Cotton’s Inferno (20 page)

Chapter 38

J
ohnny and Rachael pointed the mare in the direction of Apache Springs, with their sole aim a rendezvous with a killer.

After having given more thought to the lateness of the hour, they'd decided to stay that night at the livery in order to get a fresh start in the morning. But soon after sunrise, they rode out of town with Rachael's arms tightly around Johnny's waist. She leaned her chin on his shoulder and tilted her head just enough to nuzzle his ear. A chill ran up his spine.
What the hell is that all about?
he thought. In the little time he'd known her, he had felt something growing inside, something he couldn't explain. He saw in her eyes that she, too, was becoming more than a friend. But what? The last night they'd spent on the trail, he'd looked over at her when she bent over at the stream to wash her hair. To keep her shirt from getting soaked, she'd slipped it off her shoulders, letting it cling to her upper arms and breasts. He thought his heart was going to burst in his chest. He was so shaken, he quit washing himself and went back to build a fire. Ever since that night, he'd been having strange feelings. He was afraid of what it might be. He remembered his father saying once that Johnny would know when the right woman came along, because he'd start to tingle all over and get sweaty whenever he thought about her. His father had called it: love.

Rachael whispered something in his ear. The wind was blowing hard enough that he didn't quite get the gist of what she was saying. He ignored her with a nod and a grunt and kept on riding. Suddenly, she punched him in the back. That stopped the tingles and made him pay closer attention.

“Wh-what?”

“Can we stop and rest for a while? I'm tuckered out. I need to get down and tend to . . .”

She needn't explain further. Johnny understood and reined the mare off the trail and into a copse of trees. She slipped from her perch behind him and rushed into the thick brush. Following her lead, he dropped from the saddle. He stretched his arms and took the saddlebags over to a clearing. There were plenty of rocks to use in making a fire ring. Since there didn't seem to be any water nearby, he had to be very careful lighting a fire without some protection from the wind. A brush fire in the desert could decimate an area hundreds of miles in all directions. Sufficient deadfall would make a fire easy to build, and he set about doing just that.

When Rachael emerged from the brush, she walked over and sat on a fallen tree trunk. “Thanks,” she said.

Johnny had a nice little fire going and had dropped some coffee in the pot. He added water from his canteen and set it on a rock right next to the blaze. He was rubbing his hands together to get the circulation coming back after so long gripping the reins.

“Sure,” he said. “I'll have some coffee in a few minutes. And I think there are still some biscuits left.” Rachael got up and lifted the flap on the saddlebags and peered inside. She rummaged around through the collection of items they'd cobbled together for their trip. They had no idea how far they would have to travel before locating their quarry: Carp Varner.

She pulled out a couple of the biscuits and handed one to Johnny. “Guess we might as well eat 'em. They're starting to get hard.”

“Maybe by tonight we'll find a town or ranch house where we can bed down on something easier on our backs than pebbles and burrs,” he said.

“Doesn't it seem like we should have come to a sign or something telling us where Apache Springs is?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, I think so, but . . .”

Just then the sound of a wagon rattling along the dusty road caught their attention. Johnny stood, cupped his hand over his eyes, and squinted into the afternoon sun. He saw a buckboard loaded with burlap bags being driven by a woman. A very attractive woman at that. Alongside her rode an old Indian on a paint pony.

Johnny and Rachael ventured out to where they could be seen by the lady. He held up a hand to attract attention. The lady reined in the buckboard, while the Indian eyed them warily.

“G'day, ma'am. We were wondering if you knew the way to Apache Springs. I think we may be lost,” Johnny said, taking off his hat, something he'd been taught to do when greeting a lady. Rachael shuffled up behind him, looking trail weary.

“You two traveling together, are you? Where are you from?” Emily Wagner asked.

“Yes, ma'am, we are,” Rachael said shyly. Johnny had started to answer, but Rachael beat him to it. She stepped in front of him to speak her piece. “We came from Texas.”

“That's a pretty long trip. How many days have you been on the trail?”

“I-I'm not real sure. Seems like a year. I . . .” Rachael said, but she was cut off by Johnny jumping in.

“Been out several weeks, I reckon. Don't know exactly how long. Had to lay over in Las Cruces because a catamount jumped Rachael and near tore her arm off. Had to get a doc to patch her up.”

“Goodness! Are you going to be okay, child?”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm well on the mend. Thanks to Johnny.”

“I must say you neither one look like you've had a bite to eat for days.”

“Uh, yeah, well I s'pose it has been a while,” Johnny said, drawing a circle in the dust with the toe of his boot.

“Then we must do something about that. My ranch is only about a mile up this road. You come along with us and I'll make sure you get fed and rested before you continue on to town. How does that sound?”

Before Johnny could say a word, Rachael blurted out, “That sounds wonderful, ma'am.”

Emily suggested Rachael climb up beside her and ride in the buckboard. It was a suggestion that was met with mixed emotions by Johnny. He knew it had been hard on the mare to carry two people all the distance they'd traveled, but he sure did like having the feisty young girl clinging to him like an apple refusing to fall from the tree. He liked the feel of her body and the smell of her hair. Nevertheless, without complaint, he wheeled the mare around and fell in behind the wagon. He was joined by the scary-looking Apache wearing knee-high deerskin boots, a cloth headband wrapped around his forehead, and a bandolier of cartridges for the Spencer rifle he carried. Johnny looked over and smiled at the old Indian, but was met with a blank expression and black, suspicious eyes.

* * *

When they pulled up in front of the Wagner ranch house, Rachael couldn't believe her eyes. It was just what she'd always dreamed a ranch house should look like. It had a large, wide porch, with real glass windows and a huge chimney coming right out of the middle of the roof. Even after Emily got down and called out for some of the hands to come unload the buckboard, Rachael sat mesmerized by the size of this fine house.

“Come on, dear, and let me show you around. Henry Coyote can show your friend where he can unsaddle your mare and get her fed and rubbed down. I'll bet a little attention won't hurt her feelings. Oh dear, I've forgotten a very important part of my manners. I hope you'll forgive me. I'm Emily Wagner. I own this ranch.”

“I'm Rachael and he's Johnny.”

“Are you brother and sister?”

“Oh, no. He's, uh, well . . .”

“Never mind, dear; it's not important. Come in and sit while I fix something to fill your stomachs.”

Rachael followed obediently. She looked back quickly to see Johnny reluctantly trailing the Apache. She could tell Johnny wasn't certain how to adjust to having an Indian so close without fearing the loss of his scalp. But there was something about the old man she found reassuring, almost comforting. As she sank deeply into the leather couch, her eyes danced from one fine thing to another.
Oh, to live a life like this.

Then she heard something sizzling in another room, and the smells of fresh bread invaded her senses. She was certain she had just stumbled into heaven.

Chapter 39

M
ayor Orwell Plume strolled into the sheriff's office as casual as you please. A stranger would assume it was an act repeated on a regular basis between fellow town officials. But a visit from the mayor was anything but a usual occurrence. Cotton sensed a note of negativity about to explode across his desk. He didn't stand, but stuck out his hand. They shook as he motioned the mayor into the chair across from him.

“This certainly is a rare visit, Mr. Mayor. I take it you got somethin' on your mind.”

“You sure do get to the meat of things in a hurry, don't you, Burke?”

“I've had to face down some of the worst hombres this territory has to offer; didn't give me much time to dance around. When a gun's about to be drawn, that's not the time for askin' questions.”

“I see your point. Well, then I best get to it. The reason I'm here is to make mention of the fact that the new gunsmith took over
your
responsibility for a moment and drilled a couple of would-be bank robbers. Caught 'em in the act, so to speak. I'm wonderin' where you were while all this was goin' down.”

“Not real sure what you're gettin' at, Mayor. Never figured I was expected to sit outside the bank to ward off evil if it should stop by.”

“Not at all, not at all. However, it shouldn't be left up to the citizenry, either.”

“And the point you're tryin' to make is . . . ?”

“The thought crossed my mind that, since the election for sheriff, clerk, and mayor is comin' upon us in a rush, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad idea for there to be a little competition for a change to make the race more interestin'.”

“And who did you have in mind to run against me?”

“Right offhand, I'd say that Varner fella might take a few votes out of your column, bein' as how he's a hero of sorts right now. Looks like he can shoot, too. That's the kind of sheriff we need. A decisive one. No nonsense. Shoot and be done with it.”

“Uh-huh. Anybody suggested they make a run at the mayor's office?”

“Now that you mention it, no. It's not likely, either.”

“How do you figure?”

“Bein' mayor takes someone with a business head, good with keepin' folks happy about the way the town's growin' and lookin' out for the little fellow.”

“And you don't figure there is such a person here in Apache Springs, right?” Cotton asked.

“That's about the size of it.”

Cotton rubbed his chin and smiled.

“I take it you disagree.”

“I do.”

“I'm pretty certain
you
aren't interested in the job, seein' as how you hate makin' speeches and such.”

“You're absolutely correct there, Mayor. I'm not the least interested in takin' over your desk.”

“But you do have someone in mind, don't you?” The mayor scrunched up his face.

“Uh-huh.”

The mayor waited and waited. Finally, out of patience, he blurted out, “Well, spit it out, man! I don't have forever. Who is it?”

“I was thinkin' that we might need someone who has a real feel for the community. Someone who knows almost everyone by their first name, at least all the men. After all, it's the men who spend most of the money and make all the big decisions, like electing a mayor, and all.”

Plume squinted. His forehead was so wrinkled it looked like a prune. “Who would that be?”

“Why the only logical choice: Melody Wakefield,” Cotton said, with a huge grin as he raised both eyebrows.

Plume stood up in a flash, knocking over his chair, his fists balled so tightly his knuckles were turning white.

“What! What kind of bull are you spreadin' around, Sheriff? There's no way in hell that damned whore could get elected mayor! I don't have to listen to any more of your crap!” He turned to storm out. Cotton silently watched after him.

Don't count on it, pard. Don't count on it.
He leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head. He was shaken from his thoughts by the rumble of the afternoon stage. He got up and walked to the door. As the coach pulled up in front of the hotel, a man Cotton guessed to be about thirty stepped off, looked around, and went inside.

By the time the sheriff got to the hotel, the man was signing the guest register. Cotton walked up to him. The man turned, saw the badge, and smiled.

“You must be Sheriff Burke. Good to meet you. My name is Turner Burnside. I wrote you about my uncle's gunsmith shop.”

Cotton extended his hand. They shook.

“Glad you're here, Mr. Burnside. Let's go over to the saloon and chat before I take you over to your uncle's shop.”

“Fine. I'll just take my bag upstairs and join you in a minute.”

The desk clerk handed the man a key and pointed to the first room at the top of the stairs. Burnside disappeared into his room, returning within seconds.

“I'm ready, Sheriff. Lead the way.”

* * *

“At the moment, another man is using your uncle's shop to repair guns. He came to town the day before your uncle died. Kind of a coincidence, I'll admit, but we couldn't find anything suspicious about that. The thing is, that man desires to stay on and keep the business open. But, of course, if you have the same desire, then obviously the business must go to you. That's the reason I wanted us to chat before you went down there.”

“I understand, Sheriff. Good of you to warn me. My uncle taught me well in the art of gunsmithing. I'm no slouch at repairing, even building weaponry. In fact, I had my own shop in Boston before coming out here. The business of personal weapons has dropped off quite a bit back East, so I figured since the frontier is still relatively wild, maybe the time was right for a move.”

“‘Wild' is a pretty fair description, I'd have to say, Mr. Burnside,” Cotton said.

“Call me Turner, Sheriff. Please.”

“All right, Turner, I suggest we have ourselves another beer before surprising Mr. Varner.”

“Varner? Did you say Varner? Would that be Carp Varner?”

“Why yes, it most certainly is. Do you know him?”

“That dirty, thieving piece of lowlife trash nearly ruined my family. That's how well I know him.”

“I reckon you best tell me the whole story, Turner. I'd be most interested in hearing it.”

Turner Burnside leaned across the table so they could talk without being overheard. Cotton asked Arlo to bring over two more beers. He leaned on his elbows. When the beers came, Arlo nodded to them both and returned to his post behind the long bar. Cotton took a long sip.

“Well, Turner, I'm all ears. What can you tell me about Mr. Varner?”

“My uncle set up shop in St. Louis a number of years back. He was doing well. He and my aunt had a profitable store selling and repairing all sorts of weapons. One day, Carp Varner came by asking my uncle for a job. There wasn't enough business to support three gunsmiths, since my uncle already had a helper. It wasn't long before Varner opened his own shop right next door. The difference was he put a big sign in his window. It said:
ALL GUNS REPAIRED FREE!
I don't suppose it takes much imagination to figure what happened.”

“Yeah. Your uncle's business dried up in a hurry.”

“That's right. Offer someone something free, and he'll take it every time over having to shell out hard-earned cash. That's when my uncle moved his business out here, in an attempt to get away from such underhanded business tactics.”

“Did you ever hear of your uncle having any health problems?”

“Not that I ever heard of. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. He died shortly after Varner showed up in town,” Cotton said.

“Hmm. Any chance he could have seen Varner and it shook him up bad enough to cause his death?”

“Could be. Maybe both your aunt dying and seeing Varner played a part in his untimely death. I'm sure goin' to miss that man.”

“Yeah.” Turner drank down his beer, looking wistfully off in the distance. “Me, too.”