Cotton’s Inferno (28 page)

Chapter 54

H
enry dove for the skinny figure who'd already cocked his weapon and was about to fire through the window. Fortunately, the gun didn't go off as the two of them tumbled to the ground in a flurry of dust and a collective grunt. Henry scrambled to subdue the surprised boy, making certain to take control of the revolver before it went off unintentionally. He let the hammer down easily, jammed the weapon into his waistband, and grabbed the boy's shirt. As Johnny tried in vain to break free and protest, Henry clamped a bronzed hand over the surprised youth's mouth. His firm grip on Johnny's arm and tight hold on his mouth gave Henry the leverage to half-drag, half-carry the youth out of sight of the back window. That was fortunate because they had no sooner disappeared around the corner of the next building than Carp Varner, alerted by muffled noises outside, opened the rear door and stepped out, gun in hand. He scratched his stubbly face and went back inside after finding nothing amiss.

When Henry released his grip on Johnny, the boy's disappointment at losing his chance to achieve the revenge he so heartily sought was evident. He was sputtering as Henry, still keeping a firm grip on Johnny's arm, pointed him in the direction of the jail.

“Wh-where're we goin'?” Johnny groused.

“Think sheriff wants you alive. Don't know why.”

“What d'ya mean, ‘wants me alive'?”

“No want Varner kill you.”

“Varner doesn't even know I'm still alive.”

“Soon will.”

“What are you talkin' about?”

“Sheriff let people know someone see old town burn up. Only one still alive. You.”

“He told folks?”

“Not give name.”

Johnny's shoulders sank. “So where are we goin'?”

“Take you to only safe place. Jail.”

“But I didn't do anything. He can't arrest—”

“Sheriff do what best for you.”

* * *

Johnny stumbled into the sheriff's office after a healthy shove from Henry Coyote. When he saw the sheriff, his ire rose. He gritted his teeth before spitting out his speech.

“What the hell, Sheriff, you can't go lockin' up folks for no reason. Don't you know that?”

“Where'd you find him, Henry?”

“Back of gun store. Him aim to shoot man.”

“That right, Johnny? Were you aimin' to shoot ol' Varner?”

“Uh, well, y-yeah, I suppose. So what? He's a murderer.”

“Where's your proof?”

“I'm the proof. I was an eyewitness. That's all you need.”

“Only if he comes to trial. Until then, you're goin' to be the guest of the town of Apache Springs until I unravel this whole mess.”

“So you're arrestin' me?”

“That I am, lad. Attempted murder is a crime. You just admitted to it.”

Johnny's head drooped as he sat down on the straight-back chair across from the sheriff.

“How long do I have to be in here?”

“It won't be long. Give you a little time to get some rest, then before you know it, the whole thing will be over.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I said so.”

Just then the rattle of the afternoon Butterfield Stage echoed down the street. The sheriff got up to watch as it passed. He turned to Henry.

“Jack is meeting that stage. I'm expecting a man from Silver City to be getting off. Make certain Jack brings him straight here. Maybe be best to take the back way. I'd rather Varner not see him arriving.”

Henry grunted and hurried out the door, straight for the stage depot. As the stage came to a stop, he saw Jack step up to the coach and hold the door for another passenger.

* * *

Jack led a very confused Turner Burnside down the back way to the jail. When they walked in, it was immediately apparent to Cotton that Burnside was none too happy to be returning to Apache Springs.

“Hope the marshal in Silver City didn't give you too much of a start, Mr. Burnside. But it was necessary.”

“Wh-why have you brought me back? I, uh, don't think it's a good idea. I have an enemy here. Nothing good can come of it.”

“I assume you're referring to Carp Varner?”

“Yes, and he'd as soon shove that pig-sticker in me than lay eyes on me ever again. He made that perfectly clear.”

“I figured that's why I got this letter sayin' you were givin' up your interest in the gunsmith shop. He forced you to sign that, didn't he?”

“With a forty-five to my head. I'm no coward, mind you, but when a man like Varner makes a threat, you take it seriously.” Burnside shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“I understand. But you can put your mind at ease, because Varner isn't goin' to harm you. But in order for me to bring him down and make him accountable for his many misdeeds, I'm goin' to need your help.”

“I don't understand. What can I do?”

“When the time comes, I'm going to let him know you've changed your mind and returned to town. That should shake him up plenty. Until that time, you'll be stayin' in the cell next to that young man over there.”

“A jail cell? Am I, uh, under arrest?”

“Nope. We'll jus' refer to it as ‘protective custody.' I heard some Pinkerton fellow call it that once.”

“What do you figure to gain by all this?”

“I aim to grind a pesky cockroach under the heel of my boot, get your business back for you, and satisfy a boy's need for revenge for the murder of his friends.”

“Sounds like a tall order.”

“That's how I figure it, too.”

Cotton looked over to see Jack rubbing his shoulder. “Jack, get some rest. When this all goes down, I'm goin' to need you at your best. Oh, and don't turn your back on Melody again.”

Chapter 55

C
arp Varner was seething at the insult he perceived from the defacing of his posters. He sat morosely figuring how he would go about making someone pay for the affront ever since he'd discovered the first of the red splotches slathered across his political message. Then, after replacing all he could find, he'd discovered that many more had been marked up. That was the last straw. Whoever had done it, and he suspected the mayor or one of his cronies had spent the night sneaking around town targeting him with slanderous claims, someone would pay. It was time to teach Apache Springs a lesson, and he knew just how to go about that.

He went across the street to the general store to pick up the tools he needed to accomplish his plot. He bought seven coal oil lamps and enough highly inflammable oil to fill each to the brim. He took them all back to his shop and lined them up on the counter. He unscrewed the lids to the glass bases and used a small funnel to fill each one, making sure the wicks were all saturated so he'd have sufficient flame to ignite the oil when the lamps were tossed in the air, only to come crashing down, shattering the glass and spreading flames over everything around.

He loaded his revolvers and holstered them. He opened a box of shotgun shells, shoved two into the barrels of the ten-gauge gut shredder, then stuck several more in his jacket pocket. He looked over his arsenal of death, and while his mind raced in anticipation of what he was about to do, he walked to the window to gaze for a moment on what to that point had ben a thriving, peaceful community. He was ready—ready for the results of the voting and subsequent ballot count; ready for the citizens of Apache Springs to get a taste of their own ignorance should they decide to vote against him; and fully ready to exact his awful revenge on all who would reject him. Taking comfort in his substantial arsenal, he feared no one and nothing, including the rumored quickness of Sheriff Cotton Burke. Extreme confidence, not one iota of doubt as to the outcome of his reprisal, ruled Carp Varner's thoughts. He planned to spend the night in his shop, staring out the front window.
I'm ready. Are you, Apache Springs?

* * *

The widely anticipated day of the election finally arrived. At six o'clock in the morning, the single wooden ballot box was set up at a table near the entrance to Melody's Golden Palace of Pleasure. Voters could check off the box next to their favorite candidate, fold the paper, and stick it through a slot in the top of the box. Even if every eligible person within the town limits and surrounding countryside were to show up intending to cast a vote, the whole process should be over by noon. Although territorial law prevented an early closing of the polls.

The saloon had been forced to cease the sale of alcoholic beverages until the polls closed at five o'clock in the afternoon. Melody didn't like that one damned bit, but went along when Jack told her he'd personally witnessed a number of drunken cowboys tear a saloon apart when their candidate failed to win his respective race. Melody accepted that Jack and the sheriff were only looking out for her safety. Although she was struggling with the part about Cotton giving a damn whether she lived or died.

The voting went as expected, slow and steady. And, as anticipated, there were no more votes cast after noon. Cowboys rode in around eleven-thirty, scratched out their preferences, and dropped the papers in the box. Then they went back outside to loaf on the front porch or occupy every one of the benches located along the town's boardwalk. They talked, laughed, and on occasion nearly got into a fight over something or another. None of those near confrontations erupted into anything more significant than a puffy lip or a bruised knuckle. Just two minutes before five o'clock, the sheriff's deputy, Memphis Jack Stump, left the jail and wandered over to the saloon to be prepared to secure the ballot box and start the count. Since he wasn't on the ballot, he was the only town official legally able to do the counting. The mayor and the sheriff, both being up for reelection, had to remain no closer than fifty feet from the ballot box after voting. Cotton remained on the bench out front of his office, chatting with Emily, who'd driven her buckboard to town to cast her vote.

“I think it went very smoothly, don't you, Cotton?” Emily asked.

“I reckon. It isn't over yet, though.”

“Are you expecting trouble?”

“I am, if what Johnny told me about the reason Carp Varner burned a town and killed every last citizen in it carries with it the ring of truth.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the reason Carp went over the cliff was because he lost his election for mayor. I'm expecting a repeat of that when the votes are counted. And so I'd like to suggest you go inside as soon as five o'clock rolls around and the ballots are counted.” He pulled his pocket watch from his vest, opened it, and sighed. “Which I figure to be about now.”

“What'll you be doing?”

“Aimin' to throw a little kindlin' on the fire.”

“What do you mean?”

“Carp Varner is—if I'm to believe what I've heard—one mean son of a bitch who'll stop at nothin' in his quest for revenge on anyone who has the audacity to reject him. He takes that kind of thing very personally. I need to be certain he understands we aren't just a bunch of hayseeds who'll stand by and be run over by a man with vengeance on his mind.”

“Does that by any chance mean allowing Johnny Monk to be in danger?”

“It's important that Varner face the man who's making accusations against him.”

“But he's just a boy. He could be killed. Cotton, I can't just stand by and—”

“Stop frettin', Emily, both Jack and I, as well as Henry Coyote, will be coverin' the situation nine ways from Sunday.”

“By the way, where is Johnny?”

“Oh, he's locked up tighter'n a Saturday night drunk in one of the cells inside.”

“You mean he's been in jail all along and you didn't send word to me?”

“Uh, yeah, I reckon you could look at it that way.”

“I've been worried sick about him. I couldn't sleep at night knowing he might try something stupid and get himself shot.”

“Things have been happenin' pretty fast here, and I didn't have time to ride out and tell you. Also, I couldn't send word by Henry because I needed him here. He had Johnny in his sights ever since he found where he was hidin' out here. You needn't have been frettin' so.”

Emily gave Cotton a glare that could have melted butter with its intensity.

“In case you haven't noticed, Sheriff Burke, I'm a woman. That's what we do!”

Cotton didn't have an answer for that.