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Authors: Phil Dunlap

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BOOK: Cotton’s Inferno
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Chapter 40

D
id you two get enough to eat?” Emily asked.

“Oh, yes, ma'am,” Rachael said, while Johnny nodded his approval and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Now, you must tell me what brings you to this part of the country.”

Reluctant to tell anyone his real purpose for coming to Apache Springs, Johnny did more than his share of hemming and hawing. Rachael, noticing his reticence, jumped in and came up with a story she hoped Mrs. Wagner might find acceptable.

“It all started with me, Mrs. Wagner. My, uh,
father
left me alone to go find work. Our ranch was failing and he saw no other way to get money. He was gone for such a long time, I was running out of food. Then a man came along and robbed me of everything I had left. I was about done in when Johnny happened by and saved me. He got me back on my feet, went out and hunted game to feed us, and as soon as I was strong enough, we took what we could carry and went in search of another ranch. It seemed like we'd walked for days before we came to a ranch. They were such nice folks. They fed us, and when they went to show us a horse they could lend us, it turned out to be my
father's
horse. The rancher had found a man dead along the road. Turned out to be my, er,
father
. The rancher took the horse and put her in their corral in hopes one of the dead man's family would come along and claim her. It was just fate, I reckon,” Rachael said.

“My goodness, young lady, that was some story. Lucky for you this boy came along.”

“Yes, ma'am, it surely was.”

“Well, exactly what was your purpose in coming to Apache Springs then? Especially since there must have been a dozen towns bigger that you came through.”

“We, uh, heard of some opportunities here,” Johnny blurted out, and was almost immediately sorry he had.

“What kind of opportunities, Johnny? There's not too much I can think of for two young folks looking to get a start.”

“What Johnny means is that we talked between ourselves and decided we should start small, then maybe build up,” Rachael said.

“What experience do either of you have that would make someone want to take you on?”

“Johnny knows a lot about horses, and I, uh, can cook and sew and . . .”

“I see. Well, then, I have a proposition for you. Johnny, I'll have Henry show you our stable of horses, and maybe you can help out around here, just until you feel comfortable to move on, of course. And, Rachael, you can certainly be helpful in feeding the ranch hands. They can get a powerful hunger on, and it's sometimes difficult for me to keep up with feeding all of them.”

Johnny looked at Rachael and she eyed him back. Emily couldn't quite get a handle on what was transpiring between them, but she was certain they hadn't been completely honest with her. It was obvious they had come a long way, and few people would embark on such a journey without a powerful reason for doing so. All she had to do was bide her time and pick up on the little things that often pass between people without them even knowing it.

Finally, Rachael spoke up. “That sounds like a wonderful opportunity, ma'am. We'll take you up on it. Oh, can you tell me how far it is to Apache Springs? That's just in case one of us needs to go into town for, uh, supplies or something.”

“It's about two hours down the road. But I doubt you'll want to make it a regular trip, since you'll both have duties here. We can certainly go in on Saturday to stock up on beans and flour and the like. That'd be a good time for Johnny to go along and help load the wagon and have a look around. That sound all right?”

“Yes, ma'am. That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Rachael said, watching Johnny's frowning reaction out of the corner of her eye. “Johnny thinks so, too, don't you?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Real good.”

“Fine. I'll have Henry show you around, Johnny. You just wait here and I'll go call to him.” When Emily left the room, Johnny jumped on Rachael, taking care not to be overheard.

“What's the idea? We got to get to town to find Varner. He ain't goin' to come nosin' around out here in the sticks,” he said in a loud whisper.

“We need to watch and wait. We'll get our opportunity. But if we go running around like a chicken with no head, without knowing where he is or what he's doing, well, he could get wise to us and be waiting. You need to learn patience. That's something my ma always told me. And I believed her. It worked for me and it'll work for you.”

Johnny was sitting with a dark frown when Emily returned with Henry right behind her.

* * *

“Tell you what, Turner, what say we go to the hotel for some dinner. That'll give us time to put together a plan so's we don't spook Varner. If he's guilty of anything illegal, we need to bide our time and be ready. That sound all right to you?”

“Yessir, sounds just fine to me. Only real food I've had for a spell was at the last relay station, and that was questionable.”

“Well then, I hope you're hungry because the hotel puts on a pretty hefty feed bag,” Cotton said. They left the saloon and headed straight for the hotel. The route would take them within sight of Varner's shop. That wasn't by accident. Cotton wanted Varner to get a look at Burnside's nephew, to see if he recognized him. And if he did, what might his reaction be?

The sheriff didn't have to wait long. As they passed by, Varner could be seen standing in his doorway glaring at them both as if they were his mortal enemies. For all Cotton knew, they might just be. He didn't hesitate or stop to talk but, instead, kept the pace up, chatting with Turner about nothing in particular. When they entered the hotel, Cotton took a quick glance back to see if Varner had watched them the whole way. He had, slamming his door only after they had nearly disappeared inside.
Temperamental bastard, isn't he?

* * *

“You work on ranch?” Henry asked Johnny as they entered the barn. Johnny followed him to where he picked up a bucket and filled it with grain from a bag. He carried it to one of the stalls and poured it into the trough.

“Uh, no, not really. I mostly did odd jobs here and there, at least until my father brought me to Whiskey Crossing,” Johnny said. “That's kinda where I grew up.”

“Where this Whiskey Crossing?”

“It is, er,
was
a small town in Texas. That was, uh, before Varner showed up.”

“Where town go?” Henry seemed not to understand the boy's hesitant words. Yet he could tell there was much more inside the boy's head, and he'd probably have to drag it out of him to get a complete picture.

“It burned up. Killed every living thing—people, animals, everything. All up in smoke; the most terrible fire you can imagine. Now there's nothing left out there on the prairie but charred remains of buildings and bones of the dead.” Johnny looked away, as if it was all too painful to remember. Henry decided not to push.

Chapter 41

W
hen Henry left Johnny for a few minutes to return to the ranch house, he called for Emily to step out on the porch. She could tell he had something important to say and didn't want to be overheard.

“What is it, Henry?” she said, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Boy tell bad story. Many people die in fire. He see it all. Not good for boy so young.”

“Did he say where this happened?”

“He call place Whiskey Crossing. Say it white man's town, place he call Texas.”

“That's all he said?”

“Yes.”

Puzzled by the boy's story, Emily decided she'd see what Rachael knew of this “Whiskey Crossing.” She asked Henry to try to keep the boy busy with chores, anything to keep him occupied for a while, and to find out anything more that he could. Henry grunted and shuffled back to the barn. When he got there, Johnny was brushing down the mare he and Rachael had ridden all the way from where Rachael's “father” had died in Texas.

* * *

As Emily entered the living room, she stopped to watch the young girl standing on tiptoes and struggling to reach a book on the shelves next to the fireplace. For a moment, at least, Emily saw herself in that youthful exhibition of curiosity and a desire for learning.

“See one that interests you?” Emily said.

Startled by Emily's voice, Rachael nearly lost her balance. Fortunately, she had a firm grip on the edge of the shelf.

“Y-yes, ma'am. I-I hope you don't mind, but I've always been fascinated by books.”

“I don't mind at all. In fact, I'm pleased to find someone so young with a desire to learn. Come sit on the couch and show me what you've found.”

Rachael sat beside her and held up a copy of
The Leatherstocking
Tales
by James Fenimore Cooper. The book was bound nicely with a pressed leather cover and gilt edges on the pages. The title was embossed in gold leaf.

“This one is so beautiful. And there's this man with a very strange name: Natty Bumppo. I've never heard such a funny name. It makes me giggle.”

“Cooper was a wonderful author. I have several of his. You're welcome to read any of them you'd like. He's somewhat of a favorite of mine, too.”

Rachael began leafing through the first few pages. Whenever she came to an engraving of the story's action, she stopped, mesmerized by the wonderful illustrations. Emily sat for a while and watched the girl as she was caught up in the beauty of the book, moving her lips silently as she read occasional passages, and turning pages with the careful respect of a librarian.

“Rachael, what can you tell me about what happened to Johnny before he found you?”

Rachael put the book in her lap. Her eyes became distant and sad.

“I only know what he told me, but from what he said, it must have been horrible. Much worse than what happened to me.”

“I suppose I don't really know what happened to you, either. Why don't we talk about it? Sometimes, when you are able to discuss terrible memories with someone who understands, it makes the memories less painful.”

“Well, all right. I'll try.”

Rachael launched into the story of her treatment by an older man to whom her mother and father had sold her into servitude. He'd insisted she call him “Pa,” mostly because of the age difference. But since he wasn't really her father, she felt little or no affection for him. As she began to develop into a young woman, the man began to make advances on her, which she had always been able to fend off. But things began to go bad with the livestock and what few crops they had in. That's when her phony father decided he'd go into the nearest town to find work. When he didn't return for weeks and the food had all but run out, Rachael didn't know what to do.

“I'm sorry I led you to believe it was my real father that died,” Rachael said.

“That's all right, dear. Go ahead with your story.”

“Well, as I said before, a stranger stopped and stole what little I had left. That's when Johnny happened on me lying on the floor of the small cabin. He saved my life, that's what he did. And he never asked a thing for the help, neither. He's been a good friend.”

“It sure sounds that way. You've had a pretty hard time of it. I'm thinking you should stay around here for a spell, at least until you have a notion as to where you'd like to go and how you're going to get there. You know, the both of you riding that poor mare out there is sooner or later going to take its toll, and she'll break down. Then you'll find yourselves afoot and in an even worse situation.”

“But I don't know nothin' about ranchin', Miss Emily.”

“Oh, my dear, believe me, you can be a heap of help to me. Why, just having another female around to talk to is worth its weight in gold.”

“Well, yes, ma'am, I reckon I can see how it might be, at that,” Rachael said, giving Emily an understanding smile, the first smile she'd displayed since arriving at the Wagner ranch.

* * *

“I never knew a real Injun before, Mr. Henry. I hear you people can find things that's been hid better'n anyone. That true? Could you really find this penknife of mine if I was to hide it real good?” Johnny said.

A wry grin came over the old Apache's face. He liked the idea of being challenged by this young white boy. He gave an affirmative nod. Johnny eagerly took up the challenge and in an instant tore out of the bunkhouse to find a suitable hiding place. On his way, he thought it clever to try throwing the Indian off his trail by removing his boots and setting them on the stoop of the ranch house. Then, trying to think even farther ahead, he wrapped his feet in two cloths that were hanging on a clothesline. He looked around until he spotted a gnarled mesquite a hundred yards away.
The old man will never find it in the crotch of that tangled mess
, he thought, and proceeded to stick it down as far as he could into a hole hollowed out by birds or insects.

When he came sauntering back into the bunkhouse, apparently quite pleased with himself, he leaned on the doorpost and peered in. Sitting at a table, the old Apache looked up from taking a sip of coffee.

“I'm ready, Mr. Henry. I hid it. And I'll bet you don't find it.” Johnny's smug expression amused Henry, and he chuckled all the way out the door.

Outside, the Apache stood momentarily looking at the ground, shaking his head. He lifted his head, cupped his weathered hand over his eyes to cut the glare of the searing sun, and slowly, deliberately began sniffing the air.

“Why are you doing that, Henry?”

“Smell direction of boy,” Henry said.

Needless to say, Henry Coyote was not fooled by the boy's supposedly clever devices and, instead, walked straight for the mesquite tree, reached down into the maze of limbs that came together at the trunk, and pulled out the knife.

Johnny's eyes grew wide as he saw all his cleverness go for naught. As Henry returned to hand him the knife, the boy was spluttering.

“H-how'd y-you do that? Are you a magician? You got eyes in the back of your head or somethin'?”

Henry grinned big before returning to his coffee. He took a sip.

“You not see window in side of building?”

BOOK: Cotton’s Inferno
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