by Phil Dunlap
“Well, don’t it?”
“How many times do I gotta tell you, the only way it works is if the sheriff stays out of it. And the Wagner woman, and her safety, is our insurance.”
“Uh-huh. We understand.”
“Leave your horses saddled; we’re goin’ into Apache Springs.”
As the three of them mounted up and started to ride off, Hank Brennan stepped out onto his wide porch. He was smoking a stogie and had his revolver strapped on.
“Virgil, where are you and the boys goin”?”
“Why, uh, Mr. B, we were just about to go back out to check on the herd, make sure they ain’t been visited by them rustlers again.”
“Hold up while I saddle my horse. I think I’ll ride along with you.” He stepped off the porch and headed for the corral. “You can show me where you buried the Tulip boys.”
Virgil chewed on his lower lip as he thought about old man Brennan riding along with them and what he’d do if he found out that Virgil had been lying to him about rustlers running off with almost a quarter of his herd down in the valley. Ben and Blade looked to Virgil for guidance. All that showed them was a slowly building panic welling up in their leader, which didn’t do much toward calming their own fears.
“That’s a real rough ride up there. You sure you’re up to it, considerin’ your lumbago an’ all?” Cruz asked as Hank rode up to them.
“Don’t you worry none about my health, Virgil. I was pushin’ beeves and bustin’ broncs while you were still crawlin’ in the dirt. Let’s get goin’.”
As the four rode, little was said between them. Ben and Blade exchanged questioning glances. Hank Brennan didn’t abide deceit and was not a man unfamiliar with firearms. Ben grew more and more unsettled, squirming in his saddle like he had fleas. They all knew if old man Brennan caught on to what they’d been doing for several months, there’d be a hanging for sure, especially if he figured out they’d dry-gulched the Tulip brothers, twins that Brennan had hired on when they were but a couple of scraggly, bowlegged teenage orphans. Sweat streamed down Ben’s face as he looked to Blade for some comfort. He saw nothing. It was clear from the expression on Virgil’s face that he, too, had misgivings as to what they were riding into. They continued to follow the narrow trail through the jagged rocks and steep drop-offs. The trail came perilously close to the edge in several places. Virgil rode beside Hank.
Just as Ben was certain they were all dead men, Virgil yanked his horse to the right. Hank’s horse shied, losing its footing in the rocky shale. The old man was thrown from his saddle. Both horse and rider tumbled over the edge and down the side of the sheer cliff. Hank slammed to a stop against a cluster of boulders that jutted out from the cliff twenty feet from the top. Brennan groaned at the impact, then he lay still, unconscious.
Virgil dismounted and peered cautiously over the side, shaking his head, though he was unable to see Hank’s body. Brennan’s horse had plummeted all the way to the bottom of the canyon, nearly a hundred feet, and lay dead from the impact. Virgil grinned at the sight of the broken animal.
“I told you this was dangerous country, Mr. B. An old man like you should have stayed at the ranch, where it’s safer.”
Chapter 11
Cotton crawled out of bed at dawn and pulled on his pants. Stifling a yawn, he pounded on the wall that separated his room from Jack’s.
“Rise and shine, Jack. We’ve got to get movin’. There’s a long ride ahead of us.”
He heard no sound coming from the other side of the wall. With a grunt of anger, he pulled on his boots and stepped into the hallway. He turned the doorknob to Jack’s room and pushed. The room was empty, and the bed hadn’t been slept in.
Cotton mumbled as he gritted his teeth. He struggled into his shirt, grabbed his rifle, gun belt, and hat, and hurried downstairs toward the sound of voices and the smell of cooking.
The dining room was at the rear of the house, and he could hear several men in conversation. As he stepped inside, he saw four men laughing as they ate. They were gathered around the table, stabbing potatoes from a bowl in the center, slicing chunks of fried pork, or spooning out a slab of butter for their bread. One man was laughing and sloshing coffee around so vigorously, some of it splashed onto the table. This seemed to increase their raucous laughter, and in the center of the hilarity, sitting with his back to the door, was Memphis Jack Stump.
Cotton was relieved that he wouldn’t have to go chasing after Jack; but that didn’t calm his annoyance with the man. He moved to the other side of the table and pulled out a chair.
“Well, here he is right now, good ol’ Cotton Burke, the best damned sheriff in the territory. Let’s give him a cheer,” hollered Jack, half standing and giving Cotton a bow. “Figured we’d just have to eat your share while you lollygagged around the whole mornin’, getting’ tangled up in them soft blankets.”
The men laughed even louder, each raising his coffee cup in Cotton’s direction. Cotton could only smile and go along with whatever joke Jack had planted in the minds of the cowboys seated around the table. Jack was, it was plain to see by his weaving back and forth, his slurred words, and his glazed eyes, quite drunk. It was also obvious that after Cotton had settled in for the night, Jack had done just what he had tried to do the second they hit town: gone to the saloon for an evening of drinking and gambling.
Cotton decided to eat in silence and let Jack continue his playful antics. Perhaps he’d end up drinking enough coffee to get sober before Cotton had to give him the bad news that they were heading for Apache Springs right after breakfast. Jack was unmoved by his sober friend’s presence, and he just got louder as he spun outlandish tales of his exploits after the war and bragged of his abilities with a six-shooter. He patted his Remington to emphasize his point. Cotton waited for him to draw the damned thing and blow a hole in the coffeepot to prove he could be drunk as a skunk and still hit his man.
Cotton seethed inside at Jack’s behavior. He was contemplating what to do about it when they were all brought to attention by the sound of gunfire from outside. Chairs went scooting across the floor, some toppled by men in their haste to get in on whatever was happening. They all rushed the door at the same time, slamming into one another as they pushed through and ran down the long hall. Jack didn’t budge. He busied himself stuffing his mouth with food, something he’d not had much of for the past few days. Cotton started to get up, thought better of it, and frowned at Jack as he sat back down. He forked a piece of meat and slapped it on his plate, poured some gravy across it, and began slicing it into bite-size chunks.
“Looks like you had yourself a pretty wild night, Jack. Did you forget we have a long way to ride today? After about a half hour in the blazing sun, your tongue will think it’s been stomped on by a herd of longhorns. Yessir, you may soon be wishin’ you were dead. But you can count on one thing, we damn well are going.”
“Will you shut up, Cotton. Can’t you see I’m eatin’? And don’t get yourself all het up over me. I’ll be ready to ride. Count on it.”
Cotton’s ire had risen to its peak. He half-stood, halfleaned across the table and grabbed Jack by his shirt collar, pulling him forward enough to scoot the table an inch or two.
“Listen, you–” was all Cotton got out of his mouth before one of the men came bolting back into the dining room, wheezing as if he was almost out of breath.
“Mister, if you really are a sheriff, you gotta come quick. Someone in that McMasters bunch just gunned down the town marshal. Things’ll get ugly right quick if a cooler head don’t jump in.”
Cotton let go of Jack’s collar and stood up straight. Jack went back to eating as if nothing had happened.
“I’m a sheriff, all right, but not in this county. I have no jurisdiction here. There ain’t much I can do.”
“Well, you got to try. Otherwise, there’s goin’ to be more killin’. Without the marshal around to put a stop to it, we’ll be lookin’ at a war. It’ll tear this town apart. Please, yo
u got to do somethin’.”
Cotton frowned as he strapped on his Colt, grabbed his hat, and followed the cowboy out the door, looking back to see if Jack was going to follow. Jack remained at the table, eating and drinking with both hands.
As Cotton reached the porch, he stopped to survey the situation. It was plain that the man had not exaggerated. There was a mob of miners standing outside the saloon, and down the street was another group of men—townsfolk, shopkeepers, and the like—armed with rifles and shotguns. Both groups looked like they meant business.
Chapter 12
“Damn, Virgil! You jus’ knocked old man Brennan over the side of the cliff. No way he lived through that. What’ll we do now? If the sheriff finds out we done it, he’ll hang us for sure,” Ben said, nervous and shaken by Virgil’s compulsive actions. “And it won’t help none that we got his lady friend tied up like a Christmas goose.”
Virgil stood staring over the edge of the steep cliff. His face contorted into an evil sneer at what he saw. At the bottom he could make out the old man’s horse twisted and broken. He ignored Ben’s whining. He rubbed his whiskered chin and stared at Brennan’s dead mount.
“Virgil, I think it’d be best if we sashayed on outta this place. Get as far away as possible. We could take some of the cattle with us and sell ’em in Arizona,” said Blade.
“Will you two shut the hell up! Can’t you see I’m thinkin’ on it? An’ I don’t need two snivelin’ cowards crawlin’ up my spine.”
“Virgil, it’s our skins, too. We can’t sit around until they figure out who did it. That’s what gets a man shot,” said Ben.
Virgil picked up a small stone and pitched it over the edge. He grew increasingly nervous, realizing he might have gone too far this time. When he returned to the others, he mounted up and said, “We’ll leave him right here, and we’ll go on into town just as we planned and have ourselves a few beers. Act as if nothing happened. No one’ll find him before daylight. They’ll likely figure he wasn’t watchin’ close enough, got too close to the edge, and got dashed to pieces on them rocks down there due to his own carelessness.”
“But what if they ask how come we wasn’t with him when it happened? Them other hands saw us leave together, you know,” said Blade. “The boy, too.”
“We’ll tell ’em we split up before ol’ Brennan took that trail. We never saw him after that. That’s how we tell it. Now, do you two idjits know what to say if anyone asks about the old buzzard?”
Blade and Ben looked at each other, then nodded.
“Reckon so, Virgil.”
The three rode into Apache Springs, dismounted in front of the saloon, and went inside. They walked over to an empty table and called for the bartender to bring a bottle and three glasses. They’d no sooner been served than a voice from behind them startled Virgil.
“Well, well, look who the wind blew into town.”
Not yet seated, Virgil spun around, his hand grappling for his gun. When he saw who it was, he relaxed and turned back to his companions, shaking his head.
“Mind if I join you gents?” the man said.
“Comin’ up on a man like that is a good way to get your brains scattered across the floor, Red. You should know that,” Virgil said, easing into a seat. “Boys, this here is Red Carter, a nastier rattler you’ll never see.”
The man joined the three without an express invitation. Virgil signaled for the bartender to bring another glass.
“What are you doin’ here, Red? The last time I saw you was in Abilene, where some marshal was threatenin’ to blow away your manhood. How’d you get outta that mess?”
“As luck would have it, a fair maiden came to my rescue just in the nick of time. Enabling me to slip out of town easy as you please.”
“And this here maiden, what happened to her?”
“Well, sir, she and that marshal sorta took up with each other,” said Red, who was now nearly doubled over with laughter. Ben and Blade joined in.
“Why are you here, Red?” said Virgil, puzzled by the whole conversation.
“Well, I have been wanderin’ around just lookin’ for an opportunity to come my way.”
“What sorta opportunity you lookin’ for?”
“Anything that will put some money in my pocket. Things have been tough lately. I was on my way to explore what this town had to offer when I saw you.”
“I ain’t seen no rare opportunities around here. How about you, Ben? Blade?” said Virgil.
The other men shook their heads.
“Well, as I was about to ride out of town, I heard about an old friend who might be figurin’ on makin’ a big strike hereabouts, and I thought I’d see if I could get in on the action.”
“And what old friend might that be?”
“The only old friend I know around these parts is you, Virgil. So, what do you say, old friend, how about cuttin’ me in? Don’t tell me you couldn’t use another gun.”
“Where’d you hear such a bunch of nonsense? There ain’t no strikes about to be made by me nor anyone else. This place is deader than a month-old corpse.”
Red leaned forward on his elbows, narrowed his eyes, and looked at Virgil like a wolf eyeing his next meal. He glanced around closely to make sure no one was near enough to overhear the conversation.
“I heard you had brought in some of the best gunmen in the territory for some reason. And the onliest reason I can conjure up is that you must be fixin’ to pull off some big haul, keepin’ it all hush-hush, so the sheriff don’t get wind of it. That’s the way you operate. So, what is this big score?”
“Askin’ too many questions could shorten a man’s life if he wasn’t careful,” said Virgil.
“Reckon it could at that, if that man didn’t have some talents that might fit with whatever the job is. If you’re interested in another gun, I’m available.”
“Why should I trust you, Red? The last time we met, you tried to slip out of town with some of my money. You do remember that, don’t you?”
“I reckon it’s comin’ back to me, now, in bits and pieces. But that was quite a spell ago, and I’ve changed my ways. You can put your trust in ol’ Red Carter from now on. So what do you say, can you use another hand?”
“Maybe. Just maybe. Dependin’, of course, on what you deemed your share to be worth.”
“I figure about twenty-five percent. Since I assume it’s three of you and me. What do you say?”
“I’ll cogitate upon it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my drinkin’.”
Chapter 13
Cotton stood beneath the small porch overhang of the boardinghouse in Silver City, rubbing his chin and trying to see a way out of an incendiary situation. He had no reason to get involved and little incentive. When men line up on two sides of a life-and-death issue, someone is bound to come out of it shot full of holes. He didn’t want to be that someone.
He looked up to see a man running across the street toward him. The man was too heavy to be running in the building heat of morning and clothed in a wool sack suit at that.
“You the sheriff I been told about?” asked the man, as he drew up in front of Cotton, nearly out of breath from the exertion.
“I’m Sheriff Cotton Burke, from Catron County. I’m not sure what I can do. I have no jurisdiction here. Who are you?”
“Mayor Martin San Angelo. And I can assure you we don’t intend to stand on jurisdictional formalities. We need help. We’d be obliged if you’d consider taking the situation in hand. Most obliged.”
“First, tell me what happened.”
“Well, them miners of McMasters’s down in front of the saloon got drunk and started busting up the place. The bartender went for the town marshal to put a stop to it. When the marshal came and told them to break it up, someone got angry and pulled a gun. After that, I can’t say for sure exactly what occurred. All I know is, we got a marshal lying dead in the saloon with a bullet in the heart, and the town’s about to erupt into an all-out
war.”
“Have you had trouble with these miners before?”
“Not that much, just a little rowdiness, nothing like this, ever. Most of them miners are decent folk. They know the town needs their money to survive, and they let us know it. Lately, though, their boss man has made a mockery of the town’s rules, such as totin’ a gun in town. That McMasters is a snake, I’ll tell you that.”
“Tell me more about this McMasters fella.”
“He’s the new owner of the mine. Nasty fella. Even most of his men hate him.”
Cotton said nothing for several minutes as he tried to weigh the consequences of his getting involved. In such situations, there were usually one or two individuals that set the fire. Cutting those individuals out of the herd usually poured enough water on the flames to put an end to it.
Behind him, Memphis Jack stepped onto the porch, wiping at his mouth with a checkered napkin. He walked up to Cotton and said, “Well, well, got yourself another chance to be a hero, Cotton.”
“Go back to your breakfast, Jack, and stay out of this.”
“Why, how could I ever forgive myself if I let you go gettin’ yourself all shot up by a bunch of fool miners? Wouldn’t look good for old Memphis Jack’s reputation as a law-abidin’ citizen, now, would it?”
“Stay out of it, Jack, and I mean it.” Cotton stepped off the porch and into the street. He took off his gun belt and handed it to the mayor.
“Hold this,” he said, and he started walking toward the miners.
As he walked, he drew a cigarillo out of the pocket of his vest, then shook out a sulfur from a brass box in his side pocket. He lit up and took a long draw on his smoke. By the time he got to within ten feet of the miners, he knew which one of them was the lead bull. Warren McMasters stood at the head of the bunch, his gun and holster slid around in front and his hand on the butt of a Remington .45.