Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (4 page)

Bear Hollow pushed his chair back with such force it scooted halfway across the room. He grabbed the Sharps rifle from where he'd leaned it against the wall and stomped through the dining room doors toward the lobby. Cotton was close behind.

“What's your plan, Marshal?”

“Wha-what do you mean?”

“You can't go bursting into the saloon without knowin' who's in there, whether there might be more than two, how well armed they are, and what their intentions are,” Cotton said.

Bear Hollow slowed down before getting to the batwing doors of the saloon. He stopped and turned to the sheriff. “You're right. You got a lot more experience than me in this kind of situation. What do you suggest?”

Cotton took his badge from his shirt and put it in his pocket. “How about you go around back and come in the rear door. Make sure that cannon is ready to use, just in case. I'll saunter in the front like I'm just off a trail drive, lookin' for a drink and some female company. I can assess the situation better without them knowin' I carry a badge, even if it don't mean spit here in Silver City.”

Bear Hollow grunted in agreement as he began to lope down the alley to the back of the building. Cotton gave him a minute and then continued up the steps and through the swinging doors. He looked around inside to see if he could identify the source of the trouble. It didn't take him long. There were two of them, just as the big man had said. One was an old man, scruffy and dirty, with a scraggly beard. The other, young but feisty, was waving a Smith & Wesson .45 around, variously pointing it first at the bartender and then at any of a number of cowboys sitting around the room. The youngster seemed to take particular interest in a man seated at the nearest table, wearing a wide print scarf, with a bowler hat pushed back on his head, and sporting a thick mustache that all but hid his mouth. The man's face said he
wasn't afraid. The kid was yelling as if he were angry at every living thing. When Cotton came in, the kid turned the gun his direction.

“What the hell do you want, mister? Can't you see we're doin' business here? Move on.”

Cotton held both hands in the air in mock surrender, a look of puzzlement on his face.

“Sorry, son. Didn't know you were even here. I'm lookin' for a drink to parch a powerful thirst from a long drive. I don't mean to interfere. You can go on about your business.”

The kid stared at him for a moment, then jabbed his .45 in Cotton's direction.

“Get your damned drink, then get on your way. I got no patience with interruptions,” the kid snapped. He turned his attention back to the bartender and the man in the bowler.

The old man held a Winchester Yellow Boy in both hands, cocked and pointed at the floor, but unmistakably at the ready. The look on his dirty, heavily lined face seemed to find complete agreement in the youth's actions. A toothless grin wrinkled his chapped and sunburned lips.

“Thank you, son,” Cotton said, turning to the bartender and pointing toward a bottle of whiskey sitting on the bar top. “Pour me one of those, bartender, if you please.”

The bartender, lean and lank, was sweating profusely. His hand shook as he tried in vain to pour whiskey into the small glass without spilling half of it. Cotton remained calm, slowly sipping the amber liquid, hoping to catch a bit of what the fuss was all about. While obviously full of piss and vinegar, the younger of the two men was not a gunslinger. His nervous demeanor also suggested that the last thing he wanted to do was kill someone. His main weapon was his anger and his willingness to demonstrate it. Cotton hoped someone would mention what the problem might be, though. The mouthy kid didn't disappoint him.

Directing his rapidly building anger toward the man with the bowler hat, the kid said, “What the hell made you figure you and your men could just up and steal our horses? You got no right, and we want to be paid for 'em.”

“Son, those horses weren't yours in the first place. They had the Campbell brand on 'em plain as day. You shoulda knowed that.”

“They had no such brand, and they was on our land, that makes 'em ours. And that's that. Now, fork over a hunnert dollars apiece for all ten, or I'm goin' to put a bullet in you.” The kid jabbed his .45 toward the man a couple times for emphasis.

Cotton could see this wasn't going to end well. Whose horses they were wouldn't make a bit of difference if a man died defending his position. The seated man was beginning to get nervous. Sweat ran down his forehead. His hand slid slowly toward his own revolver.

“I wouldn't go for that hogleg if'n I was you, mister,” hollered the kid. That's when Cotton decided it was now or never to make his move.

“Son, the gent's got a point. But if you can prove the horses are yours, he
has
to give 'em back or pay you for them, don't he?” Cotton kept one hand on the bar and the other holding his whiskey glass.

“You stay out of this, whoever the hell you are. It ain't none of your business. Now, drink up and move on.”

By looking past the old man, Cotton could see Bear Hollow slip silently in the back way. He was carrying his ever-present Sharps carbine. They had the two in a cross fire if it came to that. He hoped it wouldn't.

“I didn't come lookin' for trouble, just a little sip to settle my stomach. But it sounds like you got yourself a hornet's nest. I'd like to help you out if you'd let me. I got some experience in situations like this,” Cotton said to the kid.

“How? How the hell you gonna help me? You don't even know me or my pa.” He waved the Smith & Wesson in Cotton's general direction once more.

Cotton turned to the man at the table. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted several other men scattered around the room placing their hands on their guns.
One false move by this kid and there's gonna be another Shiloh in here
, he thought.

“Sir, are the horses in question nearby? Might be we could solve this whole problem real quick if they were. We can easily check those brands.”

“Like the kid says, it ain't none of your business. Now, shove off. Me and my boys can handle this little shit and his old man.” The man in the bowler stood up slowly, scooting his chair back with his legs. His hand fell to his six-gun. But before he could even clear leather, Cotton's Colt .45 was in his hand, cocked and aiming at the man's head. They were less than ten feet apart. The man stopped his draw, tossing Cotton a cold, narrow-eyed stare.

“What's your stake in this, mister?”

“I like to have peace and quiet when I come to a town. You're spoiling it for me. Now,
answer
my question.” Cotton's voice had quickly changed from casual observer to the man in charge. This turnabout in attitude didn't elude the other cowboys that had apparently been behind the man claiming ownership of the remuda.

The man in the bowler looked around at several of the other men. None still had his hand hovering over a six-shooter. Two had sat back down. The man seemed to be getting more and more nervous. He removed his hand from the butt of his gun and wiped at his forehead.

“No, they ain't nearby. I-I sold 'em…to the army. A-ain't got 'em no more.”

“So, I'm guessin' there wasn't a Campbell brand on 'em, and they likely
did
belong to these fellows. Did I guess right?” Cotton's eyes narrowed as the man nodded.

“It's possible…”

Just then Bear Hollow, who had heard every word, spoke up.

“Sounds like you just admitted to horse stealin', friend. That's a neck-stretchin' offense around here.” He pointed his Sharps at the man, who had now begun to rock back and forth. “I'm thinkin' you best cough up a hundred dollars apiece for them horses or plan on meetin' up with the meanest judge these parts ever saw. He sure does love a hangin'.”

“But, I…”

“And you best unbuckle that gun belt, too, 'cause you're goin' to visit my jail until you can find it in your heart to pay what you owe these folks,” Bear Hollow said. He thrust the business end of the Sharps at the man, just to make sure there were no doubts as to his intentions.

Cotton fished out his own badge and pinned it on his shirt. He looked back at the other cowboys, who gave every impression they were preparing to leave town while they still could.

P
retty clever the way you buffaloed that fella. What was it made you think the fool kid wouldn't plug you?”

“He wasn't a killer, and I had my doubts whether that old gun would even shoot. It was rusty and he hadn't cocked it, either. He was bluffing. Now, the old man was a different matter altogether. He looked near to the breakin' point. He was the one that worried me.”

“Well, by gosh it turned out right and proper. The old fellow and his boy got paid for their horses, and I doubt we'll ever see that horse-stealin' scoundrel in these parts again,” Bear said with a gleam in his eye. “Thanks to you, Sheriff.”

“Just returnin' a favor.”

“Just so's you know, I'm obliged. I learned something about gettin' myself out of a tight spot, thanks to you.”

Cotton started out into the street to reclaim his mare. He patted the horse on her neck, took the reins, and swung into the saddle. Bear Hollow had followed him outside.

“You plannin' on goin' after that Thorn McCann fella, Sheriff?”

“Only if his tracks lead back in the general direction of Apache Springs. Got no hankerin' to traipse all over the countryside to find a man I don't know for sure did anything wrong. A hunch says so, but…”

“I know what you mean. It's only a hunch. Some fellas got a knack for swayin' folks with an easy way about 'em, real likable sort. He's one of them. Hope you'll drop in next time you're in the area. I think I owe you a meal. Or if you're feelin' generous again, I'll gladly join you in one on you.” The marshal gave a gleeful snicker and went back inside to get out of the sun.

Before he left town, Cotton decided to stop at the stage depot. As he strolled down the street, he couldn't help thinking that the description of ‘Eve Smith' closely matched Delilah Jones. He began to search his memory for some sense that Thorn and Delilah Jones had been more than casually involved during the Bart Havens affair. She had been employed by Havens, but he'd not noticed any particular alliance with McCann. Had there been a conscious effort to keep it secret? Was it a coincidence or was it planned all along? And how long
had
they known each other? He had no intention of leaving Silver City with questions hanging over his head. He tied the mare to the railing and went inside, ducking under the Butterfield Stage Line sign that had begun to droop on one side from a broken chain.

A short, balding man stood up from behind a counter at his arrival.

“Good day to you, sir. Where is it you're lookin' to travel to? The next stage will be arrivin' in three hours from Las Cruces.”

“I'd like a couple of answers, rather than needin' a ticket. When was the last stage out? And where was it headed?”

The man thumbed down the last page in his ledger and, looking over half-frame glasses, said, “Well, sir, the last one left here at six o'clock this morning, going to Albuquerque by way of Apache Springs. Two paid passengers, a man and a woman.”

“Can you remember what the man looked like?”

“Businessman, as I recall. Short, rumpled suit, carryin' a wooden case of some sort. Had brass hinges like a gun case.”

“And the woman?”

“Hard to forget her. Right smart-lookin' lady. Dark hair and a smile that could, er–”

“I got the picture. Only the two of them, you say?”

“That's all. Only sold two tickets.”

“Thanks,” Cotton said over his shoulder as he rejoined his horse.

He was several hours late for any chance of catching up to the coach, and it made little sense to try, especially during the heat of the day such as it was. Best he casually head on back to Apache Springs. Maybe the coach got there and had a layover.
Reckon I'll just have to wait to find out if the mysterious dark-haired woman is anyone other than Delilah Jones, but I'd stake my reputation it's her.

He had a wry smile on his lips as he rode out of town.

The road out of Silver City was an easy ride, at least until he reached the foothills several miles north. A slight breeze kept the day's heat down to a bearable temperature, and clouds had begun to move in, heralding the possibility of a few drops of rain, but well before it reached the ground the dryness of the desert usually sucked up any moisture that didn't come in the form of a thunderstorm. This day was no different. Cotton felt not a drop of anything other than perhaps some slight perspiration on his forehead.

He reached down and pulled one of his canteens from around the saddle horn, unscrewed the cap, and sipped some of the warm water. Unlikely as it was, Cotton didn't feel alone. All around him were the calls of birds and the howls of coyotes. A family of Gambel's quail sauntered in front of him, then, taking notice of him just for a moment, hurried on their way into the brush on the other side. A grunt from a javelina, or peccary as they were sometimes known,
emanated from off to his right, although he never caught sight of it. He did catch a brief glimpse of a couple of mule deer making their way up a rocky slope in the distance.