Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (19 page)

“Why you go see doctor?”

“While I was away—before you were wounded—I came across a wrecked stagecoach. The driver had been killed. I found several people hunkered down in a ravine trying to fend off some Chiricahuas, probably Victorio's followers. One of the men was badly wounded. I brought him to the doctor's to get him patched up. Thought I ought see how he's comin' along.”

“You not have need of doctor?”

“Nope.”

“That good news.”

“So, are you sayin' the vision you had about me might not be what you figured it to be?”

“Vision not change. Good you are able to defend self…with help from Apache.”

Emily looked stricken by the news of some vision having to do with Cotton that she had as yet not been privy to.

“Wh-what's Henry talking about?”

“Seems he saw some danger comin' to town that I'm unaware of, and the way he tells it, the threat was to me.”

“Is that right, Henry? You saw Cotton in danger?”

“Maybe see death.” Henry looked solemn.

“B-but…from who? How?” Emily stammered, her face turning pasty white.

“Evil spirit.
Devil!
”

Emily's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, terrified. Tears began to form, threatening to overflow her pretty eyes. Cotton pulled her close as Henry turned around and went outside.

“Don't worry, Emily, I'm not in any danger. You'll see. Maybe Henry saw it wrong.”

“He
knows
things you and I don't, Cotton. You've seen it before. You know what I'm saying is true. Henry has some sort of mystical powers.”

Now Cotton began to get a worried look. He
did
know that what she'd said carried with it more than a modicum of truth. Something in the back of his mind made him stop. It was coming back, slowly, and without clarity, but he, too, had experienced Henry's inexplicable ability to see things others couldn't. He'd always brushed it off as nothing more than a cultural difference between white men and Indians. But after seeing him recover from a serious wound in a near-miraculous manner, he now realized that Henry Coyote, a Mescalero Apache who'd been raised in a culture of spirituality and uncanny insights—little of which Cotton understood—should not be ignored. The Indian's vision might very well be much more than fantasy.

Cotton swallowed hard.

I
t was morning when Lazarus Bellwood tossed the burlap bag on the ground at the feet of James Lee Hogg.

“I come close to meetin' my maker just to get you this food and some blankets and ammunition. I hope to hell you appreciate it.”

Hogg stopped whittling on a stick and slowly raised his head.

“Oh, I do 'ppreciate it, Mr. Bellwood, I surely do. Yassuh!” His smile was anything but sincere. Lazarus took notice of the man's sarcasm but decided to let it pass.
This one time
.

“Damned near got my head blowed clean off. Some stupid storekeeper with one of them
toy
guns they keep behind the counter, most likely. Those idjits never sleep. Always watchin' over their precious stores, scared to death a body'll run off with their goods. I swear…”

Hogg had wasted no time plunging his knife into the lid of a can of peaches and was now prying it off. Before the can was completely open, he held it to his mouth and began slurping the sweet juice.

“Ahh, the nectar of the gods,” he said, and he began rummaging through the bag for whatever else Lazarus had thought to bring.

“Well, don't eat it all at one sittin'. I ain't goin' back for no more.”

“I didn't ask you to, did I?”

“No, but the way you're attacking that bag, I figure you'll have eaten your way clean to the bottom before noon.”

Hogg shook his head with a disgusted frown as he pulled out a box of pepper and threw it away. He fished around and pulled out a strip of jerky and began gnawing on it. He sat down and leaned back against a large log that was burned on one end from a lightning strike many years before.

“You know any more than you did yesterday about the
great man
's plan?”

“If I was you, I wouldn't never let him hear you talking sassy-like about him. The man's got the fires of hell in him, and he don't forgive easy-like.”

Lazarus pulled his saddle from his horse and tossed it on the ground. He turned the horse loose to forage for whatever grass might be found at the edge of a nearly dried-up spit of a creek. He plopped down beside Hogg and pulled out a cigar. He lit it and blew out a small cloud of smoke, making certain the aroma wouldn't be missed.

“I don't suppose you thought to bring me one of them?” Hogg said with a narrow-eyed frown.

“Nope. This is my reward for takin' all the risk.” Lazarus couldn't keep a chuckle from spilling out.

“So, how long are we supposed to sit out here like a couple of wampus cats?” Hogg asked.

“When I got back to town, it was still daylight. So I went to the hotel to get a little sleep. A telegram was waitin' for me at the desk. Sanborn said he'd changed his mind and for us to go on over to Socorro and he'll meet us there. Wanted you and him to get to Apache Springs on the Butterfield stage,
together
. Said I was to ride in on my horse and not make it known that we know each other. Don't know why. Reckon he's got his reasons. I'm not all that damned eager
to meet either the sheriff or his deputy, anyway. I figure Burke is goin' to take it real hard that Sanborn's got hisself a judge appointment.”

“The old man's got sand, I'd say,” Hogg said.

“You're sure right about that.”

“Hope he's got it all figured out to the minute.”

“Things could get hot real quick, if what I've heard about this sheriff is right,” Lazarus said.

“What've you heard?”

“Probably best if I keep quiet. Don't want to scare you to death,” Lazarus cackled.

“You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“He shot off your big toe, didn't he? And he done it without any warnin'?”

“I'm not about to be caught off guard this time. Besides, I'm a better shot now.”

“I hear he is, too.”

Lazarus looked off into trees with a strange expression on his face. James Lee noticed and spoke up.

“What? You sittin' on a burr or somethin'?”

“Just thinkin' about that telegram I got. What if the operator decided to spill the beans to the sheriff? He'd know everything we got planned for him and be waitin'.”

“We better hope he don't,” Hogg said.

After two days of riding, James Lee Hogg and Lazarus Bellwood arrived at the edge of Socorro, a centuries-old village on the eastern edge of the Magdalena Mountains on the Rio Grande. The conglomeration of adobe huts and dusty streets was kept safe by a contingent of buffalo soldiers stationed at Fort Craig. James Lee intended to stay clear of soldiers, of any type, as he was still wanted in Texas for shooting two of them in a saloon. His popularity with the army revolved around their desire to see him dangling from the end of a rope.

“Ain't much, is it?” Lazarus observed, looking around with a scowl.

“Nope. Didn't figure it to be. I figure Sanborn picked it for the best place to meet up because we wouldn't attract much attention. Uh, I forgot to ask, you ain't wanted in these parts, are you?”

“Nope, I ain't wanted around here, anyway. I'm too slick for any lawman to corral,” Lazarus answered.

“Uh-huh.”

“Lets see how bad they cut their whiskey in that saloon over there.”

“Probably a lot of tequila and not much whiskey in a place like this. I
do
know what they got a lot of, however.”

“Yeah. What's that?”

“Mexicans. Lots and lots of Mexicans.”

“Maybe that's why they call it
New Mexico
,” Lazarus said, raising one eyebrow.

“Don't need no smart-asses ridin' beside me, you know.”

They pulled up in front of the saloon and dismounted. Each tied his mount to the railing and climbed the steps to the front of the narrow adobe building with many small, round chinks taken out of its walls.

“Looks like this place has seen its share of battle damage,” Lazarus said, trying to count the many indentations.

“Yeah, that damned war got all the way down here, too.”

Inside the dark, gloomy room, the smell of whiskey, beer, and burned beans was overwhelming. James Lee stepped up to the bar. A small-framed Mexican turned to look at him, then returned to what he had been doing, which appeared to have been nothing. James Lee knocked on the bar top.

“Hey! How about a couple of whiskeys over here?”

Apparently unfazed by the gruff American's impatience, the man made no response. This infuriated the gunman, and he drew his revolver and fired a shot into a stack of glasses just to the left of the nonchalant bartender. Just as he was about to send another bullet directly at a mirror
behind the bar, James Lee heard a voice behind him. He whirled around to see two dark-skinned men in sombreros, wearing conchos on their vests and holding rifles pointed his way. Both also wore badges.

“I beg your pardon, señor, but what is it that makes you think shooting up our saloon is permissible?”

“Just tryin' to get a little service out of that wet…er…fella behind the bar. I take it servin' customers ain't part of the business.” James Lee's face was red with rage. Lazarus nudged him in hopes of calming him down. Two men with guns pointed at them didn't seem to be the best odds to him.

“The man you want will be back in a few minutes. He went out back to relieve himself. The one you are shouting at only mops the floor and cleans out the spittoons.”

“Oh. Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“You probably weren't, but I believe an apology is due him anyway.”

James Lee was getting antsy about the guns being pointed at him. His instincts told him to leave well enough alone, but his anger told him to try for it. He could tell Lazarus was not going to be any help, since by the time he got the Sharps up, cocked, and aimed, it would all be over. He slumped at the obviousness of the only decision he could make and stay alive long enough to meet the stagecoach.

“Sorry. I'll, uh, pay for them glasses.”

The man with the badge gave him a toothy grin as he lowered his rifle.

“That would be appreciated.”

C
otton kicked at a clod of dirt lying in the road on his way to Doc Winters's office, exploding it into a thousand pieces. His mind was still miles away when he reached the door and knocked. He was surprised when Delilah opened it. He removed his hat and gave her a questioning smile.

“Good day, Sheriff,” she said. “I'll bet you've come to look in on Thorn. I'm happy to report that he's coming along nicely, thanks to the doctor. And you, of course. Won't you come in?”

“I'm glad to hear Thorn's on the mend. He up to talkin' some?”

“Reckon he'll talk to you.” She waved him into the reception area and pointed to the back room, just beyond a curtained doorway.

He walked up to the makeshift bed the doctor had constructed. Thorn was trying to lean on one arm, but was obviously struggling to keep his balance.

“Howdy, Sheriff. Glad
you
come through that little dustup with those Indians all in one piece.”

“Yeah, but the Hardins weren't so lucky. Any idea where those two drunken renegades came from?”

“Nah. Pretty raggedy pair. Probably been kicked out of the tribe or somethin'.”

“Well, we need to talk over some recent happenin's. You ever heard of a loudmouth goes by the name of James Lee Hogg?”

“I ran into him a couple times, if he's the same Hogg as I'm thinkin' on.”

“Got a nasty limp.”

“Yeah, that's him. Heard some lawman shot his big toe off. Had to laugh the first time I heard it. Who you suppose'd do such a thing?”