Cotton’s Inferno

by Phil Dunlap

  “Huh?” Johnny said, the wind whipping around them and making it hard to hear. The chattering sounds of birds usually filled the air, but today they were strangely silent, their cheery calls blown to the four corners of the earth by mini tornadoes swirling across the sands.

  “I said, thank you for bringing me.” She hugged him tighter.

  “Oh.”

  The wind seemed to be picking up, and within minutes dark clouds started appearing over the mountains to the west. That wasn’t something he looked forward to. A late summer storm often blew up winds carrying sands that could strip the paint off a building, or sudden showers with their attendant flash floods. He sniffed the air. It was there. You couldn’t miss it. All the signs of a monster storm were building. The breeze picked up more and brought with it the unmistakable smell of rain.

  This one looks to be about to drown us. We better get to cover. But where? There doesn’t look to be anywhere that won’t put us in worse danger. Time’s running out. That gully washer will be on us in less than a half hour, I’d bet my britches on it.

  “What is it, Johnny? You seem tense all of a sudden,” she said. With her face buried in Johnny’s shirt, she was protected from the dust and the smell of rain. “What’s got you bothered?”

  “We got to find some shelter, and fast. We’re about to be visited by one of them huge summer blows.”

  “I don’t see anything. Where?” She was now on alert also, scanning the sky and the desert from side to side. He leaned over so she could see what he’d been looking at for a while. What lay ahead was black, swirling, mountainous billows of towering storm clouds.

  “Oh, my!” she said, her eyes wide. “What’ll we do?”

  He swung his head ninety degrees in each direction. The prospects were bleak. Few trees. Where he did see trees, they were obviously along a small creek, the last place to seek shelter when the heavens opened up and dumped an ocean’s worth of water on the earth. Suddenly, he stopped and stared, squinting to sharpen the image of what he saw. Or, at least, what he thought he saw. Off to the south about a mile there was what appeared to be a cave on the side of a rock-strewn hill. It was about halfway up the incline and far enough away from where water might reach to safely ride out the storm.

  “There! That looks to be a likely spot. We’ll head for that dark opening,” he shouted. She could barely hear him above the increasing winds.

  He kicked the mare to a run. Obviously aware of the danger herself, the horse didn’t hesitate. They rode against the wind, covering their mouths and noses with kerchiefs to keep from ingesting half the desert’s sand.

  Johnny reined in a hundred feet from the entrance to what he’d presumed to be a cave. Between them and the entrance was too much loose rock and too many tight squeezes for him to take the horse farther. He hobbled the animal as far up from the base of the hill as he dared, took his rifle and Rachael’s hand, and started up the slippery incline. Getting close enough to the opening to peer in, he was nervous about the possibility of coming upon another puma. He let go of Rachael’s hand, lifted the rifle, checked that it had a cartridge loaded, and stood just outside the gaping dark hole. He raised the Springfield and fired a smoky blast into the dark hole. The blast lit up the interior, showing it going back only a few feet, too shallow to harbor any large animals. Rattlesnakes, however, were always a danger. He listened intently for any sound coming from the darkness. Fingering another cartridge, he loaded it in preparation for whatever might come next. No sounds emanated from the shallow cave, so he called to Rachael to come back. Things would be all right.

  Johnny and Rachael ducked inside just as the storm broke over them.

  Chapter 29

  Arlo pointed at the curving staircase with a long, bony finger, directing Carp Varner to Melody’s quarters. In an obvious hurry, Carp took the stairs two at a time, arriving in front of her door with the quickest of strides. He removed his hat, licked his fingers, and slicked down his hair, then knocked.

  “Who is it?” came a syrupy voice from inside.

  “Uh, it’s me, ma’am, Carp Varner, the gunsmith.”

  “Why, do come in, Mr. Varner,” she answered, in a voice a Southern belle would envy. “I hope you brought what I asked for.”

  He eased open the door, to find Melody lounging on her bed, propped up against a half dozen fat pillows. She wore a revealing gown that fell open sufficiently to display her ample pulchritude. Her white legs were crossed at the ankles, and she seemed to be fussing over what was once a long necklace, but which had now become merely a tangled pile of silver links.

  “I’ll just bet a gunsmith is very clever with his hands, wouldn’t you agree, sir?” Melody flashed him a coy smile.

  “I would indeed. Would you like for me to take a look at that mess you’re fiddling with?”

  “Oh, I surely would. Why don’t you come sit next to me here and I’ll just place the whole job in your capable hands?” Melody’s voice had lost any semblance of subtlety and was now quite blatantly offering up an invitation to sample her charms. Her gown fell off one shoulder as she wriggled to one side, allowing Carp the space he might need to accomplish the task at hand.

  * * *

  Jack had tried unsuccessfully to take a nap, in hopes of calming his frayed nerves. His anger at Melody over her unreasonable reaction to his revelation that they’d had no luck finding her lost money had not diminished. Too frustrated by her attitude, he decided to confront her head-on. He was through trying to keep the peace by giving in to her every demand. He rolled off the bunk, pulled on his boots, strapped on his gun belt, and strode out the door. Cotton eyed him suspiciously as he passed the desk without a word.

  His purposeful gait might suggest to anyone he passed on his way to the saloon that he’d firmly adopted a new attitude. He drew in a deep breath to shake off the effects of his restlessness as he barged into the saloon.

  Arlo looked up and immediately broke into a wide-eyed, panicked stare, overcome by fear of what Jack might do if he found Carp Varner in his bed with his woman.

  “Melody upstairs, Arlo?” Jack asked, stopping briefly at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Melody? Uh, well, I . . .”

  “You do remember Melody, don’t you, Arlo? The one who pays you to dispense cheap booze and stare at deputies with dumbfounded expressions? That Melody.”

  “Yes, of course, I know who Melody is, uh, how about if I go up and knock on her door and see if she’s there and tell her that you’d like to see her and . . .”

  “What the hell has you so spooked? I don’t recall ever seeing you at such a loss for words, unless she’s got someone with her. Is that it, Arlo? She entertaining a guest?”

  “I-I-I don’t, uh, know, Jack. Why don’t y-you let me find out? Okay?” The barkeep’s nervousness had spoken volumes, even though he’d tried to keep from blurting out words that he knew could easily get a person killed. He didn’t favor any possibility of him being that person.

  His patience stretched to its limit, Jack spun around and launched up the staircase. When he got to the top, he grabbed the doorknob to Melody’s room, twisted it, and burst inside. There he saw Melody lying wrapped in an embrace with Carp Varner, whose pants had somehow fallen down around his ankles. Varner was kissing her and grabbing at her breasts with lustful vigor. In less time than it would take a man to blink, Jack’s Remington .44 was in his hand, cocked and pointing directly at the gunsmith’s buttocks.

  “You son of a bitch! You have five seconds to get your ass out of that bed and away from my woman. Failing that, you’ll be spending the rest of your life with a serious hitch in your git-along. One . . .”

  Completely caught off guard, Carp fell off the bed trying to gather his wits and pull his britches up. His gun belt was lying on the floor beside the bed, too far for him to make a reach for the Smith & Wesson that rested in his holster. He scrambled to pull himself
together.

  “Two . . .”

  Carp took hold of the mule ears of one of his boots, tugging as hard as he could before discovering he had it on the wrong foot.

  “Three . . .”

  Varner scuttled toward the door. Finally, he fumbled to get a grip on a chair and pull himself to a full standing position. He still had to hold his pants closed with one hand while he limped through the open door, one boot on, the other in his empty hand. Jack scooped up Carp’s gun belt and threw it at him.

  “Four . . .”

  “I’m gone! I’m gone!” Carp yelled over his shoulder as he started down the stairs, lost his footing, and tumbled all the way to the bottom. Fumbling to get himself together and stand, he’d barely made it through the batwings when he heard Jack’s shout.

  “Five!”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jack!” Melody screamed at him, trying without success to gather the front of her gown together.

  “I’m gettin’ ready to make one less whore in this town!” He pointed the Remington at her.

  In a panic, she began pulling pillows all around her to create a fortress to somehow stop Jack’s shot. She sat wide-eyed and shivering with fear, tears streaming down her face as she clung to anything she could find for protection. She whined pathetically, choking back a cry. Her breath had been reduced to short, sorrowful gasps.

  Jack glared at her with fire in his eyes. “Reckon your time has come, bitch!”

  “No! No, please! Jack, Jack, honey, it was all a mistake. You know how much I love you. He just came up to, uh, sell me a gun. I swear!”

  “He needed to jump your near-naked body to point out the finer points of a six-shooter? What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

  “He started to take advantage of me for whatever reason I cannot imagine. I tried to fight him off, but as you could see, he was much stronger than me. I just couldn’t—”

  “Stop it, Melody! I’m sick of your lies, your selfishness, your wildly stupid schemes.”

  When he turned to leave, she pleaded all the more.

  “Don’t leave, Jack, please. Come here and make love to me. I promise I’ll never stray again. Please!” Completely naked, Melody swung her legs off the bed and got down on her knees, pleading.

  Jack gave a huge sigh, reached down, and pulled her to her feet. He stared at her for a second while his anger subsided. Then he pushed her back on the pillow-strewn bed and dove on her. He couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough. The Remington clattered to the floor. They made love for the first time in a week—at a fever pitch.

  Chapter 30

  The next morning, as Cotton was sweeping the floor inside the jail, Jack strode in whistling for all he was worth. He went straight for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. The sheriff watched with a wicked grin as his deputy pulled back a chair, swung his feet up on the desk, and began blowing the steam from the cup of Arbuckles’. He switched from whistling to humming once he began sipping the coffee.

  “Nice to see you back, Jack. For a while I thought you might have fallen into a bottomless pit of self-pity. Glad to see that didn’t happen. Uh, it didn’t, did it?”

  “Nope.”

  “The way you been actin’ the past few days, I figured whatever was ailin’ you had to have somethin’ to do with Melody.”

  “Yep.”

  “I take it things have straightened themselves out.”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Now we can get back to the business of keepin’ the peace. You up for that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then the first order of business is: Did you talk to the folks hereabouts concernin’ anyone seein’ any sign of Pick’s old shotgun?”

  “Nope, not yet. But, now that you bring it up, I’m about to.” Jack got up, gulped down his coffee, hiked up his gun belt, and went out the door almost as cheerfully as he’d come in.

  I don’t know what happened to change Jack’s attitude, but I’d be in favor of more of it.

  * * *

  Jack went from one shop to another, sticking his head in and always asking the same question: Have you seen that old ten-gauge shotgun that Pick Wheeler always carried, or anyone flashing a wad of bills? By the time he got to the end of the street, covering both sides as well as the half dozen shops on a side street, he’d talked to everyone he could find. Neither hide nor hair of the old blunderbuss had been seen since Pick left town. Jack had purposefully avoided stopping by the gunsmith’s shop. He didn’t want to renew the confrontation with Carp Varner. Besides, he hadn’t liked the man from the moment he’d first laid eyes on him, and since Melody had pulled one of her famous foolish moves in an effort to get her hands on a Colt .45 without any cost to her, except a roll in the hay, he thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. Not that he would ever forget the man’s audacious and purposeful attempt to undermine a relationship he’d been well aware of. Situations like this almost always require a reckoning at one time or another. Jack would be certain to keep his eyes open.

  As he made his way along the boardwalk back toward the jail, he had no way of knowing that behind the filthy windows of Burnside’s shop stood a man with two shotgun shells in one hand and a double-barrel scattergun in the other. He opened the breech and slid each shell into a chamber. He snapped the old ten-gauge shut and slid it out of sight under the gun case.

  Poetic justice is headed your way, Deputy. And it’ll come when you least expect it.

  * * *

  Cotton was buoyed by the quick response he’d gotten from the man claiming to be Burnside’s nephew. The telegram said he’d arrive in town in one week and would be carrying sufficient documents to substantiate his claim. He’d added that he, too, was an accomplished gunsmith and could prove it. He at least hinted at a desire to take over his uncle’s business.

  Cotton mulled the realization that this news wouldn’t sit well with Carp Varner. Then, out of nowhere, a devious thought crossed his mind. I probably should let things be for a few days. On the other hand, it might be a good time to let Varner know someone is arriving in town to take up where Burnside left off. It’d be interesting to see what effect such news might have on our new gunsmith. Since he had had second thoughts about Varner from the beginning, he felt no guilt about putting him to the test. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed exactly the right thing to do. If he takes the news in stride, maybe I’ve been wrong about him. But if he flies into a rage, that might prove to be an opportunity to take him down a notch.

  The feelings Cotton harbored about Varner puzzled him. Every time he saw him, the sheriff had an itch, and it only went away when the man was out of sight. Being a sheriff naturally made a man suspicious of others. It was an occupational hazard. But there was a niggling suspicion in Cotton’s mind that this particular man harbored darker secrets than he would ever voluntarily disclose. It was up to Sheriff Burke to track down any such secret and bring it to light. And the sooner the better.

  * * *

  After the storm had passed and they could see there would still be sufficient daylight left to get closer to Socorro, Rachael and Johnny started down the hill to gather up their horse and rejoin the road. When they found her, their hobbled mare was nibbling on shoots of grass, seemingly unaffected by the big blow. Off to the south, they could see the effects flash flooding was having on the previously dry creek beds. Water rushed down the snakelike tributary, carrying with it all manner of debris—downed limbs, broken cacti, dead animals. Rachael was mesmerized by the sight of such destruction.

  “Look, Johnny, over there. Isn’t that an empty boat like fishermen use, all smashed on the rocks? Where could it have come from? I’ve never seen anything like that. All that stuff being pushed along to who knows where? I’m glad you were wise enough to guide us uphill and out of its way.”

  “You’re sure right about that. Why, I once heard a fel
low up in Colorado got caught up in a deluge like that on a Sunday, and the rushing waters carried him all the way to Mexico, where he ended up on Tuesday. Of course, he wasn’t all that upset because Mexico’s where he wanted to go in the first place, and he’d had himself one helluva free ride,” Johnny said, with a smirk.

  Rachael punched him in the back. “Laugh all you want to, mister, I’ll admit I’m a little new to the more violent side of things out here, but I’ll catch on, don’t think I won’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. I’ve been teased before, and it don’t hurt none, leastways not so’s a body’d notice.”

  As they rode, Johnny kept an eye out for any hint they were getting close to Socorro, the place where the sheriff in Las Cruces had suggested Carp Varner might have headed. Of course, the elusive killer might have gone only a few miles, then changed direction and gone to Lordsburg or Silver City, instead. A man like Carp Varner didn’t often do things the way most folks might figure. Johnny was acutely aware of that. Varner didn’t shy away from trouble, either. He’d seen the man shoot someone for a mere slight, but then that kind of thing wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary for small, dirty frontier towns. Violence was everywhere. But for a man to kill another man for no reason at all, then turn around and burn a whole town to the ground, taking innocent citizens with it, well that bespoke a man without a soul. A man inhabited by a demon so dark, no light could ever reach inside him.

  That was a perfect description of Carp Varner, a man with Satan squeezing the very life out of him.

  But pay it no mind, you bastard, Johnny thought, because I’ll catch up to you, and when I do, that demon better duck or he’s goin’ down with you.

  Chapter 31

  Black Tom Callahan looked over with sleepy eyes. He and his two brothers, Stretch and Dal, had been in Apache Springs for a mere day and a half, spending their time staying to themselves, out of the public eye, and trying their best to be very subtle about keeping an eye on the comings and goings at the bank. They had set up camp outside of town, in a dense copse of trees by a creek, to avoid arousing suspicions as to their intentions, and when they came to town, they stayed far away from the saloon, where trouble often gathered.