Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (10 page)

“I'm certain ol' Cotton wouldn't mind. C'mon, I'll lend a hand gettin' him settled. Who did you say shot him?”

“I didn't say, mainly because I don't know who he was. Just a tall, rangy fellow, with a flat-brimmed hat and a bright red bandana around his neck.”

Jack swallowed hard. He knew more of the story than he dared let on at the moment. His anger at Melody's loose tongue boiled up in him.
She's always been a bitch
, he thought,
but I've tolerated it because she's so damned good in bed. Now she's risked someone's life with her mouth. And I have to live with the consequences.

“You don't know something you're not telling me, do you, Jack?”

That shook Jack out of his woolgathering. “Uh, no, no, nothing at all. We, uh, best get Henry down to Cotton's place. The sooner he has a place to lie down that's more comfortable than Doc Winters's table, the sooner he can get on with the job of healin' up.”

“Yes, let's do that. I see no reason why we can't carry him out and put him in the buckboard. Teddy will help.”

“Teddy?”

“Teddy Olander. He's a new hire out at the ranch. I needed some extra help and he came along at just the right time.” She looked around to see if she could see where the young wrangler had disappeared. About that time, the young man came through the doors of the saloon with a wide smile on his face and sauntered across the street. “Where'd you get off to, Teddy?”

“I was, uh, just needin' a little somethin' to ease my nerves after seein' Henry all bloody and all. I only had one beer. Was that okay, Miss Emily?”

“Uh-huh. But now we need you to help get Henry in the back of the buckboard. We'll take him to the sheriff's house down the street.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

As Teddy approached, Jack stuck out his hand. “Name's Memphis Jack, Teddy. I'm the deputy. Pleased to meet'cha.” Teddy shook hands, and they both followed Emily Wagner up the steps to the porch of the doctor's office.

When the three of them got inside, Henry was stretched
out on his back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes told a story of much pain, but he made no sound to indicate any discomfort whatsoever. Jack just shook his head. He and others had long thought Henry Coyote was the toughest hombre they'd ever known.

Jack carefully lifted Henry by the shoulders and Teddy took his feet. The doctor admonished Jack to take care not to jostle the patient or the stitches could open and the wound begin bleeding all over again. Jack nodded his understanding. He was getting to be an old hand at helping wounded men get needed medical attention. He still couldn't get the mental picture out of his head of old Hank Brennan's battered body lying on a ledge halfway down a sheer cliff after Virgil Cruz had tried to murder him by pushing him over the edge. When Cotton was shot down in the streets of Apache Springs by one of the Cruz gang, Jack had the unenviable task of getting
him
to the doctor's, too. Yeah, Jack knew the meaning of
take it easy
.

Emily had rearranged the blankets in the bed of the wagon to get the lumps out of them for the short ride down the street. Jack then led the horse-drawn buckboard down the side of the street to miss the ruts left by heavy wagons using mainly the center of the road. When they got to the house, the three of them gently lifted Henry from the bed of the buckboard and carried him inside. The door was never locked. Cotton didn't see the need. After all, what idiot would break into the sheriff's house?

When they laid the old Indian on Cotton's feather mattress, Jack was sure he saw the corners of Henry's mouth form a slight smile. He couldn't be certain, but when he heard a slight sigh, he got the impression things were going to turn out okay for Henry. Jack watched as Emily scurried about straightening things up, clucking her tongue, probably at the messiness of a bachelor, keeping herself busy. Doing something, anything, was as good a way as any to ward off the fear and anger that obviously followed such a dastardly deed.

“What will you do, now, Miss Emily? Are you planning to go back out to the ranch tonight?”

“No. I'll stay with Henry until he's able to get around on his own. Teddy can pick up a horse at the livery and go back alone. I'll write out some instructions for him and the others.”

“I'll tell him,” Jack said as he went outside to find the kid.

C
otton, Denby Biddle, and Jimmy Culp had been on the road for no more than three hours when they heard riders approaching from the west.
More damned Indians
, Cotton thought and swore under his breath. He pulled his rifle as he signaled for the other two to take cover in some trees off the road in a ravine, and the riders came into view. There were about twenty-five of them, buffalo soldiers from Fort Tularosa. Cotton let out a sigh of relief and awaited their arrival. The column reined in, and the leader, a black sergeant, held up his hand to the others to take a rest.

“Sergeant, good to see you fellas takin' care of business. Seen any Indians?”

“No, suh, only the problems they done left behind. A couple ranches was hit and some cattle were stolen 'bout three miles over yonder.”

“Chiricahua?”

“Uh-huh. Mangas or Victorio, or one o' them other wild'uns.”

“Well, if you continue on this road, you'll come across a wrecked stagecoach and a body lyin' in the dirt. Then, just over the hill, down in a cut where a stream goes through, you'll likely find a few of them Indians' bodies, unless their friends already hauled them off to the happy huntin' ground.”

“Y'all look to be in one piece.”

“Left a woman and a badly wounded man down at the Hardin place.”

The sergeant shook his head, then made a circling motion to his troops and, as he put a foot in a stirrup, said, “We'll see if we can follow their tracks. Mebbe we'll give what's left of 'em a dandy what fer. Y'all be watchful for signs yer bein' follered.”

“We will. Thanks, Sergeant. Good luck.” Cotton watched the cavalry troop disappear in a cloud of dust over the hill, toward where the stagecoach lay overturned and broken. He stood watching for a minute or two, thinking he should have gone back and buried the stage driver before starting for Apache Springs. He had a look that suggested disappointment in himself as he turned to the other two.

Denby had a sour expression that wrinkled his already disagreeable face.

“Now, can you tell me what's the army coming to? Having black men as soldiers. Nonsense, that's what it is, nonsense,” Denby said as he shook his head in disgust.

Cotton was instantly incensed.

“Well let me tell
you
somethin',
Mr
. Denby. If you ever find yourself in a tight spot with Indians all around, you'd best pray some of those buffalo soldiers come to your rescue. They're the best there are. Someday I'll tell you about the battle for Fort Tularosa. You'll be a believer in what I'm tellin' you, then.”

“I, uh, didn't mean no—”

“Let's get movin', gents. If we
do
run into more redskins, I'd prefer doin' it in the daylight.”

“I'd prefer not doin' it at all,” Jimmy said, with a squeak.

*  *  *

It was early nightfall when the tired and hungry threesome arrived at the edge of Apache Springs. Lanterns lit up the saloon, but nearly everyone else had closed up shop and gone home. Only the houses at the edge of town showed lights in the windows. Cotton suspected the hotel's dining room would be closed, so he suggested they try to get some sleep. They'd have to wait until morning to eat. Once the dining room was open, shortly after dawn, they'd all three be famished, but there was little that could be done about that now. Cotton dug into his saddlebags and pulled out some beef jerky. He handed a piece to each of the other men, which they each took eagerly, then he headed for the jail to see if Jack was still there.

He pushed open the door, half-expecting to find Jack leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk, reading the latest penny-dreadful pamphlet put out by writers who really had no idea what the frontier was like. He'd known a few of the men whose exploits had been chronicled by the likes of Ned Buntline, and not one of them even remotely resembled the offbeat characters portrayed. Cotton was surprised not only that Jack wasn't there, but also that no lantern had been lit. He had to stand there for a minute to let his eyes adjust to the dark before he could find a lantern, scratch a sulfur, and touch it to the wick. Soon, the small office was bathed in a warm glow. He checked the desk to see if his deputy had left a message as to where he could be found if needed. Nothing.

Realizing that Jack had no way of knowing when Cotton would be back, the sherrif couldn't really blame him for not being there. After all, he was a deputy, not a slave. He was probably sound asleep, snuggled in Melody's arms. Sleep was exactly what Cotton needed as well.

He blew out the lamp, closed the door behind him, and headed for his own house and the soft mattress that awaited him. As he got closer to the little house at the end of the
street, he noticed a light in the window. And Emily's buckboard out front. Something whispered that he should be ready for trouble, so he stepped onto the porch as quietly as he could, leaned over, and peered through the window. He could see nothing. He stepped to the door and gently turned the knob. As the door opened with a squeak, he pushed it farther and slipped inside. His hand rested on the handle of his Colt.

In an instant his hand tightened on the grips, stopping short of a draw, when he suddenly realized that he was looking into the red, tear-filled eyes of Emily Wagner.

“My god, Emily! I could have shot you. What's happened? You look as if you've been crying.” He stepped forward to take her into his arms.

“He shot Henry. He meant to kill me, but Henry jumped in front of me at the last second and he was the one to go down. Oh, Cotton, it was so awful.”

“Where is Henry?”

“Lying in your bed. He's resting for now. Doc Winters says he'll live, but the ride out to the ranch might kill him. I, uh, didn't think you'd mind if he stayed here for a couple days.”

“Of course I don't mind. But how'd you get him down here?”

“One of my new cowhands helped Jack get him here and settled.”

“Who shot Henry?”

“I don't know what his name was. He didn't take the time to introduce himself,” Emily said through gritted teeth.

“What the hell! What'd this fella look like?”

With eyes still teary, Emily tried to give a description. Jack stepped in the door just as she was struggling to put a face to the evil that had shot Henry. Cotton watched as Emily choked back her emotions with nearly every word.

“H-he was tall, wore a red bandana…and, uh…I…I'm sorry, Cotton, the thought of him makes me…sick…”

“I think I can describe the hombre, Sheriff,” Jack broke
in, coming back after feeding Emily's horses and getting them settled for the night. “The bastard came to the saloon askin' questions about where he could find you.”

“And you told him?”

“Hell, no! You should know me better'n that. I could tell he was up to no good, so I said you came and went as you pleased and had no call to give me your itinerary.”

“Then how in the hell did he know to show up at the Wagner ranch?” Cotton balled his fists as his expression showed a sudden revelation. “Wait, don't tell me. Melody and her big mouth got this man shot. Am I right?”

Jack looked away with shame in his eyes. “I'm afraid so. She did it behind my back.”

“Figures. When are you goin' to dump that whore, Jack? She's no good—not for you, not for me, and certainly not for the town.”

Jack could find no words in response. His gaze dropped to the badly worn carpet at the entrance, and he chewed his lip.

“Well, tell me what you can about him, Jack.”

“Uh, well, he was a fairly good-sized hombre, with a nose like a buzzard. He wore a Remington .44, a flat-brimmed hat, and, like she said, a large red scarf draped around his neck. From what I could see under his duster, he was also totin' what appeared to be a .38 in a shoulder holster. Mentioned someone named Sanborn.”

Cotton stiffened at hearing the description. His eyes filled with recognition.

“Did he by any chance have a limp, Jack?”

“Wh-why, now that you mention it, he did. How'd you know that?”

“He got that limp from one of my bullets. That's James Lee Hogg, and he's one mean son of a bitch. A killer. He calls himself a bounty hunter.”

“Why would a bounty hunter be looking for you?” Emily asked with a surprised look.

Cotton took her by the shoulders and pulled her close.

“It's a long story, my love, a very long story.”

He'd known for some time that sooner or later he'd have to tell her about his killing of “Lucky Bill” Sanborn for raping and killing his sister. He'd hoped that wouldn't come anytime soon, but circumstances had, once again, brought the matter to his doorstep. Holding Emily tightly, as her tears stained his shirt, he thought back to the Sanborn killing, Thorn McCann's real reason for coming to Apache Springs in the first place, and to his one and only encounter with James Lee Hogg. He found no comfort in any of them.