Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  “Sheriff, there ain’t a straighter-shooting man on the frontier than Bear Hollow Wilson. I’ll swear to it on the Good Book. I’ll see to it he’s where you want him.”

  With that, the mayor hurried out of the jail with a look of relief on his weather-beaten face and a spring in his step.

  On the face of it, the idea wasn’t as implausible as Cotton had first thought. He took a deep breath and stepped outside to look the town over once more. Not a bad town, he thought. It’d be a damned shame for it to allow vigilantes to become the rule of law.

  His memory wandered back to a time about ten years ago, in Kansas, when he had stopped over in a town that got carried away with seeking revenge on a couple of fools who’d somehow gotten it into their minds that holding up the bank would be the solution to all of their problems. They had been too young, too drunk, and too stupid to stop and think before barging into the bank with guns drawn, making loud demands to the teller to stuff all the money he could get his hands on into a canvas bag they’d brought along.

  When the teller stood stunned at the request, one of the young men jammed his gun in the frightened man’s face, screaming for him to get to it or else. Unfortunately, the gunman was a little too nervous, his trigger finger a little too itchy, and the gun went off, killing the teller, who was also the sheriff’s son, on the spot. The men got away with twelve dollars snatched from the hands of a man waiting to make a deposit, and hightailed it out of town.

  The sheriff had a posse gathered within ten minutes, and the chase was on. The gunmen were cornered no more than three miles from town, mainly because they didn’t know the territory and had no way of realizing they were riding into a blind canyon. When it became clear that the posse had no intention of awaiting a trial, the sheriff’s own loss overcame his sense of legal propriety, and he looked the other way as the two men were strung up on the nearest tree.

  Crying for their mothers, both men met their maker after several minutes of kicking and gagging, their faces turning blue as they choked to death. The bodies were left for the buzzards as a warning to others who might be tempted to follow these men’s ways.

  Disgusted with himself for allowing vengeance to overcome his better judgment, the sheriff became morose. Not a word was spoken between the men on the way back. Soon after he returned to town, the sheriff threw his badge into the street, announcing his retirement. He retreated to the nearest saloon, where he became a regular. He drank himself to death within a year.

  The town never recovered, either. The sheriff’s guilt became the town’s guilt. Travelers seemed to give the town a wide berth, and businesses soon began moving out in favor of a location where the climate was more favorable. The last Cotton remembered hearing, even the railroad had chosen to swing farther north. It was claimed that the town became inhabited only by ghosts, with some claiming they had heard the sorrowful moans of the two unlucky robbers and the sobs of a father still mourning the loss of his son.

  Chapter 23

  Cappy Brennan was feeling guilty that he had waited for help to ride out to find his father. By the time he had decided to look for Hank by himself, it was already nearing noon. He knew it would take time to search all the possible routes he could have taken. If darkness should come before he located his father, no one could expect him to be out on those treacherous trails leading up to Saucer Valley. A man would have to be plumb tetched in the head to venture up there in the pitch-black, he thought. He had justified his wait with the hope that other wranglers would ride out with him. But by the time his patience had run out waiting for them and he went looking for some of the others, they were already gone. He was muttering to himself as he swayed back and forth on the sorrel’s back.

  As he came to the spot where the trail narrowed and came close to the edge of a drop-off that could land an unwary man at the bottom of the steep ravine, dashed to pieces on jagged rocks, he reined in his horse, stopping to listen to the sounds of birds or other critters that might go silent if anything was amiss. From boyhood, Cappy had been taught that animals could give a man a good sense of whether danger lurked nearby, or if all was normal and safe enough to venture on. And if Cappy did one thing right, he listened to his pappy.

  Unseen but close by, Hank lay still, nearly hidden by the shadow cast from the crevice in which he was imprisoned, when a familiar sound came from near the top of the bluff. The unmistakable clatter a horse makes on rock and gravel. The sound came closer. Someone was riding nearby. But who? Could it be Cruz and his cutthroats coming back to make certain he was dead? Hank prayed he was making the right decision as he raised the gun as high as he could and squeezed the trigger.

  Cappy was leaning quietly on the saddle horn, one hand on top of the other, hearing little more than his horse’s occasional nicker and the sound of a hawk as it screeched from the safety of a cottonwood. Suddenly his horse reared at the explosion that seemed to erupt out of nowhere: a gunshot—no, two gunshots, and they sounded like they had come from over the edge of the cliff.

  Cappy sprang from the saddle, dropping heavily to the ground. He drew his revolver and edged closer to the rim, near where the trail almost dropped off itself. He peered cautiously over the side and was instantly shocked at what he saw. There below, a sudden splash of sunlight showed his father lying in a broken heap, jammed in between two large boulders that jutted out from the cliff. Beyond, he could make out the battered remains of his father’s horse, dashed on the rocks far below.

  “Dad! What happened? Are you able to move?” Cappy shouted.

  Hank tried to speak, but his voice was weak. He could only move his head slightly from side to side. Cappy could see that the old man was too badly injured to speak. It would be up to the son to save the father, a complete reversal of their life together thus far.

  Cappy saw no easy way to reach the old man. Then, just over the side of the cliff, he spied some smaller rocks and juniper limbs sticking out sufficiently to give him a platform from which to make his way down on a rope. He figured to attach one end of it to his saddle horn and the other around his waist. As long as his horse didn’t move or get frightened and try to run away, perhaps he could get down the cliff far enough to free his father or figure out what to do next.

  He draped his canteen over his shoulder, then tied off the rope, patting his horse and talking lowly to keep the animal from getting skittish as he pushed off over the side. As he found his footing on the rock below, he began to ease out the rope, and with his feet nearly straight out in front of him, he rappelled cautiously down the rocky cliff.

  Cappy was a healthy young man of nineteen, lanky and raw-boned. He knew he would never be the rough-and-tumble cowboy one might expect of a lad who’d grown up on a ranch. He’d always been quiet, a reader and a studier of his surroundings, seldom loud and boisterous like the rest of the men at the ranch. But he could see his life was about to change. He’d need to find some real grit and something he’d not anticipated: unselfish bravery and strength gathered from deep inside. He was about to be tested far beyond his wildest dreams.

  Cappy dropped to the ground beside Hank. He could see by the way the old man lay twisted that many bones were broken. Moving him would be an arduous and tricky task, one that could easily end a man’s life if not done carefully. In a book he’d read in the library at home, Cappy had learned how some men had made a sling of sorts out of blankets and pulled a calf from where it had slipped off a hillside into a muddy pond. The same sort of rig might work here, he thought.

  “Dad, can you talk? How bad are you hurt?”

  Hank could only whisper, but his expression at having Cappy by his side showed his relief. “It’s bad, son. I can’t move either leg, and my left arm’s busted up good. I think I may have some ribs stove in, too.”

  “Here, take a drink of water,” he said, holding the canteen to his father’s lips. “How’d this happen? You’re always so careful up here on these narrow trails.”

  “It weren’t no accident. That ratt
ler Virgil Cruz drove me over the side on purpose with his horse. I reckon he figured I was gettin’ too curious about what he done to the Tulip boys. I think it was Cruz that shot them. The sooner that owlhoot starts burnin’ in hell, the better.” Hank spit out the words with such venom, Cappy thought he saw a spark of determination in his father that might just help him come out of this alive.

  “Okay, Dad, I’m going back up and bring some help. I’ll ride to the ranch and try to find some of the others. With several ropes and some blankets, we’ll try to get the horses to pull you up. You just rest until I get back. Here, take my canteen. I’ll unscrew the top so you can get to it with your good hand.”

  “Thanks, son. Reckon I’ll be here when you get back. Be careful not to let on to any of Virgil’s men I’m still alive, or he’s sure to come back and finish the job,” Hank reminded him, forcing a painful grin. Cappy nodded with a grimace.

  When Cappy scrambled to the top of the hill, he mounted up and urged his horse to follow the trail back to the ranch house at a dead run. As he approached the main house, Wu Chang came out. Cappy jumped from his horse and ran to the cook.

  Keeping his voice low, he said, “Wu Chang, are any of the boys around? None of those that Cruz hired, mind you. Only some of ’em we can trust.”

  “They no here, Cappy-san. They either out with cattle or they go to town with Virgil. No come back till dinna.”

  “Then it’s up to you and me. Get your mule, some ropes, and blankets. We have to haul my dad off a ledge. He’s busted up real bad. I’ll hitch up the wagon. I’ll gather some strips of leather and several pieces of split wood. We’ll have to put splints on his legs and one arm.”

  “You know how do that?”

  “No, but I can learn. I can’t let Dad down. He’s countin’ on me.”

  Wu Chang turned and ran back inside to comply with Cappy’s orders. The urgency in the young man’s voice had left no doubt that this was a matter of life and death.

  Chapter 24

  Memphis Jack reined in atop a rise that looked down on the town of Apache Springs. It looked peaceful enough, no gunfire or assemblage of rowdies running amok in the streets. He remembered what Cotton had said about not going near the sheriff’s office. The town’s one and only deputy might not take kindly to another gunslinger riding in, and Jack wasn’t about to let on to anybody what his mission was, or that he even knew Cotton Burke.

  He pulled his Remington, checked again to be sure it was fully loaded, and started down the road to town. The main street was wide and desolate, only a half dozen horses were tied to hitching rails, most of them in front of the town’s only saloon. A wagon rumbled down the street, stopping at the side of the general merchandise store to unload some crates. A woman was sweeping dirt from the wooden sidewalk in front of a dress shop, and the clanking of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed between buildings.

  Jack draped his horse’s reins over a rail, stomped his boots on the boardwalk out front, and entered the saloon, taking a quick look around, ready for whatever might come. He strode up to the bar. The bartender, One-Eyed Billy Black, was at the other end of the long, polished bar with an impressive mirror and stacks of glasses at his back. Billy noticed Jack, tossed aside a rag with which he had been shining some coffee cups, and approached him like a long lost friend.

  “Howdy, neighbor, what’ll you have?”

  “Well, let’s see, how watered down is your whiskey?”

  The bartender looked embarrassed, then swallowed hard and answered with a sheepish grin, “Not too bad, considerin’ we’re out here in the middle of nowhere. ’Bout ten percent, that’s all.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll have a double, Mr. uh—”

  “Billy Black. Most folks call me One-Eyed Billy. I reckon you can figure out why.”

  “The patch does sorta give it away. Accident?” said Jack.

  “If you can call a sidewinder with a forty-four an accident, then I reckon that’s what it was. Course, since he was aimin’ at my heart when he pulled the trigger, I consider myself lucky he was too drunk to shoot straight. His shot went wild and hit a stack of glasses. Ricochet got me.”

  Jack took a sip of whiskey, made a face, and turned it slowly in his hands. He looked around the nearly empty saloon. Five cowboys were the only patrons, and they seemed content to watch a man shuffle and reshuffle a deck of cards, never dealing a single one. Talk seemed the game of the day. No money was changing hands.

  “Must be too early for any serious gambling, huh, Billy?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, mister, ever since Virgil Cruz and his bunch of rowdies rode into town last fall, ain’t been too many of these rannies willin’ to stake their lives on turnin’ up a winnin’ card. Cruz seems to take most all the pots.”

  “No one ever calls him out?”

  “One feller did. He’s buried up on the hill back of town. The only other one that had the guts to suggest something smelled mighty peculiar left town with a bullet in his gun arm and not a penny to his name.”

  “Sounds like a rough bunch.”

  “More to it than just sound, mister. Uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Memphis Jack Stump.”

  “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “You in Apache Springs for a reason?” said Billy.

  “I don’t suppose you know of anyone lookin’ to put on an extra hand, would you?”

  Billy glanced down at the hand-tooled gun belt with the silver conchos and twelve cartridges, and the well-oiled Remington jutting from a holster suggesting it got a fair amount of use.

  “What kind of work you lookin’ for?”

  “I’m not particular, just so it pays enough to keep me in bullets, a dry place to bed down, and three meals a day. Maybe a friendly game now and then.”

  “Hank Brennan is always lookin’ to hire anyone who can use a gun. They seem to have more than their share of rustlin’.”

  “How do I find this Brennan ranch?”

  “Straight out Southtown Road for about five miles, then angle off into the hills at a fork. There’ll be a sign on the left. Can’t miss it.”

  Jack threw down two bits and tipped his Stetson in thanks. He ambled out the door, stopped, looked around for a moment, and then mounted up for the ride out to Brennan’s.

  As he topped a shallow rise after the turnoff that Billy had told him to take, Jack saw two riders coming on hard. One was a Chinaman clinging for dear life to the reins of a bald-faced mule. The other, a slender young white man, was driving a two-horse buckboard. They were closing the distance rapidly. Jack wasn’t certain whether to take cover until they passed or stay and greet them, since they were probably from the Brennan spread anyway.

  The younger man brought the wagon to a dusty stop five yards from Jack. He held up his hand as he called out, “Hey, mister, where you headed? We could use some help if you could use a couple dollars,” said Cappy.

  “What kind of help?”

  “My pa was knocked off his horse and he fell down a steep cliff. He’s hurt bad. Wu Chang here was the only help I could round up. I know my pa would appreciate you comin’ along. It’ll take some strong arms to get him pulled up that cliff face.”

  “Who’s your pa, son?”

  “Hank Brennan. The owner of the Double-B ranch. You’re standin’ on our land right now. If you’re comin’, fall in. The trail up ahead is mighty narrow; two ridin’ side-byside couldn’t make it. Reckon my pa found that out the hard way.” Cappy whipped the horses into a run as soon as the words had left his mouth.

  Luck seemed to be riding with Jack as he wheeled his roan around and caught up with others. He couldn’t have found a better way into the Brennans’ confidence than lending a helping hand to save the boss man. He smiled at his good fortune.

  “I’m right behind you, son. Lead on,” Jack shouted.

  Chapter 25

  Cotton rummaged around for a set of shackles to keep McMasters in line. It would
be tough enough keeping him out of the line of fire if any of the townsfolk took it into their mind to keep him from getting to trial. And it was a sure bet some of McMasters’s own men would track them and try to free their leader by any means necessary. Cotton knew his situation could easily turn sour.

  He located a pair of short-chain shackles and tossed them into McMasters’s cell.

  “What the hell are these for? You ain’t takin’ me outta here, you bastard. I won’t go.” McMasters, beet red, was spitting mad as he gripped the bars and tried to shake them into setting him free.

  “I’m takin’ you to Apache Springs for trial. It’s the only way I can see you makin’ it into a courtroom in one piece. The town’s a mite upset about you gunnin’ down the town marshal, and they don’t seem to be growin’ in sympathy for you. So put the damned things on or I’ll do it for you. And you won’t like that one bit,” snarled Cotton, whose patience with the whole situation was clearly running out.

  McMasters grumbled loudly as he closed the cold steel on his wrists. “I’m goin’ to feel real bad about you breathin’ your last out there in them hot, dusty hills between here and Apache Springs, Sheriff. I figure Santa Fe Bob is already on his way. It ain’t too late to change your mind and just turn me loose, no hard feelings.”

  Cotton smiled at the mention of Santa Fe Bob and was about to give his prisoner an idea of what he could do with his suggestion, when the sound of heavy boots approaching the jail filled the room like distant cannon fire. Just then, a man the size of a bear pushed through the door, dropped his pack and rifle on the floor, and leaned on the desk with beefy arms stretching his rolled up sleeves.