Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2) (3 page)

Sudden shook his head. ‘Shore sound
like a mean bunch!’ he opined.

‘
There’s a few folk ain’t scared
to speak their minds
—-
up to a point.’ Billy informed him. ‘But yu got to walk pretty
wary.’

‘
Which is a sight more’n yu did,’
grinned Green. ‘Yu want to tell me what it was I got myself
into?’

Billy’s young face set into hard
lines. ‘I’d as lief not talk about
it,
Jim.’ Then his expression softened an iota. ‘Still … I reckon
yu
got a right to know. I got home from
checkin’ the range this mornin’. I found my sister
—-
she’s eighteen, Jim,
eighteen years old!
—-
lyin’ in the house, on the floor. Her clothes was in tatters.
She was sobbin’ like a ’Pache squaw…’ His voice broke, and
he
struggled briefly, ineffectually,
against his bonds, as if his very
rage
would burst them. Green managed to find somewhere else to look
while the boy fought for control. ‘She was pretty bad scared, but
she hadn’t been … hurt. Told me that Buck Cotton
had come to the house. Didn’t want to tell me
more
—-s
he
knowed
what I’d do. She said he had been
waitin’ until I was gone afore he come a-visitin’. Then he just…’ A
shudder of suppressed anger shook his shoulders.

‘
I took her down to the ol’ Fort
an’ got a Mex woman to look after her. Then I lit out like a bat
out o’ hell for town. Sent Doc Hight out there, an’ then I went
lookin’ for Buck Cotton. Yu know the rest.’

Green bowed his head. The boy’s
unreasoning anger had precipitated a smoldering confrontation.
‘Gonna be interestin’ to see what these Cotton jaspers dream up for
us he told himself. He watched the youngster as an expression of
disgust crossed Billy’s face.

‘
I oughta’ve killed him when I had
the chance!’ spat the boy.

‘
Been a pretty empty gesture if
yu’d got killed doin’ it, wouldn’t it?’ was Green’s reasonable
reply. ‘That Parris was shore achin’ to put a slug atween yore
shoulder blades.’ Changing the subject, he asked Billy who would
look after his sister.

‘
I reckon Doc Hight’ll take care
o’ Jenny,’ Billy told him. ‘I’d guess them two is goin’ to get
married afore long. They shore get all moony-eyed when they’re
settin’ on our front porch.’ This with the typical disgust of the
young man for such ‘romantic foofarraw’. Green smiled to
himself.

‘
This Doc Hight sounds like a good
man. Any others in town we can hope for a square deal
from?’

Billy’s expression was glum. ‘Not
many,’ he admitted. ‘The barkeep, Blass, is a fair man, but he
works for the Cottons. They own the Oasis. Mebbe Bob Davis who runs
the general store an’ one or two o’ the men on the smaller spreads
south o’ town. That’s about all. This is Cottontown, Jim. I shore
am sorry I got yu into this.’

Green did not reply. He was busily inspecting their
cell more closely and was not inspired to hope by what he saw. The
tiny room was no more than six feet square. Straw covered the
tamped dirt floor, and a tiny barred window set in one wall about
seven feet from the ground let in light and air. The door looked
like solid oak, and was studded with iron bolts. There was no Judas
window, nor any kind of break in its surface. The walls of the cell
were of adobe, the universal building bricks of the Southwest, and
he guessed that they would be at least three feet thick.

‘
Not a hope o’ breakin’ out,’ he
muttered. ‘Even if our hands was free —-which same they
ain’t.’

Billy watched his friend’s careful
inspection of the
cell
wordlessly. When Green was finished he said:

‘
I could’a’ told yu not to bother,
but I didn’t figger yu’d take any notice, anyway.’

Green smiled. ‘Allus like to look
for myself. Just to be shore.’

‘
What I said,’ replied his
cellmate. ‘The on’y place built stronger than the jail is the
bank.’

Before Green could comment further,
they heard heavy foot
steps in the corridor
outside their cell, and the jangling of keys,
followed by the grating metallic sound of a heavy bolt being
pulled
back.

The door swung outwards to reveal
Sheriff Parris, hands on hips, regarding his two prisoners with a
self-satisfied smile. Behind him stood two heavily-built men, both
armed with shotguns.

‘
Well, well, if it ain’t the
remains o’ the Rebel Army,’ he gloated.
‘Yu
boys look like somethin’ fell on yore heads.’ He turned to the man
on his left. ‘Cut their feet loose, an’ mind how yu do it!
Yu two jaspers
—-
take it slow an’ easy! Jackson,
here, is a nervous
sort o’ feller, an’ yu
don’t want his finger twitchin’. These walls take a lot o’
scrubbin’ if one o’ them cannons goes off.’ This macabre reference
to their fate in the event of any show of resistance was not lost
on the two prisoners.

After their feet had been freed,
and they had stamped around for a moment to get the circulation
moving again, Green asked a
question.

‘
Where are yu goin’?’ Parris
laughed, a hearty, evil laugh. ‘Why
yo’re
not bein’ kept waitin’ around, wonderin’ what’s to happen.
We’re takin’ yu over to the saloon, an’ yo’re
goin’ to be tried.’

‘
Tried?’ cried Billy Hornby.
‘Tried for what?’

Parris grinned, his tobacco-stained
teeth glinting crookedly
beneath his
grizzled moustache. He held up a hand and ticked off
the charges on his fingers.

‘
Obstructin’ an officer in the
course o’ his duty, assault with a
deadly
weapon, breach o’ the peace, firin’ a gun inside town
limits,
felonious woundin’ of an officer o’
the law, incitin’ a riot, attempted
murder,
vagrancy
—-
hell,
take yore pick. We got enough to hang
yu
two
hombres
higher’n Haman!’

‘
Hang?’

Although Green was bound, and
covered by two men with the lethal power of twin-barreled shotguns
ready to blast the man down at the slightest sign of trouble,
Parris scuttled backwards at the cold deadliness in Green’s
voice.

‘
Watch him!’ he
squeaked.

‘
Yu better, yu misfit!’ snapped
Green. ‘What kind o’ law d’yu have in these parts,
anyway?’

Parris’ smile was evil incarnate,
and the two burly deputies behind him exchanged indulgent smiles at
what seemed to be Green’s naiveté.

‘
Yu’ll find out what kind,’
gloated Parris, ‘any minnit now. March, damn yu!’

The taller of the two deputies gestured imperiously
with the shotgun, and the two prisoners were shepherded into the
outer office, and thence into the bright morning sunlight of the
crowded street. As they walked across its dusty width, Green
noticed the small crowd of onlookers watching from the porch of the
Oasis break, its members scuttling inside the saloon to gain
vantage points from which to watch the forthcoming trial. The
saloon was filling rapidly when they entered it, and a hum of
conversation arose as they marched up the gangway between the rows
of chairs set out for the citizens to watch. Between thirty and
forty men were congregated in the saloon, sitting or lounging on
benches which had been set along the walls. The tables had been
moved to one side, and an open space had been left at the far end
of the saloon, in which was placed a table and chair. The front row
of seats had been kept vacant, and it was to these that the
prisoners were led. Green and the boy sat with one of the deputies
on either side of them. Parris took the gangway seat.

The onlookers, several of whom had
been witnesses to the events earlier in the day, filled the air
with speculation and gossip about the saturnine stranger, sitting
now as if unconcerned by his predicament, who had so unexpectedly
intervened in the fight between Billy Hornby and Buck
Cotton.

‘
All rise!’ Parris’ bawling voice
cut across the layers of muted conversation, stilling them. Every
man in the room got to his feet at the sheriff’s command, while the
two prisoners were yanked rudely upright. Green turned his head to
see the batwing doors swinging behind the passage of a small,
thickset old man in a suit which looked as though he hadn’t taken
it off for a year. Stained and disreputable, his appearance was
hardly improved by the unshaven stubble, filthy linen, and rheumy,
bloodshot eyes of the confirmed drinker. A wag in the crowd called
out ‘How about a quick one, Judge?’ and was rewarded by an evil
glare from the shuffling old man, and a malevolent, warning glance
from the deputy on Green’s right.

Now, however, all eyes swung back
to the doorway and the old man was temporarily forgotten as two big
men shouldered their way into the saloon. There was a murmur from
the crowd, and Green heard one man remark: ‘It figgered Sim an’ Art
would ride in.’ So these were the Cottons! He examined them
covertly from beneath lowered brows, pretending to be busy rolling
a cigarette.

Art Cotton was tall and slim. His
dark hair was cut short, and he was almost a handsome man. Only the
slight twist of his lips, and a jagged knife scar marring the right
cheek, white against the tan, marred the face, giving it an almost
permanent sneer. The cold, flat, expressionless eyes, however,
spoke of the killer slumbering beneath the seemingly good-looking
exterior. Art Cotton was dressed in range garb, and a heavy
revolver hung at his right hip.

It was his older brother, however,
who caught the attention and held it. A huge man, easily six feet
tall, and as broad across the shoulders as a bull, Sim Cotton
looked like a man accustomed to obedience and power. Age had
thickened his middle, and his hair was iron gray, beneath the
expensive sombrero. His grizzled, bushy eyebrows almost concealed
slate-colored eyes, small and set close together to give the heavy
features an air of piggish cunning. Despite a film of dust, his
heavy broadcloth suit was obviously of good material, and across
his ample belly looped a heavy silver watch chain. He stalked down
the gangway like a bear, not deigning to look at the two prisoners.
Neither did he even nod to the men who hastily vacated their seats
in the front row on the opposite side
of
the gangway to where Hornby and
Green
stood. Both men sat down heavily and Sim Cotton nodded
shortly to the old man who had preceded them into
the saloon.
Green’s keen gaze remained on
the doorway. Behind the Cottons
a very tall
man, standing head and shoulders above anyone else in the place,
had moved quietly into the room. This man’s long face was watchful
and composed, and the cold blue eyes moved constantly around the
room. The man’s hair was long, hanging low on the collar of his
blue denim shirt. He had a broken nose. Green nudged Billy, and
pointing with his chin, looked his inquiry at the boy.

‘
Cotton’s top gun,’ muttered the
boy. ‘Name o’ Chris Helm.’ For the first time, then, Green noted
the fancy “Texas rig” two-holster belt, the heavy guns nestling in
the oiled leather, the tips of the holsters secured to the thighs
with thongs decorated with Mexican dollars beaten flat.

‘
Fancy guns,’ he told himself,
‘but dangerous
—-
an’ fast, I’d
reckon.’ He had the
feeling he had seen Helm somewhere before,
and sat pondering this.

‘
Court’s in session,’ rasped the
old man at the table, regaining
the
attention of the crowd. Green sardonically noted the palsied
twitching of the liver-spotted hands, the constant furtive licking
of dry lips.

‘
Looks like a jasper who never
takes a drink when he’s sleepin’,’
he
muttered sardonically to the boy. Billy nodded, and was
about
to reply, when the guard next to him
jabbed him wickedly in the
ribs with his
shotgun. The boy lapsed into silence, but his eyes confirmed
Green’s estimation of the man at the table.

Harry Parris got to his feet, and lumbered forward
to stand before the table.

‘
Judge Martin Kilpatrick’s
presidin’ over thisyere court,’ he told the crowd. ‘Keep quiet back
there! Norris, bring the first prisoner forward.’

There was a stir of anticipation
among the spectators as Green
was herded to
stand before the table. He turned to see Sim
Cotton’s piggy eyes weighing him the way a cattleman judges
the
weight of a steer. Judge Kilpatrick
peered at Green.

‘
Your name,’ he
snapped.

‘
James Green.’

‘
Your occupation?’

‘
Cowhand.’

‘
Where do you hail from,
Green?’

‘
Texas, originally. I been workin’
down Tucson way.’

‘
And what is your business in
Cottontown?’

‘
No business. Just passin’
through,’ Green told him.