Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (31 page)

A
half hour before the game was supposed to begin, Cotton and Jack huddled at the jail to go over last minute plans to deal with Bart’s intentions to have the evening end with their demise. Cotton checked his Colt and slid it back into his cross-­draw holster. He had loaded a .45-­caliber Winchester carbine, too. Jack was, as usual, carrying his Remington .44, but this time he planned a little extra armament. He’d slid Melody’s two-­shot, .41-­caliber derringer into his belt. She wasn’t aware he’d filched it from her dresser drawer, but he was confident she wouldn’t mind, since it could end up saving a life, possibly his. And she liked the way he warmed her sheets.

“You figure that Oliver kid got to the Wagner spread in time? It’s been nearly three hours since he left.”

“He’s a good kid. I can’t see him dallyin’ on the way, knowin’ how important it is.”

“Which side you figure that feller callin’ himself Comanche Dan will fall on?”

“That’s a damned good question. He’s lookin’ at collectin’good question.
a two-­thousand-­dollar reward whichever side he decides to take. However, I have to believe he wouldn’t have stuck his neck out and told me who he was if he figured to turn on me. I have a hunch he has somethin’ else in mind. I don’t know yet what that is, but until I do, I aim to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least as much as I can.”

“Okay, one more time: you’re goin’ to be outside the back door, so’s you can come in behind Black Duck and that drunken Granville kid, right?”

“Right. I figure they’ll be expectin’ me to burst through the batwings and that just might give me an extra second of surprise. I’ll need it.”

“If Henry Coyote gets here in time, what’s your plan for him?”

“You’re goin’ to need to warn Melody of the possibility of trouble, then let her know we want Henry situated on the balcony where he can see everyone in the room. You don’t think she’ll give you any argument on that, will she?”

“Who the hell knows where Melody stands on anything?”

“I see your point. Did you talk to Arlo?”

“Yep. He understands and promises to be ready with that blunderbuss he keeps hidden under the bar.”

“Reckon we might as well get started. You have to get there and choose the seat you want. That’ll force the Coleman boys to make their play on
your
terms.”

They left the jail and split up halfway down the street, with Jack heading straight for the saloon, up the steps, and through the batwings. The tinkle of piano keys accompanied by a few sour notes from a fiddle drifted through the open windows. He went upstairs to inform Melody about Henry Coyote, then came back down, eyeing everyone who had entered the room.

He sauntered over to the large table Arlo had set up, walked halfway around it, scooted a chair out, and sat. The way he figured it, the Coleman boys would want to position
themselves in such a way as to get him in a cross fire. His getting there first changed where the Coleman boys could sit. That meant that each of them would have his back to either the front or the rear door, putting them at a disadvantage.

Jack hadn’t been seated more than a few minutes when Farley and Cress Coleman entered, looked around, and spotted the table for their rigged game—­two well-­dressed gentlemen, attired in pressed suits and boiled shirts with starched collars and string ties. They looked at each other and frowned. Jack figured it was because they had planned on getting there first and choosing the chairs they wanted before anyone else had any say-­so. Jack just sat quietly shuffling a deck of cards, showing off his dexterity with the pasteboards. He knew Farley and Cress would want a new deck, since they’d immediately be suspicious of his handling the cards before anyone else could watch and make sure nothing funny was going on. Jack had absolutely no intention of marking or shaving any cards, but he wanted Farley to start a ruckus about getting a fresh deck. That was Jack’s way of heightening the tension between him and the one Coleman brother with the deadliest reputation.

Jack was slouched in his chair with his Remington in his lap, out of sight. The Colemans approached the table, waved Arlo over to bring a bottle of whiskey, and Farley reached across to shake Jack’s hand. Jack made him reach as far as he could, not accommodating him by leaning forward. Farley grimaced at the slight, and Cress didn’t bother to introduce himself.

“You’re Memphis Jack Stump, the town’s
deputy
?” Farley said with a note of obvious disdain coloring his attitude.

“You win the first hand, Mr. Coleman,” Jack said.

“Will others be joining us?” Farley asked.

“I reckon some will wander in after a couple hands. Folks around here are a cautious lot. They’ll want to be sure everything is on the up-­and-­up.”

“That’s the only way we play, Mr. Stump, the only way we play.”

“Call me Jack, and that’s not the way I’ve heard it.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Cress said.

“Well, it seems someone up in Albuquerque took offense to your pluggin’ some fellow for havin’ an extra ace. Sheriff over there says after investigatin’ that didn’t appear to be the case, and they’re now callin’ it murder. So, there’s a reward out for you boys. I think I heard somethin’ about five hundred dollars.”

“You plannin’ on collecting that reward, Deputy?”

“Nope. I’m just here for a friendly game of poker.”

“Good. Good. That’s the kind of talk we like to hear, isn’t it, Cress?”

“Uh-­huh.” By his response, it was obvious Cress wasn’t the talkative one. Jack also noted a touch of distress in his attitude after learning of the reward for murder.

Over the tinny music and the buzz of conversation from patrons who’d come to watch the action, Jack heard someone walking on the balcony above him. It wasn’t Melody, as she wore silk and satin dresses that made a distinctive sound as they brushed the railing whenever she sashayed by. These steps were nearly silent. If it hadn’t been for the creaking of a loose floorboard, he’d never have known there was someone standing right above him. And it could only have been Henry Coyote, whose stealth was unlike any other he knew. Jack grinned knowingly, but kept his eyes on the two gamblers.

“Mr. Bartender, could you please bring over a fresh deck of cards? One still in the box, if you wouldn’t mind,” Farley said. “No offense, Deputy, but I like cards that haven’t been shuffled about. Too many possibilities of, um—­”

“Tomfoolery?” Jack offered.

“Yes, I believe you’ve caught my meaning. So, shall we get started?” Farley opened the deck of cards Arlo had placed in front of him and cut them, after peeling off the joker and a couple of extras telling who’d printed the deck and where new ones could be ordered. Farley had obviously
decided he’d be the dealer, at least for the first few hands. Jack made no objection.

Arlo was clearly nervous, so he brought the shotgun from beneath the bar and leaned it against the back bar. Since Farley and Cress were facing away from the bartender, they didn’t see his attempt at subtlety. Slowly, cowboys and others intent on getting liquored up along with watching some out-­of-­town gamblers get cleaned out by their own deputy began to gather around. That’s when Comanche Dan, Plink, and Black Duck wandered in, surveyed the crowd, then took up positions around the room, each with a clear shot at the batwings.

The stage was set for Bart’s gunslingers to spring their trap, none of them knowing, however, that the sheriff and the deputy were aware of what was to come and were prepared. For the first half hour, Jack wasn’t doing well. He was down by twenty-­five dollars, nearly half the amount Cotton had given him to play with. Then, quite suddenly, he began to rake in some pots, three in a row, in fact. He could see how Farley was manipulating the cards to let him win after dealing off the bottom in the beginning. But Jack’s insights weren’t enough to keep the surprise from his usual poker face as the sound of leather shoes descending the stairs caught his attention. Then he heard that familiar voice, as the smoke and the smell of whiskey and beer were suddenly diluted with the sweet smell of gardenias.

“Jack, honey, you haven’t introduced me to your new poker friends.” Melody, making one of her famously flamboyant entrances, strolled to the table, leaned over sufficiently to reveal enough cleavage to make any man shiver clear down to his boots, and reached out to Farley to shake hands. Her long blond curls fell gently off her shoulders. She wore a cameo broach at her throat, attached to a black velvet choker. Her lips were moist and as red as the setting sun.

Farley swallowed hard, took her hand, and gave it a gentlemanly light kiss. Cress just followed her every move with his eyes, trying hard to hide his sudden desire. Jack
was amused, at first. That disappeared at Melody’s next move.

“Jack, have you seen my derringer?” she said, with an air of accusation. “I was certain I’d left it in my dresser, but now I can’t find it. I seem to be getting forgetful. Did you borrow it?” She began to step away, giving the gamblers an enticing smile.

M
elody’s interjecting herself into a dangerous situation had Jack unsettled. He’d always been a good gunhand, but he wasn’t used to having to consider the safety of some innocent bystander, especially a woman, before making his play. And he was as certain as the sun would rise in the east that the Coleman boys were close to carrying out Bart’s dastardly plan. He was right. Farley took advantage of Melody drawing attention to herself by suddenly leaping to his feet and shouting, “Cheat! Cheat! This damned card shark’s been palming cards! Everybody in this godforsaken place saw it!
Damn
your thieving ways!”

Both Farley and Cress started for their guns. Farley’s came up first, as Jack had assumed it would. He cocked his Remington that lay in his lap and fired right through the pinewood table, blowing a hole the size of a fist and catching Farley in the neck with a .44-­caliber bullet, along with a fair amount of wood splinters for good measure. Farley grasped his throat and gasped in a useless attempt to call out to Cress. He toppled over backward like a felled oak
and crashed to the floor. Blood gushed from his severed carotid artery.

Cress hesitated at seeing what had happened to his brother. But having started his move, he whirled toward Jack. That split second of indecision was enough to allow Jack to pull his revolver from beneath the table and level it at Cress, firing just as his adversary squeezed off a hasty shot. Jack’s bullet hit Cress in the heart, knocking him backward into another table, scattering those who’d been seated there, before he slid to the floor from the overturned tabletop.

Jack grabbed his left shoulder as pain shot through him. Blood began forming a splotchy mess on his white shirt, the only good one he had. Cress’s shot hadn’t completely missed. Melody screamed and grabbed him, sobbing at the sight of him being wounded. She helped him back into his chair. But the action in Melody’s Palace of Pleasure wasn’t over by a long shot.

As Black Duck Slater, Comanche Dan, and Plink Granville all faced the front entrance, fully expecting the sheriff to come racing through at any second, a voice from the rear startled them all. Black Duck’s hand went immediately to his Colt. Plink fumbled to retrieve his revolver. Comanche Dan made no move, remaining where he had been all along, leaning against the wall near a window, arms crossed over his chest, as he took notice of the Apache on the balcony with a Spencer rifle pointed his direction.

“Lookin’ for me, gents?” Cotton shouted. All eyes turned in his direction.

Black Duck drew in the blink of an eye, but it proved to be too little, too late. Cotton’s Winchester spit fire and smoke before the man could get a fix on the sheriff’s position. Smoke still hung in the air from Jack’s shots, making visibility difficult. Black Duck went down with his Colt drilling a hole in Melody’s newly mopped and waxed floor, nothing more.

Plink Granville then made the biggest mistake he’d ever made. His sudden realization that his destiny lay right in
front of him was an epiphany. Even in his ever-­present drunken fog, his future as a recognized, feared, and respected gunslinger hung in the balance. His future was now.

Shouting that he would get even with the sheriff for killing his brother if it was the last thing he ever did, he kept fumbling to retrieve his revolver from his holster. Cotton yelled at him to stop and he’d live. But Arlo, now holding the shotgun leveled at the boy-­turned-­gunslinger, panicked and pulled the triggers on both barrels. Plink Granville was nearly cut in half by the blast of the twelve-­gauge only five feet away, his six-­shooter still hung up where the hammer had caught in his suspenders.

Cotton called up to Henry on the balcony. “You can hold off on your shot, Henry. Thanks for being here, though. I think the gentleman has chosen to remain neutral in this fight, at least on this occasion.”

Thorn kept his hands away from his gun. He remained where he was with a big, dumb grin spread across his face.

Cotton quickly went to Jack and said, “Are you hit bad?”

Melody shot him an angry glance. “Of course he’s hit bad, you jackass. He’s bleeding, isn’t he?”