by Phil Dunlap
When Virgil and his two hard cases had first blown into Apache Springs, Hank Brennan’s spread looked like the perfect place from which to launch their nefarious acts. Brennan gave in and hired them on because times were tough and finding desirable hands was all but impossible. New Mexico Territory was rife with vagrants and scum. And Virgil Cruz was the worst of the lot.
As Virgil rode through the front gate, Hank Brennan stepped out of the bunkhouse followed by two of the other ranch hands. Hank stopped, cupped his hand over his eyes to see who was riding in so late, and then turned to the two cowboys at his side.
“Here comes Virgil. I need to talk to him. You two go on down to the creek and gather up them calves and bring’em in for the night.”
Both cowboys nodded and mounted up. They were well on their way when Virgil rode up leading the Tulip brothers’ horses.
“Took you long enough to have a look at the western range. You take a little side trip into town? And where are the Tulips? And why do you have their horses?”
Virgil dismounted and wrapped the reins of all three horses around a hitching rail. He hiked up his holster and walked up to Brennan. He took off his hat and wiped perspiration from his brow with his shirtsleeve.
“Mr. B, I got back as soon as I could. We run into a little trouble when we caught up with the herd. There were some rustlers havin’ at them cattle, and we just naturally needed to stop ’em.”
“Well, come on inside and tell me about it.” Brennan led the way into the large whitewashed frame ranch house he’d built himself ten years ago. Two stories tall, with a curved stairway and an oak railing he’d had sent all the way from Chicago, a carved oak mantel for the fireplace, and an oak front door with etched glass, the ranch house was an imposing structure. It was, in fact, the envy of ranchers for miles around. He motioned Virgil to the drawing room and a high-backed, overstuffed chair, and shooed the terrier off the couch. The dog growled lowly at Virgil, then hopped off the sofa and scurried beneath it.
Virgil settled into a chair, looking grim at what he was about to tell his employer but with confidence in his ability to continue blowing smoke in Brennan’s face without fear of discovery. Virgil was well known for his silver tongue, and while he was pretty puffed up at his ability to pull off one successful scam after another, his boss wasn’t always the easy mark Virgil assumed. Hank Brennan had proven adept at seeing through other men’s bluffs on more than one occasion.
“Well, Mr. Brennan, here’s the way it happened. We rode down into Saucer Valley where them cows was being ranged, when we noticed a spindle of smoke just kinda climbin’ up through the still air like a rope a-twistin’ around on its way to the heavens. Then we saw some hombres with runnin’ irons plannin’ to make changes to your brand. So we rode like the wind down into that valley, firin’ and yellin’, so’s they’d know what they was up against and run for their lives.”
“That what they did?”
“Well, yes and no. They had already cut a few head out and had driven them off to who knows where, but them that was left was stopped in their tracks when we got there. Only thing was, there was more’n we figured on and those poor Tulip brothers were cut down right before our eyes. And them in their prime, and all.” Virgil faked at wiping a tear from his eye.
“You say the Tulips was killed? Both of ’em?”
“That they was. That was before we scattered them sidewinders to the four winds. Shot a couple of ’em up real bad, too. But they got clean away while we was gatherin’ up what was left of the herd.”
“What did you do with the boys?”
“Buried the poor unfortunate souls right at the bottom of the hill where they was shot to pieces, so their spirits could gaze out on this fair land for the rest of eternity. That’s what we did. I jes’ knowed you’d approve.”
Brennan said nothing as he stared Virgil down, trying to figure out just how much of his story could be believed. He slumped in his chair, with a suspicious frown wrinkling his forehead, his jaw tightening as he chewed his lower lip. He waved Virgil on out of the room as he sat in morose silence.
I never should have hired that lyin’ rattlesnake. Now I’m stuck with him and his murderin’ ways. But I can’t keep puttin’ up with it. I have to do something to correct my error.
Chapter 9
The two men rode in silence. Cotton wasn’t eager to tell Jack about the trouble he was about to be dragged into. He would have to soon but, for the moment at least, his thoughts were all about Emily. From the first, he’d been smitten with her. Even before Vanzano Cruz, Virgil’s brother, had killed her husband Otis. And now Cotton felt there was yet a score to be settled. At least as long as there was a Cruz still alive.
It had broken Cotton’s heart to see the sadness on Emily’s face and the flood of tears that had stained her cheeks when her husband died, all of which served to make him hope some woman would care that deeply for him one day. But he’d been careful never to appear interested in being more than acquaintances after her husband’s death; that is, until she stopped by his office one day with a very unusual request.
“Good morning, Sheriff Burke,” she said, gliding into the room like a breath of fresh air.
Cotton busted his kneecap on the edge of the desk in his awkward attempt to be a gentleman and stand in the presence of a lady. He stumbled forward in pain, while at the same time removing his hat. She smiled behind a delicate, gloved hand at his attempt at being mannerly.
“M-Miss Emily, I’m delighted to see you. Uh, won’t you have a seat? Would you like some coffee?” His words were like a teenager’s first encounter with the prettiest girl in town. To add to his misery, he suddenly remembered how most people referred to his coffee.
“No, thank you, Sheriff. I’ll just sit a minute to cool off from the terrible heat. I’m afraid coffee would add to the distress. I would trouble you for a cup of water, though.”
Thankful she’d turned down his coffee, he fumbled through his desk for something resembling a clean tin cup. Later, with her sipping the cool water, and both of them seated so as not to have any more mishaps, he was eager to hear whatever business had brought her to his office.
“Now, Miss Emily, what can I do for you?”
“Well, as you know, several ranchers have been trying to persuade me to return to St. Louis, a place more suited to a lady, they say. I suspect it is a desire to get their hands on my land. However, I was fully aware of the possible dangers to be found in a hostile land when I agreed to come in the first place, and I came willingly. The fact that my Otis fell victim to a brutal act has in no way deterred me from fulfilling his dream of building a ranch here. I venture to say it has hardened me to the task.”
“I’m delighted that you’ve decided to stay, but I reckon I have to agree with the others; it’s a tough life for most men, let alone a woman,” he said, with some hesitation that his words could bring with them an unintended meaning.
“There’s no use in trying to talk me out of my decision. I am staying, and that’s that.”
“H-how can I be of assistance, then, ma’am?”
“My husband had complete confidence in you as a man of strong character. It is for that reason that I would like for you to look over the men I have working for me and tell me which ones might chafe at taking orders from a woman, and which would be reliable, hardworking gentlemen.”
“You want me to tell you which wranglers to keep?”
“And help me hire any new ones that are necessary.”
Cotton had swallowed hard at the prospect of acting as an employment agent, but since it would allow him to get to know Emily Wagner better, he’d acceded to her wishes, spending about three days culling her hands to a very reasonable seven men in whom she could have confidence.
From that day forward, friendship had slowly grown into something more than just a passing interest on both their parts.
Cotton and Memphis Jack rode into Silver City just before nightfall. They stopped in front of t
he Cloverleaf Hotel and dismounted, dropping their reins loosely over the hitching rail.
“I’ll get us a room. You go in and order us some grub,” said Cotton.
“I’ll be over in that saloon across the street. Come get me when you’ve got a room. My hand’s itchin’ for some action, and I feel lucky.”
“We’ll eat first, then you can go lose your money.”
Jack gave Cotton a cold look. “Look, Cotton, you ain’t my keeper. I’m along as a favor, although I can’t figure out for the life of me what favor I owe you. So, if I was you, I’d scrape up every bit of good will I could to keep me taggin’ along on whatever scheme you got in mind for us, and it better be profitable, too.” Jack turned and headed straight for the saloon. He stopped after he heard the distinctive sound of a Colt .45 being cocked.
“Food first, Jack, or you’ll be eatin’ dirt. You ain’t slippin’ out on me.”
Jack threw up his hands as he stared down the barrel of Cotton’s revolver.
“Okay. Okay. Make it a steak, and I’m yours.”
Cotton holstered his Colt and Jack followed him into the hotel. Cotton went to the counter, turned the register book around, picked up the pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and started to write their names.
A man came through a curtained doorway. “Excuse me, sir, but we are full up for tonight. I’m real sorry.”
Cotton looked at an empty register, frowned, then looked the man straight in the eye.
“I don’t see any other rooms taken.” Cotton pulled back his coat to reveal the sheriff’s badge. “Where are all these folks that are supposed to be booked for the night?”
The man began to fidget nervously. “Uh, well, they aren’t actually here right now, but Mr. McMasters reserved the whole hotel.”
“McMasters? Who the devil is he?”
“Why, everyone in these parts knows Mr. McMasters. He ramrods the biggest mine around, ten miles east. He has several fellows that work for him, and they’re all real handy with a six-shooter. He’s expected anytime now, and if he found out I’d rented out one of his rooms, why, I’d be a dead man. Please, sir, Miss Betty runs a boardinghouse a block down. I’ll bet she has a room available.” He mopped at his sweaty brow and the top of his balding head with a large white handkerchief, looking like he was about to jump out of his skin.
Cotton thought about what the man had said, then shrugged, tossed the pen down on the counter, where it made an inky splatter, and turned on his heels and stormed out. He could hear a relieved sigh all the way out into the street.
“That badge of yours sure did turn that feller to your way of thinking, Cotton. He was mighty impressed.”
“Oh, shut up, Jack, and move it on down to that boardinghouse.”
“Uh-huh. And how about that steak? You’re the one said you was hungry, and now you got me to thinkin’ about wettin’ my whistle and fillin’ my belly. There’s a restaurant right over there, next to the livery. What say we stop there first?”
“If it’ll make you quit your whinin’, we’ll do it. You surely do talk a bunch. Is that what attracted Melody to you?”
It was apparent by the look on Jack’s face he didn’t like that last crack, but he let it drop. His eyes gave him away, though. He wasn’t about to forget it. There’d be a day of reckoning, of that there could be no doubt.
When they reached the restaurant, Cotton went to a table in the corner, away from the other customers seated closer to the front window.
“How come you want to sit all the way back here? You afraid somebody from your shady past will come through them doors and decide to kick your backside?” said Jack.
“No, I’m afraid someone will want to kick yours and spoil my dinner.”
“Uh-huh.”
Cotton leaned over and talked just above a whisper.
“I need to tell you what you’re up against before we get to Apache Springs, and I don’t want the whole world knowin’ about it. That’s why we’re sittin’ in the back, you ornery cuss.”
“I mighta figured it would be something so despicable, you’d have to keep it secret till I was hip deep in it. Well, spill it. I’m hungry, but I’m all ears.”
A man with a badly stained apron came over to their table. His sleepy eyes suggested he was eager for the day to end. His unenthusiastic recitation of the menu items probably accounted for the few diners at a time when the place should have been full.
“Gents. I got a couple of steaks with your names on ’em, and some black-eyed gravy, and I can heat up some beans, too, if you’ve a mind. What’ll it be?”
“Steak and beans for me,” said Jack, “and you can skip that gravy. Coffee, too, if it ain’t too much trouble.”
“The same for me,” said Cotton, waving the man off.
“Okay, get to it, Cotton. Give me the bad news so’s I can get on with bein’ even more angry at you than I already am.”
“Better limber up that gun hand of yours, because you’re about to fall in with the grimiest, smelliest, ugliest bunch of owlhoots you ever laid eyes on. They’ll slit your throat for snorin’, and gun you down for your boots. And they got a powerful hate on for me. Before it’s all over, you can figure on getting real cozy with that bunch.”
Jack sat there with a withered look on his face.
“What did I ever do to you to deserve such a rotten, lowdown friend?” he mumbled.
“What haven’t you done?”
Chapter 10
Scat Crenshaw was wanted in three states. He had slipped into New Mexico Territory to join Virgil Cruz and his men for what Cruz had said would be “well worth your time.” And time was about all Scat had. He had been holed up in a cabin in Wyoming for nearly three months, trying to stay clear of a posse that had sworn to string him up quickly when they caught up with him. There were posses scouring the countryside for him and his brother, Dogman, for a string of stage robberies that had netted nothing but pocket change but left a number of dead bodies across Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. When Scat got word that Virgil Cruz had work for him, he and Dogman slipped across the border into Colorado.
Now, as part of that work, Scat had been left in charge of Emily Wagner. He had a weakness for pretty women, and she fit the bill perfectly. Cruz’s admonition not to lay a hand on her didn’t scare Scat one bit. After Cruz rode off, Scat had a grin on his face that could mean only one thing: Emily was going to have to learn to enjoy his company or stay tied up for what could amount to many days. He snickered to himself at that thought.
He lit the wick of the kerosene lantern, grinning as the light revealed the woman’s face. Emily was staring at him with a mixture of defiance and fear. He sat on a flimsy chair he’d pulled over beside the cot she was lying on, still bound tightly.
“Well, missy, I’d like to introduce myself. They call me Scat, and I’m going to be the only thing between your safety and comfort and a whole lot of trouble, if you catch my drift.” The flickering lantern picked out a thin, pockmarked face with lines so deep they could have been planted with corn. “So, I hope you’ll be rememberin’ that when I ask kindly for a little favor now and then.”
“If you lay a hand on me, Cotton Burke will flay you like a venison steak, you filthy pig,” Emily snarled at him.
“Hmmm, you’re a feisty little thing, ain’t you? Well, we’ll see how things go when you start to get hungry, real hungry.” Scat got up with a chuckle and went outside to sit on the porch and smoke while he figured out just how to handle the pretty lady with an attitude more like a catamount than a member of a ladies’ choir. That was when he saw two riders coming up the trail.
Virgil left Brennan’s house reassured that he had successfully just blown smoke in the old man’s face once again. I could get that old fool to use his last dollar to buy stock in an iron pyrite mine, he thought. Maybe I’ll just up and try to locate one to sell him one of these days. That brought out a laugh as he stomped toward the bunkhouse, leading his horse to the corral and raising a cloud of dus
t as he kicked clods of dirt out of his way.
After leaving his still-saddled roan tied to the corral fence, he went inside to find three cowhands playing cards.
“Hey, Virgil, sit down and haul out some of that bundle of yours. We’re a little short after last night’s trip to town. We could use some of your money,” said Cappy Brennan, Hank’s son.
Cappy was an amiable sort, easygoing and slow to anger. But everyone knew he wasn’t an experienced manipulator of the pasteboards. Virgil often tried to push the young man to his limit, but he’d thus far failed to sucker the boy into betting more than common sense would dictate.
“Cappy, I swear, you’re dumber’n an east Texas sodbuster if you think you can take a red cent from me.”
“Well, sit down and let me give ’er a try. I may be smarter than you think.”
As Virgil pondered whether it would be a good idea to try cleaning out the boss’s son, he heard riders approaching the bunkhouse. He went to the single window and looked out to see Ben Patch and Blade Coffman riding up. They dismounted and started for the door. Virgil got to the door first and went outside, shutting the door behind him so that those inside wouldn’t hear what was being said.
“Everything all right up there at the line shack, Ben?”
“Uh, well, I ain’t just certain that our guest is any too happy bein’ tied up and all,” said Ben. “But I think we put the fear of God in Scat if’n he was to touch the lady.”
“He’s gettin’ a little itchy, you know, waitin’ on the action. I ain’t sure we can keep him away from Miz Wagner,” said Patch.
“Maybe I’ll try to enlist a couple more men, help keep an eye on things.”
“Ain’t more just gonna cut down on our share of the money, Virgil?” said Ben.
“What did I ever do to get burdened with a couple of dirt-dumb saddle bums like you two?” Virgil shook his head as he kicked at a clump of dirt, exploding it across the ground. “Sometimes I swear I gotta spell everything out to you two.”