Cotton's Law (9781101553848)

by Dunlap, Phil

  Cotton frowned at whatever the man was trying to say, which wasn’t any clearer than mud at that moment.

  “What’s this fellow have to do with me?”

  “He’s one of several men who have been paid a thousand dollars each to gun you down.”

  “So that’s Havens’s new approach. I reckon I shouldn’t be surprised. What’s your part in all this?”

  “Havens and his other gunslingers think I’m Comanche Dan Sobro.”

  Cotton’s Colt was out of his cross-­draw holster in a flash. The man calling himself Comanche Dan was looking down the barrel of the .45 before he could blink. But the man made no move for his own gun, nor did he even flinch at the sight of Cotton’s gun pointed at his head.

  “It’d be a good idea for both of us if you’d let me finish my story before you pull that trigger, Sheriff.”

  “I’m listenin’.”

  “About a month back, I came across Comanche Dan after tracking him for a stage holdup in Big Bend country. During my attempt to take him into custody, he made it clear he didn’t want to be taken in. I had to eliminate him. Comanche Dan Sobro is deader than a rock. Havens and his hired killers, however, don’t know the man they hired as Comanche Dan isn’t who they think he is.”

  “Then who the hell are you?”

  “Name’s Thorn McCann. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal from Texas.”

  Cotton lowered his Colt, eased the hammer down, and slipped it back into its holster.

  “So, how’d you come to take on this fellow’s identity? And what brought you here?”

  “Like I said, Bart Havens put up a lot of money to see you shot down. I happened to hear of it and figured since the word was going around that one of the men being sought after to join the effort was Sobro, I couldn’t help but look into what the deal was. When I heard it was a plan to kill a sheriff—­and a man I had a warrant for—­I naturally had to figure a way to put a stop to it. Can’t have thugs and miscreants shootin’ down our duly elected lawmen, now, can we?”

  “Reckon not, Marshal. You got a plan?”

  “Since I’d accepted Mr. Havens’s generous offer, I figured to see what the setup was, that is until I found out who the sheriff was they hoped to gun down.”

  “That make a difference?”

  “Some. You got a reputation for bein’ fast and deadly. It’d be a loss to your community if some of these lowlifes took it into their whiskey-­soaked brains to back-­shoot you, so that’s why I figured to seek you out before I arrived at Apache Springs.”

  “How’d you know I might be at the Wagner ranch?”

  “I heard a story a while back that you put a stop to some devilment instigated by one very nasty hombre: Virgil Cruz. I also heard you were wounded and had lain up at a nearby ranch to heal up. I asked at a couple of the ranches around here and they led me to the Wagner place. Some fella named Cappy Brennan put me on your trail.”

  “I don’t mind tellin’ you I’m happy as a pig in slop that I can look forward to one less gun pointin’ my way,” Cotton said. “Of course, there is that warrant you mentioned before.”

  “Let’s worry about that later. First, what do you figure would be the best way to get word to you if I hear Havens has his plan complete and bullets could fly at any time?”

  “I have a deputy goes by the name of Memphis Jack Stump. I’ll have to tell him about you so he can rest easy that at least one of the gunslingers recently seen wanderin’ our quiet streets isn’t what he seems. Until the town gets downwind of Havens and his crooked dealin’s, I reckon you best stop by the Wagner ranch whenever you need to contact me. Emily can get word to me.”

  “Emily? That the good-­lookin’ lady at the Wagner ranch?”

  “Uh-­huh, and don’t go getting’ any ideas. She’s spoken for.”

  McCann held up both hands and said, “Worry not, Sheriff, I’m not a man to cut in on another fella’s dance card.”

  Cotton stood up, leaned over to shake the marshal’s hand, and said, “Since we both seem to be singin’ out of the same hymnal, I reckon I can get back to town and relieve Jack of some worry about you joinin’ the Havens bunch. He’ll be a lot easier to live with knowin’ there’s at least one less back-­shooter lurking in the shadows.”

  Chapter 22

  “I hear you been real chummy with that deputy, Memphis Jack Stump. That is his name, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve, uh, known each other for a long time, Bart, long before I ever met you. It—­it’s nothing but an old friendship, nuthin’ else. I swear.”

  Without warning, Bart reached out and backhanded Delilah across the face, hard enough to knock her sprawling to the floor. She struggled to get to her feet from a tangle of skirts as she rubbed her cheek. He’d hit her hard; his fancy gold ring cut the corner of her mouth. A trickle of blood dropped on her high-­neck silk blouse. The shock of Bart’s sudden reaction to finding out about Jack had taken its toll on her normally cool demeanor. She began to sob. Bart pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and threw it at her.

  “Here, get yourself cleaned up and presentable to go down for dinner. And never let me hear that you’ve even spoken his name again, let alone met with him. Not that he’ll be around much longer, anyway. As goes the sheriff, so goes the deputy,” he said, with a contemptuous sneer.

  Delilah was still shaking as she poured water from a hand-­painted ewer into a ceramic bowl. On the wall above hung a small, round Chatham mirror. She dipped a corner of the handkerchief in the water and began dabbing at the cut to stem the flow of blood. She was still sniffling as she changed out of the bloodstained blouse and into another. Bart leaned on the window frame and stared at the comings and goings of the townsfolk and ranch hands as they conducted their business, oblivious to Bart Havens and his temperamental outburst. A light breeze wafted the curtains.

  “Hurry it up. I’ve grown quite hungry all of a sudden. A rush of excitement does that to me.”

  Delilah sat across from Bart with her hands folded in her lap, reminiscent of a scolded child. Her face was still red, and her lip was beginning to turn blue. After ordering lunch for both of them, Bart pulled a folded paper from his vest pocket, opened it, and began issuing orders like a general planning a campaign.

  “The Havens Bank will open its doors for the first time at precisely nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You will be there in front of the counter to greet each and every prospective customer. I’m certain there will be lots of townsfolk curious about who we are and what benefit we might offer to their businesses. You are to send each one directly to me, keeping all others engaged in friendly conversation until I am free after each interview. You can then send the next person in line to me. Is that clear?”

  “Y-­yes, Bart, er, Mr. Havens.”

  “Good. Many will try to get as much information as possible from you, but you are to defer to me on every occasion. You may simply explain that we intend to make the best loan arrangements possible, easily beating the competing bank’s exorbitant rates. You may let them know, too, that we’ll be offering excellent interest on deposits. That is as far as you may venture into the business end. Do you follow me?”

  “I do.”

  “The first day will, I suspect, be fairly busy. After that, the curiosity will taper off and serious deals will start coming our way. We’ll just have to be patient, letting the town get used to having two banks instead of one. Once we’ve secured sufficient loans and bank deposits to squeeze Darnell Givins to the breaking point, he’ll want to make a deal. That’s when we take him down and begin foreclosing on outstanding loans, the ones where nobody thought to read the fine print at the bottom of their contracts.” He leaned over to whisper so that no one could overhear him as he spelled out his treacherous plan to destroy the community of Apache Springs. His disingenuous smile as he spoke belied his hatred for anything and anyone who had any contact at all with his most hated enemy: Sheriff Burke.

  He sat back with a satisfied smile and looked around at
the other patrons, giving each a nod and a cheery “Good day.” When their lunches came, he quite properly helped Delilah with the plate of potatoes—­too heavy by far for such a dainty lady—­and passed the bread, butter, and beans. He dabbed at his mouth after each bite, replacing his napkin across his thigh and putting his fork down as he chewed. His manners were perfect, right out of the Modern European Book of Etiquette. Other patrons did not fail to notice that he stood head and shoulders above the ruffians and low-­society types they were so used to sharing restaurant tables with. He instinctively picked up on the buzz of appreciation that floated about the room. His confidence grew as his successful performance played out. He knew these suckers were ripe for the picking.

  He glanced over at Delilah, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze.

  “We’re on our way to winning a very high-­stakes game of poker, my dear. Can you feel it as much as I do?”

  She could only return a small smile in acknowledgment without wincing.

  Comanche Dan strode into the hotel and up to the counter. The man behind it gave him a greeting and Dan asked if he had a room. The man turned the sign-­in book around, handed him a pen, and said he had a nice room near the back. Dan agreed and signed in. The man handed him a key and turned away to continue his dusting of the shelves and mailboxes behind him.

  Dan had no sooner leaned over to pick up his valise than Bart Havens and the most beautiful woman Dan had ever seen came through the front door. His mouth must have been agape as Bart smiled and approached him.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Sobro. May I introduce Delilah Jones? She’s my . . . uh . . .”

  “I’m his secretary, Mr., er, Sobro was it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mighty glad to make your acquaintance.” He removed his hat and held it at his side.

  “Mr. Sobro, perhaps we’ll have some time to talk later,” Bart said as he took Delilah’s arm and escorted her up the stairs. She glanced back at the gunslinger and gave him a smile that turned his cheeks red.

  “She is a looker, ain’t she?”

  “Huh?” Dan turned to see the man behind the counter following Delilah’s every step up the stairs, almost drooling at the sight.

  “Oh, yeah, she is at that,” Dan agreed.

  “Although, I must say she didn’t look any too happy when the two of them came down to dinner an hour ago. I don’t know the man personally, but he don’t strike me as a gentleman. Oh, he puts on airs, but down deep, I can’t say as how I’d trust him too far.” Clucking his tongue, the man turned back to his labors as Comanche Dan took the stairs two at a time up to his room.

  Dan tried the key to his room and let himself in. He stood momentarily scanning the meager furnishings, then tossed his valise on the chair by the bed. He thought back on what the hotel clerk had said about Havens. From what little he knew of the man, he had to agree. Havens was certainly no gentleman. It hadn’t eluded him that the lovely lady bore a deepening bruise on her cheek. He doubted it had grown there on its own.

  He walked to the room’s only window, one that gave him a commanding view of the roof of the building next door, a butcher shop if memory served. At the end of the long hall was a rear door, likely leading to an outside stairway for use in case of a fire. It would serve him well in sneaking out unnoticed when the need arose. He was certain such a need was not far off.

  As he stared out the window at shadows falling across the roof from the false front on the shop across the street, he recalled that his impression of Sheriff Cotton Burke at their brief meeting had been unlike what he’d expected. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but Burke exuded a calm confidence most men in his situation would not have. That and one of the fastest hands with a gun he’d ever seen.

  He took off his hat and boots and lay back on the bed. It took very few minutes for him to fall fast asleep.

  Chapter 23

  When Bart entered the bank the next morning, promptly at eight-­fifty, Delilah was standing near the door ready to greet anyone that came in. She nodded as her employer strode in with a pompous air, saying nothing to her, and watched him move to the back where his office sat behind a heavy door. Leaving the door open, he walked around the desk, scanning the room with a slight frown, then sat down. Delilah thought perhaps she should ask him if he wanted coffee or a cigar, anything to occupy his hands as he awaited his first curious customer. After a moment, she decided against it, remembering his treatment of her last evening, and the resulting bruise she had tried to cover with cornstarch powder.

  The bank had been open for almost three hours and no one had ventured inside, not even a well-­wisher or a disgruntled customer from the competing bank down the street. Bart was becoming noticeably anxious and frustrated by the lack of attention, easily seen by his pacing back and forth, first in his office, then in the lobby, and finally on the boardwalk out front. Delilah found Bart’s discomfort strangely satisfying. No man had ever hit her, and she quietly vowed no one would ever do it again. She walked over to the teller’s cage, where a clean-­shaven young man stood patiently behind a barred window. He had counted the dollars Bart had given him for his drawer nearly fifty times. She found herself silently counting with him.

  “Mr. Havens failed to introduce us. I’m Delilah Jones. What’s your name?”

  “B-­Ben Saller. My pa is the blacksmith here in town. I’d always wanted to follow in his footsteps, ’cause every town needs a good blacksmith, but my pa said I had failed to beef up enough to wield the heavy hammer. Reckon he was right. I know I’m on the skinny side, mostly ’cause I was sickly as a kid, but . . .”

  “I understand, Ben. No need to explain. It’s nice to be working with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am, me too. Boy, I never did figure I’d be workin’ with a lady as beautiful as you. Gosh durn . . .”

  “Ben, thank you. You’re sweet to say that, but I don’t think it would be a good thing to say in front of Mr. Havens, if you know what I mean.”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. I’m quiet as a mouse about such things, sure ’nough.”

  Delilah turned and walked back to her post near the front door. Bart was still outside pacing. After another half hour, he came back inside and summoned Delilah to his office, shutting the door behind them. They’d no more than gotten inside than he began to rave about the ungrateful miscreants who ran this miserable collection of mud and sticks. How dare they ignore the opportunities he’d laid out his good money to offer them as customers of his bank.

  Delilah kept silent as he screamed obscenities at all the ingrates that roamed the miserable streets of Apache Springs. He figured it all had to do with that rotten son of a bitch, Cotton Burke. He’d probably spread the word that Havens wasn’t to be trusted and they should stay away. They must have believed him and were following his advice, he allowed.

  “Do you have any knowledge of what Burke has said about me?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never even spoken to the man.”

  “Yes, but you’ve spoken to that deputy, and I’ll bet he’s blabbed plenty. What’d he tell you?”

  “N-­Nothing, Mr. Havens, I swear. He never mentioned the sheriff’s name. Not once.”

  “If I find out you’re lying to me, Delilah, I swear I’ll cut you up so bad no man could look at you without turning away in disgust. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, I do, sir.”

  “Get out of here and get me something to eat.”

  Delilah fairly ran out the door and across the street to the hotel dining room to fetch lunch for her boss, all the while chastising herself for succumbing to his promise to shower her with more money than she’d ever seen before. She’d watched what greed could do to a man, never considering that the principle might one day apply to herself, as well. Now she’d come face-­to-­face with the downside of dreaming of riches and actively chasing that dream.

  Cotton had stayed in town for the past two nights. Since Jack had moved to Melody’s newly redecorated saloon and house of prostitution, he had n
o reason to continue to impose on Emily’s hospitality. Not that he really wanted anything other than to spend his nights with her. All of his nights. That morning, when Cotton stepped into the jail, he found a note lying on his desk. Jack had left it; it was a note from Emily saying she wished to talk to him. It said: Cotton, I hope you will be coming to the ranch for dinner. I need to discuss a matter with you. Please come.

  Cotton had noticed Marshal Thorn McCann riding into town the day before, still assuming the guise of gunslinger Comanche Dan Sobro. He’d noticed no activity surrounding Havens’s other gunmen, so he didn’t think Emily’s note had anything to do with them. On the other hand, what else could it be? She wasn’t one to offer up an apology for some misunderstanding that had been born of his reluctance to be forthright with her. She had no reason to do that. He owed her the apology, but he was, as yet, not prepared to come clean and risk her seeing him as nothing more than another lawman riding both sides of the fence. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned his killing of Lucky Bill Sanborn to anyone before his unexpected meeting with Thorn McCann. Not once in the five years since it happened.

  Nevertheless, if Emily needed to see him, he had little choice but to comply. First, he’d need to locate Jack and tell him where he was going, and he had little doubt as to where he’d find the reluctant deputy.

  When he stepped into Melody’s Golden Palace of ­Pleasure—­

  as she had so aptly named her revamped saloon—­he couldn’t help but notice how activity had picked up, even that early in the day. Melody drifted down the stairs wearing something long, flowing, and revealing. She made it clear she had no intention of acknowledging his presence. She walked to the bar, asked for a bottle of brandy, then tuned and went upstairs, never glancing back.

  Cotton just shook his head as he asked, “You seen Jack today, Arlo?”

  “Sure, Sheriff. He’s up there,” Arlo motioned with a shoulder while wiping down the bar top. “Lucky bastard.”