by Phil Dunlap
“How do you know that?”
“Because I said so.”
Just then the rattle of the afternoon Butterfield Stage echoed down the street. The sheriff got up to watch as it passed. He turned to Henry.
“Jack is meeting that stage. I’m expecting a man from Silver City to be getting off. Make certain Jack brings him straight here. Maybe be best to take the back way. I’d rather Varner not see him arriving.”
Henry grunted and hurried out the door, straight for the stage depot. As the stage came to a stop, he saw Jack step up to the coach and hold the door for another passenger.
* * *
Jack led a very confused Turner Burnside down the back way to the jail. When they walked in, it was immediately apparent to Cotton that Burnside was none too happy to be returning to Apache Springs.
“Hope the marshal in Silver City didn’t give you too much of a start, Mr. Burnside. But it was necessary.”
“Wh-why have you brought me back? I, uh, don’t think it’s a good idea. I have an enemy here. Nothing good can come of it.”
“I assume you’re referring to Carp Varner?”
“Yes, and he’d as soon shove that pig-sticker in me than lay eyes on me ever again. He made that perfectly clear.”
“I figured that’s why I got this letter sayin’ you were givin’ up your interest in the gunsmith shop. He forced you to sign that, didn’t he?”
“With a forty-five to my head. I’m no coward, mind you, but when a man like Varner makes a threat, you take it seriously.” Burnside shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
“I understand. But you can put your mind at ease, because Varner isn’t goin’ to harm you. But in order for me to bring him down and make him accountable for his many misdeeds, I’m goin’ to need your help.”
“I don’t understand. What can I do?”
“When the time comes, I’m going to let him know you’ve changed your mind and returned to town. That should shake him up plenty. Until that time, you’ll be stayin’ in the cell next to that young man over there.”
“A jail cell? Am I, uh, under arrest?”
“Nope. We’ll jus’ refer to it as ‘protective custody.’ I heard some Pinkerton fellow call it that once.”
“What do you figure to gain by all this?”
“I aim to grind a pesky cockroach under the heel of my boot, get your business back for you, and satisfy a boy’s need for revenge for the murder of his friends.”
“Sounds like a tall order.”
“That’s how I figure it, too.”
Cotton looked over to see Jack rubbing his shoulder. “Jack, get some rest. When this all goes down, I’m goin’ to need you at your best. Oh, and don’t turn your back on Melody again.”
Chapter 55
Carp Varner was seething at the insult he perceived from the defacing of his posters. He sat morosely figuring how he would go about making someone pay for the affront ever since he’d discovered the first of the red splotches slathered across his political message. Then, after replacing all he could find, he’d discovered that many more had been marked up. That was the last straw. Whoever had done it, and he suspected the mayor or one of his cronies had spent the night sneaking around town targeting him with slanderous claims, someone would pay. It was time to teach Apache Springs a lesson, and he knew just how to go about that.
He went across the street to the general store to pick up the tools he needed to accomplish his plot. He bought seven coal oil lamps and enough highly inflammable oil to fill each to the brim. He took them all back to his shop and lined them up on the counter. He unscrewed the lids to the glass bases and used a small funnel to fill each one, making sure the wicks were all saturated so he’d have sufficient flame to ignite the oil when the lamps were tossed in the air, only to come crashing down, shattering the glass and spreading flames over everything around.
He loaded his revolvers and holstered them. He opened a box of shotgun shells, shoved two into the barrels of the ten-gauge gut shredder, then stuck several more in his jacket pocket. He looked over his arsenal of death, and while his mind raced in anticipation of what he was about to do, he walked to the window to gaze for a moment on what to that point had ben a thriving, peaceful community. He was ready—ready for the results of the voting and subsequent ballot count; ready for the citizens of Apache Springs to get a taste of their own ignorance should they decide to vote against him; and fully ready to exact his awful revenge on all who would reject him. Taking comfort in his substantial arsenal, he feared no one and nothing, including the rumored quickness of Sheriff Cotton Burke. Extreme confidence, not one iota of doubt as to the outcome of his reprisal, ruled Carp Varner’s thoughts. He planned to spend the night in his shop, staring out the front window. I’m ready. Are you, Apache Springs?
* * *
The widely anticipated day of the election finally arrived. At six o’clock in the morning, the single wooden ballot box was set up at a table near the entrance to Melody’s Golden Palace of Pleasure. Voters could check off the box next to their favorite candidate, fold the paper, and stick it through a slot in the top of the box. Even if every eligible person within the town limits and surrounding countryside were to show up intending to cast a vote, the whole process should be over by noon. Although territorial law prevented an early closing of the polls.
The saloon had been forced to cease the sale of alcoholic beverages until the polls closed at five o’clock in the afternoon. Melody didn’t like that one damned bit, but went along when Jack told her he’d personally witnessed a number of drunken cowboys tear a saloon apart when their candidate failed to win his respective race. Melody accepted that Jack and the sheriff were only looking out for her safety. Although she was struggling with the part about Cotton giving a damn whether she lived or died.
The voting went as expected, slow and steady. And, as anticipated, there were no more votes cast after noon. Cowboys rode in around eleven-thirty, scratched out their preferences, and dropped the papers in the box. Then they went back outside to loaf on the front porch or occupy every one of the benches located along the town’s boardwalk. They talked, laughed, and on occasion nearly got into a fight over something or another. None of those near confrontations erupted into anything more significant than a puffy lip or a bruised knuckle. Just two minutes before five o’clock, the sheriff’s deputy, Memphis Jack Stump, left the jail and wandered over to the saloon to be prepared to secure the ballot box and start the count. Since he wasn’t on the ballot, he was the only town official legally able to do the counting. The mayor and the sheriff, both being up for reelection, had to remain no closer than fifty feet from the ballot box after voting. Cotton remained on the bench out front of his office, chatting with Emily, who’d driven her buckboard to town to cast her vote.
“I think it went very smoothly, don’t you, Cotton?” Emily asked.
“I reckon. It isn’t over yet, though.”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“I am, if what Johnny told me about the reason Carp Varner burned a town and killed every last citizen in it carries with it the ring of truth.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the reason Carp went over the cliff was because he lost his election for mayor. I’m expecting a repeat of that when the votes are counted. And so I’d like to suggest you go inside as soon as five o’clock rolls around and the ballots are counted.” He pulled his pocket watch from his vest, opened it, and sighed. “Which I figure to be about now.”
“What’ll you be doing?”
“Aimin’ to throw a little kindlin’ on the fire.”
“What do you mean?”
“Carp Varner is—if I’m to believe what I’ve heard—one mean son of a bitch who’ll stop at nothin’ in his quest for revenge on anyone who has the audacity to reject him. He takes that kind of thing very personally. I need to be ce
rtain he understands we aren’t just a bunch of hayseeds who’ll stand by and be run over by a man with vengeance on his mind.”
“Does that by any chance mean allowing Johnny Monk to be in danger?”
“It’s important that Varner face the man who’s making accusations against him.”
“But he’s just a boy. He could be killed. Cotton, I can’t just stand by and—”
“Stop frettin’, Emily, both Jack and I, as well as Henry Coyote, will be coverin’ the situation nine ways from Sunday.”
“By the way, where is Johnny?”
“Oh, he’s locked up tighter’n a Saturday night drunk in one of the cells inside.”
“You mean he’s been in jail all along and you didn’t send word to me?”
“Uh, yeah, I reckon you could look at it that way.”
“I’ve been worried sick about him. I couldn’t sleep at night knowing he might try something stupid and get himself shot.”
“Things have been happenin’ pretty fast here, and I didn’t have time to ride out and tell you. Also, I couldn’t send word by Henry because I needed him here. He had Johnny in his sights ever since he found where he was hidin’ out here. You needn’t have been frettin’ so.”
Emily gave Cotton a glare that could have melted butter with its intensity.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Sheriff Burke, I’m a woman. That’s what we do!”
Cotton didn’t have an answer for that.
Chapter 56
At five-thirty, Jack emerged from the back room of the saloon with a piece of paper in one hand and a small hammer and a nail in the other. He held the paper to the siding outside the saloon and tacked it up with the nail. He stood back to allow those who might be interested take a look.
“The official election results are available, folks. Take your time, don’t crowd around,” he said, expecting all those within earshot to come rushing up. “Oh, and the saloon is now open.”
Every cowboy on the porch, and all up and down the street, hurried toward the saloon, completely ignoring the sheet with the election results as they pushed by Jack in their haste to get to the bar. He was nearly trampled by their stampede to imbibe something stronger than coffee.
“Not sure why we even bother,” Jack muttered, as he went inside to grab a bottle and take it over to the jail. He figured Cotton would be anxious to celebrate his win. Of course, without anyone opposing him, he couldn’t lose. On his way through the batwings, Jack turned to see Mayor Plume walking briskly down the street. Not far behind him was Carp Varner taking long, purposeful strides. Varner looked like a man on a mission.
* * *
As he watched the scene before him unfold, Cotton turned to Emily and said, “Go inside, Emily. Go inside and tell the two people there to come out. Tell Johnny to come here and stand by my side.”
“Isn’t that Mr. Varner racing to catch up with Mayor Plume?”
“It is. Please do as I ask. We don’t have much time if I’m going to pull this off without losin’ our town.”
Emily disappeared into the jail office, and emerged in two minutes with Johnny and Turner Burnside trailing behind her. Johnny’s eyes grew wide as he caught sight of Carp Varner. His hand went instinctively to his side for his revolver; then he suddenly remembered that the Indian had taken it away from him. Instinctively understanding the boy’s intentions, Cotton grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt and yanked him to his side before he could go back to retrieve any sort of weapon.
“You won’t be needin’ a gun, boy. Just keep your mouth shut and follow my lead. You can speak up when I say you can. Understand?”
Johnny nodded without ever taking his eyes off Varner. The heat of the boy’s anger was palpable.
* * *
When the mayor walked up to the posted results, he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his spectacles. Rather than putting them on, he simply held them up in order to read the only number he cared about: his own. There it was—clearly he’d achieved another victory. The townsfolk felt sufficiently comfortable with the job he’d done to bring him back for a second term. Before returning his cheaters to his pocket, he noticed that Sheriff Burke, too, had been reelected, not that there was any way he could have lost. Plume felt pretty chipper about his significant number of votes over Carp Varner. In fact, Varner appeared to have received but four votes in total. Plume turned with a smug smile, only to find himself facing a red-faced Varner, his opponent. Varner took one quick glance at the totals and began berating the mayor, backing him against the wall.
“You dirty rattler! You’re the one who wrote those scandalous words on my posters. You caused the folks of Apache Springs to turn against me. Admit it, you low-down snake!” Varner had hauled back to punch the mayor when a loud voice interrupted him.
“Hold on, Varner. The mayor didn’t write on those posters, I did!”
“You? Why? Where’d you come up with all them lies?”
Cotton reached back and took Johnny by the arm and pulled him to his side.
“This boy claims he knows you from a Texas town called Whiskey Crossing. Seems that when you lost an election there similar to our own, you decided to make the town pay for your lack of popularity. He says you killed every living thing thereabouts—horses, mules, dogs, and the entire citizenry. Then you did the most dastardly thing imaginable, you set the town afire, and rode off like a sniveling coward. The boy says he still hears the screams in his nightmares. Any of that sound like it has the ring of truth?”
Varner thrust his left hand out and grabbed the mayor by the back of his coat, while at the same moment pulling his revolver. He shoved Plume in front of him, hooking his arm around the mayor’s throat, then using him as a shield as he backed through the batwings, firing over the mayor’s shoulder as he went. Varner fired three times. His bullets thudded into the front of the jail, knocking chinks out of the siding and shattering two panes of glass.
Cotton yanked Johnny back behind him, then, spinning around, pushed Burnside and Emily ahead of him, back into the safety of the jail.
“You three stay here until you hear me tell you it’s okay to come out. And Johnny, if you make one move to go after Varner, I swear I’ll skin you alive myself.”
He stopped momentarily, thinking back on what he’d just said. Deciding he couldn’t really trust the boy to obey him, he shoved Johnny into the first cell, locked the steel door, and tossed the keys to Emily.
“Keep him in there and you’ll keep him alive.”
He grabbed a shotgun from the rack, made a quick check of his Colt, and rushed out the door. He knew Varner wouldn’t still be in the saloon, or at least he hoped not. Odds were the man would head to his own arsenal at the gun shop, where he had plenty of ammunition to hold off whatever force the sheriff brought against him. If he was still holding the mayor hostage, things could get messy real fast.
Cotton made the best time he could, trying to make himself as small a target as possible by keeping to the shadows beneath every portico and overhang, ducking behind each water barrel, bench, and crate, even cutting through the general store to come out in the alley at the back.
Finally, he was able to situate himself in position to keep an eye on Varner’s establishment. That’s when he got a shock. Varner had stacked up wooden crates three high across the boardwalk in front of the shop, making it a virtual fortress. Cotton could see movement inside through the front window. Varner had apparently gone down another alley and into the rear door of his shop. At this point, Cotton had no way of tempting Varner to step outside and face him. And he sure as hell wasn’t planning to bust in and come face-to-face with a fusillade from Varner’s formidable cache of firearms.
He suddenly felt a shiver go up his back. He yanked his Colt and spun around to see Henry and Jack no more than three feet behind him.
“Damn! Are you two tryin’ to take a couple years o
ff my life?”
“Found the mayor out back of the saloon. Had bump on his head, but he appears to be all right. We’re here to help. What do you want us to do?” Jack asked. Henry just grunted.
“I got a real bad feelin’ about what Varner might conjure up in retribution for his election loss. Remember that Johnny said the thing that fueled his fury at the folks of Whiskey Crossing was his failing to get any votes for mayor. He may be thinkin’ to repeat history. We better be ready for anything.”
“If he starts a fire in this town full of dry timber, Apache Springs could be nothin’ but embers in minutes,” Jack said. “A man would have to be crazy to do somethin’ like that.”
“I think that’s exactly what he is. So you and Henry start alerting every shop owner and citizen to help gathering all the buckets of sand or water you can find. We’d better be prepared for a bucket brigade from the well, too. Warn everyone who’ll listen to be ready.”
When Henry and Jack took off running in opposite directions, Cotton decided he’d sit tight for a while to keep an eye out for Varner’s next move. He was dead certain there would be something happening, and soon. He also figured it to be dramatic and deadly. He had no interest in being in on the deadly part of it.
He was mulling over how he might get Varner to come out in the open and show his hand. He needed to keep the cold-blooded killer occupied while the town prepared for the eventuality of a fire spreading from business to business. He was shaken from his inner turmoil when Carp Varner burst out of the door to his shop with four glass-bowled lanterns in his hands. The glass chimneys had all been removed and each lamp was lit. Cotton ducked down to keep from being a target as Varner placed the lamps in a row along the boardwalk then spun around and returned inside, only to reappear within seconds fully armed with the same big-bore shotgun with which he’d brought down the two Callahan brothers.
He was now standing in front of the open door, shotgun aimed across the street and six-shooters shoved in holsters, gun belts, and sticking out of pockets. He was a walking army.