Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (7 page)

M
elody and Rose sat across from the president of the Bank of Gonzales. His desk was littered with deeds, loan applications, and settlements. Melody couldn’t help hoping he was better organized than he appeared.

“Now, Miss Wakefield, what is it I can do for one of my best customers?”

“Since you are also one of
my
best customers, Horace, you can drop the ‘Miss’ crap and call me Melody.”

“Yes, er, Melody.”

“Now, Horace, I think you know how profitable my
hotel
is by the way my mortgage payments are always right on time. Never missed one. So, based on my perfect record, I want you to remortgage the hotel for a higher amount, with a cash advance toward a saloon I’m planning on purchasing in Apache Springs.”

“Why don’t you take out a loan against the saloon from the bank in Apache Springs?”

“Because I don’t know the banker there, and I do know you . . .
and
your lovely wife.”

“Now, wait a minute, Melody, if you’re thinkin’—­”

“Hold your britches, Horace, I’m not thinking anything, just reminding you that it’s good business to keep all your assets within arm’s reach. I want to know I’m being taken care of by someone I know
intimately
. You
do
understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Horace?”

Banker Horace Seagraves knew exactly what she was saying. He tugged at his collar. He was no stranger to Melody’s charms. Blackmail was a fact of life for a woman like Melody. It was her second best weapon. And, while he dared not let on that he didn’t appreciate her trying to bully him into doing something he might not otherwise do, he knew he would, in the end, wither under her demanding ways. Truth be known, Horace Seagraves was a bowl of mush before a beautiful woman.

“Have you thought of maybe taking on a partner?”

“Don’t want a partner. That’d be just another hand dippin’ into my pocket. This little lady can take of herself. Don’t you worry none.”

“Okay, how much do you need? I’ll have to start putting the new mortgage and the bundled loan together. Take me a couple days. That all right?”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll need ten thousand dollars. Just make it out to me and I’ll deposit it in the Apache Springs bank until I get the deal put together with the relatives of the former owner. Oh, I almost forgot, Rose is going to be in charge of the hotel here while I’m gone. If you need anything,
anything at all
, she’ll be happy to take care of you.”

Rose gave him a licentious wink that turned his face a nice shade of pink.

Bart Havens slapped the worn deck of cards down on the table when he heard the door to the Las Vegas Saloon #1 open and a man saunter in. He looked up from his game of solitaire and grinned at the sight of the rider. Since he hadn’t heard from Whitey, he’d sent another of his longtime
henchmen to find him. His man was hopefully arriving with good news.

“Come on in and sit, friend. I’ll order you a whiskey.”

Sleeve Jackson, rangy and gaunt, with long, greasy black hair, was a cold-­blooded killer. He carried two Smith & Wesson Schofield revolvers and a stiletto in a sheath tucked in his belt. He’d escaped being hanged on at least three occasions by virtue of a clever lawyer—­courtesy of Bart Havens—­and once by a daring jailbreak. He was no man to trifle with, although his reputation with a gun had been earned not with marksmanship but by his ability to back-­shoot most of his victims.

“Thank you, Mr. Havens, think I will at that.”

Sleeve sat down, responding with a toothy grin as the bartender came to the table with a bottle and a glass. Bart poured the two glasses full, lifting his in a sign of a toast. He put the glass to his lips and drank it down with a single gulp.

“So, I hope you have good news for me. Did Whitey get the job done?”

“Nope. He just got hisself killed in the process. He’s lyin’ in a pine box leanin’ against the wall of the undertaker’s place. Had two holes in him no more’n six inches apart.”

Bart scowled at the loss of one of his best men. “Damn! How’d it happen?”

“Only know what I heard. He missed the sheriff, and the sheriff came after him, found him, and when Whitey went to cock the Sharps, that lawman plugged him twice before he could even get his shot off. That Cotton Burke must be as fast as they say.”

“Uh-­huh. You may get a chance to find out.” Bart’s face was deeply lined as he fell silent, suddenly lost in thought. Clearly it was now imperative he adopt a different approach to ridding himself of his old nemesis. Havens scooted his chair back, got up, and walked outside. His face was as dark as the clouds gathering in the west.

A breeze had kicked up and was blowing dust and debris
down the streets of Las Vegas, where Havens had set up an office in a back room of the saloon in order to escape the constant bleating of sheep. Sleeve’s horse whinnied and crow-­footed around the post to which he had been tied. Nervous about the approaching storm, several of the horses in the corral in back also added their slobbery comments. Havens stuck his thumbs in his braces and stretched them in and out nervously. This latest news was more than mildly bothersome. He’d set up in this dusty, ramshackle excuse for a town in the middle of nowhere for a reason. And that reason was to make sure Cotton Burke was dead before Havens rode confidently into Apache Springs to make another killing, the financial kind. He also needed to keep moving around to avoid having people get too familiar with some of the lowlifes with whom he had recently been associating.

All he could think about was the hatred he had for this man Burke, this gunslinger-­turned-­lawman, out to set things right. Burke was the man who’d run him out of a town he’d been on the verge of taking over, lock, stock, and barrel. Cost him a fortune to have to run like that, and in addition, it had put other towns on notice that Bart Havens was a crooked skunk who’d not stop before he’d stolen every last dime in the treasury and walked off with half the outstanding, unpaid deeds to thousands of acres of some of the best grazing land around. Now he could never show his face in Texas again.

He had been so close. Well, it was time for payback. Havens had had his eye on Apache Springs ever since hearing that Burke was the sheriff there, and by damned, he was going to take that town down along
with
its almighty sheriff.

Havens spun around and stormed back inside, slammed the rickety door, and yanked the whiskey bottle off the table. He lifted it to his lips and swigged it like it was mother’s milk. When he slammed the bottle back down on the table, he looked like the devil himself come to claim his prize. Sleeve watched Havens’s quixotic behavior indifferently.
He’d seen it before. He took another sip from his own glass, then leaned back in the chair.

“What do you want me to do, Boss?”

“We’re going to do things a little differently this time, Sleeve. It’s time we stacked the deck on Burke. I want you to ride to El Paso and bring back four of the best gunmen you can find. Let ’em know there’s money to be made and they can count on me to pay ’em well. Make sure none of them are squeamish about puttin’ a bullet in a man, whether he needs it or not. Got that?”

“Yessir. I think I know just who to round up,” Sleeve said with a wry grin. “You want I should bring ’em back here?”

“Yeah. If I’m not around when you get back, sit tight and wait for me. I’ll be workin’ on another part of my plan. Rodriguez and his wife will feed and take care of your horses. Now, get on your way.”

Sleeve downed the last of his drink and slipped outside. The wind was whipping up a chill, and he pulled his jacket up tighter around his neck, untied his horse, and mounted up. Havens was standing in the open doorway as Sleeve gave him a mock salute and spun his horse around, spurring him in a trot toward El Paso. The look in Havens’s eyes as he watched his hired killer ride off was dark, full to the brim with hatred.

C
otton was standing at the open door staring out on the bustling street. A high-­sided wagon pulled by six mules lumbered past loaded with wood from the mountains and headed for the sawmill. Two ladies chattered away as they walked by him, turned briefly to smile, then hurried back to their conversation with little or no break. Memphis Jack emerged from the saloon down the street and wobbled his way toward the jail. He stopped short when he saw Cotton watching him. He shook his head then continued on.

“You just come from your usual whiskey breakfast, Jack?”

“What’s it to you, Cotton? You ain’t my momma.” He brushed by the sheriff and dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk. Cotton followed him in.

“No, Jack, I’m not your nursemaid, either. But I’d appreciate it if you’d stay sober long enough to handle anything resembling gunplay that might come along. I’d as soon you shoot the bad guys rather than a passerby.”

“You just can’t let it go, can you? A fella makes
one
damn mistake, and the high and mighty Cotton Burke has to keep rubbin’ it until it festers.”

“Let me remind you, Jack, someone tried to plug each one of us, and that ain’t a trifling matter. I need you sharp, not constantly crawling out of a bottle. Got it?”

Jack stood up, yanked his Remington, and blasted a hole right next to the other hole in the door, no more than an inch away. He put the revolver back in his holster and sat back down, hard.

“Maybe I have lost my edge, Cotton. I meant to put that one right through the same hole.”

Cotton scowled at Jack the way a father would a wayward son, even though their ages were no more than two years apart. He shook his head and went outside. He called back, “I’m going out to the Wagner ranch.”

The ride to Emily’s place took about two hours and wound through cottonwood-­ and oak-­lined canyons and across a wide, grassy valley. Emily’s deceased husband, Otis, had chosen well when first they’d come to Apache Springs seeking property to buy land and settle down with a moderate-­size cattle operation. Otis had sent east for some of the English breeds with more meat on their bones, rather than the longhorns so plentiful in Texas.
Longhorns are stringy and tough; people want better beef
, he’d insisted. At first, other ranchers had scoffed at him, but he’d slowly won them over, and now the Wagner ranch could be counted on to supply restaurants and hotels throughout the region with juicy, tender cuts. His Herefords and Angus were growing in popularity, too, as breeding stock, and other ranchers were mixing their herds with diversity.

As Cotton rode through the gate, he saw several of the wranglers rounding up a handful of new calves, readying them for branding with the Wagner brand, a “W” sitting atop a wavy line. He saw Emily step out through the front door to watch. He urged his horse to the porch. He got
down, tied the reins to a rail, and stepped up on the porch beside her.

“So, stranger, you lookin’ to buy some cattle?” she said with a wink and a subtle grin. Her eyes flashed in the sunlight as she moved closer. He leaned down and kissed her.

“’Fraid the only thing I see when I look at one of those four-­footed beasts is a thick, juicy steak sizzlin’ in the pan.”

“Hmm. Does that mean you would turn down an opportunity to become the head honcho on the Wagner ranch?”

“I figure the head honcho the ranch has right now is doin’ a wonderful job. Wouldn’t want to start a landslide by makin’ unnecessary changes.”

“I see. Well, I reckon I’ll just have to reward you for that nice compliment by fryin’ up one of those steaks you seem so bent on consuming.” She smiled, took him by the arm, and drew him inside.

“I can’t think of a better arrangement. You raise ’em, I’ll eat ’em.”

They both laughed.

When Sleeve Jackson rode into El Paso, he was struck by the activity on the streets. The town was bursting with horses and riders, wagons, buggies, and buckboards. Noise seemed to come from every corner, along with the occasional discharge of a weapon. Sleeve mumbled to himself that he’d better not find one of the men he was looking for lying facedown in the dusty street. If he didn’t get back to Las Vegas with four of the best shooters in Texas, he’d have to face a very unhappy Bart Havens, and that didn’t bode well.

Even though everyone knew Havens never carried a weapon, had never drawn on anyone, never killed anyone with a gun, knife, poison, or an axe, the man struck fear in the hearts of men who didn’t normally back down from anyone or anything. Sleeve was at a loss to explain how
that could be, but the facts seemed to speak for themselves. And who was he to argue with fact.

He reined in front of the first saloon he came to, the first of a dozen or more. He wasn’t certain how many there were, just that he would have to start at one end of town and hit every saloon, gambling hall, and whorehouse in search of the four men he had in mind.

“Howdy, what can I get you?” the bartender asked as Sleeve walked up to the bar in the saloon called the Original El Paso Watering Hole, probably because it was, indeed, the most aged, run-­down establishment a person happened on when entering town, at least from the west.

“A beer and some answers,” Sleeve said.