Cotton’s Inferno (4 page)

Chapter 6

C
otton stood on the porch staring down at the weathered plank floor. Doc Winters was leaning on one of the porch posts, trying to light a pipe. Neither looked like things were going well.

“I'm real sorry, Cotton. There wasn't a thing I could do. He just slipped away like he was taking a nap. And now you say his wife is dead, also? Terrible, just terrible.”

“Could his wife's death bring on an apoplexy like you said happened to him?”

“At his age, it most certainly could have. It also could have been that bump on his head. I just don't know for sure.”

“Burnside was a damned good gunsmith and a fine fellow. A lot of folks around here are goin' to miss him,” Cotton said.

“You suppose he's got family nearby that we should get ahold of?”

“Never heard him speak of any. I suppose I could go look through his papers. I think I remember him havin' a desk at the back of the store. Although, I'll admit, I'd feel strange searchin' through a man's personal and private documents.”

“I don't envy you. But someone has to and I can't think of anyone better qualified.”

“Thanks, Doc. Maybe I'll get lucky and find somethin' useful. Oh, and when you get the arrangements made for the burial, we'll need to get the word out. Burnside had a lot of friends in these parts,” Cotton said, tipping his hat and stepping off the porch. He headed straight for the gun shop.

When he got there, Jack was standing behind the counter with one hand cupping his chin, deep in thought. He looked up as the bell over the door signaled Cotton's entrance.

“Find anything of interest, Jack?”

“Can't say for certain, but it sure is a puzzle. How's Burnside doin?”

“He isn't.”

“You mean . . .”

“Yep. He slipped away without ever regainin' his senses.”

“That's a damned shame. Good man, Burnside.”

“So show me what's got you lookin' so thoughtful.”

“It's right there, on the floor by his chair. What d'ya see?”

“Looks like a piece of barrel stock. From the length, I'd say it's likely for a rifle. So . . . ?”

“Look close. Don't that dark smudge on it remind you of blood?”

Cotton turned the section of gun barrel over and perused it more carefully. He held it up to the light.

“Does at that. Take it down to Doc Winters and see what he says. Ask him if he's thinks Burnside could have been hit with it.”

Jack scooted out the door as Cotton gave the handles of the rolltop desk a good yank.
If Burnside kept any personal papers anywhere, they should be in here.
He wasn't surprised at the pile that lay before him. He rolled the chair over, sat down, and began his search for anything that might suggest a family member somewhere that he could contact. Mostly he found stacks of schematics for every which kind of firearm: revolvers, rifles, shotguns, even one that showed how to disassemble a Gatling gun. There were papers in every drawer, every cubbyhole, even stacked on top.
This is going to take a while
, Cotton thought. He leaned back with a handful of sheets from one stack and started leafing through them, mesmerized by the complexity of the various schematics.

* * *

“Well, yes, there was some blood on the back of his head. Not much, though. I figured he'd hit his head on the floor when he collapsed. Why are you asking, Jack?”

“Any chance it could have come from a blow with a piece of a gun barrel? Maybe something like this?” Jack held up the piece of steel.

Doc Winters frowned as he stroked his chin.

“It . . . is . . . possible, I suppose, and that for sure is a bit of blood. But you'd think there'd be much more blood if Burnside was struck by anything as heavy as this. Of course, he was rather frail, and with the death of his wife weighing heavy on his mind, hmm, well, it might not have taken much to bring him down. Is that what you're thinking happened?”

“I can't say for sure. Cotton just wanted me to see if it was possible. That's all. Thanks for your time, Doc.”

As Jack strolled back down the street toward the gunsmith's shop, he decided to make a quick side trip to the saloon for a spot of brandy.
Cotton won't care if I don't come back immediately; he's likely up to his ass in Burnside's pile of papers, anyway.

Pushing through the doors, he spotted Melody in deep conversation with Pick Wheeler. He decided against breaking into their exchange, since Melody would probably try to entice him to go upstairs with her.
That
Cotton for sure wouldn't like. Arlo could sense what Jack was there for and was ready with a glass and his personal bottle of French brandy.

“What's that all about, Arlo?” Jack asked, hooking a thumb in Melody's direction.

“Dunno for sure, but it appears to me the boss lady may be working out some sort of deal with Pick.”

“Deal? Deal about what? That old goat doesn't have anything Melody could possibly want.”

“I agree, but you know Melody, she'd bet on an ant race if the odds were right.” Arlo chuckled.

Jack gulped his drink and hurried outside before Melody had a chance to grab him. When he opened the door to the gun shop, he saw Cotton sitting in Burnside's favorite swivel chair surrounded by what looked like hundreds of papers strewn all about. The look on his face suggested he hadn't found what he had hoped for. Jack tried his best to enter unobtrusively, but Cotton's keen hearing betrayed him.

“'Bout time you got back.”

“Sorry about that. Had to, uh, answer the call of nature. Find anything useful, Cotton?”

“No, not yet. How about you go through the bottom two desk drawers while I gather up all the mess I've made. I've already been through all the cubicles. What did Doc say?”

“Said it was possible, but he couldn't say for sure.”

Jack crossed his legs and sat with a grunt on the hard floor. He pulled one of the lower drawers out and began flipping through the disorganized jumble he found there. After leafing through page after page, he stopped and held up a document rolled up and tied with a string. He thrust the rolled bundle at Cotton, who took it with a puzzled look.

“What's this?”

Jack just shrugged as Cotton took a couple minutes to read through each page. “Looks like you found what we were lookin' for.”

Chapter 7

I
expect you'll be wantin' to look the mine over before investing that kind of money, Miss Melody. Be more'n happy to ride out with you to have a look-see,” Pick said, all smiles.

“I'd be a fool not to, Pick. I've been a businesswoman for a long time, and I don't intend to begin making bad investments out of a clear blue sky.”

“When would you be wantin' to make the trek?”

“First thing in the morning. I'll have my riding clothes and boots and my buggy and horse all ready. I'll meet you at the livery. That suit you?”

“You
do
know the mine is far up in the hills, totally inaccessible by buggy, don't you? And walkin' a narrow, rugged trail filled with sharp stones wouldn't do much for a lady's fancy boots. I think you better ride an animal better suited to the rough terrain, like maybe a
mule
.”

“A mule! Me, on a mule? Not on your life.”

“It's the only way to get there, Missy. Sorry.”

“You do know I'm offering you a lot of money for a hole in the ground, don't you? Two thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am. And grateful I am, too. But that still don't get us up there any easier.”

“Oh, all right. Be here at seven, sharp. Got it?” Melody pursed her lips and pushed up from her chair. Pick followed suit. He left as quickly as he could get out the doors. Melody stared after him for a moment, then called over to the bartender, “Arlo, I'm going to the bank. I'll be back after a while. That's just in case Jack comes in.”

“Oh, he's already been here, ma'am. He dropped in while you and Pick were in deep conversation.”

“I wonder why he didn't say anything.”

“Said he didn't want to disturb you. Thoughtful fellow, that Memphis Jack.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, her voice filled with sarcasm. She lifted her skirts and hurried out, swinging her bustle hard enough to knock a man down, should one dare come in close proximity.

* * *

“That's correct, Mr. Givins. Are you hard of hearing?
Two thousand dollars
in hard cash. And a receipt for every penny of it saying Pick Wheeler's deeding me the mine.”

“Are you sure about this, Miss Melody?” Judging by his tone of voice, Givins obviously wasn't.

“I'm not accustomed to explaining myself, sir. If you'll kindly have the paper ready by the close of business tomorrow.” Melody shot out of her chair and scurried out of the bank before he could object further. She was decidedly grumpy. First Pick Wheeler wants her to ride a mule for God knows how many tortuous miles into the foothills, then the bank manager questions her judgment in making a business deal.
Men! All I need now is for Jack to disapprove of the dress I'm wearing. Well, I'll fix him. When he gets back, I won't be wearing anything at all.
Finally, a glint of satisfaction crossed her face. Teasing Memphis Jack had become one of the great pleasures in her life. When she arrived back at the saloon, she stormed straight up the curving staircase, letting slim fingers glide along the polished bannister. Arlo heard her door slam shut.

* * *

“This puts a different slant on things, doesn't it?” Cotton said. He leaned back and stared up at the patterned tin ceiling. He tented his fingers and seemed to wander off in thought. His narrowed eyes suggested serious contemplation. Several minutes went by before Jack finally figured he'd waited long enough. He was bone tired, growing hungry, and had lost patience with Cotton for not sharing his thoughts as to Burnside's bundle of surprises.

“Cotton, dammit! You're drivin' me crazy with your silence. What's in them papers, anyway?”

“Oh, sorry, Jack. Didn't mean to disquiet you. This bundle has some interestin' things about Mr. Burnside. It says his only livin' relative is a young man named Turner Burnside, who, it appears, is also a gunsmith. It seems Burnside lost contact about four years ago when some sort of business troubles cropped up. Up to that time he'd been corresponding with his sister, who is Turner's mother.”

“So how the devil are we goin' to find this fellow?”

“That's a good question. One for which I have no answer. Burnside does say the last he heard of him was right after his mother died of cholera, and he'd lost contact when the last entry was made.”

“We could send out a few telegrams to various sheriffs in Texas. I doubt it would do any good, but it's worth a try, don't you think?”

“Could be. Or it could eat up our whole operatin' budget for the year. We don't even know if he lived in Texas or . . . We'll sit tight for a spell and see what happens after we get the newspaper to publish the story of Burnside's death. Maybe some other papers will pick it up and save us the money.”

“Good idea. Now, if you have no serious objection, I think I'll get somethin' to eat. Melody probably thinks I'm tryin' to starve her to death.”

“Uh-huh.
That's
goin' to happen. I read somewhere it takes three days of not eatin' to take off one pound. Don't know if that's true or not, but if it is, Melody can manage to survive for quite a spell.”

* * *

Melody was still upstairs when Jack entered the saloon, shaking his head again over Cotton's remark about her. Arlo nodded to him on his way through, and he wasted no time hiking up the stairs. When he opened the door, there she was sitting in front of her mirror applying some bright red rouge to her lips. She looked around at his entrance. She was stark naked. Jack's empty stomach could wait.

She rose slowly from her satin-covered stool, lowering her eyes seductively and holding out her hand to him. He smiled as he took it, and they fell onto the feather bed. Her eagerness suggested to him that there might be more to her overtly amorous moves than met the eye. But he wasn't going to question her motives. Enjoy the moment; that was Jack's motto. And he did.

Thirty minutes later, Melody rose up on one elbow and, tracing squiggly lines on an exhausted Jack's chest with her long fingernails, said, “Jack, I have something to tell you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think you're going to be very happy about it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, don't you want to know what it is? Aren't you the least bit curious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hmm, well, I'm going to tell you, anyway, whether you're interested or not.

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm going to buy Pick Wheeler's silver mine.”

Jack's eyes popped open. He was wide awake now. He sat up in a shot.

“Wh-what did you say? Pick Wheeler's silver mine? You?”

“Yes. Isn't it exciting? He wants to retire from working so hard so he can go back East to live off all the money he's made. The old fool was just going to walk away and put an ad in the paper to sell it. I talked him into selling it to me. Isn't that grand?”

Jack was having trouble containing his emotions. His words seemed to be coming to him in a jumble of nonsense and curses. He swallowed hard in an attempt to get control of himself before he spoke.

“Just what in the hell makes you think you can run a silver mine, Melody? Damn! And how could you make a deal before having an expert look it over? How do you know there's any silver left in it?”

“Oh, I'm going to ride out there with him in the morning to see for myself. He wouldn't dare try putting something over on me. He knows I'd cut off his manhood and shove it down his throat.”

“Melody! This, this is insane! You'll end—”

“Jack, calm down. You know I'm a very good businesswoman. There's not a chance of my making a mistake here.”

“But . . . but . . . ,” he sputtered, completely out of anything logical to say. He had long been aware that when Melody got something in her mind, a stick of dynamite couldn't dislodge it. All he could do was fall back on the damp tangle of sheets and groan.