by Dunlap, Phil
Emily rolled her eyes. “I don’t think you realize how worried I am for you, Cotton Burke, but I’ll do as you say.”
She left as he continued scraping soap and whiskers off into the bowl of water.
Cotton pushed open the door to the jail to find Jack once again foraging through wanted dodgers. He had some of them spread across the desk, while others were piled in uneven stacks. Several had even found their way to the floor. Cotton stood staring at his distracted deputy, who apparently had either not taken notice of the sheriff’s entry or was so lost in thought that he failed to see the looming shadow across his disarray.
“What are you looking for? We both looked through those and found nothing.”
“I’m tryin’ to put one of these pictures with another owlhoot that rode into town last night. I’m hopin’ I can stick his worthless butt in one of those cells back there,” Jack said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Although, I’m not sure he’s a gunman, anyway. May be just gettin’ jittery.”
“You aren’t alone. I take it you’ve had no luck.”
“You take it right.” Jack sat back and threw up his hands. “But I know damned well those hombres are part of Havens’s doin’. I just can’t prove it. Yet.”
“You’ll be able to prove it about the time one of them throws down on one of us.”
“Yeah, but then it might be too late. I count a number of ’em.”
“Uh-huh.” Cotton walked over to the stove and picked up the coffeepot, looked inside, then frowned at what he saw. Or didn’t see. “I reckon you didn’t have time to put some of those dark brown beans in the pot to brew some coffee.”
“I reckon you reckon correct.”
“I’m goin’ down to the hotel for some breakfast. You stayin’ here or taggin’ along?” Cotton said with a grumble.
“Can’t very well sit here alone while you stumble into one of those hard cases on the street and get your fool head shot off, can I?”
“Wouldn’t be good for your continued employment prospects.”
“That’s what I figured. Course, you could sign me to a long-term contract while still aboveground, then I might be talked into stickin’ around awhile longer.”
“Check with me after this Havens thing is over. If, that is, we’re both still standin’.”
Cotton pulled a shotgun from the rack and headed for the door. Jack pulled his hat off a wall peg, hiked up his holster, and followed suit. They both looked around to make sure they weren’t walking into something neither one looked forward to. On the way down the boardwalk, neither of them spotted any of the three scruffy gunslingers they’d observed before.
“Hmmm. You suppose all the rattlers took notice of the peace and quiet and figured they were no match for us?” Jack said with a smirk as they mounted the steps to the hotel’s dining room.
A wagon loaded with boards stopped in front of the saloon. From inside, the distinctive sounds of nails being pounded and boards being sawed made their presence known. Melody stood outside, hands on curvy hips, shouting orders like some wartime general. When she noticed Jack, she waved, then quickly returned to whipping her new enterprise into shape.
“Melody ought to consider bein’ a drover, Jack. She could sure make those dogies stay in line,” Cotton mused.
“She does have a way of gettin’ things done. Won’t be long before that place is bringin’ in more business than this town has ever seen.”
“Or more trouble.”
“That, too.”
“Could keep you up nights dealin’ with womanizin’ drunks with loaded guns, Jack. Nothin’ you aren’t already used to, I suppose.”
“Gonzales wasn’t all that tough a town. A couple of drunks now and again. That’s all.”
“And you were one of ’em, as I recall.”
“That’s all in the past, Sheriff, all in the past. But now Apache Springs could pose a different circumstance, ’specially since there seems to be an element bent on addin’ to their reputation as shootists. And that star on your chest seems a likely target.”
“And that’s just the reason we both have to be alert to every gun-totin’ rattler that crawls into town. And I do mean ‘every.’”
“You see any of those that looked the type to be Havens’s hires on the way down here?”
“Nope. That’s what worries me. I would rather face two men straight-on than have to worry about a back-shooter,” Cotton said, taking a seat in the lunchroom then leaning the shotgun against his leg.
A man with slicked-down hair and sliver of a mustache came to their table. As soon as they both ordered coffee, the man stopped at another table before retreating into the back room.
“I noticed some fellas comin’ and goin’ from that empty building the mayor said was goin’ to be the location of Havens’s bank. I’d say, another couple weeks and that bastard could come struttin’ into town, all ready to start fleecin’ the locals,” Jack said.
“That’s how he works; although, he normally doesn’t have a small army of gun toters followin’ him around. One, maybe two. I’m wonderin’ if he’s figurin’ on changin’ his tactics.”
“Could be he figures you’re too tough for a single pistolero. You ever think of that?” Jack said, as the coffee arrived along with some biscuits and jam.
Cotton picked up his cup with both hands and blew on the steamy brew. His look was serious, his demeanor calm but direct. He took a sip as his gaze suddenly became distant.
“Something on your mind, Cotton?”
“A rough-looking hombre stopped by the Wagner place yesterday. Scared Emily, by the sound of it. Said he was looking for me. Didn’t say why.”
“How’d he figure you might be out there?”
Cotton looked down at his cup. “I don’t know. If he’s one of Havens’s men, he might have found out from your friend Delilah.”
“I, uh, don’t recall sayin’ nothin’ to her about your sleepin’ arrangements. It isn’t none of her business. Of course, I mighta let it slip that you two were, uh, close.”
“What about Melody? She knows where to find me if I’m not in town.”
“I’ll ask. That is, if I can shake her loose for a few minutes of conversation while she’s building that shrine to herself.”
“Good luck.”
Plink Granville sat in sullen silence, nursing glass after glass of watered-down rotgut whiskey, seemingly oblivious to all the hammering going on around him in Melody’s saloon. Sleeve Jackson’s constant harping about him drinking too much was becoming more than he could stomach. He felt that his hand was steady and up to the task, and he didn’t need Sleeve doing the talking for a pompous jackass in a fancy suit telling him what to do and how to do it. He was slowly getting closer and closer to having had all he could take.
Chapter 18
Sleeve Jackson had slipped out of Apache Springs late at night on his way to look up Havens and give him a progress report on the bank. He’d been keeping an eye on the construction inside Havens’s newest venture. He’d tried to keep a sharp lookout for the sheriff and his deputy, neither of whom had paid him much mind, and while he generally found favor with the overall plan, little things picked at him, like a cinch strap wasn’t tight enough. Sleeve liked things neat, all lined up and ordered like a new deck of cards. He didn’t like surprises. He wasn’t certain, however, just how much of what he’d observed over the past three weeks he should pass on to his employer. First, during one of his clandestine evening roamings, lurking in the shadows like a window peeper, he’d spotted an apparent friendship between Delilah and the deputy, Memphis Jack Stump. He had no idea of what might be going on between them, if anything. Had she blabbed Bart’s intention to kill the sheriff? Or was she simply working the trade he assumed she’d come from when Bart found her?
Then, he didn’t like what he was hearing in the constant bleary-eyed blathering of Plink Granville, nor his inability to crawl out of the bottle of whiskey he carried with him everywhere
he went. Plink was a loose cannon, and Sleeve knew that if the kid went off half-cocked, Sleeve would end up bearing the brunt of Havens’s fury. It was beginning to look like he’d made a mistake in his choice of enlisting the brother of the man Cotton had shot in self-defense. If Bart figured Plink for a liability, he could make Sleeve’s life a living hell. It had happened before.
As he rode, he thought about all the ways he might insulate himself from any possible misstep along the way to Havens’s plan to disembowel the town of Apache Springs. And while he knew a little about Bart’s hatred of Cotton Burke, he didn’t completely understand the full scope of such hatred. It was much more than that, even, almost as if the devil himself was inside Havens, directing his every move. What Sleeve did understand, however, was the tenuous nature of his own relationship with his employer, and the consequences of any perceived failure. He wasn’t in it just for the pleasure of killing the sheriff; he was in it for whatever money he could take away from Havens, thus ensuring his future, a future free of work and worry.
Although there had earlier been a half moon, clouds now began to obscure the trail, and the calm darkness surrounded him like a blanket. The trail was anything but a clear-cut, easy-to-follow set of wagon tracks, more like a deer path often edging too close to steep drop-offs. He could envision his horse stepping off the edge and dropping him hundreds of feet into a rocky chasm and a certain death. So, since there had been no specific day assigned for him to make his report, Sleeve decided to set up camp for the night in a copse of cottonwoods nestled along a stream. He’d no sooner gathered an armful of dead and broken limbs, gotten a small fire started to brew some coffee, into which he’d pour a significant amount of whiskey to settle his nerves, than he heard a sound of something crashing through the underbrush. He dropped his hand to his gun butt and backed against a boulder to await whatever was sure to emerge.
Suddenly, from the shadows stepped a man the size of a mountain, wearing a dark cotton shirt and a bandolier across his chest, filled with twelve-gauge shotgun shells. He carried the short-barreled instrument of death those shells were meant to feed, and it was aimed directly at Sleeve. A bushy beard covered the man’s face like a tangle of creeping vines. Sleeve moved his hand away from his gun so as not to spook the intruder. He knew better than to try drawing against a shotgun aimed at his gut.
“Howdy, stranger,” the man said with a big grin and a gravelly voice. “Got any grub in that bag hanging from your saddle?”
“Some.”
“Then I believe I’d like to share a meal with you.”
“I don’t recall any invitation.”
“This here’s all the invitation I need. What’s on the menu?” The man waved the shotgun in Sleeve’s face. The look in his eyes didn’t suggest ambivalence.
Sleeve was torn between the strong desire to try pulling his revolver before the man could pull the trigger, and acquiescing to his demands. When the man cocked both hammers, Sleeve made his decision, one in favor of his continued good health. At least for the time being.
“Look for yourself. I ain’t runnin’ no restaurant.”
The man lowered the shotgun and strolled over to the burlap bag Sleeve had tied to his saddle horn. Before he left town, knowing the trip to Las Vegas would take at least two days, he’d stocked up on some coffee, beans, and a couple cans each of tomatoes and peaches. As the man lifted the bag from the saddle, he carefully kept the scattergun aimed back at Sleeve. He brought his purloined find over to the fire. He dropped it on the ground, whereupon one of the cans rolled out. His eyes were instantly diverted from Sleeve to the can’s label, one which proclaimed it to be filled with peaches in syrup.
Sleeve saw his opportunity and started to draw his six-shooter, but the man was not to be denied his meal. He spun around, discharging one barrel into the ground a foot from Sleeve’s left boot.
“Next one’ll be mid-chest. Now, hand me that knife and we’ll get to openin’ this can full of heaven. Peaches is my favorite, you know.”
Sleeve let out a low growl as he let his revolver slip back into the holster. He slipped his knife from its sheath and handed it to the man, handle first. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”
“You can unbuckle your gun belt with your left hand and let it drop on the ground, too. That’s just so’s we can get to know one another without bullets flyin’ every which way,” the man said. “And, you ain’t told me your name. Folks eatin’ together ought to get acquainted.”
“Sleeve Jackson.”
“Ahh, the gunslinger. Got yourself quite a reputation over Texas way. What’cha doin’ in New Mexico?”
“It ain’t none of your business.”
“A might touchy, ain’t ya? But then, I reckon I’m forgettin’ my manners, too. Folks just call me J.J.”
Sleeve’s eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. “Y-you ain’t J.J. Bleeker, are you?”
“Uh-huh. You heard of me?”
“Who hasn’t heard of J.J. Bleeker, the man killer? What are you doin’ out thisaway?”
“Well, I got myself in a bit of trouble in Louisiana, and a posse and a troop of cavalry convinced me that the best way to keep my skin intact was to skedaddle.”
“I hear tell you’ve killed a dozen men. That right?”
“More or less. Course that don’t count soldiers. Or Injuns.”
“What are you up to now?”
“Beggin’ food off’n strangers in the woods, or hadn’t you noticed?”
Sleeve’s eyes lit up and his mind began racing. Sitting right in front of him might just be a chance to get off the hook for choosing Plink Granville. He didn’t know J.J. Bleeker, but he’d sure heard about him, and none of it flatterin’. The man was a stone cold killer. Not a man to trifle with. Sleeve knew he had to choose his next words carefully, but it seemed at the moment that fate had finally dealt him a winning hand.
“Hmm. How’d you like to make some real money doin’ what you do best? You see I’ve got a sweet little deal brewin’ over in Apache Springs. I think you might just fit in fine. It’s a simple job of pullin’ those triggers at the right time. There’s a thousand dollars up front if you agree to the proposition.”
J.J. squinted with suspicion as he said, “And what do I have to do for this money?”
“Just kill a sheriff.”
J.J. burst out laughing.
“What’s funny? This particular sheriff ain’t goin’ to be all that easy to kill.”
“And what sheriff might that be?”
“Sheriff Cotton Burke.”
“Never heard of ’im.”
“Even better. He won’t know who you are, either, especially when you stroll down the street, pretty as you please, and blow him to kingdom come with that cannon. Oh, and did I mention that if you are the one who gets Burke first, there’s another two thousand in it for you?”
“Gets him first? Is there to be others gunnin’ for this hombre besides me?”
“Uh, a couple. Includin’ me, of course.”
“If you got all those others backin’ you up, what the hell do you need me for?”
“Insurance.”
When J.J. Bleeker agreed to the proposal, Sleeve’s desire heretofore to continue on to meet Bart Havens evaporated. Bringing his boss up-to-date on the bank’s construction progress could wait a couple more days. He and Bleeker could just ride back to Apache Springs together and join the others in anticipation of Havens’s arrival. Sleeve was almost joyous as he thought about shedding himself of the unreliable and drunken Plink Granville.
“How far is this Apache Springs?” Bleeker asked.
“We’ll be there by sunup. Town sits in the middle of a wide valley, surrounded by mountains on all sides. Lots of ranches up in the higher elevations where the grazing is good and there’s plenty of water. Town itself ain’t much to look at, but it can boast of havin’ all the things a man needs to survive: whiskey and women.” Sleeve laughed at his own attempt at humor.
Sleeve knew exactly why, since he’d found it necessary to ride upwind of the giant ever since breaking camp, but he damned well wasn’t fool enough to put it into words. Bleeker was clearly a man to be handled with kid gloves, and Sleeve Jackson was no man’s fool.
Chapter 19
For two weeks Apache Springs had been as quiet as a prayer meeting. None of the gunslingers hanging around the town had shown even the slightest inclination to cause trouble. Except for one, that is—the kid with a nasty habit of half-pulling his six-shooter from its holster, then letting it drop back almost as if to show how limber his shooting hand was. Of course, Cotton also noticed how much whiskey the kid consumed. He figured the kid’s capacity to maintain some semblance of civility toward others in the saloon night after night suggested he was in control of his personal demons, but he doubted it. Thus, he kept a watchful eye on the kid at every opportunity. He’d seen this type before: an aimless kid with nothing but an eager gun hand and a short fuse. If he expected any of the gunslingers hanging around Apache Springs to do something stupid, he figured this kid to be the one, even though Cotton had yet to learn his name.
Keeping watch over the influx of gunslingers the past weeks had brought him to two conclusions, but neither of them was worthy of hopeful thinking. First, evidence was growing that Bart Havens would soon be arriving, to the detriment of all around him, and, second, Cotton still didn’t know the names of any of the potential threats he’d observed loitering about. It was for the latter reason that he sauntered into the saloon seeking whatever information he could glean from anyone drunk enough to blurt out anything they might know about the crooked banker and his deadly followers. As he entered, he saw Melody at the top of the new stairway leading to the cribs on the second floor, gazing down on the activity below like a queen surveying her subjects. She turned away when he looked up at her.
