Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  “I do anything for Miss Emily.”

  “Here’s what I want you to do. First, ride out of town and go straight back to the ranch. Don’t let on to any of the other hands what I’ve told you. We have no idea who all might be involved in this. If you don’t hear from me within six days, you are free to scout out where she might be held. You must do this on your own. You must be very secretive about it, probably only going out at night. But you can’t do anything until I have the rest of the plan in place. This involves more than Emily, it could mean the lives of others, too. Do I have your word you’ll do as I ask?”

  Henry appeared reluctant to commit to the sheriff’s request. His eyes clearly harbored many more questions than had thus far been answered. He shifted his gaze from Cotton to the floor. Finally, he nodded in agreement.

  “Good,” said the sheriff.

  “All men from ranch gone,” said Henry.

  “Gone?” Cotton was startled by this news. “Where?”

  “When I no see others, I come here.”

  “That’s not good news. Either they were in cahoots with whoever grabbed Emily, or—”

  “They in danger.”

  “Could be. Keep an eye out for anything that might suggest an ambush or a shooting. In fact, you must be on the lookout for any signs of trouble. If something has happened to the other hands, you may be the next target.”

  Henry grunted as he stood to leave. The sheriff stopped him.

  “Go out the back way. The fewer people who know we’ve talked, the better.”

  Henry shut the rear door quietly behind him. He slipped away without being seen.

  Cotton knew full well why Henry Coyote had such a deep desire to see that Emily Wagner was returned safely. Three years back, Otis Wagner had discovered the Indian lying in a gulley, sprawled facedown in the dirt, shot and bleeding. In a couple more hours, Henry would have been dead. Otis and Emily took him to the ranch, cared for him, and nursed him back to health. In Henry’s mind, he owed his life to this woman and her deceased husband. He would be determined to do everything in his power to make her safety his priority.

  I only hope he’ll give me the time I asked for before he goes off on his own.

  When Henry got back to the Wagner ranch, he began looking around for any signs of horses other than those of the regular ranch hands. Near the porch, mixed in with hoofprints of many others, he found the distinctive pattern of a horse with a broken shoe. I not forget this print, he thought, and will kill the man whose horse made it.

  He’d promised the sheriff not to act impulsively, but Henry Coyote found himself already struggling to keep that promise. There were no words, no promises that could allow him to leave Emily’s life in the hands of scoundrels one minute longer than necessary. He began his search for the missing ranch hands.

  Chapter 3

  Cotton Burke stared at the Colt .45 in his hand. He loved the feel of the smooth walnut grip and the perfect balance. It was the only tool he’d ever been really good at using. He wondered if that was a skill to be proud of. Killing wasn’t something he’d set out to do, but some men seemed bent on behavior that made it inevitable. The day he shot and killed Vanzano Cruz was a case in point.

  He turned the revolver around and half-cocked it. He snapped open the loading gate and slowly rolled the cylinder to make certain it was fully loaded. Five bullets, with the hammer on the empty chamber to prevent an accidental discharge. He slipped the Colt back into his holster as he stood. Near the door lay his saddlebags, an extra box of cartridges, and a couple of blankets rolled and tied with leather thongs. A Winchester rifle leaned against the wall. He pulled out the note he’d found nailed to the door of his office and read it once more.

  Looks like I’m destined to kill me another Cruz. His mouth contorted with loathing for the man. He refolded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

  Before gathering up his things, he tore an old wanted dodger in half, turned it over to the blank side, touched the point of a stubby pencil to his tongue, and began scribbling a note for his deputy, who was out of town collecting taxes from some of the ranches to the south. Deputy Keeno Belcher would be back the next day, but Cotton wasn’t going to wait around to talk to him in person. He placed the note in the center of his desk where it was certain to be found. He mulled his words over one more time.

  Keeno,

  Something’s come up. I’ll be back in a couple days. Don’t say nothing to nobody about me being gone. If you do, you’ll be back cleaning out stalls at the livery stable. Anybody asks, you say I’m conferring with the mayor, or getting up a petition, something of the sort.

  And keep that Remington in its holster. The last time I was gone, I come back to find you’d darned near shot your foot off. Try talking them drunks into coming to jail peaceable like.

  Cotton

  I hate threatening that fool deputy, but I can’t risk him stumbling onto what’s happening.

  Cotton walked to the livery to get his horse saddled. As he approached, the stable owner came out with a pitchfork in one hand and a bucket in the other. The man was muttering to himself. He didn’t see the sheriff coming toward him. He looked up abruptly, startled at the shadow that had fallen across his path.

  “What the . . . Oh, it’s you, Sheriff. Didn’t see you.”

  “I could tell your mind was elsewhere, Dooley. What’s got you so deep in thought?”

  “This here is a bucket of grain from one of the bags I bought two days ago from the feed store. It’s so full of them blasted mealy bugs, it ain’t fit to give any animal a fellow’d expect to make it home on. Make ’em sick, it would. I swear I don’t know what’s gotten into ol’ Delbert. He’s actin’ like his loyal customers don’t mean a hill of beans no more.”

  Cotton peered into the bucket and, sure enough, crawling all over the grain were the pesky bugs that drove ranchers crazy when they got into their feed, usually when it had gotten wet and started to rot. But it wasn’t the bugs that had the sheriff worried, it was the pitchfork Dooley was wielding like a spear.

  “What do you intend to do with that frog-sticker, Dooley?”

  “What? Oh, this here pointy thing. Uh, I figure it’ll give him the incentive to fork over the money I gave him and come down and haul off that pile of rotten grain he foisted off on me.”

  “Maybe I ought to saunter on down there with you. Just to make sure nothin’ happens to make you sorry you didn’t think this through real good.”

  “Aww, that ain’t necessary. Here, you take the pitchfork with you. You can lean it against the first stall if you’re goin’ thataway. Say, you leavin’ town or somethin’?”

  “I have to ride over to the Brennan place. I hear he thinks his cattle have been disappearin’ a few head at a time. Says his men have been tryin’ to catch the rustlers in the act, but so far they’ve had no luck. I’ll be back later.”

  Dooley gave the sheriff a backhanded wave and continued his march to the feed store.

  Scat Crenshaw squatted on the porch of the tiny, remote cabin. His mind was going a mile a minute. There were three things that Scat seemed to have little control over: his temper, his impulsive use of a gun, and his infatuation with the ladies. He didn’t have anything to lose his temper over at the moment, and since he was stranded out in the wilderness alone, he had no one to get angry at and shoot. The only thing left to divert his mind was that good-looking lady lying inside, all strung up and helpless.

  And Emily Wagner certainly was occupying his thoughts.

  Scat Crenshaw had joined Cruz and his band after being sent a wire to come down to Apache Springs from Colorado to help with what Cruz referred to as “a killing.” Of course, the gunslinger wasn’t certain how many Cruz meant to kill, or who they were, but since dodgers with Scat’s face on them hung on walls and posts all over Colorado, it didn’t really make any difference that Cruz was vague about whatever the job was. And since he’d ridden all the way down to Apache Springs on the word of a man with a re
putation even worse than his own, he aimed to get his fair share of whatever crooked deal Cruz had in mind. If he hadn’t already been solidly on board, Emily Wagner was shaping up to be quite an added bonus.

  In fact, the only thing that stuck in his craw was Virgil’s talking down to him, like a father to an errant child. He don’t know me well enough to go makin’ threats, no sir. The time’ll come when I’ll make him eat them words.

  Scat began making plans to have Emily and his share of whatever loot might be coming his way. And whoever this Cotton fellow was that Emily mentioned, well, he better watch out because Scat Crenshaw was nobody’s fool. And he could hold his own against any law dog from here to the Mississippi. He’d shot enough of them to know.

  Chapter 4

  The tall, rail-thin man wearing a long, black duster reined in his horse out front of the dry goods store in Gonzales, New Mexico Territory. He sat for a moment before dismounting, searching about with narrowed eyes, taking inventory of every face that might seem unduly interested in his arrival. Satisfied he hadn’t been followed, he dismounted, drew his carbine from its scabbard, draped a pair of saddlebags over his shoulder, and strode toward the hotel, directly across the street.

  In front of double pine doors painted dark green, with brass doorknobs and frosted glass window lights, he smiled at how improved the facade was since he’d last been there. Before entering, he slapped at his coat to shed some of the dust that had accumulated over the past seven hours, then took off his black, floppy-brimmed hat, and brushed at it a couple of times before settling it back on his head.

  He entered to find a wide lobby with two circular, padded seats in the middle. A large planter with fanlike palms filled a corner, and several velvet-covered armchairs sat around. That fancy oriental rug gives this place more opulence than this dusty New Mexico town deserves, he thought.

  The check-in desk to his left was attended by an attractive, blue-eyed woman with too much makeup and long blond hair piled on top of her head, held by two silver combs. Several strands dangled loosely to her shoulder. She looked up from studying the register, and seeing him, she broke into an effusive smile and rushed around the counter to hug him.

  “Oh, my lord, is it really you? Can it really be?” she stuttered. “You are a sight.”

  “Yep, it’s me, Melody.”

  She stepped back, holding him at arm’s length, and shook her head and clucked her tongue.

  “Cotton Burke, alive and kickin’. We heard you were dead, that you got shot up in Texas. It’s good to see a soul can’t always believe what she hears.”

  “Uh-huh. Good to see you, too, Melody. Looks like the, uh, hotel business has been good.”

  “My girls are stayin’ busy.”

  “Yeah, I saw a couple of them out front. Is Jack around?”

  She stopped smiling. Her face suddenly grew hard, revealing a life her smile had masked.

  “Now, Cotton, you ain’t still sore at him for something he didn’t do, are you?”

  “Is he here?”

  “Cotton, it wasn’t him, it was me. He didn’t steal me away from you. I-I just couldn’t take it no more, you bein’ away all the time, never knowin’ whether you’d been shot down in some filthy cow town street. I went to him because I was lonely. Women get that way, you know. Please, Cotton, don’t . . .”

  “It’s got nothin’ to do with you. Now, I asked if he is here. Can I get an answer or am I goin’ to have to kick in every door in the place?”

  Melody stepped back, her forehead lined with worry, the years since he’d last seen her suddenly added physically to his memory of her. She turned away from him with tears in her eyes.

  “Second floor, number three.”

  “Obliged,” he said as he headed straight for the stairway.

  “Go ahead, Cotton, kill him. Kill him for nothin’. You’re good at that, aren’t you, you gunslingin’ polecat,” she shouted after him.

  Cotton ignored her pleadings. He didn’t even look back as he took the steps two at a time. When he reached number three, he turned the knob. It wasn’t locked. He shoved it hard. The door slammed against the wall as he stepped inside with his rifle at the ready. He found Memphis Jack Stump lying on a brass bed, naked to the waist, sound asleep. At least he was until Cotton Burke nearly busted the door off its hinges. Stump awoke with a start, reflexively reaching for a Remington .44 on the table beside the bed.

  “That’d be a big mistake, Jack,” said Cotton, cocking the Winchester before the still groggy man could get the Remington under control and bring it to bear.

  “Cotton! What the devil are you doin’ here? I-I heard you got yourself blown to pieces over in Texas,” said Jack.

  “Somebody lied to you, Jack. Someone else just said you can’t believe everything you hear. Even you should know that by now.”

  Jack dropped the Remington on the sheets and sat up. He rubbed at his eyes and reached for a bottle of whiskey that was also on the small, round table where his gun had been. He pulled the cork, took a long swig, and then thrust it toward Cotton.

  “Drink?”

  “Too early.”

  “Suit yourself. So, Cotton, what brings you back to Gonzales? You ain’t still sore at me for takin’ up with Melody, are you? Shucks, you was gone so long, how was I to know you was still alive. A man has to have female company, pardner, or he shrivels up and goes crazy. Besides, wasn’t that her job, lookin’ out for us poor lost souls?”

  “Like I told her, and of course she didn’t listen, it’s got nothin’ to do with that business.”

  Cotton leaned the Winchester against the wall and pulled up a chair. He pulled back his long coat to reveal a Colt .45 in a cross-draw holster. He wore a brocaded vest over a black cotton shirt. On the vest pocket, a silver badge was pinned.

  “W-whoa. What’s that danglin’ from your vest? Y-you ain’t sold out to the law again, have you? Tell me it ain’t so,” said Jack.

  “Catron County sheriff. And I got a problem, Jack.”

  “Catron County is up north, ain’t it? What brings you down here? Why, I ain’t never even been up that way.”

  “That’s what I’m countin’ on, Jack. Nobody up there knowin’ your ugly face.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “My problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “The one you’re goin’ to help me with. That problem, Jack.”

  Jack blinked, took another swig of whiskey, corked the bottle, then lay back down and rolled over onto his side, facing away from Cotton.

  “Be sure to let me know how it all comes out, ol’ friend. Right now, I’ve got to get some sleep before the poker tables open this evenin’.”

  Cotton stood up, took one step toward the bed where Jack had just settled his head back on the pillow, and reached out, grabbing a handful of long hair. Jack was yanked off the bed with a yelp as he crashed to the floor. Cotton picked up his rifle and pointed it at Jack’s head. Jack lifted himself up on one arm, rubbed his shoulder where he’d fallen on it, and gave Cotton a scowl.

  “Now, what’d you have to go and do a thing like that for, Cotton? Damn, my poker arm’ll be sore for days, and I’m no good at dealin’ when I got a sore arm. Probably can’t draw worth a hoot, either. Could get myself outdrawn by some drunk on a losin’ streak.”

  “Get up, Jack. Get some clothes on and let’s get goin’. Oh, and you better stuff a couple of clean shirts in your saddlebags. You’ll be gone for a spell.”

  Chapter 5

  Virgil Cruz and four others reined in in front of the ranch house at the Double-B ranch. They dismounted as ranch owner Hank Brennan stepped out through the heavy oak door and onto the wide, stone porch. A yapping fox terrier shot past him into the yard.

  “Where you boys been? I thought you were checking on the cattle in Saucer Valley.”

  “We, uh, was just headed out that way when we came across some tracks that looked to be leading to where we lost them forty head last month.
Thought we’d track ’em, see where they led us,” said Cruz.

  The little dog began nipping at the horses’ heels. Cruz’s roan began crow hopping, dancing sideways to escape the noisy nuisance.

  “And, what’d you find?” said Brennan, giving the dog the side of his boot. The dog yipped and retreated to the porch, where he continued his vocal disagreement at sharing his yard with smelly horses.

  “Nothin’. They sorta faded into the rocks where all that slick-rock and shale has fallen into the pass at boundary marker seven.”

  “You think the rustlers came that way?” said Brennan.

  “It’s likely.”

  “What do you Tulip boys think? Cruz got it right? You two are the only real trackers I got around here.”

  The Tulip brothers looked at each other for a second before one of them spoke. “We weren’t with them during their trackin’. We was down by the creek movin’ that bunch of steers to the pens. But I reckon if Virgil said it was so, it likely was.”

  “That’s right. The Tulips joined up as we was ridin’ in,” said Cruz. He shot a scowl at the twin brothers that he hoped Brennan wouldn’t see.

  “Well, get yourselves a bite to eat, then head out to where I sent you in the first place. You got that, Cruz?”

  “Why yessir, Mister Brennan.”

  The five of them walked their horses to the pens behind the bunkhouse. Brennan watched them for a moment before going back inside. Hank’s eighteen-year-old son, Cappy, sat at a table, reading a book.

  “You hear all that, Cappy?”

  “Uh-huh. You think they’re lyin’, Pa?”

  “Can’t say for certain, but I’m goin’ over and cut them Tulip brothers out of the herd. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Want me to tag along?”

  “No. You stay here. I don’t want them figurin’ out you’re keepin’ an eye on Cruz and his bunch of cutthroats.”