Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (2 page)

It was a few minutes after midnight on a Wednesday. He didn’t really expect to find anyone wandering the streets, other than possibly a straggler from the town’s only saloon sleeping off a drunk in a doorway. While he
hoped
to find someone who might have heard the shot and noticed where it had come from, he came away empty-­handed. Directly in back of the saloon, a high wooden stockade fence enclosed an area of several hundred square feet. That fence gave Jack cover to make for the cluster of boulders that rose up the side of the mountain. He cursed as he stumbled over a bucket someone had left in his path. He flattened himself against the wall to await any response from the shooter, who must now know where he was. A minute, maybe two, passed before he dared move deeper into the darkness.

Memphis Jack broke into a hard run toward the nearest of the rocks from where he figured the shot had emanated. He dropped to a crouch as soon as he was certain he was protected sufficiently to scan his surroundings. Making his way around and between boulder after boulder, his Remington held forward and cocked, he swiveled his head in nearly constant motion hoping to catch a glimpse of movement that would give away the shooter’s position. Glad for a sudden glimpse of light from a quarter moon peeking from behind a cloud, he slipped around the largest and highest rock, only to jump at the sound of something skittering away. By instinct, he fired toward the sound. He held his breath as he awaited an answering shot. Nothing. It was clear he was alone. He shook his head at the probability that he’d merely scared the hell out of a desert rat. But he
was now convinced that whoever had taken a shot at him was long gone. He paused before heading back to the jail, turning every few steps to check his back trail.

When he got to the jail, he locked and barred the door behind him and relit the oil lamp. He set the swivel chair behind the desk upright and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. He nervously wiped at his sweaty brow and sighed deeply. He stared at the hole in the door and then turned to the place in the back wall where the bullet had imbedded itself. He took out his pocketknife and stepped to the wall. He dug out the bullet and whistled.

If that sucker had hit me, it would have left a hole big enough to stuff a squirrel in
, he thought. Shaking his head, he went to the desk, took hold of two corners, and gave it a hard tug. The massive walnut desk scooted noisily around to a ninety-­degree angle from the way it had been. He pushed the chair around behind it and sat. Looking at the door, then at the rear wall, he could tell his chair was far enough back. Now, if anybody tried that shot with the expectation of hitting whoever might be sitting behind the desk, they’d be sorely disappointed. Unless, of course, their weapon could shoot around corners.

After pondering the situation for several minutes, Memphis Jack got up, pulled a shotgun from the rack, loaded it with buckshot, and tucked it under his arm. He blew out the lamp on the wall and locked the door behind him. He stayed close to the buildings as he made his way along the boardwalk toward the small house the town had provided for its sheriff. Jack and his consort, Melody, had been allowed to live in it until Sheriff Cotton Burke was healed up after his confrontation with the Cruz gang, during which he had been seriously wounded. Jack had stepped in and saved the sheriff from certain death by killing one of the outlaws before he could get to the wounded lawman and finish the job.

Jack was now heading to Melody’s bed. His near brush with death had him wide awake, so he was taking no chances on giving the shooter another chance at him.
When he pushed open the door to the small clapboard house, hurriedly slipping inside, he was greeted by Melody, already in one of her well-­known snits.

“Where have you been, Jack? I’ve been waiting up for over an hour.”

“Sorry, Melody, I was otherwise occupied.”

“What could have been more important to you than coming home to me?” She leaned on the doorway to the bedroom, pulling back her filmy robe to reveal her ample charms. Her invitation was clear as she subtly raised one eyebrow.

“Nothing much. Just wrestlin’ with a question. That’s all.” Jack leaned the shotgun against the table and unbuckled his gun belt, letting it drop onto the nearest chair.

“A question? That’s what kept you away? A damned question? What question was important enough that you let me sit here all alone twiddling my thumbs?”

“Just wondering why someone wanted to kill me, that’s all.” He plopped onto the couch and leaned back with a sigh.

“What! Someone tried to kill you? Who?”

“Don’t know. I’ll look into it in the morning.”

“Then how do you know someone wanted you dead?”

“The bullet that tore through the door to the jail, missing me by inches. That’s how.”

“Damn! I’ll bet it was someone aiming for that scoundrel Cotton Burke. I’d bet that’s who it was. It’s time we got the hell out of this dreadful collection of run-­down buildings and folks with no backbone. What do you say, honey? You finally ready to pack up and git?”

“Uh-­huh. We’ll talk about it later. Time for bed, Melody.” Jack yawned and fell onto the deep feather mattress. Twenty minutes later, he was still wide awake.

C
atron County Sheriff Cotton Burke slapped the reins across the rump of the dapple-­gray gelding pulling the buckboard. Beside him sat Emily Wagner, owner of the Wagner ranch and the love of his life. Since he’d been staying at her ranch for the past four weeks recovering from a gunshot wound, his deputy, Memphis Jack, had been left in charge of keeping the peace in Apache Springs. But Cotton was completely healed now­–or at least
he
thought so–and growing anxious to return to the job to which he’d been elected. Although Emily had tried in her gentle way to persuade him to remain on the ranch longer to be certain he’d not have a relapse, Cotton wasn’t the type to sit around on the porch in the evening, listening to the crickets, and chatting idly about this and that. Notwithstanding, he was deeply conflicted about his situation as every minute he spent with Emily was like heaven on earth to him. Returning to the world of risking his life had been made more difficult by each day he spent at her ranch.

Emily’s husband had been shot down and killed during a
bank robbery almost three years back, an innocent victim of the treachery of a ruthless gang headed by the notorious Virgil Cruz. Vanzano Cruz, Virgil’s brother, had fallen to Cotton’s deadly accuracy with a gun. Much later, Virgil had also met the same fate. With her husband dead, and the ranch now her responsibility, Emily had accepted the challenge when most folks figured she’d move back to St. Louis, where she’d lived before her marriage. But Emily wasn’t a quitter. In addition to her beauty, Cotton was also attracted to her spunk. He’d been fascinated by her even before her husband died, and now he was free to let her know of his interest. But he’d been reticent to be too forward, desiring instead the easier road of letting things take care of themselves.

Defensive to the point of righteous indignation whenever someone broached the subject of the two of them getting together, he had tried to keep his feelings from spilling out, as, at the mere sight of her, his knees felt weak. His eyes told the story he felt compelled to keep to himself. The simple act of watching as she went about her daily routine caused his heart to beat faster and laid his soul open for anyone to see.

And her offer to nurse him back to health during his convalescence had eased his shyness, and he had slowly revealed his long-standing interest in her. Her answer to his revelation was “What took you so long?”

“Will you be okay driving back to the ranch alone?” he said, knowing full well she’d done it twice weekly ever since her husband’s death. He’d always been protective of her, but now, beginning to verbalize his feelings better, he often let slip his concerns for her safety, especially after her abduction by the Cruz gang. She had more than once expressed disdain for a man who hovers over a woman like a prison warden. That comment always drew him back into his shell for a time. But only temporarily. His overall desire to see her never again experience such a frightening encounter led him to ignore her admonitions and forge ahead as her defender-­in-­waiting, whether she saw it as necessary or not.

“Yes, my overprotective love, I shall, as always, be just fine.”

“Just makin’ certain.”

“After I drop you off at the jail, I’m going to the dry goods store for some things. Do you need anything?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Well, I’m going to get you a couple of new shirts, anyway. Since you have only two, the one with the frayed cuffs and the other with the stitched-­up bullet hole. A pair of socks wouldn’t hurt, either. Shall I pick you up at the jail in about two hours?”

Cotton scratched his head. He needed to get back to the job of being sheriff, but he didn’t know how to tell her. He’d been thinking of moving back into his little house and sending Jack and Melody off to the hotel. He’d need to get the town council’s permission for such an expenditure first, however. And he wasn’t that all-­fired certain of their response.

“Uh, no. I should go to the livery and pick up my horse, that is if she still recognizes me. I’ll, uh, ride out later.”

Emily had been aware that this day would come, but that didn’t stop her from giving him a disappointed pout. She sat silently for a moment and then slapped the reins to move the horse on down the street. Cotton walked to the jail glancing back at her three or four times.

When he stepped up on the boardwalk, he saw the hole in the door. He put his hand on the butt of his Colt as he slowly stepped aside and eased open the door. He found Jack sitting at the rearranged desk, flipping through a stack of wanted dodgers. He looked up at Cotton’s entrance.

“Whooee! If it ain’t my old friend, Cotton Burke. You
are
a sight for sore eyes. I’m real happy you’re able to sit up and take nourishment, pard. If you’re lookin’ to come back to work, I’ll bet I can find a chore or two that won’t stress you too much.” Jack leaned back in the swivel chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and grinned from ear to ear.

“Why, yes, Deputy, I do believe I am able to do a few
small
jobs, provided they can be done from an easy chair. Like that one you’re sittin’ in.”

“Good, very good. Glad you’re back, in that case.”

“Not happy enough to ride out to the Wagner place on occasion to make sure I was gettin’ along okay. Twice, in four long weeks, wasn’t it?”

“I been right busy here, keepin’ the peace in this hellhole you call Apache Springs, so I wasn’t able to tear myself away all that often. You understand.”

“Uh-­huh. A certain whore named Melody comes to mind.”

“Why, Cotton, you really
do
understand.”

“What I
don’t
understand is that hole in the door. You screw up cleanin’ your hogleg, or were you too drunk to know what you were shootin’ at?”

“Now, that hurts, Cotton, that really hurts. How could I do somethin’ so reckless, especially since anything I do could end up tarnishin’
your
fine reputation? We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

“Just give me a straight answer, Jack. Who put the hole in the damned door?”

Jack suddenly got serious. He sat forward, leaning on his elbows.

“I wish I knew. One thing for sure, it come too close to blowin’ my brains all over this dismal office. You could easily be lookin’ down on my cold corpse in front of the undertaker’s.”

“Damn! When did this happen?”

“Last night. It was almost midnight, and I was cleaning my gun. All of a sudden a bullet the size of a fist blew all the way through the office. It buried itself in the back wall. I didn’t hear the shot for a couple of seconds after the damned thing went whizzin’ by. I had just bent down to retrieve my cleanin’ rag when it happened. I tried to find where the shot came from, but in the dark, that proved impossible.”

Cotton looked at the hole in the back wall and, as Jack had, judged the trajectory to be from up in the rocks outside of town.

“Any chance it could have been an accident? Someone out blowin’ off steam? Maybe a stray bullet?”

“Is that really what you think? A bullet fired from a long distance off makes a perfect path across this very desk right where I was sitting a second before, and it could have been an accident?”

“No, I reckon it couldn’t. Someone fully intended to kill one of us. Maybe the question should be which one? And why?”

Jack quickly adopted an all-­too-­familiar attitude. “Since we’re talkin’ attempted murder, I don’t reckon I considered that I might have been the target. Me bein’ the friendly one an’ all.
Damn!
What was it that made you think it might be someone other than you?”

“Don’t be a smartass. It’d likely be best if I stay in town tonight. I need to tell Emily before she leaves. Then, you and I are going to take a ride out to those rocks and see if we can find something that might point us in the direction of an assassin.” Jack was scratching his head as Cotton left to find Emily and give her the news. He knew she’d try to convince him to let his deputy handle things awhile longer, but he knew Cotton wouldn’t do that. Even though he hated leaving her alone.