Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (18 page)

Berwick was no mousy clerk, but a powerfully built example of the army's finest officers. A man with a voice that clearly demanded attention. And respect. And obedience. The captain had already informed the visitor that the
governor was making no new appointments to the judiciary. That should have been sufficient, but not for the crusty old Arthur Sanborn. Fidgeting in his seat in vain to find a comfortable spot, the old man had insisted that if the governor would only see him for a few minutes, he was certain an exception might be made. His efforts, his insistence, his excuses, his references were all made to no avail. Eight times he'd sent the captain back into the depths of the cavernous room. And eight times he'd returned with the same answer. The captain came out of a wide set of double doors behind his desk, frowned at the old man, then strode to the desk.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Sanborn, but, as I've already told you many times, the governor has no interest in seeing you, let alone bestowing a judgeship on you. I'll not bother him again. So, if you'll allow me the courtesy of escorting you out, I'd be happy to suggest several fine hotels or rooming establishments. It
is
rather late in the day and not the best time to be setting out on a journey.”

The old man pushed himself out of his hard chair, rubbed his backside, frowned, and nodded his acceptance of his fate. Arthur Sanborn's options had been exhausted. He must continue his quest to destroy Sheriff Cotton Burke without the cover of legitimacy. He didn't see it as the end of the world. He'd lied his way into positions of power and influence many times before, and he could do it again. It might take a little more time than he'd have liked, but since a dead sheriff was his goal, he'd wait for hell to freeze over to see that goal accomplished. He muttered under his breath as he walked from the Territorial Government Building in the capital, Santa Fe.

I'll get him for you, son, don't you fret. I swear it on your grave.

Sanborn slowly strolled down the street, peeking into windows, surveying the merchandise. There was nothing he had in mind to buy, but perusing anything and everything was simply his way of clearing his mind. He needed a new plan. As he was walking by a bookstore and bindery,
an idea came to him.
If I arrive in Apache Springs with a bound set of legal opinions, the mayor should take me at
my word that I'm a judge. Why would any man travel around with volumes of books on the law unless he was well versed in their content? Only a fool would do otherwise. And Arthur Sanborn is no fool.

He chuckled at his evaluation of himself. When he entered the store, a bell tinkled above the door. In the back of the room filled with stacks of books, empty book covers, and presses, upon hearing the announcement of a customer, a man rose up from behind a pile of newly bound volumes.

“Good day, sir, what might you be interested in?
Tales of the Knights of the Round Table
, perchance? Or something documenting the exploits of the settlers in Jamestown and their encounters with savages?”

“Neither, I'm afraid. My interests lie with the law. I'd like to see whatever volumes you might have of cases, legal opinions, and trials—anything postwar.”

“Ahh, a learned man, eh? Well, sir, I don't believe I have anything concerning actual cases, but let us see if there isn't something here to accommodate your taste for the law. Follow me to the rear and I'll show you what I have.”

Before they even reached the stack the book purveyor had in mind, Sanborn spotted several leather-bound books that struck him as appropriate for his subterfuge. The covers had been embossed with a gold leaf title that read
Laws of Nature
. The word “Laws” was centered and quite a bit larger than the rest of the title. He felt certain he could scrape “of Nature” off with a sharp penknife. No one would know the difference. Besides, spending his valuable time reading anything in a bunch of dusty old books was the very last thing he intended to do.

“I'll take those two there,” Sanborn said with authority.
I only need for people to think I'm a real judge for one very important pronouncement
, he thought.
Then I'm gone.

The bookseller gave him a curious smirk, then realized that his best bet was to acknowledge the man's keen eye, take his money, and get back to his task of cataloging the
store's contents. He shrugged, picked up the two books, and asked if his customer would like them wrapped in brown paper.

Sanborn nodded and proceeded to fish a wad of bills out of his vest pocket. He asked the man what the price was, agreed to it, and handed over the precise amount. He left the establishment with a crooked grin on his craggy face.

Sanborn continued along the boardwalk, ever cognizant of his quest to find any article that might help him convey an air of legitimacy as a judge. When he came to a clothing store, he noticed a stylish black Chesterfield coat. He went inside to inquire as to the price. The clerk told him it just so happened he'd come at a very opportune time, as the coat in question had been placed on sale that very morning. It had come in with a minor flaw in the broadcloth, and he had been forced to reduce the asking price. Sanborn eagerly shelled out the proper amount and left the store quite pleased with his purchases thus far. He was wearing the coat as he passed a cigar store.

A couple of cigars sticking out of the breast pocket of this fine coat should impress anyone who sees me
, he thought, turning in to the store. He was beaming as he continued on. Approaching the jail and the office of the town marshal, he eased up a bit. The sudden reluctance he felt to confront a lawman, even by accident, unnerved him. He started to cross the street to avoid any possible contact, then thought better of it. He continued on in a manner that suggested he was a visitor to the community and one merely curious about its many offerings. As he came to the door to the jail, he noticed it was open. He stopped to peruse the meager furnishings. His gaze fell to something quite unusual: a young deputy had laid his head on his desk and was sound asleep. In fact, he was snoring loudly.

Sanborn's fertile brain began to conjure a less than legal idea, staring not so much at the man but at several objects conveniently lying on the desk not five inches from the lawman's hand, gleaming from a ray of sunlight that had invaded the darkened room.
How can I be having such a
lucky day?
he thought. On the desk lay not one but several deputy marshal's badges, there for the taking, begging to be lifted by nimble fingers for a surreptitious purpose. The deputy had obviously been assigned to clean them of any tarnish.

Looking about for signs of anyone watching, and seeing no one, Sanborn tiptoed into the office and went straight to the desk. He bent slightly to make sure the man was truly asleep, and observing no evidence to the contrary, he nimbly lifted one badge from the table and eased out the door. As he hurried away from the proximity of the jail, he pulled the badge from his coat pocket and polished it on his lapel.

“Here is my ticket to a successful venture,” he muttered almost—but not quite—loud enough to be heard. He fairly danced down the street, tapping his cane as he went toward the hotel where he intended to secure a room for the night.

Sanborn rose early the next morning in order to be ready when the stagecoach was scheduled to start off. As he sat on the bench in front of the stagecoach office, he glanced up to notice a sign posted above his head that said the line had experienced some Indian trouble and schedules might be changed at the last minute. With a sigh, he got up and went over to discuss any possible delays with the agent on duty.

“Unless I hear otherwise, the stage will leave in one hour. Rest assured we intend to take precautions so we don't get hit like we did a couple of weeks back. Can't abide any dead passengers, you know.”

“Precautions?” Sanborn asked, with a surprised look. “What precautions?”

“There'll be a small detachment of soldiers accompanying the coach to Socorro, Apache Springs, Silver City, and all the way to Lordsburg.”

“I'm getting off at Socorro,” Sanborn said.

“Makes no difference. You still need protection. No tellin' where those savages might strike.”

“I-I wasn't aware of any recent Indian trouble. You say there was someone killed?”

“Don't you read the papers?”

“I must have missed it.”

“Yeah, well, them Apaches killed a driver and wounded a passenger not too long ago. Then, last week they hit another coach down near Las Cruces. Can't take any chances anymore. Don't worry, the army will take good care of you.”

“What do Indians want with a stagecoach?” Sanborn asked.

“Guns, ammunition, money, and food,” the agent said.

“Food? What food?”

“The horses. They always take the horses. They eat them.”

I
'm going down to Doc Winters's office. Need to look in on Thorn McCann,” Cotton said, taking a last gulp of coffee then wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve. Emily rolled her eyes. “When I get back, if you'd like, I'll ride with you to get Henry back to the ranch and settled in. Regardless of how well he thinks he is, he was shot and that's something to take damned seriously.”

“That's a good idea. I'll tell him we're going home.”

“Where did he go? I haven't seen him since we ate.”

“Said he was going out back to, uh, become one with the sun, or something like that. I didn't know what he meant, but I wasn't going to question him,” Emily said, carrying cups and plates back to the kitchen.

“I'll look in on him before seein' the doc.”

When he stepped out the back door, Henry Coyote was sitting cross-legged on the ground, head tilted to the sun with his eyes closed. He was chanting softly.

Cotton was loath to interrupt, but he'd seen ceremonies
similar to this before: Indian death chants. It sent a shiver up his spine.

“Henry, are you feeling, uh, well enough to return to the ranch?”

Henry continued his chanting without interruption. For several minutes Cotton silently watched the Mescalero rock slowly from side to side, half-singing, half-muttering in his native Apache tongue. Finally, he stopped, got up, and brushed the dirt from his legs and knee-high moccasins. His face was dark and lined. His eyes had a vacant stare.

“You got a worry, old friend?” Cotton asked.

Henry nodded.

“I must admit, you had several folks round here concerned about you. But from what I see, you're doin' just fine. We're hopin' to take you home in a bit.”

“Worry not about me.”

“Oh, there's someone else on your mind?”

Henry again nodded.

“I think Emily is doin' jus' fine, too, thanks to you.”

“Not Miss Emily.”

“Well, who then?”

“See vision of evil coming to friend.”

“What friend would that be?”

“Sheriff Cotton.”

“Me? Well, uh, what did the vision tell you?”

“Evil come to kill you. You must leave.”

“I'm aware of a fella gunnin' for me. I can handle him.”

“This evil will hide in dark, not face sheriff.”

“I can't just pick up and leave on account of a vision, Henry. Besides, men have come for me plenty of times before. I'm still standin'; they're not. Don't worry yourself about me. I'll be all right.”

“I stay here until danger has passed. Not go to ranch.”

“You're welcome to stay here, old friend, but Emily has need of you, too.”

“She okay. You not okay.” He pushed past Cotton and walked onto the porch.

Cotton followed the old Indian. Inside, Emily was packing various items in a cloth bag, what little there was to pack. She'd had to buy a few necessities since she'd been in town, but for the most part, she had been able to scrounge up enough to keep a body together from Cotton's stores.

She looked up as he stood in the doorway. Henry had slipped past her and seemed to be very intent on finding something. Emily gave him a questioning glance then looked back to Cotton.

“Is everything okay, Cotton?”

“Ask Henry. I'm not the one with the ability to see spirits.”

“See spirits? Oh, you mean the one that appeared to Henry and made him well. Yes, well, I'm quite certain there's a perfectly rational explanation for such doings.”

Henry continued to search the rooms—behind furniture, in corners, and even on the front porch. Finally, out of curiosity, Emily spoke up.

“Henry, what
are
you looking for?” She stood with her hands on her hips, like a mother quizzing an errant child.

“Need rifle.”

“Oh, Henry, I took it down to the jail and had Jack clean it real good. I'll bring it back to you after I see Doc Winters,” Cotton said.

That seemed to satisfy the Indian, but then a questioning frown came over him.