‘Stop … please.’ His voice was piteous. ‘Don’t anymore.’
‘Get up!’ snapped Sudden. ‘Yu ain’t through yet.’
‘No —-no, no more, no more!’ The words were almost a scream. Green lifted the man apparently without effort by his shirt front. Cotton cringed from the expected blow, but Sudden merely yanked him around to where the townspeople could see him.
‘Here’s yore unbeatable Cottons,’ he told them. ‘Here’s the family that’s been grindin’ yore faces in the dirt for years.’ He thrust Art Cotton forward. ‘Take a good look. They ain’t made o’ steel. Yu can hurt them.’ He gave Cotton a contemptuous shove, and the half-conscious man reeled a few paces and then stumbled over the prone form of Helm, who lay in the street where he had fallen, a thin trickle of blood drying on his face. Cotton slid to the ground beside the gunfighter and lay there, his body heaving, racked with dry, frustrated sobs.
Sudden turned to Parris, who quailed as the puncher bent his frowning attention upon him.
‘I … I ain’t …it … I didn’t…’ he faltered.
‘Get those two on their horses,’ snapped Green. ‘An’ get them out o’ here. Put the one that’s sleepin’ over there by the jail with them an’ take them back where they belong —-they’re smellin’ up the town. Move!’
Parris jumped like a startled deer, and hastened over to where Cotton lay sprawled in the dust. At Sudden’s bidding, two of the bystanders helped him to get Cotton into the saddle. Helm was slung face down across his horse’s back, and the still-dazed Ricky was boosted into the saddle. Someone brought Parris his placid mount. The Sheriff heaved himself up and turned helplessly to the watchers.
‘What am … what shall I tell? What will Sim say when…?’
‘Tell him yu beat ’em up yoreself, Harry!’ yelled a man in the crowd, and Green smiled to himself. Perhaps there was a chance yet that the townspeople would stand up against the Cottons.
‘Tell Sim Cotton what happened, Parris,’ he told the Sheriff. ‘Tell him how, an’ tell him why. Most of all, tell him not to come into this town unless he’s prepared to leave it in a box. Now git!’
Then he slapped the haunch of Parris’ horse and that normally placid animal leaped wildly forward, almost unseating the portly sheriff. The four horse cavalcade thundered out of town. The bartender, Blass, had watched everything that transpired through the smeared windows of the Oasis. He turned now back to his bar as the crowd in the street broke up, and the saturnine stranger who had precipitated the downfall of Art Cotton came up towards the batwing doors of the saloon.
Blass watched him as he came in, followed by the Hornby boy, who was looking at Green as if the cowboy had just stepped off a winged charger. Blass nodded to himself as he moved across to serve them.
‘By God,’ he muttered. ‘I do believe there’s hope for us yet!’ And then he did something that nobody in Cottonwood had heard for many years. Raising his voice, he called out to everyone within earshot ‘Belly up, boys! The drinks are on the house!’
Chapter Eight
The Cottonwood ranch was not big, considering the range it controlled. Altogether, Sim Cotton had only fifteen men on his payroll, and this number included a cook and a horse-wrangler, neither of whom was to be considered in any way a fighting man. The cook was a grizzled oldster of perhaps sixty summers who had been badly stove-up in a stampede many years previously at Doan’s Crossing on the Red River, and the wrangler was a half-Indian boy who spoke about three intelligible words in English. Sim Cotton was a calculating man. He had always believed that power was a tool, like a branding iron or a gun, to be used as necessary, in the circumstances best suited to it. Power was impersonal, and so was fear, and Sim Cotton knew how to use both. Thus had his little empire in this valley remained in his grasp long after the time when such empires had crumbled in other parts of the West. Now he stood with his back to the fireplace in the big living room of his ranch and considered the battered face of his brother Art, the fawning figure of the sheriff, and the ugly expression in the eyes of Chris Helm.
‘So yu let that two- bit kid an’ his sidekick run yu out o’ my town?’ he asked his brother mildly. There was no indication in his voice of the deep-wounded anger, the searing hurt pride inside him.
‘He buffaloed me afore I seen him properly, Sim Helm told him. ‘I was out cold the whole time him an’ Art was scrapping Sim Cotton’s measured gaze swung towards his brother.
‘An’ yu…?’
Art Cotton did not answer. He could not bear the truth, that he had been thoroughly beaten. He could not invent a plausible enough excuse to offer his brother to explain his condition, so he simply sat, smoldering with hatred for the man who had so marked him before the entire town burning through him.
‘An’ our brave sheriff was sleepin’.’ Sim Cotton’s reptilian eyes rested now on the apprehensive Parris, who threw up his hands in front of him as though to defend himself against a blow, though Sim Cotton had not moved a finger.
‘I … I figgered the same as yu, Sim … Mr Cotton…’ he stuttered. ‘That this Green feller was taken care of, an’ the kid was snug in the jail … I just plain didn’t know … couldn’t have known…’
‘Mebbe yo’re givin’ me the straightest story at that, Harry,’ Sim Cotton rumbled. ‘Helm here was buffaloed while he was goin’ for his guns —-I thought yu was supposed to be fast, Helm? An’ Art got his ears beat off, an’ him reckoned to be the toughest fist-fighter north o’ the Rio.’ He smiled, without warmth. ‘I don’t see how I could expect Harry to do any better than yu two misfits.’ He glanced around the room.
It was a spacious room, stone floored, solid. The huge fireplace was dominated by a mounted elk’s head, and scattered catamount and wolf pelts made warm splashes of tawny color on the floor. The walls were of adobe, plastered and painted white; and the furniture, although simple, was solid and shone with the use of years. On one wall hung an oil painting of a white-bearded old man in range clothes. The artist’s knowledge of the range had been limited and the background was one which would have made a real cattleman laugh, but the face of the subject had been well caught: it was a ruthless, devilish face, and the eyes were twins for those of Sim Cotton, who gazed at the picture as he spoke.
‘My father built this range,’ he told the men in the room: his two brothers, Helm, the Sheriff, and his assembled riders. ‘He made Cottonwood. He made it, an’ by God, I can unmake it. If I have to. I’m hopin’ I won’t have to. I’m goin’ to try talkin’ to this man Green. I’ll make no threats. But I will have my way!’ He smashed his fist downwards upon the heavy table. ‘I’ve waited too long to lose know. I will have my way.’ His youngest brother’s expression caught his eye and he turned to face him.
‘Buck,’ he snapped. ‘What’s so damned funny?’
Buck Cotton stood up and stretched lazily.
‘Yu,’ he said, coldly. ‘Yu could ride in to Cottontown an’ burn it down if yu wanted to, an’ nobody’d lift a finger to stop yu. Yu could ride in an’ take those two out an’ hang ’em in the street, an’ nobody’d interfere. But no, not yu: yu let two four-flushers try to kill me, beat the hell out of Art, gun whip yore foreman, an’ run yore Sheriff out o’ town, an’ then yu jaw about goin’ in an’ talkin’ to them.’
Something very sudden and violent happened deep inside Sim Cotton at that moment. His affection for his kid brother was real and sincere. It had persisted out of habit long after he had learned that Buck was as unworthy of it as the meanest drunk in Cottontown. And in this moment, Sim Cotton knew that it was gone. Up to this point, he had not thought about Buck personally. The involvement of Buck in a town fracas was nothing new, but this time the events had changed the nature of things. Where normally an insult to Buck —-to any of them —-was an insult to all the Cottons, now he realized that this handsome youth, whose eyes were as shallow as rain, had jeopardized the future of everyone by his stupid, senseless, unnecessary attack on the girl.
S
im Cotton had worked hard to build what his father had left him into something bigger, stronger, more flexible. He had spent thousands of dollars on drinks for Congressmen and Senators in the plush clubs of Santa Fe, listening, waiting, hoping for the stray item of information which he could use, bend, turn to his own advantage. He had heard about the plans to irrigate the Bonito valley long before they had been drafted. Now, with the draft Bill to go soon before the Territorial Legislature, those years of hard work were going to pay off. But Buck—Buck had never worked in his life. His hands were as soft as those of a girl. Sim Cotton saw the danger of losing everything because his stupid kid brother couldn’t be bothered to keep his hands off some nester girl. Now the work of the ranch had to be suspended; already three men were lost —-maybe four if you counted Art, who looked broken —-and here was Buck taunting him, daring him to ride into Cottontown and burn it to the ground, as if he were Charley Quantrill.
His calloused hand moved almost of its own accord, and his full weight was behind it. The slap caught Buck Cotton on the side of his head and lifted him physically off his feet, hurling him into the corner of the room. He slammed into the wall and slid down, huddled, tears of outrage and shock springing to his eyes, his hand scrambling for the gun which had swung around behind him with the force of his fall. In one mighty bound, Sim Cotton was towering over him, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face taut with an almost uncontrollable rage.
‘Touch that gun an’ I’ll kill yu with my bare hands!’ he hissed. Buck pulled his fingers away from the gun butt as if it had become red hot. Sim Cotton turned his back contemptuously on his brother and stalked back into the centre of the silent room as though nothing had occurred. His rage was under control again, and his mind was already foraging ahead, planning, examining, discarding.
‘I’m goin’ in to town,’ he announced. ‘Yu, Helm. Ride with me. Yu too, Harry. The rest o’ yu stay here. Get on with yore chores.’
One of the riders, a man called Hitchin, put in a word.
‘Yu ain’t aimin’ to take nobody with yu, boss?’
‘No,’ said Cotton, his mouth closing like a trap. ‘I’m goin’ to call that stinkin’ town’s bluff. An’ Mr Green’s along with it!’
Chapter Nine
‘I’m passin’ a vote o’ thanks to Jim Green!’
The shouted words came from the lips of Bob Davis, the storekeeper, and they drew a ragged cheer from the crowded saloon. The word of Art Cotton’s beating had spread like wildfire through the town, and within half an hour of Sheriff Parris’ leading the battered ranchman out of town, lolling and swaying like a straw dummy on his saddle, nearly every able-bodied man in Cottontown was in the saloon, craning to get a glimpse of the cold-eyed stranger who had effected this miracle.
The object of their attention leaned against the bar, a thin smile on his lips. The bartender pounded him on the back, insisting that the puncher take another “snort” to celebrate what he called ‘the biggest day in Cottontown since the Centennial!” Even Doc Hight had hobbled in and joined the general enthusiasm. After a while, Green held up his hands for silence, and the forty or so men in the saloon gathered around. He hitched himself up to sit on the bar where he could see their faces, and waited until he had their complete attention.
‘I’m thankin’ yu gents for yore enthusiasm,’ he began. ‘But I’m thinkin’ that lickin’ one o’ the Cotton brothers ain’t the end o’ the rope. They ain’t goin’ to take this lyin’ down, an’ that means more trouble afore we’re through.’
The men nearest to Green shuffled their feet and looked doubtful for a moment, but someone roared out from the back: ‘Let ’em come. We’ll give ’em somethin’ to think about!’
Another cheer greeted this hot-blooded boast, and the townspeople nodded enthusiastically to each other.
‘Talk’s cheap!’ snapped Sudden. ‘I ain’t savin’ yu boys don’t mean what yo’re sayin’, but have yu given a thought to what happens if the Cottons ride in here in force? Some o’ yu have got wives an’ kids. If it comes to a showdown, there’s goin’ to be shootin’, an’ yu better think about it afore yu go any further!’ A silence greeted these words. In truth, most of the men in the saloon had been swept along on a tide of enthusiasm composed of two parts alcohol to one part defiance. Green’s sobering words brought them jokingly to their senses, and there was an outbreak of muttering and whispered consultation in the crowd.
‘Are yu stayin’ to face Cotton, Green?’ asked one bearded man.
‘I been in a scrap today,’ Green told him, smiling, ‘an’ even if I won, it still feels like I lost. I’m a mite tired for runnin’.’
In the ragged cheer that followed, Billy Hornby shouted, ‘I’m stickin’ with Jim!’
He pushed through the crowd and placed himself by Sudden’s side. In another moment the crowd parted, and Doc Hight limped forward to turn and face them. Rob Davis came forward too, and then looked expectantly at the other men.
‘Ain’t none o’ yu comin’ out here?’ he faltered. The men in the front of the crowd edged backwards, unable to meet his eyes. He looked at them in deep scorn.
‘What kind o’ town is this, anyway? Ain’t yu men goin’ to fight for what’s yourn?’
‘Hell, it’s okay for yu, Rob, yu ain’t got no family,’ said the bearded man who had spoken earlier. ‘Some of us has got little kids. We get killed, who’s goin’ to look after our womenfolk?’
Davies opened his mouth to say something scathing but before he could speak, Sudden intervened. ‘He’s right, Rob,’ he told the storekeeper. ‘It ain’t no use expectin’ to cuss him into it.’ He turned to face the crowd.
‘Yu boys git back to yore houses. Keep yore womenfolk an’ kids off the streets until this is all over—one way or th’other.’ A few men at the back of the room quickly detached themselves from the crowd and hurried out through the batwing doors. Those at the front retreated more slowly, shamefacedly, unwilling to look directly at the four men standing by the bar. Sudden turned to the bartender.
‘Blass, yu better get out o’ here, too,’ he said.
The bartender shook his head.
‘Listen Green. Sim Cotton’s bin drainin’ me of every cent I made in this place these last few years. He’s taken everythin’ ’cept my blood. Well…’ he reached beneath the bar and lifted out a beautifully chased shotgun which he banged on to the flat polished surface. ‘I reckon it’s time to find out if he wants that, too.’
He thrust out his hand and Green shook it warmly.
‘I’m thankin’ yu he said simply. ‘I’m thankin’ all o’ yu.’
‘Do it when it’s over was Hight’s succinct reply. ‘We got to wait and see what Sim Cotton’s going to do.’
Blass, who was looking idly through the window, turned suddenly towards them, his face gone pale.
‘We ain’t got to wait at all,’ he whispered. ‘Hyar he comes now, ridin’ down the street.’
Chapter Ten
Sim Cotton on his palomino stallion rode easily down the street. Chris Helm rode beside him, his hands never far from the guns slung low on his hips. Parris brought up the rear, his eyes flickering nervously about, not quite meeting the half-curious, half-apprehensive stares of the townspeople who watched in silence as the Cottonwood men moved down the street. Sim Cotton could feel the eyes upon him, and it pleased him to know that his appearance with no more than a token force had created the impression he desired. He felt it was symbolic of his strength. He did not need to ride into his own town at the head of a gang, for that would have indicated that he was unsure of himself, that this upstart kid and the slow-spoken stranger were anything other than a minor nuisance. He looked as if he had all the time, all the power he needed.
Those watching could hardly have known that time was Sim Cotton’s most potent enemy; that time passing with the control of the town in doubt was like a cancer gnawing at his vitals. Those awaiting his next move could scarcely know that the loss of Norris and Rodgers had
robbed him of two of his top guns, or that the beating Art Cotton had taken had stripped layers of pride from Sim Cotton himself, leaving nerves seared and screaming for revenge. But he was in control. He rode down the street like a king, tall and proud, a big man, virile and confident. He reined his horse to a stop in front of the Oasis and was about to dismount when a cold voice rasped ‘Don’t get down.’
He settled back in his saddle. A small pulse started to beat in his forehead, the slow measured beat of building rage; but no trace of it appeared on his face.
‘I’ve ridden a long way,’ he said mildly. ‘I’d like a drink.’
‘Drink someplace else,’ snapped another voice. ‘Saloon’s shut —-to yu.’
Sim Cotton’s eyes moved to meet those of the speaker, the bartender, Blass.
‘Well, Blass,’ he said, a touch of iciness in his voice. ‘I hope yu’ve thought what yo’re doin’ though.’
‘First real thinkin’ I’ve done in years,’ snapped Blass. ‘An’ the saloon’s still shut.’
Cotton shrugged, dismissing the bartender, and returned his reptilian gaze to Green.
‘So yu came back,’ he said softly. He surveyed the puncher from head to foot. ‘Yu don’t look good enough to have beaten Art.’ His lip curled contemptuously. ‘Yu don’t look much at all.’
‘Take another look at yore brother,’ Green told him flatly. ‘O’ course, he might’a’ just fell on his face.’ A cold smile lit his eyes for a moment. ‘Howdy, Helm. Yore head better?’ He might have been asking an old-timer about his rheumatism. Helm cursed and his hand moved, but Cotton stopped him with a word.
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