Cotton's Law (9781101553848)

by Dunlap, Phil

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “What do you figure Bart will do now that he doesn’t have any more pistoleros to keep him from the wrath of the citizenry?”

  “Good question. I may just saunter down and ask him that very question. Right after I’ve had a little talk with Thorn.”

  “I thought he was comin’ over for a chat with you this mornin’.”

  “He’s supposed to have been here before now. May have to go to the hotel and roust him.”

  “Why don’t you drop in on Bart and I’ll sit here and wait for Thorn? I’m real curious to ask him what he’da done if you was to get unlucky last night.” Jack tried another sip of coffee, this time with more success.

  “Good idea,” Cotton said, putting on his Stetson and walking outside. He stopped briefly before heading for Bart’s bank. The town was already bustling with activity. Two ladies walked by and gave the sheriff a nod. He tipped his hat. Wagons passed in the wide street, each loaded with crates of goods bound for somewhere else. The stage was pulling away from in front of the hotel, and the clerk at the hardware store was sweeping dirt from the boardwalk in front of his store. Arlo was pounding nails in some boards to cover holes made in the front wall by errant bullets during last night’s unpleasantness.

  Cotton’s stroll to Bart’s place was leisurely. Since his archenemy was now toothless after he and Jack had put all of his gang of cutthroats out of business and in line to be planted underground, there was no reason to hurry. He noticed that the door to Bart’s bank was closed and locked. That’s strange, he thought. He went around back, peering in the only window on that side of the building as he went.

  Reaching the back door, he found it open. He pulled his Colt and very cautiously stepped inside. He called out. “Bart! Bart Havens! You in here?”

  Hearing no response, he eased over to the desk, looked behind it on the floor, and noticed that all the drawers were open. He left the office and went out to the bank lobby. He looked behind the teller’s cage. Then it began to come clear to him. There, behind the counter, sat the safe. The door was wide open and the safe had been cleared out. There wasn’t one penny to be found anywhere.

  “Son of a bitch,” Cotton growled, “the bastard has robbed his own bank.”

  He ran from the building to see if anyone had spotted Havens leaving town and, if so, which direction he’d gone. He stopped in the middle of the dusty street, partly to allow a horseman to pass, and partly to see if he could see Havens riding away. He didn’t notice more than a handful of people in the whole town. None of them resembled Bart Havens. It all came suddenly quite clear to him. He ran back to the jail.

  “That bastard pulled it off!” he said as he stormed into the jail. “Damn!” He threw his hat on the desk. Startled by the sheriff’s sudden entrance, Jack had gone for his gun. He stopped short of pulling it when he saw it was nothing more menacing than Cotton in an uncharacteristic rage.

  “What has set you afire?”

  “Havens! He’s stolen all the money from his own bank, the depositors’ money, and taken off. That must have been his plan all along.”

  “Then, we best be goin’ after him,” Jack said, stating the obvious.

  “I’ll get the horses and be right back. You think you can ride with that shot-­up wing?”

  “I, uh—­”

  “Never mind. I’ll go alone. You stay here and keep that chair warm till I get back,” Cotton barked as he left for the stables.

  He’d no more than gotten his mare saddled than he heard Jack yelling at him. He stuck his head outside the livery to see whatever Jack was making such a fuss about. It took only a second to identify a man slapping the reins of a horse pulling a buggy. It was Thorn McCann.

  Thorn reined the horse opposite Cotton and jumped down from the recently patched seat cushion. “Mornin’, Sheriff. Sorry I didn’t get over to see you sooner. Got a surprise for you though.” He directed Cotton’s attention to several leather valises in the back of the buggy. “I think you’re goin’ to like it.”

  “Who owns this rig? And where’d you get those travelin’ cases?”

  “Hang on, Sheriff, I suggest we get in out of the sun where we can have a look-­see without the whole town gettin’ in on the action.”

  “We’ll haul ’em down to the jail.”

  Thorn took the reins and led the horse alongside Cotton to the jail, where he tied the old horse to the hitching rail. The two of them each took two valises and carried them inside. Jack stepped aside with a curious glance at the valises. With the leather satchels placed side by side on the desk, Cotton opened one of them. He whistled when he saw the contents.

  “This the money Havens stole from the bank?”

  “Yep.”

  “How’d you get your hands on it, Thorn?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Then you best get to it.”

  Thorn let out a sigh and said, “Got any coffee, maybe with a chaser? It’s mighty dusty out there.”

  Jack poured him a cup, spilling in a shot of brandy to liven it up. Thorn sipped, thanked Jack, then sat on a rickety chair by the wall next to the gun rack.

  “Goes like this. I was figurin’ on comin’ down here to have our little talk early this mornin’. I saw Havens drive his buggy out from behind his bank like his britches was afire just after dawn, so I figured to take a look at why he was leavin’ town when it was almost time to open the bank. I went around back and found the door open and no one inside. I also found the safe open and no money to be found. It seemed like a good idea to follow him. By the time I got my horse saddled, Havens was long gone. So I just naturally rode off in the direction I’d seen him head.”

  “Makes a heap of sense, don’t it, Cotton?” Jack nodded, somewhat cynically.

  “It does indeed, Deputy. Go on, Thorn. You have our attention.”

  Thorn cleared his throat, took another sip of Jack’s coffee, and said, “About four miles out of town on the east road, I saw what appeared to be an unfortunate soul hangin’ from a tree. There were a number of men, mostly cowboys, gathered around arguin’ about somethin’ or another.”

  “Arguin’?” Cotton questioned.

  “Yep. So I rode down there to see what the fuss was all about.”

  “And they were discussin’ what they’d just done?”

  “Not exactly. They were arguin’ about what to do with what was in these here valises.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re sayin’ they likely saw Havens makin’ a run for it and they grabbed him, strung him up, and then they start makin’ a stink over what to do with the money? That it?”

  “That’s the story.”

  “So how’d you get your hands on it?”

  “Once I told them I was a U.S. marshal, they began to listen to reason. Didn’t have no trouble gettin’ them to see there was no choice but to return it all to the bank, seein’ as how it belonged to some of them, anyway. Makes no sense to steal your own money, does it?”

  “And out of your dedicated sense of duty to the citizenry, you just naturally had to bring it all back,” Jack said with more than a touch of suspicion in his voice.

  “That’s the way it was, Deputy.”

  “Havens still danglin’ from that tree when you left?”

  “He was. Reckon he still is,” Thorn said.

  “Jack, we best stop by the undertaker’s and go out and fetch him,” Cotton grumbled.

  Chapter 49

  “Don’t you find it curious that Thorn suddenly remembered somethin’ he had to do, that prevented him from joinin’ us?” Jack said, slumping slightly from the pain of being jostled about in the saddle. The east road out of Apache Springs was rough and rutted from the many wagons traveling to and from the nearby mines.

  The undertaker had brought his buckboard to haul the body of Havens back to town. It bounced over the dips where water flowing downhill from the nearby hills during rainstorms had eroded the roadway. At one particularly
rough patch, the pine box that had been brought to carry the corpse nearly bounced out.

  The sky was overcast, promising rain later in the day, which would do little to improve their trip back to town. Cotton had been silent the whole way, content to listen to Jack mumble about how convenient it was that Thorn McCann just happened to get to the scene of the lynching in time to save the money, but not Havens himself. The only response from Cotton was a grunt. Jack apparently couldn’t tell if it was an agreement or not. Jack continued to mope.

  When they arrived at the spot Thorn had described, Cotton sat and stared at the grisly sight dangling from a cottonwood. He urged his horse around, looking at Havens from different angles before he motioned for the undertaker to join him. He was beginning to have second thoughts about having told McCann to stay in town, rather than accompanying them in case other questions arose. Thorn had claimed to be bushed and needing some sleep. They’d mutually agreed that as soon as Cotton and Jack got back with Havens’s body, Thorn would come down to the jail and they would settle the one score that had presumably brought him to town as Comanche Dan in the first place. For some reason that Jack couldn’t fathom, Cotton had been amenable to Thorn’s suggestion, and he made no attempt to hide his feelings.

  “Cotton, I never have liked that man, and you know it.”

  “Thorn McCann?”

  “Yeah. You know who I’m talkin’ about. Don’t act like you don’t.”

  “What is it about him you find unsettlin’?”

  “I just plain don’t trust him. Don’t give a tinker’s damn that he seems a friendly sort and all that. I figure you’re not of the same mind, but I say what I mean. Always have. No offense.”

  Cotton sighed. “None taken.”

  They sat beneath the tree from which the body of Bart Havens dangled, the rope creaking from the weight as a slight breeze blew through the limbs, giving the lifeless form an eerie presence. Cotton stared at the corpse. Seeing his enemy and tormentor in death should have made him happy, or at least given him considerable satisfaction. Instead, showing no emotion whatsoever, he dismounted and began examining the ground around the scene for twenty yards. Then, he walked around the body itself, before finally telling the undertaker to help him cut the body down.

  Jack wasn’t able to lift any weight, so he merely directed the others. When they had the body loaded into the pine box, they started back to town. The buckboard rattled and shook, creaking under its added weight, slipping in and out of the ruts.

  “What’re we goin’ to do with all that money?” Jack asked. “I gotta tell you I was a little squeamish about leavin’ it all lyin’ around the jail with nobody watchin’ over it.”

  “Nobody knows it’s there . . . except Thorn. And the door’s locked,” Cotton said with a wry grin.

  “So, when we get back . . .”

  “We take it down to Darnell Givins after we’ve gone through all four valises. He’ll probably bring in someone from Albuquerque to audit the account books. They’ll be able to determine how it all shakes out.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Glad you approve.” Cotton looked over at Jack with a raised eyebrow.

  “You makin’ fun of me?”

  “Never.”

  Cotton helped the undertaker unload the pine coffin bearing the remains of the late Mr. Bart Havens, then went to the stables to unsaddle his horse and put her up for the day. Jack had gone on to the jail, apparently anxious about those four valises of cash sitting in there, unguarded. When Cotton walked in, Jack was peering into one of the open cases.

  “Have you determined that it’s all there, yet?”

  “Since I have no idea what ‘all there’ actually means, the answer is no.”

  “Hmm, well, you’re right about one thing; we have no idea how much money Bart left town with. But that’s only part of the story. We don’t know how much he arrived with, either.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that, Sheriff. We know he was receiving lots of cash from folks transferring their savings from Darnell’s bank to his, all because the scoundrel promised a high interest rate,” Jack said, frowning with curiosity. “Folks sure are fickle, ’specially when it comes to money.”

  “They are at that.”

  “So, you figure that Bart’s own money is mixed up with others’?”

  “I think it’s highly likely.”

  “When do you want to take it to Givins?”

  “No time like the present. I think I can handle three of these, if you can grab the last one. I’ll feel better, and I damned well know you will, when this cash is safe and sound and locked up tight.”

  Jack grabbed the fourth valise and followed Cotton outside, down the boardwalk, and into Darnell Givins’s Apache Springs Bank and Loan. Darnell’s eyes grew wide as the four satchels, brimming with cash, were dropped on the desk in front of him.

  “What the hell, Sheriff? Where’d all this money come from?” Givins began thumbing through the contents and shaking his head in disbelief.

  “The long and short of it is: It came from Havens’s bank. Whose it is, we don’t know. And Havens is dead. So it appears it’ll be up to you to answer all those questions. Oh, and as of this minute, the responsibility to keep it safe also falls squarely on your shoulders.”

  “I fully understand. It’s going in the safe this very minute.”

  “Can you get an auditor down here from Albuquerque to unravel this mess? There ought to be a set of books somewhere, either in one of the bags or over at Havens’s bank.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” Givins was beside himself. Cotton wasn’t sure whether his joy came from having all that money drop from the sky into his lap, or because Bart Havens was dead and gone. And out of his life forever.

  Cotton offered to buy Jack’s dinner at the hotel, after which he planned to go the jail and await the arrival of Thorn McCann to wrap up a little personal business.

  Jack never turned down free food.

  Chapter 50

  As Thorn McCann came strolling across the street, seemingly without a care in the world, Cotton stiffened in his chair. Still not completely comfortable with a man who constantly changed his story, Cotton pulled his Colt out and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. He leaned back in his chair. The first thing Thorn noticed was Cotton’s empty holster. The second thing was Memphis Jack Stump leaning next to the gun rack, his thumbs in his gun belt, right hand very close to his Remington.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff, Deputy.” Both nodded their response.

  “So, are you ready to talk about settlin’ that other piece of business we talked about a while back?” Cotton said.

  “You’re readin’ my mind, Sheriff.”

  “Well, before we go further, I have in my desk a couple of telegrams I received in response to my query a few days back about my status as a wanted fugitive in Texas. Seems the Rangers, the county sheriff, and the U.S. marshal for the district all know nothin’ about any warrant for my arrest. Furthermore, not one of them had one good thing to say about Judge Sanborn.”

  “Hmm. Sounds about right.”

  “And that ain’t all. Not one of ’em ever heard of a U.S. Marshal Thorn McCann, neither. Although they all had a passel of words, mostly of a disagreeable nature, to say about a bounty hunter by that name.”

  Jack’s hand slid down to the butt of his Remington, probably just in case this conversation didn’t go where Cotton intended.

  “And you are lookin’ for some explanation, right?” McCann sighed.

  “Uh-­huh.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Go right ahead. And like I suggested last evenin’, keepin’ your hand well away from that smoke wagon on your hip would amount to some real good thinkin’.”

  McCann leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “All that stuff you just said is true, at least as far as it goes. I am a bounty hunter. Sorry about the deception. Sometimes I get a little carried away with schemes to get a fugitive to accompa
ny me back for a trial.”

  “I also found that this Judge Sanborn is only a justice of the peace. He doesn’t have the power do much more than levy a fine for spittin’ in the street. What do you figure he had in mind by putting a price on my head?” Cotton stared Thorn straight in the eye with a hard look.

  “Like I said, all that’s true. Look, he’s offering to pay two thousand dollars out of his own pocket to bring you back for killing his son, Lucky Bill. My job is fulfilling folks’ wishes, that’s all. That and, at the time, I was in dire need of the money.”

  “Uh-­huh. But it’s illegal for one man to put a price on another man’s head for his own personal vengeance. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  Thorn looked away for a moment, as if he were seeking an answer that would not make him seem like nothing more than a hired killer. His searching eyes told Cotton there wouldn’t be an acceptable answer anytime soon.

  “So, what did you intend? Since I’ll not go with you willingly, and Jack’ll gut-­shoot you if you try pulling that hogleg on an unarmed man, I figure you better lay your cards out on the table so we can deal with ’em, proper.”

  Thorn took a deep breath and let it out.

  “I’ve seen what you can do with that Colt. I don’t know if I could beat you or not, but right now I don’t have the stomach for finding out. I been thinkin’ of finding myself a nice soft job somewhere that’ll let me sit back with my feet up on the desk, kinda like what you got here.”

  Jack looked over at Cotton and raised his eyebrows.

  “So you think dealin’ with a bunch of yahoos that’d just as soon put a hole through your gizzard every time they see you is a soft job, huh? Maybe I ought to turn this one over to you and I’ll just settle down to pushing cattle around and taking my leisure on the front porch with a beautiful woman. You interested?”