Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  “Who the hell are you?” said McMasters. “And what kind of fool faces down a force of men without a gun?”

  “I’m here to try talking things out. The mayor of this fine town has asked if I would palaver with you folks, maybe see if we can’t settle it peaceably. Maybe if you was to just hand over the man who shot the marshal, the town would agree to a trial, fair and square, and let justice be done.”

  McMasters squinted in the sun, trying his best to size up whether this man was a dreamer or just too dumb to figure what was about to happen to him.

  “Ain’t gonna be no trial, Mister whoever-the-hell-you-are. And for your information, it was me that plugged that loudmouthed law dog. Another thing, my boys have been propping up this filthy burg for years, and we weren’t about to be bullied by no tin-badge marshal. Without the McMasters mine, this here collection of firewood would have been a termite hill long ago. Now, go on back and tell that two-bit mayor what I’ve said. And if you come back, you better be armed.”

  “Tell you what, Mr. McMasters, how about we share a smoke and you can take a minute to it think over. Maybe you’ll change your mind, see it their way. It is a fair offer.”

  Cotton didn’t give McMasters a chance to object before he stuck his hand inside his vest, ostensibly to draw out a smoke. Instead, he pulled out a spur-trigger Colt .38 New Line pocket revolver and stuck it in McMasters’s face. The mine owner blinked once as a look of disbelief flooded his reddening face. He started to sputter something, but Cotton didn’t give him the chance as he pulled the badge from his vest pocket and pinned it on.

  “Tell your boys to go on back to the mine while we saunter over to the jail. If they refuse and decide to make a fight of it, they’ll be taking you back in a box. Now what do you say?”

  McMasters turned slightly as he called back over his shoulder, “Don’t let this fool bluff you. He’s only one man and you can cut him down before he can pull the trigger on that toy pistol.” McMasters was shaking with anger, and obviously considering whether to draw his Remington.

  Just then, Cotton saw a figure move forward out of the shadows from behind the miners, closing the distance between him and the men quickly before barking out his order.

  “Your boss likely just cut his own throat with his big mouth and he’ll probably be joined by about eight of you if any of you decide to butt in,” said Memphis Jack, as he stood with a six-gun in one hand and a double-barreled shotgun in the other, eyeing the restless bunch of dirty, hungover miners. “Your call, boys.”

  Chapter 14

  Virgil Cruz warily eyed the man who’d interrupted his drinking with a surprise proposition. Red Carter’s reputation for being a good hand with a gun was well known. Virgil watched him closely as Red quietly drank a whiskey, then refilled his glass and gulped down another. He was filling it up almost to the brim for the third time when Virgil spoke up.

  “I don’t recall invitin’ you to sit down here and drink up all my whiskey, Red. How’s about you just mosey on outta here and I’ll get back to you on that proposition of yours. Where you stayin’?”

  “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be at the Hilltop Hotel. Don’t chew on it too long, or I might have to find another opportunity. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  “How do you know how much time I got?” said Virgil.

  “Like I said, the town’s got ears.”

  Red pushed back his chair, threw down his third drink, and muttered once more that it seemed like a man could make up his mind quicker than this. Virgil watched through gritted teeth as Red left the saloon. He’d known Carter from several years back when they’d both ridden with a bunch of raiders on the border between Kansas and Missouri. While they never were friends, Virgil learned early on that when Red got something in his head, it was likely to stay there until someone convinced him to change his mind, usually at the point of a gun. Right now, the latter was along the lines of Virgil’s thinking.

  When Red left the table, Virgil leaned over to Ben and said, “I never liked that rattler, and I like him less now that he’s showed up here flat broke and desperate. I’m not about to let him hornswoggle his way into our business. Blade, you keep an eye on him. Ben and me will figure a way to get rid of him, permanent.”

  “How do you suppose he got wind of our scheme?” said Ben.

  “I ain’t sure he knows anything. He’s been known to bluff. We’ll get it out of him before he breathes his last. Bet on it.”

  Blade got up and followed Red out onto the street. The sun had set, and what little illumination there was came from the sun’s afterglow and the coal oil lanterns that had been lit in the many shops and businesses up and down the way. Red had headed toward the gunsmith’s shop. He paused in front of the window and then went inside. Blade crossed the street and sat on a bench in the shadows. He tried to see what was going on inside the shop, but the windows were filthy. He figured he’d just wait out the man. How long could he stand around talking about guns, anyway?

  Fed up with waiting for Red to emerge, Blade crossed the street to get a closer look through the door. As he approached, the gunsmith came to the door, pulled a shade, and hung the closed sign in the window. Blade pushed his way in just before the gunsmith had a chance to lock the door.

  “There was a gent come in here ’bout a half hour back. He didn’t come out. Where’d he go?” Blade said.

  “He left by the back door. Said something about too many folks interested in his whereabouts. He was only here for a couple of minutes.”

  “Damn! Virgil’s sure gonna take my head off over this,” muttered Blade, as he hurried from the gunsmith’s shop to find Virgil and give him the bad news.

  Hank Brennan’s first movement was a twitch, fingers that tried to clench into a fist, then a groan, and the relaxing of his hand at the failure. His eyes slowly opened, then closed again from the pain that the simple effort had taken. He tried to take a deep breath but winced as a jolt of what felt like a red-hot branding iron shot through his chest. Where was he? What had happened? His breathing was shallow and the realization of his situation unclear. He could make out only that there was no light. He was either blind or it was night. A slight breeze and a chill in the air convinced him he was outside, even though he could not make out any of his surroundings. He felt exhaustion. The need for sleep gnawed at him. His senses were overwhelmed with a combination of throbbing pain, weariness, and the panic of not knowing where he was or what had happened to him. He tried with every muscle in his body to sit up, take an inventory of his situation, all to no avail. He called out but heard only the screech of an owl and a rustling in a nearby stand of pines. He came first to the assumption that he had somehow been killed and that this was what hell was like. He tried to accept this fate with a defeated suspicion that he could expect to remain in desperate pain, languishing in this dark, lonely place for all of eternity.

  Every little movement he made sent messages to his brain that much more than a little discomfort was his lot. Stabbing bursts of pain ran up his leg. His arm, unmovable, was twisted awkwardly under him. The warm, sticky presence of blood on his face, trickles of which ran to his lips, sickened him. His mind was clearing sufficiently enough for him to realize he had several broken bones and that he was in serious condition with little hope of help. The cloud that filled his brain was slowly, but surely, beginning to evaporate; his senses would soon return, and he would devise a plan of survival. If, that is, he lived long enough to come up with a plan. Right now, no such plan came to mind. So, for the moment, the only thing he could think to do was to close his eyes and hope for blessed sleep to envelop him.

  Chapter 15

  As soon as he had Warren McMasters securely behind the heavy steel bars of a jail cell, Cotton angrily turned on Memphis Jack.

  “What did you think you were doin’ out there? You could have started a street war. I had it under control. McMasters wasn’t going to forfeit his life just to get me.”

  Jack rolled his eyes, giving ou
t a deep sigh.

  “You’re welcome, Cotton. Anytime I can be of help, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Now I’ve got to figure what to do with McMasters. I can’t sit around nursemaiding this hothead while I wait for some circuit-ridin’ judge to float into town like a tumbleweed.”

  “You lookin’ for a suggestion?”

  “Not from you, Jack. I need a legal solution.”

  “I’d like to remind you, Cotton, that we was once lawmen together. Or have you forgotten those joyful times?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. But then I’m not the one that ripped that law six ways from Sunday, neither. In case you haven’t forgotten that little incident in Fort Worth.” Cotton gave Jack an incredulous look.

  “Yeah, well it was a case of lettin’ rotgut whiskey take charge. It ain’t happened since. That trouble cost me my job as a deputy, and I ain’t forgot you were the one that buried my chance for a career behind a badge,” said Jack.

  “No, Jack, I wasn’t the one that got stinkin’ drunk and shot up the town. An innocent man died from one of those wild shots, remember? That’s what killed your career as a lawman. Not me. You need to think on what your own addle-brained antics cost you. It’s time to grow up.”

  Jack’s reaction to the barrage of condemnations leveled at him by Cotton was masked by his stone cold, straightahead stare. The sheriff knew full well these comments would be hard for Jack to hear, almost as hard as they were for him to say. Jack made no reply.

  “You screwed up, Jack. Then you hid behind the pity that your whore Melody poured over you like maple syrup. She took you in and cared for you. Gave you plenty of sympathy. You folded up like a tent in a tornado. Hell!”

  The anger built slowly in Jack, an awakening volcano on the verge of erupting. He sprang from his chair and dove for Cotton with fire in his eyes.

  “Damn you, Cotton Burke! You self-righteous son of a coyote! I’ll . . .”

  Cotton had had a pretty good idea of what his words might invoke. He slid aside easily as Jack’s pent-up anger exploded. Jack missed Cotton by inches and crashed awkwardly on the floor, sprawled facedown on his stomach, beside where Cotton had been sitting. Twisting his body and grabbing at the corner of the desk to pull himself up, he lost his grip, slipped, and fell back hard, smashing his head on the leg of the potbellied stove. He lay there for several minutes, breathing hard, rubbing his head, his energy finally spent amid a flood of self-recrimination.

  Cotton reached down, took Jack’s wrist, and pulled him to his feet.

  “Feel better?” he said.

  “I could use a drink,” muttered Jack.

  “That seems to always be the answer to your problems, doesn’t it? How about some coffee, instead?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll go my own way,” said Jack, as he stumbled out of the room. Not looking back, he made his way out into the dusty street, and headed for a saloon.

  Cotton shook his head and wondered what he could do to get Jack to understand the importance of staying sober for the job he was about to give him. He was growing increasingly uncertain whether Memphis Jack Stump had been the right choice.

  “Hey, lawman! You tryin’ to starve me? When’s some vittles comin’ my way?”

  The screeching from McMasters’s cell brought Cotton back to the matter at hand: his prisoner and what to do with him.

  “Hold on to your britches, McMasters. I’ll get you something after a bit.”

  “Well, you damn well better hurry, or it’ll be too late, and I think I deserve at least one meal on the town, before there ain’t no town standing.” McMasters laughed.

  Cotton got up from the desk and walked to the door separating the marshal’s office from the cells. He leaned in, scowled at the mouthy mine owner, and snorted.

  “What is that supposed to mean? You bein’ behind bars seems to cut down on the effectiveness of your loudmouth threats. As I said, you’ll get fed when I’m good and ready. Not a second before.” Cotton had turned to go back into the front room when McMasters jumped up, grabbed the bars, and started yelling.

  “You just wait until my men get back here, and then we’ll see who’s sittin’ in the catbird seat, you or me. I’m bettin’ a dime to a dollar it’ll come out with me lookin’ at you facedown in the dirt,” shouted McMasters. “There’ll be a bullet or two in your sorry carcass, too.”

  “Your threats don’t mean a thing to me, McMasters. I’ve come up against your kind for a long time now, and I’m still standin’. So why don’t you sit back and save your breath for the judge.”

  “Yeah, well you haven’t come up against the likes of Santa Fe Bob before. He’s meaner’n a snake, and I’ve seen him draw and fire before a man’s had a chance to blink. My men’ll have him here quicker than you can say ‘uh-oh.’ ”

  “Never heard of him,” Cotton said and sighed as he leaned back in the marshal’s creaky chair and began looking through the desk drawers for evidence of previous encounters with the McMasters bunch. In a stack of wanted dodgers, he stopped at one that caught his attention immediately.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” He broke out in a laugh.

  Chapter 16

  At the Silver City Saloon, Memphis Jack was on his third whiskey when a cowboy sidled up to him and introduced himself.

  “Name’s Shue. Ben Shue. You were with that sheriff fellow that took McMasters off to the pokey, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. What of it?” Jack rolled the brown liquid around in his glass before downing the last gulp. He tapped the glass on the bar for the bartender to refill. He tried to take a step away from the foul-smelling cowboy but was followed step by step by the man.

  “McMasters has some nasty acquaintances that owes him a favor. And he ain’t shy about callin’ in a marker when he’s got a score to settle. I’d reckon by now one of his men has sent out the word. We could be seein’ some drygulcher ridin’ into town almost any day now.”

  “I reckon ol’ Cotton Burke can handle himself all right. He ain’t one to mess with, either.”

  Memphis Jack believed what he was saying, but then he hadn’t seen Cotton for several years and didn’t know what he’d been up to. In times past, he had seen gunfighters like Cotton Burke lose their touch over seemingly minor incidents. He had no idea whether Cotton had been faced down, or been wounded, or been forced to back down because of too many guns pointed his way. Come to think of it, he had to admit he really didn’t know Cotton at all anymore. And he certainly didn’t know why he’d been yanked out of his hotel room and dragged to this godforsaken hellhole.

  The more Jack thought about it, the more the whole thing began to sour him on even listening to whatever tale of woe he was certain was headed his way. Cotton claimed to need his help, but he hadn’t really explained what that help would involve, nor did he seem in any great hurry to do so.

  “And it’s damn well time he did just that,” mumbled Jack as he turned and started for the swinging doors.

  “What was that, friend?” said the cowboy.

  “Uh, nothin’, just a little problem that needs solving.”

  Jack brushed past the man, slammed through the doors, and stalked straight for the jail, where he found Cotton intently studying a stack of papers, some brown with age. Jack wasn’t exactly drunk, but he wasn’t all that sober, either. He let the door slam behind him and quickly plopped into a chair across the room. He knew that standing, in his present condition, was inadvisable, since he needed to look rock steady when he hit Cotton up for some answers. And he wanted to avoid the contempt he knew he’d get from Cotton if his demeanor showed he’d bent his elbow too many times. He also wasn’t certain what he’d do if the answers he got—assuming Cotton even acknowledged him—weren’t to his liking. But he was damned sure going to try, or get on his horse and head back to Melody. And if Cotton Burke didn’t like it, well, that was just too bad. Jack wasted no time in beginning his rant.

  “Cotton, I need some answers and I need them now. You understand? I didn
’t ride all this way to have you treat me like some stable boy, you barkin’ out orders, and me bein’ told to sit in the corner because I did somethin’ you didn’t like. So what’s it goin’ to be, straight talk or do I walk out of here and leave you to solve your little problem by yourself?”

  Cotton didn’t look up at the sound of Jack’s belligerence. His expression was hard and his gaze was distant, as if he was lost in something that was most troubling. Jack was hesitant to push further, but he had made up his mind and he wasn’t going to be sidetracked by Cotton’s foul mood. Jack cleared his throat and raised his voice, again.

  “Cotton, you consarned coyote, you listenin’ to me? I asked you a civil question and I deserve a civil answer. Now, what’s it goin’ to be?”

  Cotton still didn’t respond to Jack. That’s the last straw, thought Jack, and he drew his Colt, cocked it, and fired it into the ceiling. The blast instantly filled the small room with gray smoke and the smell of cordite. A breeze wafting through the open window swirled the smoke into an eddying haze that undulated for a minute in its tight confines before thinning out enough to see across the room.

  “Now you goin’ to speak up?”

  As the smoke slowly cleared, Cotton raised his eyes to Jack. He made no move to react to Jack’s still-smoking gun, or to his outburst, or to the hole in the ceiling. Cotton rubbed his chin for a second, then eased back in his chair. A smile crossed his lips as he tossed a wanted dodger on the desk with the words “Killed in Santa Fe, July 8, 1880” written across the face of Santa Fe Bob. The date was two weeks before he and Jack had arrived in town, and had been written by the town marshal.

  Finally, the smile left his lips, and he looked up at Jack.

  “If you’re through acting like some drunken cowboy hurrahin’ the town, I reckon we can palaver a spell. But I can guarantee you aren’t goin’ to like what I have to say. So if you’re ready, put that fool gun away and we’ll go get a steak and you can listen to my story. And then you’ll find out what your future may well hold.” Cotton stood up and headed for the door; Jack followed suit with an expression of complete confusion.