Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (15 page)

“Lucky Bill’s father, a slimy crook by the name of Judge Arthur Sanborn. He was appointed to the bench three months ago by several of his cronies that recently took control of city government.”

“Sounds as if you don’t hold this judge in high regard,” Cotton said, emptying the last dregs of coffee from the cup.

“I don’t. The man is the lowest form of life. He’s akin to all the other cockroaches scurryin’ under things to feast on garbage.”

“But he’s the reason you’re doggin’ me?”

“Seems like.”

“What led you to the Wagner ranch?”

“Reckon I do owe you an explanation of sorts. Interested?”

“Got nothin’ better to do.”

“Judge Sanborn isn’t the only kind of trash blowin’ across these lands. You’ve got yourself a handful with the likes of Bart Havens.”

“I’m more than aware of him and his underhanded dealings. He’s tried to bite me before.”

“And on that particular occasion, so I’m told, you came out on top.”

“Seems so.”

“It may not be so easy this time. He’s trying to boost his odds of winning this hand with a stacked deck. He’s hedged his bet with some of the meanest gunhands in the Territory.”

“How did you come by this information?” Cotton cocked his head questioningly.

“I’ve been paid a thousand dollars to be one of them.”

“Y
ou? You took money to kill me?”

“Yeah, I did. I took Havens’s money to kill you the same as four others had. Of course, the man who was making the deal for Havens didn’t know I wasn’t who he thought I was.”

Cotton’s hand slipped ever so slowly to rest on the butt of his Colt revolver. While the man had just admitted to being in on a nefarious plan to kill him and likely Jack, as well, he was baffled by the man’s admission that he was playing both sides of the fence.
Who openly admits to being part of a murder plot?

“And just who are you?”

“You ever hear of a gunslinger by the name of Comanche Dan Sobro?”

“Of course. Never met the man, though. Just as soon not from what I’ve heard of his reputation for makin’ trouble.”

“Good.”

“Good, what?”

“It’s good you never met him. Nasty hombre that Sobro,
mean and ugly—­well maybe not so ugly,” the man said with a wry grin.

Cotton frowned at whatever the man was trying to say, which wasn’t any clearer than mud at that moment.

“What’s this fellow have to do with me?”

“He’s one of several men who have been paid a thousand dollars each to gun you down.”

“So that’s Havens’s new approach. I reckon I shouldn’t be surprised. What’s your part in all this?”

“Havens and his other gunslingers think
I’m
Comanche Dan Sobro.”

Cotton’s Colt was out of his cross-­draw holster in a flash. The man calling himself Comanche Dan was looking down the barrel of the .45 before he could blink. But the man made no move for his own gun, nor did he even flinch at the sight of Cotton’s gun pointed at his head.

“It’d be a good idea for both of us if you’d let me finish my story before you pull that trigger, Sheriff.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“About a month back, I came across Comanche Dan after tracking him for a stage holdup in Big Bend country. During my attempt to take him into custody, he made it clear he didn’t want to be taken in. I had to eliminate him. Comanche Dan Sobro is deader than a rock. Havens and his hired killers, however, don’t know the man they hired as Comanche Dan isn’t who they think he is.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Thorn McCann. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal from Texas.”

Cotton lowered his Colt, eased the hammer down, and slipped it back into its holster.

“So, how’d you come to take on this fellow’s identity? And what brought you here?”

“Like I said, Bart Havens put up a lot of money to see you shot down. I happened to hear of it and figured since the word was going around that one of the men being sought after to join the effort was Sobro, I couldn’t help but look into what the deal was. When I heard it was a plan to
kill a sheriff—­and a man I had a warrant for—­I naturally had to figure a way to put a stop to it. Can’t have thugs and miscreants shootin’ down our duly elected lawmen, now, can we?”

“Reckon not, Marshal. You got a plan?”

“Since I’d accepted Mr. Havens’s generous offer, I figured to see what the setup was, that is until I found out who the sheriff was they hoped to gun down.”

“That make a difference?”

“Some. You got a reputation for bein’ fast and deadly. It’d be a loss to your community if some of these lowlifes took it into their whiskey-­soaked brains to back-­shoot you, so that’s why I figured to seek you out
before
I arrived at Apache Springs.”

“How’d you know I might be at the Wagner ranch?”

“I heard a story a while back that you put a stop to some devilment instigated by one very nasty hombre: Virgil Cruz. I also heard you were wounded and had lain up at a nearby ranch to heal up. I asked at a couple of the ranches around here and they led me to the Wagner place. Some fella named Cappy Brennan put me on your trail.”

“I don’t mind tellin’ you I’m happy as a pig in slop that I can look forward to one less gun pointin’ my way,” Cotton said. “Of course, there is that warrant you mentioned before.”

“Let’s worry about that later. First, what do you figure would be the best way to get word to you if I hear Havens has his plan complete and bullets could fly at any time?”

“I have a deputy goes by the name of Memphis Jack Stump. I’ll have to tell him about you so he can rest easy that at least one of the gunslingers recently seen wanderin’ our quiet streets isn’t what he seems. Until the town gets downwind of Havens and his crooked dealin’s, I reckon you best stop by the Wagner ranch whenever you need to contact me. Emily can get word to me.”

“Emily? That the good-­lookin’ lady at the Wagner ranch?”

“Uh-­huh, and don’t go getting’ any ideas. She’s spoken for.”

McCann held up both hands and said, “Worry not, Sheriff, I’m not a man to cut in on another fella’s dance card.”

Cotton stood up, leaned over to shake the marshal’s hand, and said, “Since we both seem to be singin’ out of the same hymnal, I reckon I can get back to town and relieve Jack of some worry about you joinin’ the Havens bunch. He’ll be a lot easier to live with knowin’ there’s at least one less back-­shooter lurking in the shadows.”

“I
hear you been real chummy with that deputy, Memphis Jack Stump. That
is
his name, isn’t it?”

“We’ve, uh, known each other for a long time, Bart, long before I ever met you. It—­it’s nothing but an old friendship, nuthin’ else. I swear.”

Without warning, Bart reached out and backhanded Delilah across the face, hard enough to knock her sprawling to the floor. She struggled to get to her feet from a tangle of skirts as she rubbed her cheek. He’d hit her hard; his fancy gold ring cut the corner of her mouth. A trickle of blood dropped on her high-­neck silk blouse. The shock of Bart’s sudden reaction to finding out about Jack had taken its toll on her normally cool demeanor. She began to sob. Bart pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and threw it at her.

“Here, get yourself cleaned up and presentable to go down for dinner. And never let me hear that you’ve even
spoken
his name again, let alone met with him. Not that he’ll be around much longer, anyway. As goes the sheriff, so goes the deputy,” he said, with a contemptuous sneer.

Delilah was still shaking as she poured water from a hand-­painted ewer into a ceramic bowl. On the wall above hung a small, round Chatham mirror. She dipped a corner of the handkerchief in the water and began dabbing at the cut to stem the flow of blood. She was still sniffling as she changed out of the bloodstained blouse and into another. Bart leaned on the window frame and stared at the comings and goings of the townsfolk and ranch hands as they conducted their business, oblivious to Bart Havens and his temperamental outburst. A light breeze wafted the curtains.

“Hurry it up. I’ve grown quite hungry all of a sudden. A rush of excitement does that to me.”

Delilah sat across from Bart with her hands folded in her lap, reminiscent of a scolded child. Her face was still red, and her lip was beginning to turn blue. After ordering lunch for both of them, Bart pulled a folded paper from his vest pocket, opened it, and began issuing orders like a general planning a campaign.

“The Havens Bank will open its doors for the first time at precisely nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You will be there in front of the counter to greet each and every prospective customer. I’m certain there will be lots of townsfolk curious about who we are and what benefit we might offer to their businesses. You are to send each one directly to me, keeping all others engaged in friendly conversation until I am free after each interview. You can then send the next person in line to me. Is that clear?”

“Y-­yes, Bart, er, Mr. Havens.”

“Good. Many will try to get as much information as possible from you, but you are to defer to me on every occasion. You may simply explain that we intend to make the best loan arrangements possible, easily beating the competing bank’s exorbitant rates. You may let them know, too, that we’ll be offering excellent interest on deposits. That is as far as you may venture into the business end. Do you follow me?”

“I do.”

“The first day will, I suspect, be fairly busy. After that, the curiosity will taper off and serious deals will start coming our way. We’ll just have to be patient, letting the town get used to having two banks instead of one. Once we’ve secured sufficient loans and bank deposits to squeeze Darnell Givins to the breaking point, he’ll want to make a deal. That’s when we take him down and begin foreclosing on outstanding loans, the ones where nobody thought to read the fine print at the bottom of their contracts.” He leaned over to whisper so that no one could overhear him as he spelled out his treacherous plan to destroy the community of Apache Springs. His disingenuous smile as he spoke belied his hatred for anything and anyone who had any contact at all with his most hated enemy: Sheriff Burke.

He sat back with a satisfied smile and looked around at the other patrons, giving each a nod and a cheery “Good day.” When their lunches came, he quite properly helped Delilah with the plate of potatoes—­too heavy by far for such a dainty lady—­and passed the bread, butter, and beans. He dabbed at his mouth after each bite, replacing his napkin across his thigh and putting his fork down as he chewed. His manners were perfect, right out of the
Modern European Book of Etiquette
. Other patrons did not fail to notice that he stood head and shoulders above the ruffians and low-­society types they were so used to sharing restaurant tables with. He instinctively picked up on the buzz of appreciation that floated about the room. His confidence grew as his successful performance played out. He knew these suckers were ripe for the picking.

He glanced over at Delilah, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze.

“We’re on our way to winning a very high-­stakes game of poker, my dear. Can you feel it as much as I do?”

She could only return a small smile in acknowledgment without wincing.