Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (3 page)

“No, I'll not be needin' a room, but I
would
like to talk to a young lady you have stayin' with you, Miss Eve Smith?”

“Was,” she said, leaning the broom against the wall.

“Was?”

“Was here, ain't no more.”

“Do you have any idea where I can find her? It's important.”

“Nope. Can't say I care, either. Took me for a pretty penny, she did. Her and that scoundrel McCann. She stayed with me only two nights before she moved down to the hotel. Took them, too, as I understand it.”

“I take it the money she paid for her room with was bogus.”

“Yep. Good thing she didn't stay longer or I'da had to haul out my dead husband's twelve-gauge…Oh, never mind. I'm a softhearted old fool. Truth is I wouldn'ta done no such thing.”

Cotton had to grin at the old lady's admission of what she figured was a flaw in her personality. He didn't see it that way, however. He put his Stetson back on and turned to walk away.

“What is it you were wantin' to see her about, anyway? I see you've a badge on your vest, so it must be something havin' to do with the law.”

“I'm not all that sure, myself. Kinda hopin' she could give me somethin' to go on that might help with findin' Thorn McCann.”

“Can't tell you nothin' other than he slipped the noose just in time and made tracks for the freedom trail.”

“Freedom trail?”

“That's what my old pappy always said meant ‘gettin' shed of the law.' ”

Cotton laughed. “Reckon that's just what he did, at that. Thank you, ma'am.”

He headed back down the dusty street to find Marshal Bear Hollow Wilson.

M
arshal Wilson was at his desk, struggling as he attempted to bite off a piece of jerky. The expression on his face suggested he would just as soon be eating an old shoe.

“Hope that's not your lunch, Marshal.”

“Yep. Got a
real
tight budget here in Silver City. The council don't keep marshals around long that can't stay to a budget. As you can see by my size, that ain't always easy. I'm already a tad over for the month, so…”

“Too bad. I was goin' to offer to take you to the hotel and buy you a steak, but…”

The marshal stood suddenly, grabbed his floppy-brimmed hat, and tossed the jerky in the wastebasket next to the desk. He grinned broadly as he put his beefy hand on Cotton's shoulder.

“Best damned offer I've had today, Sheriff. Lead the way, my friend.”

Cotton couldn't resist a chuckle as they wandered out into the street.

“Bet you're buyin' me lunch so's you can try to wheedle some information outta this old blacksmith. Am I right?”

“You couldn't have hit the target better if you were two feet away.”

It was Bear Hollow's turn to chuckle. “Well, fire away. I'm yours all the way through dessert.”

After finishing off a thick steak, beans, fried potatoes, fresh bread slathered with butter, and three cups of coffee, they continued their conversation as they awaited two pieces of apple pie.

“Sounds like this Thorn McCann character has been doin' some pretty fancy dancin' for quite a spell. Likeable sort, I noticed, though,” Bear Hollow said.

“I think tellin' a lie where the truth would just get in the way has become a way of life for him. I really don't know how to figure him. He say anything to you about Apache Springs?”

“No. Just went on and on about how the bad money wasn't his fault. Didn't even spot it as phony. Said it was given him by a banker somewhere or other. Don't remember him sayin' anything about your town or county for that matter.” Bear's eyes lit up at seeing the pie that was placed in front of him. A big grin crossed his face as he wasted no time attacking it with his fork.

“So, he didn't mention his line of work?”

“Well, he did say somethin' about him bein' a lawman, but he offered no proof of any such thing. Figured it was a lie aimed at gettin' him some sympathy and a free pass out of the hoosegow.”

“You called it right. He's likely the biggest truth twister I've ever met.”

“That what he told you, too? That lawman part?”

“Started out sayin' he was a deputy U.S. marshal, then, when I caught him in that lie, he admitted to bein' a bounty hunter.”

“So what was it brung him to Apache Springs in the first place?”

“Huntin' down some poor soul.”

“Did he ever tell you who?”

“Yep. Me.”

Bear stopped mid-bite with a wide-eyed look of surprise.

Ten miles outside of Silver City, a man on horseback sat beside the road watching the Butterfield stagecoach as it left a dusty cloud coming toward him. As the stage approached, the rider sat easy, making certain the driver and shotgun guard didn't take him for a highwayman. He kept his hands well away from his gun. He removed his hat, ran his forearm across his forehead, then replaced his hat. He held up his hand. As the stagecoach drew up, the guard, a kid who looked like he couldn't be more than seventeen, pointed the coach gun at him. The horses came to a halt, showering gravel and dirt and raising a dust cloud.

“You got a problem, mister?” the driver said.

“It's awful hot out here for a man on horseback. I got the fare if you could see your way clear to lettin' me tie my mount on the back and ride inside the rest of the way to Apache Springs. That is where you're headed, isn't it?”

“Only got two passengers, so there's plenty of room. Climb aboard, but be quick about it. I got a schedule to maintain.”

The man thanked the driver, dismounted, and slipped the horse's reins through one of the straps on the luggage boot. He then opened the door and climbed inside, after being nearly tossed off the step as the driver, true to his word about being in a hurry, slapped the reins of the team and the coach lurched ahead.

The man removed his hat when he found himself in the company of a woman, a strikingly beautiful, dark-haired woman, at that. He made no attempt to announce that he already knew her. The other passenger was a slight, mousy gent in a wool suit that looked uncomfortable for the heat. He sported a thin mustache and wore glasses. In one hand he held a handkerchief with which he mopped at his brow often and also covered his nose and mouth during the times dust
swirled through from wind gusts, which were often. On his lap he carried a small, highly polished wooden case with brass fittings. The way he gripped it, the case obviously held something of value. At least to him.

“Good day to you both. Travelin' together?”

The man in the suit shook his head and looked at the floor, as if he was embarrassed at the suggestion of him being in a lady's company.

The lady smiled and said, “My name is Eve Smith. And your name, sir?”

“Why, uh, I'm John Thorn. From Tucson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Thorn. Lucky the stage came along when it did. You could have been overcome by a heatstroke riding in that blistering sun.”

“Yes, ma'am, mighty lucky.”

The man in the suit said nothing, just turned his head and began staring out the side window. Eve dropped her eyes and looked away, covering a smirk with a dainty, gloved hand.

The coach rumbled on for two hours with no one saying a word. Occasional glances from John Thorn into the face of Eve Smith, while obvious to any casual observer, raised no flags to the man in the suit. Dust from the coach's wheels continued to fill the cramped interior. Eve rode with a handkerchief covering her mouth much of the time. The men coughed and cleared their throats often. If ever there were a time to imbibe a cool glass of beer, that time was now, thought Thorn. But that was before the driver called out with a panicked voice.

“Injuns! Anyone with a gun, get it out now! We're about to be attacked!”

Thorn drew his .45 and turned to get a view of where the Indians were and how many there might be. He clearly didn't like what he saw. A dozen yelping braves astride paint ponies were taking up the chase even as the driver whipped the team into a run.

In this heat, our team won't last long
, Thorn thought.
Better we get out and try to make it to cover. We'll have a much better chance of picking some of them off that way than from a rocking, bouncing coach.

Just then a yell came from atop the coach when it took a sudden lurch to the left, careened off the road, and tilted to one side as one of the rear wheels slid into a deep rut, still drawn furiously by the frightened team of six horses. The coach's tenuous hold on remaining upright finally gave way to a sudden drop into a hole from which it could not recover. One front wheel's spokes shattered as the stage tipped onto its side, dragged through cactus, rocks and brush by frantic horses for a hundred feet before the scraping and grinding came to a halt. Thorn was the first one out the door, which now faced skyward, grabbing Eve's hand as he went. The battered stagecoach lay on its side, the driver's seat sheared from the frame. The mailbag had burst open, strewing letters everywhere. Baggage had likewise been tossed hither and yon. One wheel had splintered its axle from where it hit a large rock before coming to rest. The whole side of the coach had been stripped away by the impact and from being dragged along through a proliferation of desert debris.

“C'mon, you two, get to some cover in those rocks up there before we're overrun,” Thorn hollered.

He then jumped to the ground, reaching up to pull Eve to safety. The man in the suit scrambled out as best he could, caught his foot on the door, and tumbled into the ditch. From the front of the coach, Thorn heard a groan. He looked up to see the marauding Apaches racing to reach the stricken stage. He threw a couple of hasty shots their way to slow them down.

“Get up that hill! Mister, help the lady up the incline and both of you drop behind anything that looks substantial enough to stop a bullet. Do it now!” Thorn yelled. He turned to see if he could do anything about the driver and the guard.

The young shotgun guard struggled to free himself from beneath the crumpled forward boot. Thorn grabbed his arm and yanked so hard the boy yelped.

“Sorry, son, but we got to get up that hill before they hit us.”

The two of them began a scrambling, stumbling race to the top of the rise. The kid still had a firm grip on the scattergun, but by the way he limped, he was obviously hurt. Thorn had a hold on the kid's shirt and was pulling him nearly every step of the way. As they reached the top, Thorn felt a sharp pain as he took a bullet in the shoulder. He let out an anguished groan and fell forward. He'd nearly made it to the top. It was the kid's turn to try dragging
him
to safety. It was only by the grace of God that they made it to cover before the Indians overran the coach and descended on it like vultures.

S
ince McCann wasn't here long enough for you to get anything useful out of him, at least nothin' you can pass on, I reckon I'd best get back to Apache Springs. No sense lollygaggin' around this burg,” Cotton said, half-smiling. “Besides, eatin' like this would just make me fat.”

“Don't blame you none, Sheriff. I'd do the same, too, if I wasn't gettin' paid to keep myself available to stop the unruly element from gettin' the upper hand. Reckon I'd as soon go back to makin' horseshoes and mendin' tools, truth be told.” Bear gave a big, satisfied smile. He was about to say thanks for the meal when a huge man rushed in, panting, gasping for breath. He stopped a couple feet from the marshal, leaned over to put his hands on his knees for support, and struggled to get his words out.

“Marshal, y-you…gotta come…quick…or, or they's…” His big head drooped as his words came with more difficulty.

“What is it, Casper? You're too durn fat to be runnin' around hollerin' like that. Now, what's the problem?”

“Th-the saloon. They's two of 'em. Gonna be a real dustup…”