Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  “Look, I know what I’m asking is dangerous. If I could do it myself, I would. But you’re my only chance to put a stop to whatever this bunch is up to.” Cotton knew how the whole thing sounded. Not only dangerous but downright foolish for anyone with a speck of common sense to agree to. “And that’s not the whole story, neither.”

  “There’s more? How the devil could it get much worse?” Jack sat up in his chair, leaning forward with obvious curiosity.

  “Two days before I rode to Gonzales, I received this note. It was nailed to the front door of my office.” Cotton reached across the table and handed the folded paper to Jack. Jack opened it and spread it out on the table. Jack’s eyes followed the writing back and forth. Occasionally, he’d wince at the poor handwriting as he struggled to decipher the message.

  Sheriff. We got Otis Wagners widder. Shes gonna be safe and sound as long as you do what this writin says. First off, you best stay away from the Dubble–B. If we see you ridin out that way, we’ll up and shoot the lady. Thats fer surre.

  You stay away from the Brennan place until after the 16th, and the Wagner wumin lives. An we’ll be gone.

  Jack folded the paper and handed it back to Cotton. He stared at the table for a minute before responding to what he’d read.

  “What do you figure they got in mind? And what does the sixteenth have to do with all this?”

  “Up to now, except for the rustling, most of the crimes have netted these leather slappers little more than petty cash. Then a man gets killed defending his own home for a few dollars. They’re getting more and more desperate. The only thing that I can think of around the sixteenth is that’s about the time the Southern Pacific is due to pass about five miles north of Apache Springs with what’s rumored to be a lot of gold. If this bunch were to hit that train successfully, they’d stand to ride off with maybe a million dollars, if past shipments are any indication.” Cotton leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the table. “That’s the story, Jack. I can’t prove a damned thing. The robbery is only a theory. And the sixteenth is the only thing that ties it together in my mind. I have to stop whatever Cruz has planned, and I can’t let anything happen to Emily Wagner. While I’m alive, she’ll not die at the hands of a bunch of greedy gunslingers.”

  “You say her name like there’s more to it than her bein’ someone’s widow.”

  Cotton flushed at Jack’s suggestion. “I won’t let anything happen to her, that’s all. She’s a fine lady, and that’s all that needs to be said.”

  Jack grinned and then whistled. “A million dollars, you say?”

  Chapter 20

  Emily Wagner wasn’t certain how long she’d been left alone in the musty cabin. Each time Scat slipped out, she would twist and turn, pulling at the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. Her fingernails were bleeding from trying to pick apart the rope’s fibers, to loosen the bindings. Her circulation was being slowly cut off from the tight knots and her inability to move about. She was stiff and sore and hungry. It would be a cold day in hell, though, before she gave in to the thinly veiled overtures suggested by Scat Crenshaw. Where is Cotton? That thought ran through her head, turning over and over, a soundless scream for help. She wished now she’d pulled the trigger on Cruz when she first saw him sitting there, astride his roan mare like some smug, filthy outlaw general. Her hatred for him rose in her throat, a choking, clawing hatred.

  Scat stomped up the steps, shoved open the plank door, and entered the darkened room. He looked down at Emily with a licentious smile. He liked to look at her. It gave him a feeling of power to see her lying there, unable to get away, her life completely in his hands.

  “Well, Miz Wagner, having second thoughts about my offer? A nice cut of beef cooked over a hot fire, maybe some beans, and coffee, how does that sound in exchange for a little friendly attention for ol’ Scat?”

  “Not on your life, you filthy animal. I’d rather die than have you touch me.” Her eyes blazed with contempt for the evil that stood before her.

  Scat unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it open, then began unbuttoning his pants.

  “I don’t think you’re in much of a position to stop me, missy,” he said with a sneer. He took Emily by the shoulders and rolled her onto her back. She began squirming in an effort to get her knees up to defend against his next move.

  Emily was aware that she was in no position to save herself from the advances of this man. But she would try with her last breath to stave off any such attempt to overcome her strongest defenses. She was quite literal in her admonition that she would die fighting him off.

  Just as Scat began untying the ropes that bound her ankles together, sounds approached of a horse being reined in right outside and then the stomping of boots on the porch, just before the door burst open and Dogman, Scat’s brother, stormed in. Scat struggled to keep his pants from falling down around his ankles as he straightened at Dogman’s inopportune entry.

  “Scat, there’s some riders coming. Whatever you’re fixin’ to do, I’d advise against.”

  Scat struggled to get all his buttons buttoned and his suspenders pulled up. Before he could get his gun belt back on, Virgil Cruz burst through the open door. He took one look at Scat and his face grew red with rage.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’? I told you if you laid a hand on this woman, I’d kill you myself. And here you are a-fixin’ to do just that.” Virgil drew his six-shooter and jammed it into Scat’s belly. He cocked the hammer as Scat tried backing away.

  “Virgil, I wasn’t goin’ to do nothing. I was just seein’ if she needed some food or to take a trip to the outhouse. That’s all, I swear.” Scat’s face was bursting with moisture, the perspiration pouring down like a waterfall.

  “I see. And I suppose them buttons got themselves all mixed up.” Virgil pushed harder, until Scat was backed completely against the wall.

  Scat glanced down to see where he’d missed a couple of buttons, and his left suspender had come loose. He swallowed hard before he spoke.

  “All right, all right, Virgil. I admit I was almost carried off with desire for this little lady. It won’t happen again, I swear.” Scat was shaking.

  Virgil released his pressure against Scat’s belly slightly.

  “You can bet it won’t. If you doubt my word, you better do some thinkin’ on what it’s like to take a bullet in the gut. You bleed to death. I hear it can take a while, and the pain is terrible. Do you understand me?”

  “I do, I swear. It’ll never happen again, Virgil,” Scat whined.

  Virgil released the hammer and slipped his gun back into its holster. He turned to Emily, who was cowering as far back on the bed as she could scoot.

  “Did he touch you, Miz Emily?”

  “No. But he was only a minute away. He’d have had to kill me first, though,” she said, her voice high-pitched and shaky.

  Virgil grinned at her answer. Then he turned to Scat and Dogman.

  “Your last chance to follow orders has come. There’ll not be another. Don’t give me a reason to doubt either of you. Now, get the lady some food and do it pronto. And if she needs to go out back, watch from the cabin to see she don’t get away. Any questions?”

  “No, sir, Virgil,” said Dogman. “I’ll stay right here and make sure personal-like that the lady is safe and sound.”

  “And she don’t need to be hog-tied, neither. You can watch her with nothing but her wrists tied. Now, the plan is still on as we discussed. I ain’t heard a word from Sheriff Burke, so I figure he took seriously what I told him about stayin’ clear of us if he wants the lady kept in one piece.” Virgil walked to the door, turned to looks at Emily, and said, “It appears Cotton Burke thinks a lot of you, missy. Let’s hope he keeps on thinkin’ that way.”

  Ben and Virgil mounted up and rode out as hard as they had ridden in. When they were out of sight, Dogman squinted at his brother and said, “I wouldn’t mess around with that hombre, Scat. He’s as mean as any I’ve come across.
You better keep your pants buttoned up, too. I don’t aim to take a bullet for you.”

  Scat stood staring after his brother as Dogman went outside to sit on the porch. Scat swallowed hard, then turned to Emily.

  “Don’t think this finishes it between us, lady. I aim to have my way with you before it’s all over. For now, I reckon I can get you a bite to eat.”

  “While you’re fetchin’, consider this: Cotton Burke won’t pay no mind to some idle warning from the likes of Virgil Cruz, or you, either. Mark my words, you’ll be dead before this big deal of yours takes place, whatever it is.”

  Emily spat at him as he stomped out the door.

  Chapter 21

  Cotton and Memphis Jack each tried to stare the other down. Finally, Cotton lifted his cup and drank the last few drops of coffee.

  “Well, that’s my story. Are you in or out?” he said.

  “I haven’t heard you say ‘please.’ ” Jack grinned as he scooted down in his chair.

  The satisfied smirk on Jack’s face told Cotton he’d better acquiesce on this one, if he wanted his help. Cotton shook his head and mumbled something under his breath.

  “What was that, Cotton? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Please! I said, please, dammit. There, you happy, now?”

  “Yep. Reckon I am. Now, how about givin’ me the particulars on this crowd of misfits. I don’t want to go ridin’ into a nest of vipers without knowin’ all there is to know about ’em.”

  Cotton sat up, pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, and spread it out on the table.

  “Here’s a list of the rannies that had drifted into town before I found you. I jotted down what little I know about each one. You ever met up with any of them?”

  Jack perused the list, then shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Good. Now, here’s a layout of Apache Springs—the important buildings and a little of the surrounds—which could come in handy.”

  “What’s my excuse for driftin’ into town?”

  “I reckon you could be lookin’ for work or maybe you heard Cruz was sizin’ up men with a gun hand,” said Cotton.

  “Ain’t that gonna make it look like I already know more’n I should?”

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right. An out-of-work cowpoke probably makes more sense. Maybe you should start at the Brennan spread.”

  “I’ll just ride into town, let someone point me in that direction after a little prodding. How’s that sound?” Jack pulled his Remington from its holster, half-cocked it, and rolled the cylinder through. Fully loaded. He started to scoot his chair back and stand up. He downed a last sip of coffee, making a face that suggested it was stronger than he liked.

  “Sounds fine. The time it takes for me to straighten out this McMasters thing will give you some breathing room in Apache Springs.” Cotton stood, stuck out his hand.

  “What do you figure to do with McMasters?”

  “Don’t have an answer for that just yet. But something has to be done right quick. This town’s fixin’ for a fight, and I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

  “Well, you better watch your backside. If something happens to you before you get to Apache Springs, I could be in a heap of trouble.”

  “I’ll try my best not to let that happen,” Cotton said.

  Jack gave Cotton a salute as he left, then went to the boardinghouse to gather his things. He wasn’t all that anxious to be heading for who-knew-what in a town that seemed to be filling up with undesirable gunslingers, but he had agreed. His word was good, and he’d live up to it, even if it could put his life in danger. Truth be told, he had always admired Cotton Burke, rough exterior and all. Cotton was too damned strict for Jack’s taste, but a fellow always knew where Cotton stood on any issue. And he stuck up for his friends. That was good enough for Memphis Jack Stump.

  As the noon sun began its slow crawl down the side of the mountain, the air grew unbearably hot and Hank Brennan knew he couldn’t hold out much longer without help. He had lost all feeling in his legs and could only move one arm, and then he couldn’t seem to get any purchase on anything that would help him move from his tenuous position. He could hear the critters setting out on their quest for a meal, stirring about, sniffing the ground for signs of prey. If he could only free his gun from its holster, maybe he could fire off a couple of rounds, possibly attract a nearby rider, although that didn’t seem likely, since the trail he’d been pushed into the ravine from was seldom traveled by any except his own men. None had reason to be there any time soon.

  He struggled to bring his one good arm around to free his gun from his holster, which was wedged beneath him and his twisted, broken arm. Slowly, he tried stretching his fingers between his broken body and the granite boulder that trapped him. Nearly unbearable pain shot through his back. He cried out with each attempt to move.

  With each breath, Hank nearly passed out from the agony of stretching badly bruised muscle over broken bones. He knew there was little hope of anyone being close enough to hear a shot even if he could reach the revolver. If he didn’t get it clear of the holster, he wouldn’t dare cock it and pull the trigger. The way his leg was twisted, the .45 would surely blow his leg off. If he wasn’t rescued almost immediately after such a wound, he would surely bleed to death. The odds were slowly building against him. He was already getting light-headed from loss of blood, and the day’s blistering temperature had nearly sapped what little energy he had. Could he last until evening when cooler temperatures would bring relief? If anyone was out looking for him, they wouldn’t consider coming anywhere near the cliffs at dusk or later, for fear of slipping off the trail themselves and falling to an almost certain death, dashed on the rocks below. Hank couldn’t understand why he wasn’t dead.

  As he began to slip into unconsciousness, both from the heat and the sheer exhaustion of struggling to reach his gun, he kept bringing himself back by sheer stubborn, tough-minded willpower. Nightfall would be on him before he knew it, and with it, he figured, his last chance. He pushed himself beyond the pain with one last, agonizing thrust at the butt of his revolver. Digging at the wooden grips with little more than his fingernails, he finally found purchase on the walnut handle of the six-shooter. With his bruised and bloody fingers, he slowly began to drag it from the Mexican-style holster. Suddenly, when it looked like he might succeed, the revolver slipped from his tenuous grip. At first, his heart sank at the prospect of all hope having disappeared, but as his strength began to fail him, and his hand dropped to his side, he felt the cold steel of the cylinder still within reach. He latched on to it, tugging at the gun until it was clear. He smiled wearily at his good fortune. Hank Brennan held his only real possibility of survival in his weak, shaking grip. Now all he could do was wait.

  Chapter 22

  Cotton stood in the street, watching Jack’s back as he rode out of town, dust swirling from his horse’s trail. Alone now, Cotton began to feel the strain of what to do about the man he had behind bars. As he turned to go back inside the jail, he saw the mayor walking toward him from a half block down. The man had a scowl on his face that could have scared away a bear. Cotton walked back inside the jail, knowing the mayor would follow and that the conversation wasn’t likely to be a pleasant one.

  “Howdy, Mayor, what can I do for you?”

  “Sheriff, our problem is growing by the minute. McMasters’s men are getting pretty liquored up over at the saloon. I figure they must be talkin’ of breaking him out, and I’m sure you know what that will lead to.”

  “I’d say some townsfolk are workin’ themselves up to form a vigilante gang, break McMasters out of jail, and get to hanging him. Am I close?”

  “You hit ’er right on the head. So what can we do about it?”

  Cotton sighed and turned to stare out the dust-encrusted window. Considering the explosive nature of the situation, he saw but one way to solve it. He couldn’t let the mine boss get strung up without a trial, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to l
et McMasters’s men free him; his options had narrowed down to hauling the gun-happy rattler out of jail and dragging him to Apache Springs, Cotton’s jurisdiction, to await a circuit judge. It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea on the face of it. There were plenty of times lawmen had resorted to such tactics in order to keep a man alive long enough to receive a fair trial. The problem lay with the many miles of hard riding and twisting trail between Silver City and Apache Springs, with plenty of places for a handful of gunmen to overwhelm him—miners or townsfolk. He clearly understood the risks involved. But it seemed the only option.

  “Mayor, the best solution is to take McMasters to Apache Springs for trial. I’d better get started right away, before some up-righteous citizens decide to take matters into their own hands.”

  The mayor frowned at his words. Cotton figured the man was concerned about the dangers involved and the prospect that McMasters might escape, maybe to return for revenge.

  “Don’t that make things even more dangerous for you?” the mayor asked.

  “Reckon it does, but what choice do I have? I can’t ride out of town, leaving you to the prospect of McMasters’s men trying to free him by force. You can’t expect shop owners to risk their lives to keep him jailed until a judge comes. Or until you can appoint a new marshal. And I got important affairs to attend to back in my own county.”

  With a hesitant nod, the mayor silently agreed to Cotton’s premise. Then he brightened up as a thought came to him.

  “Sheriff, how about I send our blacksmith along to help get you there in one piece? He’s a damned fine shot with a rifle. I’ll bet he’d do it if I asked him to.”

  “If he’s willing, I won’t refuse the help. Tell him to be out back in two hours and to bring along plenty of ammunition. I figure we’ll need it before too long. Oh, and be sure he understands we’re to get McMasters there alive. That’s just in case he was of a mind to have been a part of the vigilante justice you say is bein’ talked about.”