Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (33 page)

The undertaker had brought his buckboard to haul the body of Havens back to town. It bounced over the dips where water flowing downhill from the nearby hills during rainstorms had eroded the roadway. At one particularly rough patch, the pine box that had been brought to carry the corpse nearly bounced out.

The sky was overcast, promising rain later in the day, which would do little to improve their trip back to town. Cotton had been silent the whole way, content to listen to Jack mumble about how convenient it was that Thorn McCann just
happened
to get to the scene of the lynching in time to save the money, but not Havens himself. The only response from Cotton was a grunt. Jack apparently
couldn’t tell if it was an agreement or not. Jack continued to mope.

When they arrived at the spot Thorn had described, Cotton sat and stared at the grisly sight dangling from a cottonwood. He urged his horse around, looking at Havens from different angles before he motioned for the undertaker to join him. He was beginning to have second thoughts about having told McCann to stay in town, rather than accompanying them in case other questions arose. Thorn had claimed to be bushed and needing some sleep. They’d mutually agreed that as soon as Cotton and Jack got back with Havens’s body, Thorn would come down to the jail and they would settle the one score that had presumably brought him to town as Comanche Dan in the first place. For some reason that Jack couldn’t fathom, Cotton had been amenable to Thorn’s suggestion, and he made no attempt to hide his feelings.

“Cotton, I never have liked that man, and you know it.”

“Thorn McCann?”

“Yeah. You know who I’m talkin’ about. Don’t act like you don’t.”

“What is it about him you find unsettlin’?”

“I just plain don’t trust him. Don’t give a tinker’s damn that he seems a friendly sort and all that. I figure you’re not of the same mind, but I say what I mean. Always have. No offense.”

Cotton sighed. “None taken.”

They sat beneath the tree from which the body of Bart Havens dangled, the rope creaking from the weight as a slight breeze blew through the limbs, giving the lifeless form an eerie presence. Cotton stared at the corpse. Seeing his enemy and tormentor in death should have made him happy, or at least given him considerable satisfaction. Instead, showing no emotion whatsoever, he dismounted and began examining the ground around the scene for twenty yards. Then, he walked around the body itself, before finally telling the undertaker to help him cut the body down.

Jack wasn’t able to lift any weight, so he merely directed
the others. When they had the body loaded into the pine box, they started back to town. The buckboard rattled and shook, creaking under its added weight, slipping in and out of the ruts.

“What’re we goin’ to do with all that money?” Jack asked. “I gotta tell you I was a little squeamish about leavin’ it all lyin’ around the jail with nobody watchin’ over it.”

“Nobody knows it’s there . . . except Thorn. And the door’s locked,” Cotton said with a wry grin.

“So, when we get back . . .”

“We take it down to Darnell Givins after we’ve gone through all four valises. He’ll probably bring in someone from Albuquerque to audit the account books. They’ll be able to determine how it all shakes out.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Glad you approve.” Cotton looked over at Jack with a raised eyebrow.

“You makin’ fun of me?”

“Never.”

Cotton helped the undertaker unload the pine coffin bearing the remains of the late Mr. Bart Havens, then went to the stables to unsaddle his horse and put her up for the day. Jack had gone on to the jail, apparently anxious about those four valises of cash sitting in there, unguarded. When Cotton walked in, Jack was peering into one of the open cases.

“Have you determined that it’s all there, yet?”

“Since I have no idea what ‘all there’ actually means, the answer is no.”

“Hmm, well, you’re right about one thing; we have no idea how much money Bart left town with. But that’s only part of the story. We don’t know how much he arrived with, either.”

“I hadn’t thought about that, Sheriff. We know he was receiving lots of cash from folks transferring their savings from Darnell’s bank to his, all because the scoundrel promised a high interest rate,” Jack said, frowning with curiosity.
“Folks sure are fickle, ’specially when it comes to money.”

“They are at that.”

“So, you figure that Bart’s own money is mixed up with others’?”

“I think it’s highly likely.”

“When do you want to take it to Givins?”

“No time like the present. I think I can handle three of these, if you can grab the last one. I’ll feel better, and I damned well know you will, when this cash is safe and sound and locked up tight.”

Jack grabbed the fourth valise and followed Cotton outside, down the boardwalk, and into Darnell Givins’s Apache Springs Bank and Loan. Darnell’s eyes grew wide as the four satchels, brimming with cash, were dropped on the desk in front of him.

“What the hell, Sheriff? Where’d all this money come from?” Givins began thumbing through the contents and shaking his head in disbelief.

“The long and short of it is: It came from Havens’s bank. Whose it is, we don’t know. And Havens is dead. So it appears it’ll be up to you to answer all those questions. Oh, and as of this minute, the responsibility to keep it safe also falls squarely on your shoulders.”

“I fully understand. It’s going in the safe this very minute.”

“Can you get an auditor down here from Albuquerque to unravel this mess? There ought to be a set of books somewhere, either in one of the bags or over at Havens’s bank.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Givins was beside himself. Cotton wasn’t sure whether his joy came from having all that money drop from the sky into his lap, or because Bart Havens was dead and gone. And out of his life forever.

Cotton offered to buy Jack’s dinner at the hotel, after which he planned to go the jail and await the arrival of Thorn McCann to wrap up a little personal business.

Jack never turned down free food.

A
s Thorn McCann came strolling across the street, seemingly without a care in the world, Cotton stiffened in his chair. Still not completely comfortable with a man who constantly changed his story, Cotton pulled his Colt out and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. He leaned back in his chair. The first thing Thorn noticed was Cotton’s empty holster. The second thing was Memphis Jack Stump leaning next to the gun rack, his thumbs in his gun belt, right hand very close to his Remington.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff, Deputy.” Both nodded their response.

“So, are you ready to talk about settlin’ that other piece of business we talked about a while back?” Cotton said.

“You’re readin’ my mind, Sheriff.”

“Well, before we go further, I have in my desk a couple of telegrams I received in response to my query a few days back about my status as a wanted fugitive in Texas. Seems the Rangers, the county sheriff, and the U.S. marshal for the district all know nothin’ about any warrant for my arrest.
Furthermore, not one of them had one good thing to say about Judge Sanborn.”

“Hmm. Sounds about right.”

“And that ain’t all. Not one of ’em ever heard of a U.S. Marshal Thorn McCann, neither. Although they all had a passel of words, mostly of a disagreeable nature, to say about a bounty hunter by that name.”

Jack’s hand slid down to the butt of his Remington, probably just in case this conversation didn’t go where Cotton intended.

“And you are lookin’ for some explanation, right?” McCann sighed.

“Uh-­huh.”

“Mind if I sit?”

“Go right ahead. And like I suggested last evenin’, keepin’ your hand well away from that smoke wagon on your hip would amount to some real good thinkin’.”

McCann leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “All that stuff you just said is true, at least as far as it goes. I
am
a bounty hunter. Sorry about the deception. Sometimes I get a little carried away with schemes to get a fugitive to accompany me back for a trial.”

“I also found that this Judge Sanborn is only a justice of the peace. He doesn’t have the power do much more than levy a fine for spittin’ in the street. What do you figure he had in mind by putting a price on my head?” Cotton stared Thorn straight in the eye with a hard look.

“Like I said, all that’s true. Look, he’s offering to pay two thousand dollars out of his own pocket to bring you back for killing his son, Lucky Bill. My job is fulfilling folks’ wishes, that’s all. That and, at the time, I was in dire need of the money.”

“Uh-­huh. But it’s illegal for one man to put a price on another man’s head for his own personal vengeance. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then . . . ?”

Thorn looked away for a moment, as if he were seeking
an answer that would not make him seem like nothing more than a hired killer. His searching eyes told Cotton there wouldn’t be an acceptable answer anytime soon.

“So, what
did
you intend? Since I’ll not go with you willingly, and Jack’ll gut-­shoot you if you try pulling that hogleg on an unarmed man, I figure you better lay your cards out on the table so we can deal with ’em, proper.”

Thorn took a deep breath and let it out.

“I’ve seen what you can do with that Colt. I don’t know if I could beat you or not, but right now I don’t have the stomach for finding out. I been thinkin’ of finding myself a nice soft job somewhere that’ll let me sit back with my feet up on the desk, kinda like what you got here.”

Jack looked over at Cotton and raised his eyebrows.

“So you think dealin’ with a bunch of yahoos that’d just as soon put a hole through your gizzard every time they see you is a soft job, huh? Maybe I ought to turn this one over to you and I’ll just settle down to pushing cattle around and taking my leisure on the front porch with a beautiful woman. You interested?”

“No, thanks.”

“Does that mean you’ll be leavin’ Apache Springs without me in tow?”

“That’s what it means. I really don’t consider trading lead with you a good investment.”

“What about that fat reward?”

“There’ll be other rewards with less risk involved.”

“That what happened to the real Comanche Dan?”

“Truth is, he was too drunk to pull on me. I didn’t have to shoot him, just hauled him to the next town with a sheriff that knew who he was and collected my reward. A bunch of vigilantes, mostly businessmen who’d been robbed or had friends shot by him, dragged him out of that flimsy jail and strung him up before anyone knew he had been captured. Easiest five hundred I ever made.”

“You said it was
you
that killed him,” Jack said.

“Yeah, well, in a manner of speakin’, it was. If I hadn’t brought him in, he’d still be alive and probably addin’ his
gun to Bart’s army. Count your blessings,” Thorn said, with a wily grin.

“I see your point,” Cotton answered.

“Oh, before I leave, if somethin’ comes up and you find yourself in need of another gun, you can reach me in Silver City,” Thorn said, as he put on his hat, hiked up his gun belt, sauntered out into the sunlight, and unhitched his mount. He swung into the saddle.

“Silver City? What made you decide to go there?” Cotton said.

“I heard they’re in need of a town marshal. Thought I’d go see if that’s true. Sounds like a nice quiet place to me.” Thorn gave a salute and turned his horse toward the road out of town, to the south, in the direction of Silver City.

“Good riddance,” Jack said, leaning on the doorjamb.

“Uh-­huh. You figure this whole thing is behind us, now?”

“I suppose. What else could there be? Bart’s dead. All his gunslingers are, too. All wrapped up nice and tidy. And you and me are none the worse for wear—­well, you anyway.”

“Seems like that, doesn’t it? Nothing left now but to wait on that fellow from Albuquerque to come peruse Bart’s ledgers and give us the verdict.”

“After he figures how much of the money belongs to the citizens and how much is Bart’s, what happens to Bart’s portion?” Jack asked.

“Reckon we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it, won’t we?”