Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (9 page)

“Don't believe a word you're sayin'. I can see it in your
eyes. And don't you show your backside to me, lady. I won't stand for dismissal from no damned bitch. Now tell me where I can find this Cotton Burke. And be quick about it. I ain't a patient man. Got a message for him.”

“What message would that be?”

“I been on the road a spell, and I'm plumb tuckered, so tell me what I want to know, or else you ain't gonna like what comes next.”

The man in the dusty black flat-brimmed hat clenched his teeth as he drew a nickel-plated .38 from a shoulder holster beneath his duster. He thrust it out straight, pointing directly at her. Emily froze in place, her eyes wide in a mixture of surprise and fear. No one had
ever
pointed a gun in her direction before.

“I told you once and I'm not going to tell you again, he isn't—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the man followed her with the little spur-trigger .38, a couple inches to the right in the direction she'd moved, keeping it aimed directly at her as he cocked the hammer and placed his finger on the trigger.

“Last chance,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Emily stood her ground with a defiant jut of her chin, arms crossed.

“Go to hell,” she spat, with a venomous scowl.

That's when he made his move, but Henry moved quicker. He shoved Emily out of the way, taking the full force of the explosion himself. He fell on top of the surprised woman. As the stranger raised the gun to shoot again, one of the ranch hands came around the corner of the house, six-shooter drawn. He pulled off a quick shot that hit nothing but air. It did, however, serve its purpose. The man yanked hard on his reins and wheeled his horse about, then spurred the mare to a dead run toward the gate.

Struggling to free herself from beneath Henry, Emily felt something wet as she gripped his arm. Blood dripped onto her shirt and onto the porch. Henry had been shot. She felt a jolt of panic as she looked into his wandering, questioning
eyes. She scrambled to untangle herself from beneath the Apache, finally managing to roll him over just as the ranch hand rushed up the steps to help.

“Oh, my god, Henry's been shot! Teddy, go get some men, hitch up a team, and bring the buckboard around. We have to get him to the doctor before he bleeds to death. Scoot!”

Teddy Olander, a twenty-year-old kid from Arkansas she'd hired only a week before, and the one who'd scared the shooter away, nearly tripped over his own feet as he lit a shuck for the bunkhouse, shouting as he went. Three cowboys tumbled out of their bunks and scrambled to see what all the yelling was about.

“Henry's been gunned down by some scoundrel that tried to shoot Miss Emily. Get the buckboard hitched up and be damned quick about it!”

For a brief moment, as the seriousness of the situation slowly sank into the suddenly awakened cowhands, they stood in stunned silence, trying to rub the sleep from their eyes. Then, one must have caught on, and he broke ranks, pulled his suspenders up, and stumbled toward the corral. That was sufficient for the others to scatter in search of their part in the job at hand.

Emily carried several blankets from the house and placed them in the bed of the buckboard. She rolled a couple up to place on either side so the Indian wouldn't be jolted so badly that the bleeding would increase, cutting his chances for survival even further. They all helped lift the old Apache onto the blankets as gently as rough, calloused cowhands could be expected to do.

“Teddy, you drive. I'll stay back here with Henry and try to stop as much bleeding as I can.”

Teddy slapped the reins like a hardened teamster as the horses strained at their traces, thundering through the front gate and out onto the road toward Apache Springs. Emily held Henry's head up, while attempting to stop the blood from flowing by pressing a wetted compress against the wound as best she could. She prayed Henry would live as
the buckboard bounced and rattled along the rutted road.
Cotton, I need you. Please come home.

As the straining, heavily lathered team thundered down the Old Hill Road and slid around a corner onto the main street of town, Emily was already screaming for the doctor. Teddy yanked the reins back and pushed as hard as he could on the foot brake to stop the buckboard. It shuddered to its final last few skidding feet right outside the Dr. John Winters's office porch.

“What in tarnation is all the fuss about, woman? Oh, it's you, Miss Emily, sorry.”

Doc Winters was wearing his usual baggy, wrinkled pants held up with suspenders. Along with the top to his long johns, which appeared to have been washed less than regularly. In his hand was a half-empty bottle of whiskey, which he tried to move behind him but failed. Emily's eyes immediately shot to the bottle then to the doctor, whose stance was unsteady at best.

“Whatever's in that bottle better be medicinal, Doc, or you're about to wish it was. I've got a badly wounded man here and he needs tendin' to. And not by some drunk. You up to it or do I have to hold a gun to your head?”

Doc Winters was at once embarrassed at the dressing down he'd just received. He could find no words to rebut her condemnation. He was a drunk. Had been for years. Truth be known, he'd never made an attempt to change, either.

“Get your man inside, Miss Emily. I'll be just fine. You can keep your gun tucked in that holster. Who's been shot?”

“Henry Coyote.”

“The Injun?”

“Yeah. That gonna be a problem?”

“Uh, well, uh, no, I reckon not. Never operated on no Injun before, though.”

“Don't worry none about that, Doc. He is no different than any other man. He bleeds when he's wounded, and he
dies when he isn't tended to properly. I'd surely hate for something like that to happen to one of the best men I've ever known. You
do
understand, don't you?”

Emily's hand slowly dropped to the butt of her revolver, holstered and drooping on a belt that dangled loosely around her small waist.

“I, uh, understand, ma'am. I'll do my best. You can bet on it.”

“Teddy, help me get Henry inside.” The two of them lifted the Apache as gently as they could and, draping one of his arms over each of their shoulders, half-carried, half-dragged him up the steps and across the threshold into the doctor's office. The doctor waved his hand to direct them to heft him onto a table in a room that brought back bad memories for Emily. It was where she first saw Cotton after hearing he was still alive, dangling his legs over the edge of the table, and trying to shrug into his bloody shirt. Only hours before, he'd been shot and nearly killed by one of the Cruz gang. That terrible moment brought relief only after Cotton refused to be denied the destiny he'd sworn to keep with the vicious outlaw. That destiny was finally served as Virgil Cruz lay dying from Cotton's deadly aim in the very cabin where Emily had suffered humiliation at the hands of a degenerate gunman.

As Henry lay on the table, the doctor began fumbling around on another table, this one laden with instruments—shiny, sharp, and unfriendly. Emily prayed that somewhere in that jumble was the one that would save Henry's life.

Teddy leaned on the back of a pressed-pine chair across the room. His stomach had been full of butterflies ever since he first saw Henry lying across Emily, blood flowing over her dress. When the doctor finally selected a long, thin pair of tweezers and started probing around in the wound, Teddy's stomach began to grumble its disdain. The sight of blood was nothing new to the boy, but when it was someone he
worked with and the possibility of death loomed large, he was sorely tempted to make a beeline for the door and some much-needed fresh air.

But his feet would not move. No matter how badly he wished to be somewhere else, he felt as though his boots had been nailed to the floor. Watching the old Indian's complete control over what Teddy could only imagine had to be insufferable pain astonished him. The Apache held perfectly still and made no sound, neither groan nor curse. Henry's black eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling above, intensely focused, drilling through the beams, the roof, and beyond. The boy was transfixed by the man's capacity for pain and an apparent ability to be at peace with all that had happened. Henry had waved off the doctor's attempt at sedation with laudanum. He wouldn't even accept a drink of whiskey. The doctor merely shrugged and went to work.

Teddy was instantly roused from his trance by the sharp sound of a hunk of lead being dropped into a metal cup. A small bottle of powder sat nearby and the doctor sprinkled a bit of it over the wound. Teddy watched as the man, who'd been stumbling, presumably from too much libation prior to their arrival, wiped his hands on a white cloth, quickly threaded a curved needle, and began the job of sewing up the crimson hole in Henry's shoulder, with the deft hand of an accomplished seamstress.

After he clipped the thread and tied it off, the doctor reached for the whiskey and, after pouring a healthy amount of it over the wound, lifted it to his lips and guzzled the rest of the bottle's contents.

“Keep him quiet for a few days. If he gets up and wanders around, he could open the sutures. If he starts bleeding again, get him back here as quickly as possible. Do as I say and he'll live.” The doctor walked from the room, out into the sunlight, and lit a cigar. He leaned on the porch railing and took a deep breath.

Emily followed him.

“I'm sorry I was a bit disagreeable with you, Doc. I reckon I wasn't myself. Henry is very important to me. He
saved my life for the second time by jumping in front of a bullet that had been intended for me. Please accept my apologies.”

“No apology necessary, Miss Emily. I had it comin'.” He sighed deeply and took another draw on the cigar. “Your Indian's going to survive, Miss Emily, but he'll need rest for a few days. He's too weak to travel just yet, however.”

“Since Cotton is away, I'll ask his deputy to help me take him down to the sheriff's house. Maybe he can rest up there until I can get him back to the ranch.”

The doctor nodded, turned back inside, and began to gather up the bloody instruments and carry them over to a large copper tub full of water. He tossed them in, lifted the tub, and placed it on the stove. Emily watched for a moment, then turned to go find Cotton's deputy, Memphis Jack Stump.

A
ll saddled and ready to go at dawn, Cotton and the three others prepared to mount up and get on their way. Delilah had gone back inside, presumably to say good-bye to Thorn. Cotton hadn't bothered. He'd told Mrs. Hardin of his plans to return in three days and bring back her horses. He figured she would pass the word on to McCann. He was hoping by then Thorn would have healed up sufficiently to be able to travel, even if it was lying flat on his back in a buckboard.

Seeming hesitant, Delilah started to come out on the porch, then stopped in the doorway to glance back over her shoulder. The sour look on her face suggested indecision. Cotton saw she was having a problem.

“What's the matter, Delilah? We best get goin' if we aim to get back to Apache Springs in the daylight.”

“I-I'm staying here with Thorn. He may need me. I'm sorry, I just can't leave him.”

Damn
, Cotton thought,
Thorn McCann's gone and got
himself all tangled up in a woman's skirts. Wonder what she'll say when he tells her he figured all along to return to the life of a bounty hunter
.

“I'd advise against it, but you're free to do as you please. I plan to return in about three days to take you both outta here. I doubt Thorn will be in any shape to ride a horse, so I figure to bring a buckboard.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Delilah said, as she gave him a halfhearted smile and a nod and stepped back inside.

Mrs. Hardin looked up at the sheriff. “Don't blame her, son, she's likely in love. It's just one of those silly things women do now and again.” She gave a sigh and followed Delilah, closing the heavy door behind her.

“Keep those rifles loaded at all times!” Cotton shouted after the lady. He wasn't certain if she heard or not, but for now his job was to get the other two to safety in Apache Springs. He motioned for them to fall in behind as he led the way.

Emily didn't have to look far for Jack. He was just coming out of the sheriff's office. He paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the afternoon sun. When he looked up, he saw Emily Wagner rushing toward him from the direction of Doc Winters's office.

“Jack, thank heavens I found you. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Why, of course, ma'am, what is it?”

“A man showed up at the ranch a few hours ago. He tried to shoot me, but Henry took the bullet instead. The one intended for me. Doc's got him patched up, but I can't take him back to the ranch, at least not yet. Since Cotton's out of town, do you think we could take Henry to his place, just long enough for him to get some of his strength back?”