Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (16 page)

Comanche Dan strode into the hotel and up to the counter. The man behind it gave him a greeting and Dan asked if he had a room. The man turned the sign-­in book around, handed him a pen, and said he had a nice room near the back. Dan agreed and signed in. The man handed him a key and turned away to continue his dusting of the shelves and mailboxes behind him.

Dan had no sooner leaned over to pick up his valise than Bart Havens and the most beautiful woman Dan had ever seen came through the front door. His mouth must have been agape as Bart smiled and approached him.

“Good day to you, Mr. Sobro. May I introduce Delilah Jones? She’s my . . . uh . . .”

“I’m his secretary, Mr., er, Sobro was it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mighty glad to make your acquaintance.” He removed his hat and held it at his side.

“Mr. Sobro, perhaps we’ll have some time to talk later,” Bart said as he took Delilah’s arm and escorted her up the stairs. She glanced back at the gunslinger and gave him a smile that turned his cheeks red.

“She
is
a looker, ain’t she?”

“Huh?” Dan turned to see the man behind the counter following Delilah’s every step up the stairs, almost drooling at the sight.

“Oh, yeah, she is at that,” Dan agreed.

“Although, I must say she didn’t look any too happy when the two of them came down to dinner an hour ago. I don’t know the man personally, but he don’t strike me as a gentleman. Oh, he puts on airs, but down deep, I can’t say as how I’d trust him too far.” Clucking his tongue, the man turned back to his labors as Comanche Dan took the stairs two at a time up to his room.

Dan tried the key to his room and let himself in. He stood momentarily scanning the meager furnishings, then tossed his valise on the chair by the bed. He thought back on what the hotel clerk had said about Havens. From what little he knew of the man, he had to agree. Havens was certainly no gentleman. It hadn’t eluded him that the lovely
lady bore a deepening bruise on her cheek. He doubted it had grown there on its own.

He walked to the room’s only window, one that gave him a commanding view of the roof of the building next door, a butcher shop if memory served. At the end of the long hall was a rear door, likely leading to an outside stairway for use in case of a fire. It would serve him well in sneaking out unnoticed when the need arose. He was certain such a need was not far off.

As he stared out the window at shadows falling across the roof from the false front on the shop across the street, he recalled that his impression of Sheriff Cotton Burke at their brief meeting had been unlike what he’d expected. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but Burke exuded a calm confidence most men in his situation would not have. That and one of the fastest hands with a gun he’d ever seen.

He took off his hat and boots and lay back on the bed. It took very few minutes for him to fall fast asleep.

W
hen Bart entered the bank the next morning, promptly at eight-­fifty, Delilah was standing near the door ready to greet anyone that came in. She nodded as her employer strode in with a pompous air, saying nothing to her, and watched him move to the back where his office sat behind a heavy door. Leaving the door open, he walked around the desk, scanning the room with a slight frown, then sat down. Delilah thought perhaps she should ask him if he wanted coffee or a cigar, anything to occupy his hands as he awaited his first curious customer. After a moment, she decided against it, remembering his treatment of her last evening, and the resulting bruise she had tried to cover with cornstarch powder.

The bank had been open for almost three hours and no one had ventured inside, not even a well-­wisher or a disgruntled customer from the competing bank down the street. Bart was becoming noticeably anxious and frustrated by the lack of attention, easily seen by his pacing back and forth, first in his office, then in the lobby, and finally on the boardwalk
out front. Delilah found Bart’s discomfort strangely satisfying. No man had ever hit her, and she quietly vowed no one would ever do it again. She walked over to the teller’s cage, where a clean-­shaven young man stood patiently behind a barred window. He had counted the dollars Bart had given him for his drawer nearly fifty times. She found herself silently counting with him.

“Mr. Havens failed to introduce us. I’m Delilah Jones. What’s your name?”

“B-­Ben Saller. My pa is the blacksmith here in town. I’d always wanted to follow in his footsteps, ’cause every town needs a good blacksmith, but my pa said I had failed to beef up enough to wield the heavy hammer. Reckon he was right. I know I’m on the skinny side, mostly ’cause I was sickly as a kid, but . . .”

“I understand, Ben. No need to explain. It’s nice to be working with you.”

“Yes, ma’am, me too. Boy, I never did figure I’d be workin’ with a lady as beautiful as you. Gosh durn . . .”

“Ben, thank you. You’re sweet to say that, but I don’t think it would be a good thing to say in front of Mr. Havens, if you know what I mean.”

“Uh, yes, ma’am. I’m quiet as a mouse about such things, sure ’nough.”

Delilah turned and walked back to her post near the front door. Bart was still outside pacing. After another half hour, he came back inside and summoned Delilah to his office, shutting the door behind them. They’d no more than gotten inside than he began to rave about the ungrateful miscreants who ran this miserable collection of mud and sticks. How dare they ignore the opportunities he’d laid out his good money to offer them as customers of his bank.

Delilah kept silent as he screamed obscenities at all the ingrates that roamed the miserable streets of Apache Springs. He figured it all had to do with that rotten son of a bitch, Cotton Burke. He’d probably spread the word that Havens wasn’t to be trusted and they should stay away.
They must have believed him and were following his advice, he allowed.

“Do you have any knowledge of what Burke has said about me?”

“No, sir. I’ve never even spoken to the man.”

“Yes, but you’ve spoken to that deputy, and I’ll bet he’s blabbed plenty. What’d he tell you?”

“N-­Nothing, Mr. Havens, I swear. He never mentioned the sheriff’s name. Not once.”

“If I find out you’re lying to me, Delilah, I swear I’ll cut you up so bad no man could look at you without turning away in disgust. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“Get out of here and get me something to eat.”

Delilah fairly ran out the door and across the street to the hotel dining room to fetch lunch for her boss, all the while chastising herself for succumbing to his promise to shower her with more money than she’d ever seen before. She’d watched what greed could do to a man, never considering that the principle might one day apply to herself, as well. Now she’d come face-­to-­face with the downside of dreaming of riches and actively chasing that dream.

Cotton had stayed in town for the past two nights. Since Jack had moved to Melody’s newly redecorated saloon and house of prostitution, he had no reason to continue to impose on Emily’s hospitality. Not that he really wanted anything other than to spend his nights with her. All of his nights. That morning, when Cotton stepped into the jail, he found a note lying on his desk. Jack had left it; it was a note from Emily saying she wished to talk to him. It said:
Cotton, I hope you will be coming to the ranch for dinner. I need to discuss a matter with you. Please come
.

Cotton had noticed Marshal Thorn McCann riding into town the day before, still assuming the guise of gunslinger Comanche Dan Sobro. He’d noticed no activity surrounding
Havens’s other gunmen, so he didn’t think Emily’s note had anything to do with them. On the other hand, what else could it be? She wasn’t one to offer up an apology for some misunderstanding that had been born of his reluctance to be forthright with her. She had no reason to do that. He owed
her
the apology, but he was, as yet, not prepared to come clean and risk her seeing him as nothing more than another lawman riding both sides of the fence. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned his killing of Lucky Bill Sanborn to anyone before his unexpected meeting with Thorn McCann. Not once in the five years since it happened.

Nevertheless, if Emily needed to see him, he had little choice but to comply. First, he’d need to locate Jack and tell him where he was going, and he had little doubt as to where he’d find the reluctant deputy.

When he stepped into Melody’s Golden Palace of ­Pleasure—­
as she had so aptly named her revamped saloon—­he couldn’t help but notice how activity had picked up, even that early in the day. Melody drifted down the stairs wearing something long, flowing, and revealing. She made it clear she had no intention of acknowledging his presence. She walked to the bar, asked for a bottle of brandy, then tuned and went upstairs, never glancing back.

Cotton just shook his head as he asked, “You seen Jack today, Arlo?”

“Sure, Sheriff. He’s up there,” Arlo motioned with a shoulder while wiping down the bar top. “Lucky bastard.”

Cotton chuckled at Arlo’s assumption that living with Melody was akin to lying in a bed of roses. As the bartender got to know her better, he’d soon learn the error of his ways. Wondering if he should face Melody’s wrath by walking in on their little love nest brought a frown to the sheriff. Rather than ruin an otherwise peaceful day, he leaned over to the bartender and whispered to him.

“Tell Jack, when he comes down, that I’ll be out at the
Wagner ranch for a few hours. Don’t forget, Arlo, it’s important. No one else needs to know.”

“Okay, Sheriff.”

As the business day neared its end, not one person had stepped inside the new Havens Bank and Loan. Bart was furious by five o’clock, and he let Ben and Delilah know exactly how he felt. Ranting and raving, he roared through to his office, summoned Delilah, and again slammed the door.

“How dare they treat me like this. I’ll teach them not to ignore Bart Havens. First, I want you to put an ad in that weekly piece of trash they call a newspaper. Make it bold. Tell ’em we’re offering loans at no interest to the first ten people who come in. And say that the interest rate on all deposits will start at fifteen percent annually. You got that?”

“I don’t believe it will be printed for three days, uh—­”

“I want the damned thing out no later than tomorrow evening! Pay that ignorant editor enough to change his mind. The greedy bastard will do it for enough money.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” She started to leave, but he grabbed her by the arm. She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong.

“I’m not through. Find Sleeve Jackson and tell him and his boys to meet me here at ten o’clock tonight. Tell him to come in through the back door. They
must not
be seen. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

He released his grip on her and waved her out of the room. He plopped sullenly into his chair, tapping his fingers on the desktop as he swore a stream of obscenities under his breath.

“J
ack, I’m concerned about some of those gun toters that have been hanging around downstairs. Where’d they come from? I haven’t seen that many hard cases in one place since right after the war,” Melody said as she slipped out of her lacy gown and sat on the edge of the bed. Jack was propped up on several pillows with his fingers interlocked behind his head.

“If what Cotton suspects is true, they are here at the request of Bart Havens. And that’s not good news for any of us.” He reached over to the table next to the bed and took up a glass of brandy, sipping it. “Including you.”

“I don’t give a damn about Cotton Burke, but I do care what happens to you, Jack.”

“Then you better care about him, too, because whatever trouble is coming, I’m up to my ass in it. Remember, Whitey Granville tried to shoot me first.”

“Yeah, but I suspect he meant it for the sheriff.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll never know . . . now. One thing’s for sure, his little brother Plink is in town, and my guess is he wants revenge.”

“Is that your guess or Cotton’s?”

“Does it really make a difference, Melody? A man out to kill someone can just as easily get the wrong man as the right one. Cotton’s the best thing this town ever had, at least that’s what I’m told by damn near everybody I come across. You’d be well advised to soften your hard heart a bit.”