Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (9 page)

W
hile Sleeve Jackson and Buck Kentner stared at each other over a bottle of whiskey, Buck seemed particularly pensive. Sleeve had figured the amount of money he’d offered would not meet with resistance. He was obviously mistaken.

“Tell you what, Buck. If you keep it to yourself,
and
you’re the one that gets the sonofabitch, I’ll make sure there’s a healthy bonus in it for you. But if you spread that around to the others, the deal’s off.”

“It better be damned healthy. Cotton Burke can shoot the head off a fly in midair. Leastways that’s what I’ve heard.”

“I’d have to say that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Suffice to say, he’s quick all right, but he’s still just a man, not unlike others you’ve faced down. Now, you in or not?”

“Yeah, reckon I’m in. Besides, I’m damned near busted, anyway.”

“Good. Now, do you know where I can find Plink Granville?”

“Aww, he’s around somewhere. Probably down at the
Silver Strike. Leastways that’s where he generally hangs out, proppin’ his chin on the bar to keep from fallin’ into the cuspidor. Man’s a fallin’ down drunk, you know. What do you want with a kid like that? He’d be just as likely to shoot himself as he would Burke.”

“Maybe the information I have for him will convince him to sober up for a spell.”

“Yeah, what information is that?”

“Cotton Burke killed his brother, Whitey, last week.”

“Burke got Whitey Granville?”

“Yep. Shot him twice before Whitey could even pull the trigger on that Sharps.”

Buck got a sick look on his face as he stared at his glass. Sleeve noticed a change in the gunslinger’s demeanor at hearing the news. He wasn’t certain he could keep Buck from bolting. But he had to try.

“I know it sounds like Cotton Burke is unbeatable, but he ain’t. One of Virgil Cruz’s men near killed him a month or so back. He’d be dead if it hadn’t been for Memphis Jack Stump.”

“Stump? Damn! Is he in on this thing, too? On Burke’s side?”

“Likely, unless we can take him out.”

“Any more money in the deal for takin’ down the two of ’em?”

“I don’t know. Depends on whether Bart Havens figures Memphis Jack for a threat.”

“He does if he has any sense at all.”

“So, Delilah, what are you doing in town? And how long do you figure on bein’ here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Where are you stayin?”

“The hotel says they’re full up tonight, but I can get a room tomorrow. Maybe I’ll just sit up in the lobby tonight.”

“Not while ol’ Memphis Jack’s got a bed that’ll fit two just fine.”

“You’re suggestin’ I spend the night with you?”

“That’s about the size of it. What do you say?”

“You
do
remember what happened the last time we were together, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, but as I recall it didn’t have nothin’ to do with a problem over the sleepin’ arrangements.”

“No, it had to do with me not wanting anything to do with a whiskey-­soaked drunk. So, unless you’re reformed, I think I’ll just avail myself of one of those plush chairs in the lobby for the night. Thanks, anyway.”

“I have,” Jack said, “reformed, that is.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So, you’ll take me up on my offer after all?”

Delilah slowly broke into a smile. “One night.”

“That’s Plink over there, the one with his head on the table, snorin’ away like a wounded grizzly. Don’t look much like a shootist, does he?” Buck said, as the two of them pushed through the doors of the Silver Strike Saloon.

“No, I reckon he don’t, at that.” Sleeve sauntered up to where Plink Granville had chosen to sleep off a drunk, spilling whiskey all over the tabletop and lying in it. “Plink, wake up!”

After Sleeve hollered his name several times, Plink slowly lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot. Spilled whiskey ran down his cheek.

“Leave me alone, you bastard. I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I can see that, you drunken pig. Wake the hell up. I got some news and a proposition for you,” Sleeve growled.

“What’d you call me?” Plink went for his gun and got it halfway out of the holster, when he realized he was staring down the barrel of Sleeve’s Schofield. Sleeve gave Plink’s chair leg a swift kick, dumping the surprised man onto the floor with a thud.

“I called you what you are: a drunken pig. Now, you goin’ to listen or just keep wallowin’ there under the table in the chawin’ tobacco spit?”

Plink groaned and tried to get up. He fell back twice before Buck reached down and grabbed his shirtsleeve and yanked him to his feet. Plink grabbed hold of the table, leaned on it with both hands splayed flat in the foul-­smelling spill, then stood blinking. He shook his head a couple of times. Sleeve called for the bartender to bring some coffee, hot and strong.

Sleeve and Buck sat across from Plink as he drank the coffee, although not without a fair amount of resistance did he do so. He called Sleeve some names that normally would have gotten him shot. Had the circumstances been different, there could have been no doubt he would have, at that moment, been laid out, pasty white and ready for burial.

It took almost an hour for Plink to regain a sense of what was going on, where he was, and who these men were who had so rudely forced him back from his stupor. His eyes, still bloodshot, wandered from Sleeve to Buck and back. Finally, Sleeve decided it was time to sober Plink up with the reality of his brother’s death.

“Plink, I’m Sleeve Jackson, and, like I already said, I’m here with news and a proposition. You ready to listen?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Anyway, here it is: Bart Havens needs some gunhands to help him take over a town. He’s willin’ to pay for it.”

“How much?”

“One thousand up front, and another two thousand to the one who guns down the sheriff.”

“A sheriff? What sheriff you talkin’ about?”

“The sheriff of Apache Springs, Cotton Burke.”

“Sorry. I may be a drunk, but I’m not plumb loony. Get yourself some other fool.”

“Now hold on there, you dumb—­” Buck growled.

Sleeve stopped Buck from going further. He knew that if Buck antagonized the young gunslinger to the point he’d draw on him, one of them would sure as hell die. He
couldn’t take that chance. If he was to come up with four killers for Havens, and do it in the time he’d been given, he couldn’t take a chance on losing either one.

“Plink, there’s one other reason to go along with this plan. Sheriff Cotton Burke shot and killed your brother last week.”

“What? Whitey’s dead?”

“Sorry to break it to you this way, but I reckon there ain’t no good way to tell a fellow his kin has been murdered.”

At the news, Plink Granville suddenly seemed to sober up.

“I’m in. When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow. On our way, I have to try locating Black Duck Slater and Comanche Dan Sobro. Either one of you know where they might be?”

“Black Duck was last seen wandering around Lincoln County, probably tryin’ to cook up more trouble down there,” Buck said. He waved the bartender over to bring him a beer.

“And Comanche Dan?”

“Somebody here dishonoring my fine reputation?” The rangy man coming through the door wore deerskin leggings, knee-­high boots, and carried a Winchester rifle held like he figured to clear the house.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You must be Comanche Dan!” Buck Kentner grumbled. “I reckon we heard wrong, he ain’t dead.”

W
hen Delilah drew open the drapes to let the sunlight in, her naked body cast an enticing shadow across the bed. That’s when she noticed for the first time all the feminine accouterments lying about. She frowned as she picked up a hairbrush with long blond hairs caught in the bristles, then, tossing it aside, she continued her perusal of where she’d just spent the night, wrapped in Jack’s arms. Jack was slowly coming awake when he spotted her dark expression.

“Jack, you sonofabitch, you didn’t tell me you were married. Where the hell is your wife?”

Jack slipped out of bed and pulled on his pants and boots.

“I didn’t tell you I was married because I ain’t married. That’s why.” He went into the kitchen to put some coffee on to heat. He stuck several small pieces of wood in the belly of the cast iron stove, tossed in some paper and lit it.

“Then what are all these womanly touches lyin’ around everywhere?” she said.

“I’m, uh, sharing the place with, uh, a workin’ girl.”

“You’re
livin
’ with a whore?”

“I guess you could put it that way; Cotton does.”

Delilah broke out laughing. As if suddenly ashamed, Jack looked at the floor.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, pouring water and coffee grounds into the pot.

“Hope this won’t come as a big disappointment, Jack, but, after a fashion, you slept with another one last night.”

“You? But I thought you, er, that is, didn’t you say we couldn’t get hitched because I drank too much? You didn’t say nothin’ about goin’ into the business of sellin’ your charms.”

“At that time, I
was
true to you, Jack. When you left, I found I was flat broke and needin’ to come up with money or get tossed out of my house. This nice man came along and offered me a deal. He said if I’d come work for him, and only him, he’d treat me nice and I’d have money left over at the end of the month. He’s made no demands for sharing a bedroom. But, I guess you could still say I’m a whore, too. In a way, aren’t we all?”

“He the only one you, uh, do business with?” Jack squinched up his eyes in a dark frown.

“Uh-­huh. That’s why I’m in town. I’m supposed to be sizing up the population hereabouts, so I can give him an idea about who is important and who isn’t when he gets to town. I kinda act as his eyes and ears when he’s setting up a deal.”

“So, where is this ‘
nice
’ man?”

“Oh, he’ll be arrivin’ soon. Guess he’s got business elsewhere. We can stay together and keep doin’ what we did last night until he does. If you’d like, that is.”

Jack found himself in a quandary, at an awkward crossroads. He didn’t know when Melody would return, but he knew damned well if she caught him in bed with Delilah, he was as good as dead. Her offer was tempting, however, and if they went ahead and got a room at the hotel, well, Melody
might never be the wiser. He let a broad grin wipe away the frown.

“We’d have to get that hotel room, but the other part sounds fetchin’.”

“Since my benefactor will be footing the bill, we’ll have to keep a watch out for his arrival. Then, I’m sad to say you’ll have to go back to your previous lady friend.”

“Fair enough. Just who is this ‘gentleman’ I’m to keep an eye out for?”

“You’ve probably never heard of him. His name is Bart Havens.”

Comanche Dan pulled a chair over to the whiskey-­soaked table and sat. He leaned the rifle against the arm of his captain’s chair, took out the makings, and rolled himself a smoke.

“So, how’d my name come up in conversation with you three?”

“Sleeve has a proposition for you. It’s a good’un,” Buck blurted out.

“Uh-­huh,” Dan said, blowing a smoke ring.

“You ever heard of Bart Havens?” Sleeve said.

“Heard he was a snivelin’ rattler. That the one?”

“Probably, but a wealthy rattler. That’s what’s goin’ to make the difference,” Sleeve said.

“Okay, so what’s the deal?”

“Havens is fixin’ to take over a new town, and he needs some men good with shootin’ irons to lend a hand. He’ll pay a thousand dollars to each man, up front, and another two thousand to the one who actually plugs a certain man.”

“Who is the target?”

“Cotton Burke.”

Comanche Dan scowled at the mention of Cotton Burke. He didn’t look pleased.

“What if it takes all of us? Any extra in it?”

“I never thought about that possibility. I’ll have to ask
Havens. But I’m certain he’ll want to make
some
accommodation. He hates Burke.”

“What did Burke ever do to him?”

“Got Bart chased out of Benbow Creek. Cost him a fortune. Lost everything. Fact is, Havens can’t show his face in Texas again ’cause of Burke. Man’s got fair reason to want to get even. So, you interested?”

“I got nothin’ against this Cotton Burke, but I
could
use an infusion of cash. I’m strapped. So, yeah, I’ll throw in with you. Where we headed?”

“We’re to meet Havens in Las Vegas, New Mexico. He’ll lay out the plan. We’ll leave at sunup.”

Right after breakfast, Cotton walked out on the porch with Emily on his arm.

“You seem to be off somewhere else, ’stead of here with me. What’s eatin’ at you, Cotton?”

“Whitey Granville. The man I shot.”

“He shot at you first, didn’t he? Why should that bother you?”

“The part that bothers me is: I’d never met the man, had no qualms with him, and wouldn’t have even known who he was if Jack hadn’t come up with a fella passin’ through town who recognized him lyin’ in that pine box.”

“You think somebody has it in for you? Or maybe Jack?”

“Uh-­huh.”

“How can you find out?”

“I’m not sure, but I have more than a passing feelin’ that Bart Havens is already gettin’ back to his old ways.”