by Phil Dunlap
Henry Coyote came around the corner of the house. Seeing him, Emily asked, “Do you know where Cotton has gone off to?”
“No. Go in hurry. No words.”
“Never mind whatever you were going to do today. I want you to go after the sheriff. Find out what’s going on. He may need help. And if you see Johnny, tell him to come in for breakfast.”
“Young boy no here.”
“What do you mean, not here?”
“He go early. Take horse. Go in direction of town.”
“Damn! So that’s where Cotton went, to catch up with that young adventurer. Go find them, Henry. Find them and keep them safe.”
Henry must have anticipated something akin to the orders he’d just been given because he had no sooner disappeared into the barn than he emerged almost instantly, mounted on his pony and ready to ride. He was carrying his Spencer rifle, and a bandolier of cartridges was draped across his chest.
As Emily turned to go back inside, she came face-to-face with an anxious Rachael. “He’s gone, isn’t he? He’s gone to kill that awful Carp Varner,” Rachael said, nearly in tears.
“I don’t know, dear. Kill-or-be-killed seems to be a way of life out here. Pray Cotton gets to him before he does something terribly foolish,” Emily said, pulling Rachael close and hugging her tightly.
* * *
Cotton spurred his mare to run for all she was worth. Got to get there before that fool does something we’ll both regret. He decided to cut through Chiricahua Pass, a place known to harbor all manner of dangers, to reduce the time it normally took to get to town. Only a single horse and rider could expect to get through the impossibly narrow pass the walls of which were festooned with jagged thrusts of flesh-ripping rock jutting out like fingers waiting to grasp the unwary. The trail itself was littered with fallen debris from small landslides brought on by spring rains and winter ice. All in all, the sheriff’s choice of a fast route to Apache Springs was questionable at best.
Damned good thing that kid didn’t know about this pass; I doubt he could have made it. Come to think of it, I’m not so sure I can. He ducked suddenly, just missing being knocked from his saddle by a scraggly juniper branch that seemed to come out of nowhere, long dead from many a harsh winter. Hmm, best keep my mind on getting there in one piece.
* * *
Carp Varner had decided he’d been brooding long enough. It was time to make his move. He must get rid of the man calling himself Burnside’s nephew. After deliberating for hours, he’d come up with a plausible plan, at least to his demented mind. He stuck his Smith & Wesson .45 in his holster, slipped on his black duster, and closed and locked the shop door behind him. He strode purposefully to the hotel. When the desk clerk saw him and asked if he could be of help, Varner said no, he was going into the restaurant for a bite to eat. The clerk turned back to whatever aimless task he’d been pursuing when he was interrupted by Varner’s arrival.
But Varner merely went into the restaurant, passed through to a rear entrance, and continued outside. That little maneuver should get me an alibi, at least for a bit. He climbed the outside rear stairs to the second floor. Earlier that day, he’d gotten Burnside’s room number when the clerk went out back to take care of business. Carp just ducked behind the counter long enough to glance through the register, take note of the room, and leave before anyone noticed he’d even been there.
When he got to Burnside’s room, he tapped lightly on the door.
“Who’s there?” came a voice from inside.
“Telegram for Turner Burnside.”
The door opened quickly. “I’m Turner Bur— What the hell! It’s you!”
Turner tried in vain to shut the door before Carp could get inside. But, being a much larger man, Varner shoved Burnside aside and closed the door. He put a finger to his mouth. Turner got the point. Keep quiet. Or else. He got that second part when Carp drew a finger across his throat as he pulled open his duster to reveal the hilt of a very large knife, known to all as an Arkansas toothpick.
“Yep, it’s me, Carp Varner.”
“Wha–what do you want, Varner? Haven’t you done enough to my family?”
“Not quite yet, sonny. Pack your bags, you’re leaving town. Now!”
Although he kept his voice down, Varner’s intentions were clear: “Do my bidding or die.”
Burnside stuffed everything he had into two suitcases. He carried no gun, which Varner had taken note of as soon as he entered the room. When Burnside was done packing, Varner made a quick survey of the room, and seeing nothing to indicate anyone had ever inhabited number 6, he pushed the younger man toward the door, then grabbed him by the shirt collar and shoved his face against the frame.
“Here’s what’s goin’ to happen. You’ll do exactly as I say or this extremely sharp dagger will be shoved through your back and into your heart, at which time you will feel horrendous pain . . . but only briefly. Then, a split second later, your life will be ended. Understand? I’ve seen a man die that way, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.”
Burnside nodded that he understood.
“Good. Go down the hallway toward the back stairway. Do it very quietly. If we should meet anyone along the way, you are to do or say nothing, not even a look that might suggest you are in a tight spot. When we get downstairs, we’ll follow the back alley down to the Butterfield Stage office. I’ll purchase your ticket so there’s no reason for you to converse with anyone. Now, move.”
Burnside was shaking so hard he was struggling to get himself and the two suitcases through the narrow hall without banging against the walls and causing other residents to step out of their rooms to see what the commotion was about. Varner didn’t seem to care how they got to their destination, only that they arrived before the stage was scheduled to leave, twenty minutes from then. He gave Burnside some incentive, a sharp jab in the shoulder blade with the point of the stiletto.
Chapter 48
Carp Varner and Turner Burnside arrived at the rear door of the Butterfield Stage office just ten minutes before the stage was scheduled to leave. Varner paid for a one-way ticket for one, then they walked swiftly past the counter and straight through to the awaiting coach, Varner’s stiletto still in Burnside’s back. Varner took the suitcases from Burnside and tossed them up top, into the waiting hands of the shotgun guard. He shoved Burnside into the coach, closed the door, and gave the reluctant traveler a bone-chilling glare. Burnside swallowed hard and looked away.
“I hope you have a good trip. Don’t never come back.” Varner stayed put until the driver snapped the whip and the team of six bolted forward. The coach made a dusty trail as it departed straight out of Apache Springs, bound for Silver City.
Varner hastened back to his shop to further hone the next part of his plan. He had written a note to the sheriff telling him that Burnside had made a decision not to take over his uncle’s gunsmith shop. Varner forced a signature from Burnside before leaving the hotel room. Now he had but to deliver the note to the sheriff’s office when no one was there. He planned to leave it on the sheriff’s desk.
He hadn’t seen Burke since the evening before and assumed he’d gone to the Wagner ranch to stay. When Deputy Memphis Jack left the jail to go over to the saloon, that was his signal to drop the fake note off. If all went as he’d hoped, the sheriff would undoubtedly offer him the gunsmith business and all the contents, and there’d be nothing standing between him and his goal of making himself important in the town. That would be right after he won the race for mayor, of course. He figured to be a shoo-in.
A vicious smile crossed his lips as he strolled down the street to the print shop to have some posters printed announcing his upcoming candidacy. Completely unaware of youthful eyes watching his every step, taking care to remain unseen behind some crates stacked in an alleyway.
* * *
When Cotton reached the town limits, he began his scan of every pers
on he saw. He figured the kid shouldn’t be hard to spot, even though he’d surely try to make himself less than conspicuous. As the sheriff rode slowly down the street, looking left and right, hoping to catch sight of Johnny coming out of a store, he saw not one glimpse of anyone who could even pass for an eighteen-year-old boy. Not unless, that is, the lad had found some women’s clothing and been able to struggle into a corset and get someone to cinch him up.
Cotton dismounted in front of the jail, drooped his reins over the rail, and had started inside when he saw Jack coming across the street.
“Didn’t expect to see you for another hour or so,” Jack said.
“I’m trying to track down a troublesome young man who seems destined to get himself killed or hanged, one or the other.” Cotton leaned against a post and hung a thumb in his gun belt.
“What’s he look like? Maybe I’ve seen him.”
“Skinny, about what you’d expect from a kid with too little to eat and too much energy to spend. About five-ten, a hundred and twenty pounds, maybe. Brown hair that’s too damned long and brown eyes. Likely wearing ratty jeans and a too-big shirt with the sleeves rolled up.”
“Yup. I did see someone like that. Yesterday, if I recall correctly. He was standing at the entrance to the alley by the general store. I asked him if he was lookin’ for someone and he said yes. But he never got a chance to tell me who. That young fella Teddy something-or-other yelled at him to get his scrawny ass around to the back and help load some wire.”
“That’s the boy I’ve got to find before he gets himself gunned down. You haven’t seen him today, have you?”
“Nope. If I do, what do I do with him?”
“Arrest him.”
“For what?”
“His own safety. Lock his scrawny ass up tight and then hunt me down.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Bet your ass it is. He’s lookin’ to gun down one of our erstwhile citizens.”
“Now, who’d that be?”
“Carp Varner.”
Jack looked at the sheriff like he’d lost his mind. Cocking his head and narrowing his eyes, he said, “Do you really figure I’ll jump over a barrel to save that scoundrel’s life?”
“We can’t sit by and allow someone to cut him down in the street, can we? No matter what we think of him. Besides, from what I’m gatherin’, Varner’s damned good with that Schofield. And I don’t want to have to bury some snot-nosed kid before he’s had a chance at life.”
“All right. I’ll do it, but I won’t like it,” Jack said.
“I’m not askin’ you to like it, just help me save an innocent soul,” Cotton said, standing next to his deputy.
“When do you figure on him gettin’ here?”
“I think he’s already in town. We just can’t see him. He knows I’ll stop him if I can, so he’ll stay hidden until the right opportunity arises. It could happen anytime. And we need to keep an eye out for Varner, too.”
“What’re you gonna be doin’ while I’m savin’ the world?”
Cotton had started to say something when he looked down the street and saw Mayor Plume headed his way. “Looks like I’m goin’ to be busy defendin’ some dereliction of duty on my part, sort of a regular occurrence accordin’ to him,” Cotton said, pointing to his oncoming and constant adversary.
“I see what you mean. I’d rather not be subject to the talk of a fool. I’ll be lookin’ around for the boy, and keepin’ an eye out for Varner, too,” Jack said, slipping around the corner, availing himself of the short span of time before the mayor got to the jail.
“Mornin’, Mayor. You look like a man with somethin’ on his mind.”
“Not particularly. Nothing of any real importance anyway. Just thought you’d like some time to think about your predicament. Got any coffee?”
“C’mon in and I’ll rustle you up some and you can elaborate on the hidden meanin’ to those cryptic words.”
They went inside, and Cotton pulled a clean cup from atop the filing cabinet. He poured a cup full and handed it to the mayor. That’s when he noticed the folded paper lying on his desk. He pushed it aside until he was through with the mayor.
“Take a seat and tell me about my ‘predicament,’ and what you’re really here about.” Cotton sipped some of his own half-full cup.
“I been talking to that new gunsmith, and the fact that I think he’s figuring on running against you in the election. Reckons he’s done the town proud by shooting down those two bank robbers, enough that folk’d be grateful enough for a change in the law.” Plume sipped his coffee, watching the sheriff like a hawk, obviously awaiting some reaction from him.
Cotton didn’t even blink. “Well, I must say I’ve been havin’ second thoughts about continuin’ to put my life on the line for a bunch of ingrates, as well. I might not even oppose Varner’s decision, if, that is, he follows through with what you’re suggestin’.”
“Uh, well, I’m not certain it’s official.” Plume took another hurried sip from his cup, apparently uncomfortable with the obviousness of his position in the matter.
It was no secret the sheriff and the mayor had seen many differences of opinion during Burke’s three years as sheriff. The way Cotton gave Plume a look like he knew exactly where the suggestion that Varner run for sheriff had come from caused the mayor to break out in a sweat.
“Well, I can tell you’re a busy man. I’m sure you’ve got many things need attending to, Sheriff, so I’ll be running along.” He pushed himself up from the chair, set the cup on the corner of the desk, and skittered out the door like a mouse discovered in the cupboard.
Cotton’s mouth curled into a wry smile. Just how stupid does that jackass think I am?
Chapter 49
Johnny was taking no chances on being seen. He knew that by now the sheriff would probably be out looking for him. In fact, he figured he could already be in town. The sheriff and his deputy both knew Apache Springs from top to bottom. That put him at a disadvantage, but he figured the one thing he had going for him was his youth and resourcefulness. Since he wasn’t known by anyone in town, though, he’d stick out like a sore thumb. Staying out of sight would have to be his main objective.
It was only by a stroke of luck that he’d spotted Varner soon after riding in that morning. The man he wanted to see dead in the street had come out of a gunsmith shop and walked to the sheriff’s office, then on down the street. Bold as you please. I’m going to enjoy putting him in the ground, no matter what happens to me afterward. His plan not yet formed, Johnny began looking for some sort of a pattern to Varner’s wanderings about town. How well did he know the sheriff? Did he go to the hotel on a regular basis? Did he have a room there? What was his connection to the gunsmith? The answers to these questions would go a long way toward showing Johnny his best shot at catching the gunslinger off guard—the only way he’d ever get the first shot off. That first pulling of the trigger was essential. Varner wasn’t merely one mean, heartless bastard, he was also the fastest shootist Johnny had ever seen, not that he’d actually ever seen a real gunslinger in action. But then, with all the men Varner had gunned down, the man had to be good, didn’t he? Johnny tried his best to move from place to place as unobtrusively as possible, using crates and water barrels up and down the alleyways to conceal his presence from townsfolk. He was doing pretty well keeping out of sight of Varner and felt good about his plan to follow the man until he fully understood his daily schedule. That knowledge would undoubtedly reveal the best time and place to confront the killer before plugging him on the spot.
As he watched Varner go into the print shop, he began thinking about Rachael. He couldn’t put his finger on why at that particular moment she’d popped into his head, but he was both delighted at the pleasant thoughts she brought to mind and fearful that after his dealing with Varner, he might never see her again, especially if he was ca
ught and hanged for murder. He shuddered at the thought.
* * *
Cotton drank the last of the coffee and strolled outside. He stretched, glancing up and down the street. He decided it was as good a time as any to get down to business with Turner Burnside. He had a lot on his mind what with Burnside, Johnny Monk, and Varner himself all knotting up his stomach, as he headed for the hotel. When he got there, the clerk was sweeping the lobby floor.
“G’mornin’, Sheriff. What brings you down here? I think the restaurant has closed off the breakfast menu. Be ready for lunch in about an hour, though.”
“Naw, thanks anyway. I’m needin’ to have some words with Mr. Burnside. He in his room?”
“Why, uh, no sir. I saw him get on the early stage. Been gone for over two hours.”
“Uh, I don’t suppose you know where he was headed, do you?”
“Nope. But the stage he took was going to Silver City.”
“Thanks,” Cotton said, turning on his heel and breezing past the clerk. He made tracks out into the street and straight for his office. That’s when he remembered the paper he’d pushed aside. He opened it, quickly scanned the contents, and slammed his fist on the desk. He dropped the paper back on the desk. Pensive for a moment, he got to thinking a trip to the telegraph office was his best move. He ran out of the jail, quickening his steps, glancing about in hopes of seeing Jack wandering the town.