbucklin' that gun belt and come with me over to the jail,” Cotton said. “We'll wait on a little girl and her father to ride in and identify you as the low-life, cowardly bastard who would gun down a helpless mutt.”

“For what reason would I do a damned foolish thing like that?”

“To keep me from pluggin' you where you sit.”

“I don't allow no one to talk to me that way, Deputy, so maybe you'd best be on your way and leave a peace-lovin' man to his rest.”

Two men who'd stepped out on the porch watched the confrontation. They started back inside, but stopped at the sheriff's next words. They both looked surprised. Neither spoke.

“All right, whoever in the hell you are, I reckon gettin' a judge to string you up for shootin' a dog would be damned nigh impossible.”

“That's the way I see it, too. Reckon you might as well be on your way,” Hogg said with a big toothy grin on his face. He settled back in his chair and began to rock. He turned away from Cotton, so he didn't see the deputy draw his .45 Colt, take careful aim, and pull the trigger.

The bullet blew through Hogg's boot, taking with it his big toe. Hogg fell out of his rocker, screaming and writhing on the porch as Cotton strolled away as if nothing had happened.

“Reckon the matter's settled now. You and the dog are even.” It was Cotton's turn to break into a wry smile.

*  *  *

After a few minutes, Emily followed Cotton outside. Jack trailed behind.

“I figure to get some sleep, Cotton, if you don't need me,” Jack said.

“Yeah, that's fine. We'll talk in the mornin'.”

Jack strolled down the middle of the street, heading straight for Melody's Golden Palace of Pleasure.

“Wh-why was that man looking for you, Cotton?” Emily's voice caught as she wiped at a tear. “He
was
looking to kill you, wasn't he?”

“I 'spect.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes, when he least expects it, a man's past can catch up to him. Reckon mine has.”

“I don't understand. Please tell me.”

“Emily, I've told you before that not everything I've done in my life has amounted to something to be proud of. What happened between James Lee Hogg and me doesn't mean nuthin', although I imagine it does to him. But the
real
reason he's here might not be something you want to hear.”

“Cotton, there is nothing you could tell me that would make me turn away from you. Please, I have to know what this is all about, especially since it appears to involve me somehow. Please. You owe me that much. And Henry, too.”

Cotton flinched at her words. She was right, he did owe her an explanation after she was nearly shot as a result of
his
perceived misdeeds. But could he actually steel himself to the task? It was a question he'd wrestled with for some time. There still seemed no answer in sight.

T
horn McCann was groggy and disoriented when he awoke. He tried to sit up, blinking his eyes to clear them, to figure out where he was. And why. The stabbing pain in his shoulder knocked him back onto the pillow quickly, with a vague remembrance of Indians and an attack and…and Cotton Burke. He groaned and licked his chapped lips. Delilah heard him and came to his side. She sat down on a spindle-back chair next to the bed.

“That you, Delilah? Where am I? What happened?” He tried once more to sit up, but another surge of pain changed his mind.

“We're at the relay station. The Hardins' place. Mrs. Hardin patched you up. Just lie still so you don't undo the good work she did sewing those bullet holes up so no more of your blood leaks out.” Her words were barely above a whisper as she leaned in close.

“Holes? Was I hit more'n once?”

“One bullet, clean through.”

“I sorta remember being on the stagecoach, and the
attack of them blasted Apaches, and us trying to climb a hill to get you out of there before they saw us, and…and that's all that comes to mind. Well, I
do
have some recollection of Cotton Burke, but that could have just been a bad dream.”

“Not a bad dream, Thorn. If he hadn't come along when he did, we'd all be dead by now. Those Apaches weren't all that keen on letting us live.”

“Saved by Cotton Burke. Damn! That's humiliatin'.”

“Owing a man your life isn't nearly as bad as being under a pile of rocks for eternity.”

“Yeah, I s'pose you got a point, Delilah,” he sighed. “How long I been laid up?”

“Three days now. You got real feverish for a couple days. Looks like its finally broke, thank goodness. Mrs. Hardin said if you lived through the fever, you'd survive.”

“Where's Cotton?”

“He took the kid with the shotgun and that passenger, Denby, and went on to Apache Springs. Said he'd be back with a buckboard to haul you out of here. I don't think he figured you'd be able to sit a horse for a week or more, bad as you were wounded. I look for him anytime now.”

“The driver, what happened to him?”

“Killed.”

Just then Mrs. Hardin came into the room. Thorn could hear some commotion outside but couldn't make out what it was about. Delilah smiled and said, “It looks like your patient might pull through after all, Mrs Hardin.”

“Looks like. You up to a little soup, mister?” she said.

“I hadn't given it much thought, but I could use a little somethin', yes ma'am. What's all that hollerin' outside?”

“A couple of Apaches came demandin' whiskey. Jeremiah don't hold with givin' whiskey to Indians. They know that. He tells them every time they come, but they don't give up trying.”

Mrs. Hardin turned and left the room. She reappeared only a couple minutes later with a bowl—from which a
thin cloud of steam curled—and a spoon. She held out a cloth napkin that had stitching around the sides to stop it from fraying. It had
mostly
worked. She handed the bowl to Delilah.

“Here, child, he'll surely need some help.”

Delilah took the bowl from her, spooned out a bit of stew, and thrust it toward Thorn. He sheepishly leaned forward and slurped it, his face growing pink from being fed by a woman. The memory rushed back of being spoon-fed as a young boy after he'd come down with a fever his mother said could have killed him. While his mother was long gone, that same feeling of dependence on another came upon him like a sudden shower. He'd not felt anything akin to this need for any other woman, and yet here he was gazing into Delilah's eyes and experiencing a strange fullness in his heart. That was just before the roar of a shotgun blasted him out of his reverie.

“They've killed him! Those bastards have shot my Jeremiah!” Mrs. Hardin's screams could have likely been heard for a mile.

Delilah raced to the door and opened it just enough to see two Indians standing over Jeremiah's bloody form. He was lying facedown in the dirt. One Indian had a rifle. The other had obviously wrestled Jeremiah Hardin's twelve-gauge away from his aged hands and turned it on him. The old man had had no chance to save himself. Mrs. Hardin was running to her husband when one of the Indians pulled a long knife from his high boot top. Just as he was about to slash it across her throat, another shot rang out.

The Indian's legs went out from under him as he was tossed over backward. His companion looked shocked as a sudden realization came over him: there had been someone other than the old woman inside. The two Apaches hadn't counted on any deadly resistance. He raised his rifle to combat whatever threat showed itself, but was just as quickly dispatched by another deadly shot from inside the building. Mrs. Hardin looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Thorn
McCann leaning on the door frame, a still-smoking revolver hanging limply from his hand. He dropped the gun as he slid to the floor with a groan.

Delilah grabbed him by the arm before he hit his head on a heavy bench. She eased him down. His breathing was labored and coming in short, desperate gasps. Delilah pulled and pulled, trying to lift him up to get him back to bed, but her efforts were fruitless. He was too big a man for such a slight lady to ever hope to even drag across the floor. He closed his eyes and quickly lost consciousness.

Mrs. Hardin stumbled through the door, sobbing and dabbing at her eyes with her apron. Torn over what she should do, Delilah turned her attention to the distraught woman, helping her to a chair nearby. Delilah could feel the tears welling up as she wiped the hair out of her eyes, leaned against the wall, and slid to a sitting position on the floor. She had never known such fear and desperation in her life. She found herself conjuring up images of many more Apaches swooping down on the relay station in retaliation for their two dead comrades outside. Her heart was in her throat and she could feel it pounding in her chest. She glanced over at Thorn's revolver lying near the door. She began to question if she could even lift it, let alone hit anything with it. Her little .41-caliber Remington derringer was easy. It was small, light, and it took no more effort than pulling back the hammer and squeezing the trigger.