Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (2 page)

“You still haven't answered my question: Why are you going?” Emily said, again.

“I'm not sure I got it all worked out in my own mind, but I know I need to go before whatever it is they're plannin' on stringin' him up for puts him in the ground before I get to ask him some questions of my own. I reckon the thing that puzzles me most is why he called on
me
for help. Especially
considerin' the circumstances which brought him here in the first place.”

“I know you want to do right by him, but I'm not convinced he's an honorable man, nor one deserving of your friendship,” she said with a frown.

“I've got plenty of reservations about him, and I'm not goin' out of anything near to friendship. I figure any man's due the benefit of the doubt, though. And I'm not entirely satisfied with his story on how Bart Havens died. This could be my last chance to get some answers. I plan to be back in about a week or so. Keep the coffee hot,” he said, handing her back the empty cup and leaning over to kiss her. She followed him out the door of his tiny house, to where she had tied her buckboard. The little house was the one extra accommodation the town of Apache Springs afforded its sheriff, even though he chose to spend his nights at Emily Wagner's ranch whenever possible. His house was too small, too confining, and far too lonely. And besides, being away from Emily too long made him damned difficult to be around.

Emily gave him a weak wave and tentative smile as he mounted his mare and rode slowly down the south road out of town. He hadn't felt the need to wake Jack. They'd spoken at length the evening before. Jack had waved off the responsibility handed him, as if being the sole lawman in a town that had seen more than its share of gunplay over the past three months was merely an everyday event. As Cotton passed the jail on his way through town, he glanced over to see his deputy at the desk. The sheriff was shocked, it being barely nine o'clock in the morning, an hour that usually found Memphis Jack still snoring away.

Jack didn't look up as Cotton rode by.

Cotton wasn't making very good time. The day was hot and the terrain difficult. He dared not push his mare too hard lest she fail him at a time and place where help was nonexistent. A few months earlier, a band of renegade Chiricahua Apaches from across the Arizona Territory border had tried
to raid a small village and stockade called Fort Tularosa, not far from the trail he now rode. They'd been driven off by a small detachment of buffalo soldiers led by a brave sergeant. But even then the locals were understandably nervous about the possibility of the Indians returning, since the leader of the Apaches was a notorious warrior named Victorio, who was not known to take defeat lightly. This incident weighed on the sheriff's mind, too. One man alone would stand little chance of survival if caught in the open by a band of Indians bent on killing anyone with white skin.

Small raids on local ranches were a reality most endured, though fearfully. Few lives were lost, but the same couldn't be said for any cattle or horses straying from the herds. Some of the renegades raided simply because they were hungry. Most of the ranchers didn't begrudge them a few missing cattle if it staved off open warfare. But Victorio's attacks were an attempt to convince the white settlers they should go back east and leave the Indian lands alone.

Cotton urged his horse down a rocky slope, toward some trees and the likelihood of finding water. He decided to camp by a stream close to where he and the Silver City blacksmith, Bear Hollow Wilson, had once sought shelter from two opposing bunches of men bent on taking Cotton's prisoner from him over three months back. That occasion had given Cotton a new appreciation for mob rule. Well-armed and cautious, he and Wilson had thought they were fully prepared to safely transport and protect their prisoner. Their preparations had proven inadequate, for by happenstance they'd lost him, only not in a way Cotton and his temporary deputy could have ever contemplated. Their prisoner, a man named McMasters, had murdered the town marshal of Silver City. Since Cotton had been desperate to get back to Apache Springs to do whatever he could to free Emily Wagner from a gang of ruthless outlaws holding her hostage, and the town had been left without a lawman, he'd volunteered to take the killer to his own jurisdiction for trial. He and Wilson were faced with townsfolk who wanted the
killer brought to justice without any trial and the man's own men who wanted him freed. Or so everyone assumed.

After a brief standoff amid volleys of gunfire, McMasters managed to break his bonds and make a dash for freedom toward his own men. But, without warning, one of those men rose up from behind a boulder and blew him into the next century with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The man later explained that no one wanted there to be any chance that McMasters might escape justice and return to the mines, where he regularly inflicted harsh punishments for minor infractions of his rules, especially when he had been drinking heavily, which was often. Now, camped nearby, the whole incident came back to Cotton as if it were an unsettling nightmare.

When Cotton reined in at the hotel in Silver City, he looked around to see if he could remember where the blacksmith's shop was located. And because his last time in town had been a while ago, he needed to get reacquainted with his surroundings. And he also hoped to say hello to the man who'd volunteered to help haul the killer to Apache Springs for trial: Bear Hollow Wilson. But first, he needed to locate the marshal's office. Since he didn't remember where the law hung out in Silver City, and didn't immediately see any sign to indicate a location, he figured to ask one of the locals for whoever had been elected to fill the shoes of the murdered marshal.

He hefted his saddlebags onto his shoulder and strode into the hotel and up to the desk. The same young man he remembered from his last visit was behind the counter, only this time he seemed to be gazing off into nothingness. Cotton figured his distraction meant he must be in love.

“Excuse me, young man, do you know where I can find the law in this town?”

“Uh-huh,” the fellow mumbled with his chin in his hands, a distant look in his eyes.

“I wonder if it would be too much trouble for you to tell me, then.”

“No trouble at all,” said the desk clerk, barely above a whisper, his gaze still locked on some distant visage.

Yep, this kid's in love
, Cotton thought. But, since waiting for the smitten youth to awaken from daydreaming of his beloved was not part of Cotton's agenda, he felt it time to make a statement that might be responded to properly. He slammed his fist on the counter. The young man's eyes came open in shock. He began to stammer, clearly flustered by Cotton's action.

“Oh, yes, sir, uh, what was it you wanted? I only have two rooms left and you can have whichever one you want, and if you want dinner the dining room is off to the left, and if—”

“Hold on, sonny, I just asked where I could find the law in this town.”

When the kid noticed the sheriff's badge pinned to Cotton's shirt, he became more disoriented than before.

“Oh! Why, yes, the county sheriff is off somewhere chasing rustlers. And the town marshal is, uh, probably in his office, er, the jail, unless he isn't, in which case I'd suggest you try the restaurant next door to the—”

“Son, just direct me to the marshal's office. I really don't have all day to listen to your blathering. Okay?”

“Uh-huh. It's down the street, one block, on the other side. Above the door it says—”

“ ‘Marshal's Office'?”

“Why, er, yessir, how'd you know?”

“I don't have my head up my butt over some female; that's how I was able to figure it out. Thanks.”

Cotton left the lad stammering and fidgeting behind the counter, still trying to gather his wits about him.
Oh, to be seventeen, again
, Cotton thought to himself. As he walked out into the sun-splashed street, one glance and he saw his objective.
Maybe I should have looked around more thoroughly before making it harder on myself
, he thought. Exactly where the boy had indicated, a small, barely visible
wooden sign stuck out at ninety degrees from the front of a clapboard-sided building next to a restaurant. As he approached the jail, the door opened and a massive shadow emerged. He broke into a smile as he recognized the man with the Sharps rifle dangling from his hand.

“Bear Hollow Wilson! Good to see you're still here.” Cotton stuck out his hand and was momentarily taken aback as the sun struck the silver badge on the man's chest.

“Sheriff Burke! What brings you to Silver City?”

“Couple of things, actually. But first, tell me what convinced you to take up a badge.”

“Short and simple: No one else would take it. Scared, I suppose. They offered, I accepted. Besides, I needed the money.”

“I can't think of a better man for the job. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Now, what brought you…?”

“Oh, yeah. Well I got a telegram from a fellow named Thorn McCann. Said you had him locked up. Said he was going to get his neck stretched. I wanted to talk to him before that happened.”

“Hmm. Sorry you made the trip for nothin', Sheriff. You're a tad bit late.”

“Oh? Pretty quick trial, wasn't it?”

“Didn't ever get to a trial. Judge wasn't due for another week. Some of the townsfolk was kinda gettin' impatient waitin around, so…”

“So, where is he?”

“He's gone.”

Y
ou already strung him up? Without a trial?”

“Nope. Didn't hang him. The vigilantes didn't get to him, either,” Bear Hollow said.

“So where is he?”

“Now that's a puzzlement. Wish I knew. I came in with his dinner late yesterday evenin', sometime after dark, and his cell was empty. Musta happened while I was out checkin' the streets.”

“Someone busted him out?”

“I reckon you couldn't actually call it ‘busted.' More like they just sauntered in, unlocked the cell, and he walked out. Took his gun with him, too. Right outta my desk drawer. Looks like he got his horse from the stable and rode out of town pretty as you please. No one saw him, so they couldn't stop him. Don't imagine anyone was that inclined to tangle with a gunslinger like him even if they had spotted him.”

“Did you get up a posse?”

“Nope. While the folks hereabouts were damned upset
with what he'd done, they weren't all that interested in chasin' him to hell and gone. So it was up to me, or nobody. The town is my jurisdiction, period. And the county sheriff is, as usual, out of town. I'm sure you see my predicament.”

“I reckon. But, tell me, what was it that McCann did that brought on his arrest?”

“He was livin' high, him and that beautiful gal he took up with right after he arrived. Gamblin', buyin' new clothes for the both of them, a new gun, ammunition, finest rooms at the hotel, and meals for himself and the lady. Wasn't until some of the merchants took the money their newfound benefactor had paid their bills with and tried to deposit it in the bank. That's when all hell broke loose.”

A wry smile came over Cotton's face. “Let me guess. Every last cent of it was counterfeit.”

“Right down to what he paid the liveryman for takin' care of his horse.”

“I reckon I see why everyone was thinkin' of a necktie party. But unless it could be proven that
he
did the counterfeiting and that he'd spread it around
knowing
it was worthless, what he did wasn't a hangin' offense. That's where trials come in handy.”

“True enough. But it was hard to make folks understand the finer points of the law when they'd been taken in by a charlatan. Hard on a man's pride, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, at that. Do you know where I can find the lady? What was her name?”

“Called herself, uh, Eve Smith, as I recollect. And a real looker she was, too.”

“Eve Smith? Black hair, brown eyes, well dressed?”

“That's the one. She cut a right smart figure.”

“If I was to want a word with the lady, where would I find her?”

“Same boardin' house you and that other feller stayed in last time you was here. End of the street.”

“Thank you, Marshal Wilson. I'll be stoppin' by before I leave town. Still got a couple of things puzzlin' me.”

*  *  *

When he got to the end of the street, he saw the lady who owned the boardinghouse out front sweeping the porch of dirt and debris brought by the night winds. Along the front of the porch grew a row of sunflowers. He took off his Stetson as he approached.

“Good day, ma'am. Do you remember me? I stayed with you some months back.”

Without looking up from her task, she said, “Of course I do. I don't never forget a voice. Don't need to see a face, neither. But if you're lookin' to stay a night or two, I'm afraid I'm all full up. Some cattlemen just arrived expecting a herd they're lookin' to buy. Fellers from Santa Fe, as I recall.”