Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (27 page)

“I know how we did it all those times before, Mr. Bellwood, but this time is different. This sheriff is
very
good with a gun. He also has a curious deputy that'll likely be watchin' his back. This must be foolproof. No hitches, no mistakes. It must appear as though James Lee Hogg outdrew and outshot the sheriff, no questions asked.”

“And I got me the perfect spot for just such a gunslinger greetin' ”

“Not only must the place you're shooting from be perfect, your timing has to be down to the split second. Do you understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Now, as at the other times, you pull the trigger exactly when the sheriff starts for his gun. James Lee couldn't possibly beat Burke, so you'll have to keep an eye on Hogg, as well. He's a real nervous type, and there's a chance he'll actually be dumb enough to try beating Burke.”

“What'll I do if he does shoot and actually manages to hit the sheriff? Two bullets in the body is gonna be frowned on when the shooter only fired once.”

“I've already thought of that. You ever heard of a dummy bullet?”

“Uh, no. What is it?”

“You pull the lead out of a cartridge and replace it with candle wax. The gun still goes off, but the only thing that comes out is a harmless wad of melted wax. That way, the sheriff only gets hit with one bullet.”

“I ain't sure James Lee is gonna like it if he knows he's slingin' a candle at the sheriff. I figure he actually thinks he's gonna win the shoot-out.”

“If he practiced for a month of Sundays, he couldn't beat Burke. Believe me, I've seen him. Fact is I was in the saloon the day he shot down my son. Bill tried to outdraw Burke when he saw him come through the door. Bill was pretty
quick, but that damned Cotton Burke drew, shot him, and had put the Colt back in his holster before poor Bill hit the floor, gun barely in his grip.”

“Should I tell James Lee what our plans are?”

“No. I'll be the one to inform our hapless gunslinger about what must happen, when it will take place, and where. Everything has to happen perfectly, timed to the exact second. If James Lee knows ahead of time what we're planning, he'll mess everything up. I didn't choose him for his brains, his expertise with a gun, or his ability to follow orders. I picked him because he's nothing more than a second-rate gunman with a nasty disposition and a powerful need of the almighty dollar. He's too stupid to be anything else. In fact, I may let you kill him when this is over. That way he can't blab to some lawman.”

“I understand, sir. You can count on me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Now, where have you chosen as your position to take the fatal shot?”

“Right about where I'm standin'.”

“Here? From
my
hotel room?”

“Yessir. The angle is perfect, and I figure when James Lee calls Burke out, the sheriff will walk out in front of the jail. He'll likely start down the street toward James Lee, who'll be standin' right about there,” Lazarus said, pointing through the lacy curtains to a spot right below Sanborn's room. “If he walks to that particular spot, it gives me a perfect shot, and I can watch them both without moving my head.”

Sanborn's mouth twisted into an evil grin. “That seems almost prophetic.”

Henry Coyote had spent the last two days squatting on the front porch of Cotton's house. He leaned his back against the wall with his Spencer rifle lying across his knees. He never took his eyes off the front of the jail, yet he was keenly aware of everyone's movements throughout the whole town.
Nothing got by the old Mescalero's notice. Jack or Cotton stopped by several times each day to ensure that the Apache had fresh coffee, food, and a blanket, in case he continued his refusal to sleep inside at night, when the air could get quite cool. One man whose movements had caught his attention was one of the town's newest arrivals, a man who went nowhere without his rifle, the one in the fancy scabbard. While the man had done nothing in particular to draw attention to himself, Henry Coyote could sense something was amiss. The way he walked, always checking behind him to see if he was being followed, avoiding conversations with folks he passed along the boardwalk, and staying in shadows as much as possible. Cotton had asked him to be especially watchful of the man's movements. He had no intention of letting his friend down.

Thorn was stopped at the gate to the territorial capitol building. He asked specifically to see Captain John Berwick and was told to wait. The guard left and returned several minutes later carrying a piece of paper with very official writing on it.

“Show this to the guard at the main door, sir, and he'll show you in to see the captain.”

“Thank you, Private.” Thorn followed a brick pathway to the porch of the capitol. Another private was standing stiff as a board just outside the huge oak doors. Another soldier stood on the opposite side. Thorn handed the first soldier the paper and was ushered inside. Across a wide room and sitting at a desk that could easily have hidden a squad of soldiers beneath it was a man about Thorn's age in a snappy uniform with captain's bars on the shoulder. The captain seemed not to notice as Thorn approached.

“I see you finally conned the army into giving you a nice pay raise. When we were just lieutenants, I never figured you for a lifelong professional soldier.”

The man looked up at the obvious insult. Then his stolid expression turned all smiles.

“Thorn McCann! Good grief, is it really you? How long have you been out of prison?”

He reached a hand across the desk. Thorn returned the favor, but with a frown.

“Nice talk from a friend, John. I've never been in prison, and you know it. Now, maybe a short stay in a jail a couple of times, but that didn't count.” They both laughed.

“What the hell are you doing in Santa Fe?” Captain Berwick asked.

“I'm lookin' for something.”

“Something or someone?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether the ‘something' is granted.”

“And that something is?”

“A favor. A very
big
favor.”

J
ames Lee Hogg was hiding out. After getting completely sober, he found out he'd beaten one of Melody Wakefield's prostitutes badly during one of his well-known drunken furies. He had no doubt the sheriff would be hot to find him, even if he figured the badge he wore was legitimate. Considering his past with Cotton Burke, he couldn't count on leniency, either. And since the whole thing had occurred at Melody's Golden Palace of Pleasure and Deputy Sheriff Memphis Jack Stump was romantically tangled up with the whore that owned the joint, he was running from more than
one
lawman. He wasn't certain if Judge Sanborn had gotten wind of his blunder, but when he did, James Lee knew there'd be hell to pay. So, for the time being, he figured he'd better lie low in the woods above the town. He sat poking at a small fire with a stick, wishing he'd thought to steal some food before he took flight as if the devil himself was on his tail.

Just in case the judge still expected him to confront Cotton Burke, he figured he'd better sharpen his skills with
the .45. It had been a while since he'd faced another man with the intention of putting a bullet in him. As a matter of fact, he'd never actually faced anyone. Every man he'd killed, all three of them, he'd had to ambush or shoot in the back and then ride like the wind to avoid capture and hanging. As an accomplished gunslinger, he was nothing more than a sham, a fraud. His hand dropped to the revolver he'd carried for at least five years. Truth be told, he'd taken it off a man who was lying dead drunk in the street one night. He'd exchanged his old Colt percussion revolver, a .36-caliber Navy model. He got a crooked grin whenever he remembered that night, wondering what that drunk thought when he found his new Remington had changed into an old gun with a tendency to misfire half the time.

He drew the Remington and picked out a target, a small rock the size of a man's fist lying on top of a larger boulder fifteen feet away. He held the revolver at his side, then suddenly yanked it up and fired. He blinked through the smoke to see how many pieces he'd blown that rock into. As it turned out, none. He pulled and fired again. Same result. He emptied the cylinder, six shots total. He hadn't hit his target once. And, as close examination revealed, he'd even missed the larger boulder it sat on. He looked at the Remington like there was something wrong with it. He stuck it back into the holster without putting more bullets in it. The disgusted look on his face told a discouraging story. He was no gunslinger, probably never would be. And he damned well knew it.

How the hell am I going to outshoot a man like Cotton Burke? I'm dead as dead can be if I try facin' him down. How did I let that old buzzard, Sanborn, talk me into this? Oh, yeah, two thousand dollars.

He sat on his saddle, which was straddling a fallen tree trunk. He stared at the dying embers for a long time. He needed a plan. Unless he gunned the sheriff down from the darkness of an alley, he hadn't a prayer of coming out of the mess he'd gotten himself in. He sat shaking his head, dismayed at his prospects of living more than a few more days.

*  *  *

“What's eating at you, Cotton? You've been moping around like your best friend ran off with your woman, and we both know that isn't going to happen,” Emily said.

“This Sanborn thing has me grasping at straws. How
am
I goin' to beat that old devil?”

“Come into the dining room and eat something. We'll talk about it. You probably haven't eaten anything since you rode out.”

Cotton got up and followed her into the same room she used to feed her wranglers. She didn't have a cook, having chosen to save the money by doing all the cooking herself. She was good at it, and she enjoyed doing things around the ranch house. The hands all loved being served by the boss lady, too. She had several sets of china cups, saucers, and plates she'd ordered from a catalog. She said it gave the place a homey air. Cotton sat down, pulled his chair up close, and started to pick up the coffeepot and pour a cup.

“Let me do that, Cotton. You have a tendency to pour it too full.”

“You're right. I am kinda clumsy around your fancy china cups.”

“You're not clumsy, you're just…eager.”

Cotton laughed at Emily's attempt to ease the situation with a compliment, or at least a sort-of compliment. Then his expression turned from light to serious. Emily looked at him askance.

“What is it, Cotton?”

“Eager. You said I was eager…”

“I didn't mean anything by it. I was just kidding you. You know that.”

“Yes, of course. But that word has given me an idea.”

“I don't understand.”

“James Lee Hogg beat up that girl at Melody's saloon. He's on the run. He has to know both Jack and I are just waiting for him to show his ugly face in town. I figure if I went to Judge Sanborn and let him know all about Hogg's
indiscretion and made him understand that Hogg's a dead man if he comes round, he'd be forced to change his plan.”

“How do you think he'll take that?”

“The same way most people would, he's goin' to have to hurry up his plans to take me down. He'll also try to get word to Hogg to either stay away or to come sneakin' into town at night to back-shoot me.”

“Wouldn't you be better off to face him in the daylight, out in the open?”

“Yes. But if I can make him rush his play, he might make a mistake. And that's to my advantage.”

“Just how good is he?”

“I don't know. I don't know of any man he's ever faced down.”

“How're you going to get Sanborn to lead you to him?”

“I think I'll just hit him with the truth. His marshal is a woman-beater and is going to jail for it. I'll let the old bastard know it's his duty to set a trial date as soon as I bring him in.”

“Won't that make him tell Hogg to stay away?”

“Won't make any difference. He, or someone he sends to tell Hogg of my intentions, will lead us straight to him.”

“You're going to be kept busy keeping an eye on Sanborn. Don't you think he'll know if you're dogging him?”

“I won't be.”

“Okay, then Jack.”

“Nope. Not Jack, either. I have a special weapon.”

“What weapon?”

“Henry Coyote.”

Emily poured another cup with an acknowledging smile.