Cotton's Law (9781101553848)

by Dunlap, Phil

  When Cotton walked up to the bar, he was greeted by the bartender, a man with almost no hair and a nose that appeared to have been broken several times. “What’ll it be, Sheriff?”

  “Draw me a beer, Arlo.”

  The sheriff looked over the evening’s crop of drunks, cardplayers, and whoremongers. He had to admit Melody had spruced the place up nicely, and the crowd seemed appreciative. The woman did know how to please a man while at the same time making money, and lots of it. But with her fractious temper, he failed to see what Jack saw in her, other than a superb body, which Cotton, too, had enjoyed on occasion several years back. When his beer came, he asked Arlo if he had any idea who the youngster was sleeping off a drunk at a table in a far corner.

  “Nasty fellow, that one. Says he’s Plink Granville, as if anyone here ever heard of him. Fancies himself a shootist, I’ll wager. Personally, I don’t see how he could hit the floor with a rock as drunk as he is all the time . . . dawn to dusk.”

  The name “Granville” hit Cotton like a sucker punch. His theory that Havens was behind the sudden influx of gunslingers in town, here to do his dirty work, had just been confirmed. And his blood was beginning to boil. He drank his beer in two big gulps and stormed out the bat­wing doors, heading for the jail and a talk with his deputy.

  Bart Havens had been confidently anticipating his arrival in Apache Springs. All of his hired assassins were already there, just in case Cotton Burke saw him get off the stage and decided to run him out of town immediately. He’d have plenty of protection. The coach rolled to a stop in front of the hotel. The driver called out that they’d reached their destination and everyone could climb out. He emphasized that he was a driver, not a doorman.

  Havens saw Sleeve Jackson sitting in the shade of the porch overhang at the hotel, leaning back in a rocker. When Sleeve gave him a subtle nod, he figured it was safe to disembark the Butterfield coach. He stepped down, brushed his long black coat of its accumulated dust, and turned to ask the driver to send his luggage to the hotel. He had already arranged to have the best room available, the one that looked down on everything that happened along the main street.

  When he stepped up the steps to the hotel, he felt uneasiness, as if hatred-­filled eyes were drilling into his back. He turned to see Sheriff Burke across the street watching his every move. That hatred went both ways, he thought, as he strode through the hotel’s double doors.

  “I believe you have a room for me. Bart Havens is my name,” he said to the man behind the check-­in desk.

  The clerk turned the register book around to let him sign in, handed him a pen, and laid a key beside the book.

  “Nice to have you staying with us, Mr. Havens,” the man said. “Your room is at the top of the stairs on your right. I hope you have a pleasant stay. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

  “I shall require a bath, if you could arrange that. The trip was unusually dusty.”

  “Yessir. I’ll have the boy heat some water for you right away. The tub is in the room at the far end of the hall. There are towels and soap already in the room. Oh, and I have a message for you from a lady.”

  Havens took the folded letter, grabbed his key, and started up the stairs. As he got to his room and put his key in the door, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Sleeve Jackson hurrying up.

  “Sleeve, I thought I told you we were not to be seen conversing,” Havens whispered.

  “You did, Mr. Havens, but I have something to tell you. It may be important. May I come in?”

  Bart grudgingly stepped aside and ushered Sleeve into the room before him. He closed and locked the door.

  “Now, what is this important news that couldn’t wait until after dark?”

  “A couple of things. The first is that I’ve hired another gunman to help with, uh, cleaning up the town. His name is J.J. Bleeker. He’s camping outside of town.”

  “Is he reliable?”

  “If that means dangerous, yessir, I believe he is that.”

  “And what is the second important matter?”

  “That lady friend of yours you told me about, Delilah Jones, seems to have struck up a friendly association with Burke’s deputy.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “You said keep my eyes open.”

  “That I did. Thank you. I’ll deal with her in my own time, and fill you in later as to the disposition of my further relationship with her. Now, it would be best if you left by the rear stairs. We mustn’t be seen conversing again. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir,” Sleeve said. When he got outside, he headed for the saloon. The look that had come over Havens when he was informed about Delilah Jones made Sleeve uneasy. He never had any qualms about shooting a man for just cause, but hurting a woman was an entirely different matter. And he had a bad feeling about what Havens might do to her. The man’s capacity for evil was well known. Sleeve was beginning to wish he’d kept his mouth shut. His dislike for Havens had grown even greater in the last few minutes. He needed time to further hone his own plan.

  Chapter 20

  Jack was trying to stifle a yawn. He leaned back in the chair at Cotton’s desk as the sheriff walked in. Cotton’s expression suggested to Jack that he’d better wake up fast. The deputy had wandered over to Delilah’s room and spent the night because Melody told him she would be staying at the saloon making last-­minute preparations for their own cozy little love nest. She wanted to surprise him. So, Jack being Jack, he took advantage of her absence to have one last fling with the comely Ms. Delilah Jones.

  “Rough night, Jack?” Cotton said as he sat heavily on the edge of the desk.

  “Uh-­huh. By the look on your face, somethin’ got you riled,” Jack said, eager to change the subject.

  “I finally got more than just a suspicion that Havens is behind those gunslingers arrivin’ in town so conveniently. One of ’em is Whitey Granville’s brother, Plink. And since Henry Coyote tracked Whitey to a rendezvous with Bart, it’s more than likely the kid is here to do Bart’s dirty work. Probably jumped at a chance to even the score.”

  “That’s pretty convincin’, Cotton, but what about the others?”

  “I figure Havens’s plan is to come at me from several sides, so he can be assured of success. He’s one devious sonofabitch.”

  “You got a plan?”

  “Yeah, to stay alive.”

  “Other than that?”

  “I’m not certain the two of us can keep track of all the guns that’ve shown up in the past several days. We may need a little help.”

  “You got anyone in mind?”

  “I figure the only reason any of these hombres would take up with Havens is money. That could be our answer.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We take his money away from him.”

  “How the hell do you figure to do that?” Jack said with a doubtful scowl.

  “Cogitatin’ on it.”

  When Cotton arrived back at the Wagner ranch, he found Emily at her desk staring bleary-­eyed at a stack of papers. She looked up at his entrance and gave him a weak smile, then sighed. She put down her pencil and rubbed her eyes.

  “You look worried about something. Anything I can do?” he said, dropping into an overstuffed chair.

  “You can quit puttin’ yourself out there so every gun-­crazy killer can take a shot at you. That’s what you can do,” she said, leaning on one elbow and pointing at him.

  “You’re still concerned about that feller that dropped by lookin’ for me, aren’t you?”

  “There was somethin’ about him that shook me deep down. That man had the look of a killer, and if he was intent on seekin’ you out, he didn’t mean you good tidings. You’re darned right I’m concerned. Scared to death is more like it.”

  “I’d like to know what he had in mind myself. You said he didn’t make any threats, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. But do you know him? You didn’t say anything after I told you he�
��d been here.”

  “Mighta heard of him, from your description, although we’ve never met.”

  “Well, am I right? Do you figure he’s a killer?”

  “No more’n me, I reckon.”

  “You? You are a good man—­honorable, kind, and dependable. You’re no killer. You sayin’ he’s on the side of the law? Or that you’ve been on the other side at some time?”

  Cotton struggled to get up out of the deeply plush chair. Emily had seen it in a catalog and just had to own one. She’d sent all the way to St. Louis to have it shipped. He stretched and started for the dining room. “Any chance for some beans and biscuits left from supper?”

  “I’m not moving till you answer my question, Cotton Burke.”

  Cotton stood expressionless as he allowed silence to fill the room. He looked into Emily’s questioning eyes for but a moment before redirecting his steps toward the front door. He loved her more than life itself, and he couldn’t lie to her. But his answer might change everything between them, and he couldn’t face that possibility. Why did I open my big mouth? “You can’t just walk away without answering me, mister, unless you want to sleep in the bunkhouse tonight,” she scolded through clenched teeth. She stood up with hands on her hips and followed him through narrowed eyes. “Now, is he or is he not a killer? And is there some terrible thing in your past that you don’t want me to know? Tell me!”

  Emily was still fuming as Cotton left the room and gently closed the door behind him. Cotton went without any beans or biscuits that night, and slept in the bunkhouse. The next morning he saddled up and rode out before sunup.

  The two hours it would take Cotton to get to town would be the first real chance he’d had to concentrate on the situation swirling around his old enemy, Bart Havens. He’d never talked to Emily about the many twists and turns his life had taken after he left Gonzales many years ago as a result of Jack’s deadly drunken rampage. Those years had taken him places he’d rather not revisit, especially not if it meant Emily would find out that Cotton Burke hadn’t always been such a law-­abiding citizen. There had been dark moments when the law was forced to take a backseat to revenge. And he wasn’t especially proud of those events.

  As the trail slowly descended from the higher elevations where grassy valleys and tree-­lined creeks were plentiful, he looked back over his shoulder, imagining Emily just crawling out of bed, wrapping her robe around her to ward off the early morning chill, only to realize that he wasn’t there. It pained him to think what might have been going through her mind at that moment. He briefly reined in at a free-­flowing creek to let his horse drink and nibble some of the tender grasses sprouting along the bank. He wasn’t in a big hurry to return to town, where his troubles were just beginning.

  Letting the mare wander as she wished, he sought the shade of two large oaks to wrestle with his thoughts of both Emily and Bart Havens. Two opposite sides of the coin of decision. One beautiful and good, one pure evil. He was suddenly at odds with himself. If he were to eliminate the Havens threat in the same manner in which he’d handled an equally despicable man, could he ever face Emily again? He was lost in a wave of contradictions when he was suddenly aware of a presence. The man in the Confederate hat with the conchos on his vest stood quietly staring at him from the other side of the creek, no more than twenty feet away. The man’s thumbs were stuck in his belt and he signaled no move that might suggest a threat.

  “Howdy,” the man said.

  “Howdy,” Cotton answered. His curiosity about the man’s identity was intensified as they stood there, two serious men, neither appearing unfamiliar with the firearms that accompanied him.

  “I have a fire over here with some coffee brewin’. Care to join me?” The man was casual in his manner and had an easy smile. He kept his hands well away from his pistol.

  Cotton could detect no ill intent, so he splashed across the stream and up the bank on the other side. If this conversation was headed the way he figured it might be, the friendly atmosphere between them could erupt into gunfire at any moment, a situation he hoped to defuse should it occur. It was clear just from looking at him that this hombre knew his way around a six-­shooter. While a suspicious nature ran deep with the sheriff, he intended to avoid any confrontation. He eased down on a fallen log at an angle to the man, keeping his gun hand free just in case. The man poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Cotton, who took it in his left hand. The man then poured himself one and leaned against a tree, blowing on and then sipping the steaming brew.

  “So, you’re the famous Cotton Burke, eh?” the man said.

  “Didn’t know I was famous, but I do answer to the name of Burke. Who’s askin’ and how’d you know my name?”

  “You can sit easy, Sheriff. I’m not here to provoke you or nothin’. But you’re right in askin’. I am here for a reason.”

  “And that reason is?”

  “In due time, Sheriff. First, I’d like to know if you recall a shooting in Fort Worth about five years ago. Ever hear of a fellow by the name of ‘Lucky Bill’ Sanborn, got himself gunned down over a gal?”

  “I remember, and since you’re askin’, you must know damned well I do. Get to the point.”

  “I been sent to track down the man who shot Sanborn and take him back for trial.”

  “That could be harder than you imagine.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “Exactly how much do you know about Sanborn and what got him killed?”

  “Damned little,” said the stranger.

  Cotton held out his cup for the man to pour him some more. That coffee was the only breakfast he’d had and his stomach was beginning to protest.

  “Well then, if you’re interested, I’ll lay it out for you,” Cotton offered.

  “I am. Go on.”

  “Lucky Bill had a hankerin’ for the wife of a good, hardworkin’ store clerk named Ralph Pepper. Ralph and his pretty young bride, Juliet, set up housekeepin’ in a small adobe at the edge of town. Lucky Bill got roarin’ drunk one night and broke into the Peppers’ home. He stabbed Ralph, and then, when he attempted to rape his wife, she fought back. In a rage, probably over her rejection, he beat her senseless with the butt of his six-­shooter, then raped her while she was unconscious. When I arrived for a visit the next day, I found her barely alive on the bedroom floor. A trail of blood showed that Ralph had bled to death trying to get to her. She struggled to tell me what had happened before her words stopped making sense. I reckon the shock of such a vicious attack was too much for her mind. The doctor was unable to do much for her. She died three days later. The doctor said it wasn’t the beating that killed her; it was a broken heart over the rape and the loss of her husband.

  “I went looking for Lucky Bill. I found him in the saloon, confronted him, told him I knew what he had done, then blew him into the next county with a forty-­five to the forehead. I left town before the sheriff could decide I was guilty of something.”

  “So you figure you had every right to kill the kid?”

  “Damned right I did. The girl he raped was my little sister.”

  “I didn’t know. Sorry.” The stranger looked away for a moment, rubbing his chin whiskers. His expression grew intensely serious. He stared at the ground, watching a beetle make its halting way across the sand, until Cotton broke the temporary silence.

  “Who would swear out a warrant for me after all this time, especially over that animal?”

  “Lucky Bill’s father, a slimy crook by the name of Judge Arthur Sanborn. He was appointed to the bench three months ago by several of his cronies that recently took control of city government.”

  “Sounds as if you don’t hold this judge in high regard,” Cotton said, emptying the last dregs of coffee from the cup.

  “I don’t. The man is the lowest form of life. He’s akin to all the other cockroaches scurryin’ under things to feast on garbage.”

  “But he’s the reason you’re doggin’ me?”

  “S
eems like.”

  “What led you to the Wagner ranch?”

  “Reckon I do owe you an explanation of sorts. Interested?”

  “Got nothin’ better to do.”

  “Judge Sanborn isn’t the only kind of trash blowin’ across these lands. You’ve got yourself a handful with the likes of Bart Havens.”

  “I’m more than aware of him and his underhanded dealings. He’s tried to bite me before.”

  “And on that particular occasion, so I’m told, you came out on top.”

  “Seems so.”

  “It may not be so easy this time. He’s trying to boost his odds of winning this hand with a stacked deck. He’s hedged his bet with some of the meanest gunhands in the Territory.”

  “How did you come by this information?” Cotton cocked his head questioningly.

  “I’ve been paid a thousand dollars to be one of them.”

  Chapter 21

  “You? You took money to kill me?”

  “Yeah, I did. I took Havens’s money to kill you the same as four others had. Of course, the man who was making the deal for Havens didn’t know I wasn’t who he thought I was.”

  Cotton’s hand slipped ever so slowly to rest on the butt of his Colt revolver. While the man had just admitted to being in on a nefarious plan to kill him and likely Jack, as well, he was baffled by the man’s admission that he was playing both sides of the fence. Who openly admits to being part of a murder plot?

  “And just who are you?”

  “You ever hear of a gunslinger by the name of Comanche Dan Sobro?”

  “Of course. Never met the man, though. Just as soon not from what I’ve heard of his reputation for makin’ trouble.”

  “Good.”

  “Good, what?”

  “It’s good you never met him. Nasty hombre that Sobro, mean and ugly—­well maybe not so ugly,” the man said with a wry grin.