Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (34 page)

T
wo weeks had passed before Darnell Givins sauntered into the jail on a sunny morning, looking for the sheriff. Jack told him he was out at the Wagner ranch and that he’d be back by nightfall. Darnell deferred giving out information to Jack, preferring instead to await Cotton’s return. He said something about assuming certain proprieties before elaborating on what he’d found out about the valises containing cash from Bart’s bank. Jack didn’t see that as an affront, but merely a careful banker playing his cards close to the vest, something Jack understood fully.

While Jack was, admittedly, intensely curious about the bank audit, he already had enough memories of Havens’s attempt to destroy Apache Springs and him and Cotton with it. His wound was healing nicely, but there was still lingering pain. The doctor said it should be fine, given time. He had been admonished to take things easy and get plenty of rest. He figured drinking his share of brandy sufficed for taking it easy, but he wasn’t certain whether Melody’s
energetic romps in the bedroom could be considered rest. He doubted it.

Cotton had taken to visiting Emily more often now that the danger posed by a town full of gunslingers had apparently passed. At least the atmosphere in town had lost the air of uncertainty that had put folks on edge, even if they didn’t completely understand why. Cotton and Emily spent many a cool evening sitting on the porch swing chatting about this and that, but never delving into anything of real substance, much to her displeasure. She had been hoping for some time that Cotton would make the leap toward a firm commitment between them. He wasn’t an easy man to read. If necessary, she would be happy with whatever time he could spare for her, rather than abandon all hope for any future together. She would much rather have him near her on his terms than tied to her apron strings and miserable. He was a wild stallion, needing his freedom and his space, and she knew and understood that. She was not cut out to be a mother hen, anyway.

“Have you any word on whose money it was that Havens took from his bank?”

“Not yet, but I think I’ll ride into town early in the morning. The auditor has had four days to come to some conclusion. I want to be there when he releases his findings.”

“You sound doubtful that the outcome will find favor with the folks in Apache Springs. Why is that?”

“This whole affair is more complicated than it seems. Bart Havens was a devious, deceitful man, never one to leave an obvious trail to his dealings. It’s conceivable we’ll not be any closer to finding all the answers to this sordid mess than when Thorn brought that money back.”

“At least he
did
bring it back. That should be worthy of credit, shouldn’t it?”

“At first glance, I agree. I don’t think we know the complete story, that’s all.”

“Is there any chance Havens didn’t keep accurate records, since it seems he planned all along to steal everyone’s money and leave the town high and dry?”

“There’s more than a chance. My guess is we’ll find he deliberately manipulated the entries because, if someone should have called him to task before he could get out of town, he could have shown them his books. It would be their word against his. No one could prove anything against him, unless . . .”

“Unless, what?”

“Unless he gave each customer a copy of their deposit, figuring they’d probably lose it or destroy it, assuming they didn’t need another piece of paper lying around. And . . .”

“And what?”

“And those crafty old ranchers and penny-­pinching businessmen had a habit of keeping every scrap of paper that might affect their finances, yesterday, tomorrow, or ever.”

“That sounds more like the ranchers I know. Well, while you’re mulling over the workings of a dead man’s mind, I’m getting ready for bed. There’s coffee on the stove if you want some before you turn in,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Cotton watched her leave the room with the grace of a swan drifting along on lazy waters. He got up and followed her, saying, “No, I think I’ve had enough coffee for tonight. Besides, you may need someone to watch over you, make sure you don’t have any bad dreams.”

Emily smiled seductively. “Good idea.”

The next morning, Cotton kissed Emily before mounting his mare and riding down the gravel-­strewn hill through the open gate. His thoughts had yet to leave the comfort of Emily’s charms, but niggling questions left unanswered about Havens still haunted him. Where had Havens been headed, why was he killed, and what could even a qualified auditor ever hope to make out of the wads of cash in those bags?
He felt both relief from the demise of Havens and his henchmen, and a gnawing sense of his own vulnerability that a man with such devious intentions could so easily ride into town, set up shop, and begin fleecing the citizenry as if there were no laws or lawmen to prevent it.

The sun beat down relentlessly, promising another scorcher after a day of drizzly rain. The wetted ground held the moisture only for a few hours, for whatever time it took the roots of grasses and shrubs to have a drink before the heat of the day drew out the little remaining dampness and baked the ground once again, beginning the cycle of nature all over. He was surrounded by evidence of life struggling to hang on in a harsh land. How the hills managed to burst forth in spring and fall with the delirious colors of bountiful wildflowers was a mystery to him.

He wiped perspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

Cotton let his horse pick the pace, and, for the time being, a slow, steady jaunt seemed to suit them both just fine. As he entered the town’s limits, he was aware of the smell of the fresh-­cut pine boards, newly hammered into place to serve as walls for yet another business, another hopeful entrepreneur seeking his fortune. The town had recently seen a boom in new businesses. And an eclectic mix of wooden, adobe, and temporary canvas-­covered buildings greeted him as he headed down the main street. In front of the jail he saw a small crowd of people gathered. Some were shouting angrily, others merely standing by as observers, seemingly content to see what would happen if those more boisterous individuals got things stirred up sufficiently to warrant action by the law.

Jack was out front, armed with a coach gun, likely filled with nothing more than salt. After all, even in a confrontation with a crowd, the objective wasn’t to blow folks into the next county, but to discourage them from becoming rowdy enough to do damage to property or bring harm to other people. As Cotton rode up, he purposely urged his horse through the crowd, bumping some people aside, or
making bystanders make way. When he dismounted, he put his hand on the handle of his Colt, forging a path toward Jack.

“What’s this all about?” Cotton shouted, turning to the noisiest of those gathered.

“That bastard stole our money and we want it back. Now!” shouted the man closest to him.

“Your money is safe. Now, go on about your business and I’ll let you know when you can get your hands on it. Right now it’s in the bank being accounted for by some bank fellow from Albuquerque.”

“How do we know you aren’t pullin’ a fast one on us like Havens did?”

“Because most of you know me, and you know I don’t operate that way.”

“We figured we could trust a banker, too, and look where that got us.”

“I understand your frustration. Bart Havens was nothing more than a con man. But he’s dead, and the town has to unravel the mess he created. So if you’ll just do us the courtesy of settlin’ down and go on back to your businesses or families, you have my word things will work out.”

The crowd slowly broke up, and with considerable grumbling and cursing under their breath, all departed. Some went to the saloon, probably to build up some more courage, while others went inside their own shops or walked their horses down the street to the stable. Cotton figured many planned to stay close-­by until there was some resolution as to the disposition of their assets.

Jack wiped sweat from his face with a damp handkerchief. He stuffed it back in his pocket and blew out air. “Whew. Damned glad you decided to ride up when you did. Things weren’t goin’ real smooth.” He led the way back inside and put the shotgun back in the rack.

“They did appear somewhat touchy, didn’t they, but you seemed to be handlin’ things fine. You hear from Givins yet?”

“Yeah. He said to tell you to come down to the bank the
minute you got back. I think he’s got news—­whether it’s good or bad, I can’t say.”

“It better be good. Right about now, that’s the only kind those folks are gonna accept. You comin’?”

“I think I better stick around and load up all the rifles, shotguns, and six-­shooters just in case it don’t turn out the way you want it to.”

“Jack, you’re too much of a skeptic.” Cotton merely shook his head as he walked away.

W
hen Cotton walked into the Apache Springs Bank and Loan, Darnell Givins looked up from his desk and gave a wide smile, which from Darnell was startling to anyone who knew him. He had a reputation for being the most staid, expressionless individual anyone ever did see. Cotton had always felt he’d have been a better undertaker than a banker.

“G’morning, Sheriff. And I do mean
good
!” Darnell stuck out his hand in greeting.

“You suggestin’ you can account for all those folks’ money, Darnell?”

“It’s more than a suggestion. We got proof. Whatever else that snake Havens was, he was damned good at keeping records. Every cent those folks deposited in his bank is in these ledgers. We found them at the bottom of each satchel. And they all added up.”

“So, while he was tryin’ to steal every red cent the citizens had, he still kept a good accountin’ of it all?” Cotton was clearly puzzled by why a man who’d set out from the
beginning to defraud a whole town was careful with his record keeping. He scratched his head, took off his hat, then settled it back on.

“I got no explanation, Sheriff, but I’m sure glad he did it,” Darnell said, about ready to bust a button off his suspenders.

“The folks’ll be damned glad to get the news.”

“That’s what I figured. So, how about me going to the newspaper and having the printer make up a batch of flyers to distribute around town? That way, everybody gets the good news at the same time.”

“Now, just for the record, every last cent in those bags is accounted for, no shortages, no extras?”

“That’s right. To the penny.”

“Thanks, Darnell. I’ll leave you to your work,” Cotton said.

“That seems to be the long and short of it, Jack. Every penny, the man said.”

“That’ll be damn good news to a lot of folks. I think Melody even put her money with Havens, probably because of the promise of a big return. You know how Melody is. She never passes on a good deal, especially if she can add to her poke.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then how come you look so down in the mouth? Emily didn’t make you wash dishes or somethin’, did she?” Jack burst into a grin that was half devil and half little boy.

“It’s just that the whole thing doesn’t make a lot of sense. That’s what.”

“What sense? Folks are goin’ to get their hard-­earned money back. What’s there to make sense of?”

Cotton shrugged and walked outside. He sighed and stepped into the street. Jack stood in the doorway and watched.

“Where you off to now?”

“I’m goin’ to have some coffee, maybe a piece of pie,
and contemplate just what I do mean, seein’ as how I’m not real sure myself. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Jack was puzzled by the direction the sheriff seemed headed.

Far as I know, there isn’t any pie and coffee at the undertaker’s
.

The town’s undertaker served not only to bury the dead, but also to build cabinets, chairs, and bookshelves for the businesses and homes in and around Apache Springs. He was finishing a nice table as the sheriff walked in. A bell above the door tinkled its announcement of a visitor. The undertaker had put it there so someone just stopping by to share a pleasantry didn’t walk in on the gruesome sight of a corpse being readied for burial.

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

Cotton nodded a response. “I came to ask a question.”

“Happy to oblige. What would you like to know?”

“Was Bart Havens shot
before
or
after
he was strung up?”

“Before. Why?”

“You’re sure?”

“When you’ve seen as many men as I have who’ve had their neck stretched, you wouldn’t be asking that.”

“So, someone shot him, then strung him up to make it look like he’d been hanged?”

“As I see it, that’s exactly what happened. Not the first time I’ve seen such a thing. But there’s a distinct difference between a death by hanging and one by gunshot. Havens was shot first. I’d stake my life on it. Don’t seem to me to be important, though. He’s still dead.”

“Reckon he is at that.”

“Anything else you want to know?”

“That about does it. Thanks for your time,” Cotton said as he left. The bell tinkled at his departure just as it had on his arrival. He looked up to see Jack running toward him.

“What’s the problem, Jack?”