Cotton’s Inferno (9 page)

Chapter 16

I
 . . . uh . . . don't know what that means. What're you saying, Jack?” The look of panic on her face was unmistakable. She may not have known what “salted” meant, but she knew instinctively by the way Jack spit out his words that it wasn't going to be good. She balled up her fist in anticipation of Jack's answer.

“It means, my dear, that Pick Wheeler saw you comin' a mile away. He likely loaded up that old shotgun of his with silver shavings from coins and fired them into the walls. There's no mistaking it. Silver doesn't show up this way.”

Stunned, Melody stood in silence. Her breathing became unsteady, and she looked like she was about to faint. In fact that's what she did, at the same time Jack reached out to catch her. He carried her outside and sat her against a boulder. She was pale and dazed.

“D-does that . . . mean . . . there's no silver? He just stole all my money?”

“I don't know. There may still be some back further in the tunnel. No way to tell until an expert comes out to survey the mine. If you'll recall, that's what I warned you to do in the first place before you handed over all your cash to that old highbinder.”

Jack left her sitting alone, breathing heavily and looking scared. He went back into the mine to have a look around. After several minutes deep inside, he figured he'd seen all he needed to. He blew out the lantern and placed it on a stack of unused beams near the entrance. When he stepped into the sunlight, he saw Melody in a huff, on her way back to the horses. She was understandably anxious to get to town. Jack removed the saddle and bridle from the one mule and the lead rope and pack from the other, then set the two animals to wander freely. He followed after Melody. When they reached the horses, he helped her up. He climbed into his own saddle and eased his horse around.

“Let's go, Melody. There's nothing more to see. You only have to go about ten feet further into the tunnel to see where the silver petered out,” he said, turning to her. He could see the pain in her eyes. Her face was drained of color. But he also saw a flash of something beginning to build. He'd have bet his last dollar she would explode any minute. He didn't have to wait long. When Melody Wakefield got royally pissed off, she could be hell on wheels. It looked like this was going to be one of those times.

* * *

Carp Varner was hunched over the workbench at the gunsmith shop when he heard footsteps behind him. He spun around while at the same time snagging a Smith & Wesson Schofield .45, fully loaded and ready for action. It was his, not one from the pile of well-used firearms set aside for repair. He always kept his at the ready. A gunslinger can never be too careful. This, however, was one of those times when being hasty could have cost him. He came face-to-face with the sheriff, who held both hands in the air.

“Whoa, pardner, no need to be gettin' edgy. A fella could get hurt makin' a false assumption.”

Carp placed the revolver back on the bench and gave the sheriff a guilty grin.

“Yeah, sorry. I've been told before that I sometimes act a tad impulsively when someone sneaks up behind me. I reckon I got a thing about folks comin' up too quiet-like. Didn't mean nothin' by it.”

“Yeah, sure. I probably should have knocked or somethin', although I'm surprised the bell didn't ring.”

“Yeah, I took it down. All that jinglin' set my teeth on edge. You lookin' for somethin' in particular, Sheriff?”

“Just curious. How're you comin' with that bunch of derelicts?”

“I'm getting' on top of it. Most of the problems are from folks not keepin' their firearms clean. Some of 'em were so dirty you could grow corn in the barrels.”

“I'm not surprised. These people are mostly ranchers and farmers. Don't get a chance to use a gun very often.”

“You get a chance to talk to the mayor?” Carp said.

“Not yet. He's been out of town for a few days, a sick sister or something. I'll talk to him as soon as he returns. You keep on with what you're doin'; I figure we'll be able to work somethin' out to your satisfaction. It's no secret, we
need
a gunsmith.”

“Sounds like the town has seen its share of gun toters. That why you're anxious to keep folks armed and ready?”

“Could be, Mr. Varner, could be. But then, I notice you weren't far away from that forty-five you wear. You must feel the need to be ready, too, huh?”

Cotton turned and left the shop before Varner could cobble together an answer.

* * *

When Jack and Melody rode into town, she didn't wait for him to help her down. At that moment being ladylike was the farthest thing from her mind. She stormed up the steps to the saloon and shoved the batwings aside like they were only there to be a nuisance for her. Arlo gave her a greeting, which, as it turned out, was just the catalyst she needed to let the world know she was on the warpath and someone was going to lose his life.

By the time Jack got there, Arlo was standing behind the bar, hands spread apart, with a look of shock on his face. “Uh, hi, Jack. Everything, er, all right?”

“I see Melody let you know she was havin' a bad day, huh?”

“Y-yes, yes, I reckon you could call it that. I . . . d-don't ever recall hearing some of those words come out of a lady's mouth before.”

“Melody just pretends to be a lady, Arlo, you should know that by now. She can be as tough as any hard-bitten range rider on his worst day. Don't worry, she'll get over it.” Jack strolled up the stairs as casually as if he was just dropping by for a visit. He pulled the door to Melody's boudoir closed behind him, whistling softly all the way.

Jack knew he was in for a rough time until Melody figured out it was as much her fault as Pick Wheeler's that she'd been taken. It was she who insisted that he shouldn't just walk away from such a valuable asset. Jack wasn't even sure just where she was in the process of revelation, but one thing he was sure of was that there had been no sign of anyone other than Pick Wheeler, alone, working that gaping hole in the ground. There had
never
been any other miners. In fact, he figured it might be a good idea to talk to Darnell Givins, the bank president, and get his opinion on how much Pick had taken out of his mine and whether he'd ever paid anyone else. But before he could put that plan into action, Melody came out from her curtained powder room and lit into him like a banshee.

“Jack! I need to know where the hell you were when that bastard was stripping me of all my hard-earned cash. Where? What good is a deputy sheriff that doesn't keep law-abiding citizens safe from the likes of a varmint like Wheeler?”

Jack just shook his head in disbelief. It was clear to him that Melody would never accept responsibility for her own predicament.
Greed is a powerful thing.

Chapter 17

C
otton was pensive after his chat with Carp Varner. His misgivings about the stranger came not from any specific knowledge, but from a feeling of mistrust deep down. Although it certainly came partly from the eagerness the man had shown to go for his gun. Cotton tried unsuccessfully to shake his doubts.

Returning to the jail after his ride to the mine, Jack was trying unsuccessfully to hide his anger at Melody's foolishness. No words passed between him and the sheriff before Cotton had a fire going in the stove and a pot of coffee beginning to brew. It took the aroma of boiling Arbuckles' to prod a few words out of either of them.

“Saw you ride in with Melody, Jack.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Pleasurable ride?”

“Huh uh.”

“Wanta talk about it?”

“Hell no!”

“Sounds like the romance has hit a snag.”

“More'n a snag.”

“Hmm. You didn't by any chance take a little trip out to Melody's newest bold venture, did you?”

“Yep,” Jack said, lifting the pot and filling two cups with steaming coffee.

“And you found it to be the bonanza she claimed it was?”

“You know damned well I didn't. In fact, what I found was a mine that had been salted with silver shavings, probably from coins. There's no silver in that godforsaken hole. Nothin' more'n a few rotten timbers and a handful of mice.”

“Ol' Pick played her, huh?”

“And stole a pile of greenbacks from her.”

“What do you figure on doin' about it?”

“What can I do? It's done. He's probably halfway to Chicago by now.”

“Well, in case you hadn't noticed, saltin' a mine is illegal. I'll draft up a wanted poster, if you can get Melody to offer a reward. We'll catch him. Hopefully he won't have spent all her money by the time someone with a need for the reward lays eyes on him.”

“Considerin' all she lost, I'd say a reward is the least she can do. I'll suggest it to her.”

Cotton walked over to the open door, sipping his coffee as he went. He stood in the doorway silently. Jack's temper had cooled somewhat after he'd heard Cotton's common-sense approach to his problem.

“I got a feelin' I'm not the only one around here that should spill what's eatin' 'em.”

“Very perceptive, Jack.”

“Well, lay it out. I'm listenin'.”

“I can't put my finger on it exactly, but there's somethin' not quite right about our new gunsmith, Carp Varner.”

“You figure he's wanted somewhere?”

“I looked through all the dodgers we've collected for over a year now. Can't find anything. Of course, that doesn't mean he hasn't done
somethin'
.”

“Just nothin' you can pin on him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What're you figurin' on doin'?”

“It's what we're both goin' to be doin': keepin' a close eye on him.”

* * *

Carp Varner stood up from his workbench, stretched, and went to the window at the front of the gunsmith shop. He watched the comings and goings of the few people on the street at that time of morning. He then went to the door and turned the key to lock it. He pulled down the shade on the door and turned to begin a task he'd been eager to start since taking over the gunsmith's duties. He went first to the rolltop desk and opened it. Inside he found the many cubicles and small drawers crammed full of papers and small envelopes. He opened each carefully and without haste, so as not to let others, in particular the sheriff, discover his intention to find any hidden money he might secure.

Mostly he found nothing more than a few receipts for work done, a couple of bills unpaid, and five promissory notes. The only stash of money amounted to twenty-five cents in coins.
The old fool wasn't going to get rich fixin' these beat-up shooters. Good thing I've been able to latch onto my own resources.

Looking around for a suitable safe place to keep his own stash, he came across a metal box that could, if needed, be padlocked. Should the need arise, of course. Ironically, it just had. He figured he'd drop in to the hardware store and pick up one of the newest locks available. He pulled out a wad from the saddlebags he'd brought in when he arrived and transferred the contents to the box. He put the box in a desk drawer, covered it with papers, and pushed the drawer closed. Seeing that his search-and-find adventure had left no evidence of his poking around, he raised the blind on the door and unlocked it, turning the
OPEN
sign around for all to see, in particular those who wished to avail themselves of his services. He could hardly contain a wide grin.

* * *

“There was one thing that puzzled me about our goin' to see Pick's mine,” Jack said, settling into a ladder-back chair and leaning against the wall.

“And what was that?”

“Pick's two mules. They were just standin' around, one saddled and the other with its pack rack piled high.”

“Pick wouldn't leave his animals to fend for themselves like that. Why didn't you tell me about this first, before whinin' about poor Melody's circumstances?”

“Well, I didn't remember until just now. Besides, I looked around and didn't see any sign that Pick had even come back after takin' possession of Melody's money.”

“I assume you thought to lead the poor animals back to town and deposit them at the livery. You did do that, didn't you?”

“I unsaddled them and set 'em free. I couldn't leave 'em tryin' to fend for themselves with saddles and tack to contend with.”

“All right, you go down to the stage office and see if the old fool bought a ticket for some place, while I go try to round up a posse.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. You think somethin's happened to ol' Pick?”

“I don't figure we'll know unless we go look. Now, get out of here. I'm goin' to the saloon. I hope there's at least a few fellers that'll still be sober and would be willin' to search for a card-playin' pal.”

“Good luck with that. Way I hear it, Pick Wheeler didn't have many friends.”

Cotton frowned and pointed to the door. His message was clear.

“I'm goin', I'm goin', but don't blame me if you come back empty-handed,” Jack said, shrugging his shoulders.

Cotton followed him out and headed straight for Melody's Golden Palace of Pleasure. He had no sooner arrived than Arlo motioned him over.

“What's going on? I've heard rumors that Pick Wheeler took Melody for a pile of money. That couldn't be right, could it, Sheriff?”

“Where'd you hear these rumors, Arlo?”

“No one in particular. Mostly cowboys jawin' about this and that. Hardly anything useful ever comes along, though. So, is it true?”

“My best advice is to not spread the rumor any farther.”

“So, you aren't saying one way or t'other?”

“I'm just followin' my own advice.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Nope. I'm lookin' for some volunteers to ride out and see if we can scare up ol' Pick. Know anyone who's got some time on his hands and don't know what to do with it?”

“Pick's missing?”

“Looks that way.”

“Well, them boys at the back table are mostly talking about the woes of the world. I haven't seen a card fall yet. Might ask them.”

“Obliged.” Cotton sauntered back to the table with four cowboys, each leaning back in his chair, more interested in sharing his thoughts on the state of affairs in New Mexico Territory than in a card game. “Howdy, boys. How'd you fellas like to take a ride into the countryside? I could use some help locatin' one of your friends, now apparently missin'.”

“You lookin' to deputize us, Sheriff?”

“It isn't necessary, but if you'd feel better about goin', I'd be willin' to swear you in.”

All four scooted their chairs back and stood, ready to follow the sheriff's lead. One of the cowboys spoke up.

“Who did you say we was lookin' for, Sheriff?”

“Pick Wheeler. Does it matter?”

“Does to me,” said one of the men. He turned around and went back to sit at the table. Another followed him. Cotton was down to two volunteers, and he hadn't even left the saloon.

By the time they reached the door, Jack was on his way over.

“Did he take the stage, Jack?”

“'Fraid not. No one at the stage office has seen hide nor hair of him in a month of Sundays.”

“Then how do you figure he left town?”

“He rode his mule and took his pack with him, too. He didn't sell them to Melody. They weren't part of the deal.”

“So the animals found their way back to the mine without Pick?”

“Looks like. I wonder if he stopped the stage on his way, decidin' he didn't want to get to Albuquerque with two mules he no longer needed, and released the critters to forage on their own,” Jack said.

“Lettin' mules wander off on their own without takin' the saddle and pack off, well, that don't seem like somethin' Pick Wheeler would do, even as nasty a character as he is,” Cotton said, rubbing his stubbly chin.

“Then, we'd better get these fellows sworn in and saddle up,” Jack said, clearly getting anxious to solve Melody's problem so she'd get off his back. “Maybe we can figure out where all that blood came from, too.”

“What! You found blood! Why the hell didn't you tell me?” Cotton sucked in a lungful of air and let it out in disgust. He slammed through the door.