Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (12 page)

Fuming, Cotton spun around and stormed out of the mayor’s office before he was tempted to take a swing at the pompous jackass.

“Jack, I believe the town is slowly becoming infected with the gunslinger disease.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em, too. So far, I count five; mostly they’re just hanging around and watching. Getting the lay of the land, I reckon.”

“Yep.”

“Havens won’t be far behind.” Jack walked over to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove in the corner.

“Keep your eye on that Delilah you told me about. She may be nothing more than his eyes and ears for getting set up, but it can’t hurt to be alert,” Cotton said, pulling out a sheaf of wanted dodgers from his desk drawer. He plopped them on the middle of the desktop and began leafing through them.

“I already went through those and didn’t spot any of the men I’ve seen,” Jack said, standing at the open door, sipping coffee, and watching every movement up and down the street.

“I did, too, but I figured maybe once more would convince me I hadn’t overlooked something.”

“You goin’ back out to the Wagner place tonight?”

“Uh-­huh.”

“You got anything you want me to be doin’ till mornin’?”

“If you can get Delilah to give you a progress report on how Bart’s newest banking scheme is coming, I’d appreciate knowin’.”

“I figure I’d have to risk life and limb to keep Melody from knowin’ what I’m up to, but I could slip out and go to Delilah’s hotel room real late, maybe pry somethin’ useful outta her.” Jack set his empty coffee cup on the desk with a devilish grin.

Cotton just shook his head. “You do that.”

Cotton slipped from his saddle and was greeted at the door by Emily. Her beautiful face showed concern, her usually sparkling eyes full of trouble. Cotton saw the frown even through the shadows of the porch. He pulled her close and felt her trembling.

“What is it, Emily? What’s wrong?”

“A man came by today looking for you. A hard man with the look of a killer.”

“Did he give a name, or say why he wanted to see me?”

“No.”

“What do you suppose made him come here instead of going to town?”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Describe him.”

“Well, he was about your height, slender, with long black hair that went to his shoulders. He wore a Colt like yours on his hip, and he carried a rifle in his saddle scabbard. He wore a vest with silver conchos.”

“He wear a hat?”

“Yes. It was a broad-­brimmed officer’s hat. Confederate.”

“Confederate? You sure?”

“Very. Otis had one just like it from the war. When he died, I burned it. My family came from Indiana.”

“Thanks. You’re not only beautiful, but you’re also damned observant, Emily Wagner. Now, is there any chance of a steak somewhere inside with my name on it?”

“Uh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I was so upset by that strange visitor, I forgot to ask you to get washed up for supper.” She took his arm and pulled him inside. He tossed his hat on a chair and followed her into the dining room. Two of her hands were just finishing up when they entered.

“José, Ben, how are things in the cattle business?” Cotton said.

“Very good, Sheriff. Looks like you doin’ okay, yourself,” José said and grinned.

With hands on her hips, Emily shot them both a squinty-­eyed frown. The two left the table so quickly one nearly knocked over his chair.

I
n the morning, as Cotton was shaving, Emily slipped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. He lowered the straight razor to avoid accidentally cutting his own throat in case she wanted to start the day with more than a hug. When she pulled away and turned her back to him, she sounded pensive as she said, “Cotton, I couldn’t sleep all night. Kept tossing and turning, worrying about that man. Who was he and what did he want?”

“I’m not certain, but until I know, I’m not going to let it spook me. And you shouldn’t, either. I’ll be fine. But in case he does prove to be a threat, I want you to have Henry Coyote around at all times, except when I’m here, of course.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “I don’t think you realize how worried I am for you, Cotton Burke, but I’ll do as you say.”

She left as he continued scraping soap and whiskers off into the bowl of water.

Cotton pushed open the door to the jail to find Jack once again foraging through wanted dodgers. He had some of them spread across the desk, while others were piled in uneven stacks. Several had even found their way to the floor. Cotton stood staring at his distracted deputy, who apparently had either not taken notice of the sheriff’s entry or was so lost in thought that he failed to see the looming shadow across his disarray.

“What are you looking for? We both looked through those and found nothing.”

“I’m tryin’ to put one of these pictures with another owlhoot that rode into town last night. I’m hopin’ I can stick his worthless butt in one of those cells back there,” Jack said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Although, I’m not sure he’s a gunman, anyway. May be just gettin’ jittery.”

“You aren’t alone. I take it you’ve had no luck.”

“You take it right.” Jack sat back and threw up his hands. “But I know damned well those hombres are part of Havens’s doin’. I just can’t prove it. Yet.”

“You’ll be able to prove it about the time one of them throws down on one of us.”

“Yeah, but then it might be too late. I count a number of ’em.”

“Uh-­huh.” Cotton walked over to the stove and picked up the coffeepot, looked inside, then frowned at what he saw. Or didn’t see. “I reckon you didn’t have time to put some of those dark brown beans in the pot to brew some coffee.”

“I reckon you reckon correct.”

“I’m goin’ down to the hotel for some breakfast. You stayin’ here or taggin’ along?” Cotton said with a grumble.

“Can’t very well sit here alone while you stumble into one of those hard cases on the street and get your fool head shot off, can I?”

“Wouldn’t be good for your continued employment prospects.”

“That’s what I figured. Course, you could sign me to a
long-­term contract while still aboveground, then I might be talked into stickin’ around awhile longer.”

“Check with me after this Havens thing is over. If, that is, we’re both still standin’.”

Cotton pulled a shotgun from the rack and headed for the door. Jack pulled his hat off a wall peg, hiked up his holster, and followed suit. They both looked around to make sure they weren’t walking into something neither one looked forward to. On the way down the boardwalk, neither of them spotted any of the three scruffy gunslingers they’d observed before.

“Hmmm. You suppose all the rattlers took notice of the peace and quiet and figured they were no match for us?” Jack said with a smirk as they mounted the steps to the hotel’s dining room.

A wagon loaded with boards stopped in front of the saloon. From inside, the distinctive sounds of nails being pounded and boards being sawed made their presence known. Melody stood outside, hands on curvy hips, shouting orders like some wartime general. When she noticed Jack, she waved, then quickly returned to whipping her new enterprise into shape.

“Melody ought to consider bein’ a drover, Jack. She could sure make those dogies stay in line,” Cotton mused.

“She does have a way of gettin’ things done. Won’t be long before that place is bringin’ in more business than this town has ever seen.”

“Or more trouble.”

“That, too.”

“Could keep you up nights dealin’ with womanizin’ drunks with loaded guns, Jack. Nothin’ you aren’t already used to, I suppose.”

“Gonzales wasn’t all that tough a town. A couple of drunks now and again. That’s all.”

“And you were one of ’em, as I recall.”

“That’s all in the past, Sheriff, all in the past. But now Apache Springs could pose a different circumstance, ’specially since there seems to be an element bent on addin’ to
their reputation as shootists. And that star on your chest seems a likely target.”

“And that’s just the reason we both have to be alert to every gun-­totin’ rattler that crawls into town. And I do mean ‘every.’”

“You see any of those that looked the type to be Havens’s hires on the way down here?”

“Nope. That’s what worries me. I would rather face two men straight-­on than have to worry about a back-­shooter,” Cotton said, taking a seat in the lunchroom then leaning the shotgun against his leg.

A man with slicked-­down hair and sliver of a mustache came to their table. As soon as they both ordered coffee, the man stopped at another table before retreating into the back room.

“I noticed some fellas comin’ and goin’ from that empty building the mayor said was goin’ to be the location of Havens’s bank. I’d say, another couple weeks and that bastard could come struttin’ into town, all ready to start fleecin’ the locals,” Jack said.

“That’s how he works; although, he normally doesn’t have a small army of gun toters followin’ him around. One, maybe two. I’m wonderin’ if he’s figurin’ on changin’ his tactics.”

“Could be he figures you’re too tough for a single pistolero. You ever think of that?” Jack said, as the coffee arrived along with some biscuits and jam.

Cotton picked up his cup with both hands and blew on the steamy brew. His look was serious, his demeanor calm but direct. He took a sip as his gaze suddenly became distant.

“Something on your mind, Cotton?”

“A rough-­looking hombre stopped by the Wagner place yesterday. Scared Emily, by the sound of it. Said he was looking for me. Didn’t say why.”

“How’d he figure you might be out there?”

Cotton looked down at his cup. “I don’t know. If he’s one of Havens’s men, he might have found out from your friend Delilah.”

“I, uh, don’t recall sayin’ nothin’ to her about your
sleepin’
arrangements. It isn’t none of her business. Of course, I mighta let it slip that you two were, uh, close.”

“What about Melody? She knows where to find me if I’m not in town.”

“I’ll ask. That is, if I can shake her loose for a few minutes of conversation while she’s building that shrine to herself.”

“Good luck.”

Plink Granville sat in sullen silence, nursing glass after glass of watered-­down rotgut whiskey, seemingly oblivious to all the hammering going on around him in Melody’s saloon. Sleeve Jackson’s constant harping about him drinking too much was becoming more than he could stomach. He felt that his hand was steady and up to the task, and he didn’t need Sleeve doing the talking for a pompous jackass in a fancy suit telling him what to do and how to do it. He was slowly getting closer and closer to having had all he could take.

S
leeve Jackson had slipped out of Apache Springs late at night on his way to look up Havens and give him a progress report on the bank. He’d been keeping an eye on the construction inside Havens’s newest venture. He’d tried to keep a sharp lookout for the sheriff and his deputy, neither of whom had paid him much mind, and while he generally found favor with the overall plan, little things picked at him, like a cinch strap wasn’t tight enough. Sleeve liked things neat, all lined up and ordered like a new deck of cards. He didn’t like surprises. He wasn’t certain, however, just how much of what he’d observed over the past three weeks he should pass on to his employer. First, during one of his clandestine evening roamings, lurking in the shadows like a window peeper, he’d spotted an apparent friendship between Delilah and the deputy, Memphis Jack Stump. He had no idea of what might be going on between them, if anything. Had she blabbed Bart’s intention to kill the sheriff? Or was she simply working the trade he assumed she’d come from when Bart found her?