Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  “Dammit, little brother, didn’t Cruz warn you about that woman? Didn’t he say he’d skin you himself if anything happened to her? Now you’re puttin’ this whole opportunity for us to strike it rich in jeopardy, and all because of your overwhelmin’ desire for a woman. Sometimes I think you ain’t got enough brains to wipe your own ass,” said Dogman. “When we pull this robbery off, you can go into town and buy twenty women, take ’em home with you if you’ve a mind.” Dogman placed his hand on his revolver in case Scat was past reasoning with.

  Scat’s pockmarked face was ablaze with the fury that accompanies despotism, especially in a man with such few scruples and a multitude of cravings. He started to reach for his gun, stopped and thought better of it, then slumped heavily into the chair on the other side of the table.

  “I can’t take this no more. You gotta get me outta this godforsaken dump. I want to have a whiskey, deal a few hands of poker, anything to get my mind off this lady. You have to help me.”

  “Why don’t you ride into town, find yourself a fallen angel. I’ll stay and cover for you with this one, see that nothin’ happens to her. Go on. I’ll explain to Virgil,” said Dogman.

  “I better not go into town. I’ll just take a short ride. I’ll be back. But I won’t be comin’ inside no more. I can’t take it, her lookin’ so good and all,” said Scat.

  He couldn’t help glancing back at Emily one more time as he stormed out of the musty cabin, mounted his horse, and galloped off without another word. Dogman switched his glance to Emily and said, “Missy, that was a close one. Don’t worry, I’ll see to it you’re safe until the sixteenth. After that—well I can’t say one way or another.”

  “W-what’s going to happen on the sixteenth?” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “Now, never you mind about that, missy, reckon you’ll find out when the day comes. Hope you ain’t got no plans with that sheriff, though.” Dogman chuckled and took out a deck of cards and began shuffling to play poker with himself. Not a very profitable pastime, but at least he couldn’t lose any money that way, either.

  Cotton and Bear Hollow Wilson had come about fifteen miles from Silver City with their prisoner when the trouble that had started in town finally caught up with them. Off to their right, well up in the foothills, Cotton had caught sight of a group of men who seemed to be shadowing them, keeping just out of rifle range. Cotton’s confidence in the mayor’s word had dropped a notch. Bear appeared anxious about the men, too, since neither he nor Cotton could make out whether they were miners or townsfolk. Cotton was betting townsfolk wouldn’t put one of their own in the line of fire. The town had a legitimate grudge against McMasters, but it couldn’t do without a blacksmith. That might be why they were keeping their distance. The same could be said for the miners. They’d want to plan their attack to free their boss when they could guarantee his safety. The trail Cotton had chosen didn’t give him much cover. But any attackers would find themselves in the same situation—too much open ground between them and the sheriff. That would change eventually, though, and everybody knew it. As they rode into rough terrain south of Apache Springs, Cotton, Bear, and McMasters would have to stick to the trail, which led through narrow gulches with high cliffs on either side and wooded hills, all of which made good cover for an ambush.

  “Sheriff, I don’t know this country very well, but I seem to remember this road being used by road agents. I don’t suppose there’s a better way, is there?” Bear was nervously glancing about as he saw the potential for ambush increasing.

  “If those riders stay in the foothills, they’ll find the land rising until they come to a sheer cliff that overlooks a valley. That’s about a thousand-foot drop. They’ll have to come down well before then to get at us. I’m counting on that.”

  “My guess is they outnumber us about four-to-one. We can’t outlast them kinda odds.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. If you’re any good with that Sharps buffalo gun you brought along, we might even those odds up a bit. I expect that reminds you of times past, don’t it? I brought the Greeners in case they got a mite too close.”

  “How’d you know I once hunted buffalo?”

  “Just a hunch, that and those two buffalo hides you got hanging on your back wall.”

  “Then I reckon you can guess I’m fair to middlin’ with the Sharps.”

  “Yep.”

  As the trail began a slow descent into a winding valley with a stream running down the middle, Cotton was keeping a close eye on what the riders shadowing them were up to. But as the trees—mostly pines, cedars, and cottonwoods—grew larger and denser, his view of the riders became more restricted. Not knowing what the enemy was doing could get a man killed.

  “We’ll pull up here and rest for a spell. Bear, pull out that Sharps of yours and drop in a cartridge. Keep a keen lookout for the sun glinting off a rifle barrel, a blur of color, sudden movement—anything that seems out of place. We’re on the edge of some dangerous country.”

  “Don’t worry none about me, Sheriff, I’m plenty wide awake. And if my insides don’t burst outta my skin, I might just be able to get off a shot or two.”

  Cotton was still snickering when the first bullets whizzed past his head, causing all three of them to dive for cover.

  Chapter 29

  Memphis Jack knocked on the door to the doctor’s office. The door opened, and before him stood a tall, thin man with a two-day growth of beard, wearing wrinkled pants and suspenders that hung down to his knees. The smell of whiskey hit Jack in the face like a foul wind.

  “Doc Winters, Hank Brennan’s son sent me to fetch you. Hank’s been badly injured in a fall. You need to come quick. I’m not sure he’s goin’ to make it, but I figure you gotta try.”

  “I’ll drop by tomorrow sometime. If he’s still alive, I’ll take a look and see what I can do then. Good day to you, sir.” The doctor started to close the door in Jack’s face.

  Jack jammed the toe of his boot in the door and gave it a hard push. The doctor was almost bowled over by Jack’s insistent shove. He stepped back awkwardly and to steady himself grabbed the edge of his desk, where an open bottle of whiskey sat beside a half-filled glass.

  “Sorry to interrupt your drinking, Doc, but this is an emergency. And you damned well are coming.”

  The startled look on the doctor’s face showed he was inebriated enough that Jack’s words needed some time to register. When Jack rested his hand on the butt of his Remington, the doctor seemed to understand more quickly. He reached up on a shelf to get his bag and stumbled out the door in front of Jack.

  “Where’s your horse?”

  “I have a buggy around back, sir. I am not an equestrian, nor do I wish to become one. Now, where is this man?”

  “Out at the Double-B ranch. About ten miles out of town.”

  The doctor looked bewildered. “You don’t expect me to travel that far without libation, do you, sir? Bring along my bottle and glass. And one for yourself if you’ve a mind.”

  At that point, Jack had listened to enough of the drunken doctor’s fancy words and slurred excuses. He pulled his gun, stuck it in the man’s belly, and said, “Listen carefully. You’ll need to be cold sober for this one, Doc. And I aim for that to be by the time we get there. Now, move.”

  Jack harnessed the doctor’s horse and backed it into the traces. He held the horse by the bit and waited for the doctor to struggle aboard. With some difficulty, Doc Winters was finally settled in the buggy, as ready as he’d ever be for the rough trip to the Brennan ranch. Since the doctor was in no shape to drive the buggy himself, Jack tied his gelding to the back and climbed in. He snapped the reins, urging the animal forward. The mare jumped at the sound.

  Jack figured it would take a couple of hours to get to Brennan place, considering the condition of the crude road, which was more like a barely improved deer trail, full of sizable ruts, twists and turns, and places where it narrowed to an opening between rocks that getting the buggy through could be
a challenge. He also couldn’t help worrying if he would be able to get back to the ranch before Cruz and his men discovered that Hank Brennan was alive and lying in his own bed waiting for help to arrive. What would happen when Jack wheeled the buggy through the gate and up to the main house with a doctor on board was anybody’s guess. It was certainly not a situation Jack welcomed facing. He snapped the reins to get the horse to understand the urgency of the situation; failing that, he reached for the buggy whip. The cracking sound of it urged the horse to a trot.

  Jack became more and more tense the closer they came to the ranch boundary.

  When Virgil and Blade came to the precipice where Virgil had bumped Hank’s horse over, they dismounted and eased up to the edge to look over. Blade was the first to notice that something was amiss.

  “Virgil, I see the horse down there at the bottom. She’s a goner. But I don’t see Brennan’s body anywhere. You suppose he could have survived that fall and walked outta there?”

  “Don’t be a fool. No man could survive a drop like that. Why, it must be near five hundred feet to the bottom. Maybe we should ride back to where the trail splits and come up through the gorge to where his horse is lying. Then we’ll know where that old fool is,” said Cruz, as he got back on his horse and turned around to retrace their steps for about a mile, to where they would find a mule deer trail that led to the bottom. Blade Coffman followed closely, with fear growing in the pit of his stomach.

  “Virgil, I don’t like this, not one bit. What if Hank’s still alive? What do we do then, huh? He could get us hanged if anyone found out what you done.”

  Virgil turned in his saddle, fury on his reddened face. “Dammit, I’m tellin’ you he didn’t survive. Nobody could,’specially not some beat-up old coot standin’ closer to the grave than them Tulip brothers was two days ago. Now, settle down and let me handle this.”

  “All right, Virgil, I’ll shut up. But if we can’t find his body, I say we pack up and skedaddle for the border, pronto. Leastwise, that’s what I’m aimin’ to do. You can keep my share of the loot, if there is any loot.”

  “There’s loot, you dummy, and I know because the fella that told me swore on his life. Could be a million dollars on that train, and I aim to have me that money. And you’ll not be backin’ out, neither; ’cause if you do, you’ll be restin’ alongside the Tulip brothers, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Virgil.”

  As the two got to the bottom of the narrow, winding gorge, they dismounted and began looking around for Hank Brennan’s body. They searched fifty feet in both directions from the dead horse. There was no sign of Brennan anywhere. Virgil looked up and saw a jagged ledge about halfway up the side of the steep cliff.

  “I’ll bet he’s up there, wedged in between them rocks. If that’s where he hit, you can bet your ass he’s busted up so badly he couldn’t be walkin’ around ever again.”

  “How do we find out for sure?”

  “No need to. His horse is down here, dead. We saw them go over the edge together. There’d be no way for him to climb up the side of that damned mountain, so he’s gotta be where I said. He sure as hell is dead. Let it go. We’ll just ride back to the ranch like nothin’s amiss. When they ask where Hank got to, we’ll say he insisted on going off on his own. Told us to go to town for a few beers.”

  “Whatever you say, Virgil, but that don’t mean I like it. Havin’ a man’s ghost followin’ a body around ain’t right. And I feel something, all right, and it ain’t a breeze comin’ up.”

  Chapter 30

  Cotton and Bear Hollow hurriedly reined in between some boulders in a thick cluster of cottonwoods, mesquite, and scrub brush with a trickling stream running through. They dismounted, and Bear tied his horse to a branch. Cotton’s horse was trained to stand in place with a drop of the reins. Cotton told Bear to keep an eye on McMasters. He then made his way to the edge of the tree line, squatting behind the outcropping of granite boulders. Whoever had fired the shots he’d heard wasn’t making any attempt to come closer. He looked over to make sure Bear stayed put, hunkered down behind the protection of rocks. McMasters was huddled uncomfortably beside him, avoiding any chance a stray bullet might find him. Bear kept a tight grip on the shackles. The usually abundant birdcalls were strangely absent, a dead giveaway that danger lurked nearby.

  “You see anything, Bear?” Cotton moved back to where the other two kept cover.

  “Nothing, Sheriff, but I got a strange feeling they didn’t throw some lead and then ride off. I don’t figure they intend to leave us alone out here.”

  McMasters began to grin. “My boys ain’t got you two tough rannies spooked, have they? Why they’re just a bunch of softhearted fellas with a hankerin’ to make friends. Haw haw.”

  Cotton gave him a cold stare that was a silent order to shut his mouth. McMasters didn’t stop grinning until Cotton cocked his Colt and pointed it straight at his head.

  “You bring them boys down here with your bellerin’ and I’ll finish you right here and now with a little frontier justice. I’m in no mood for your tough talk. You’ll learn soon enough that I don’t spook easily, and I don’t take crap from murderin’ jackasses like you.” Cotton turned back to continue his scan of the hills for any sign of movement. Bear was also keenly surveying the landscape, his Sharps at the ready.

  Several minutes later, Cotton thought he saw a glint in the sunlight from across a shallow dip in the terrain. Soon thereafter, two shots rang out. Bullets thudded into the dirt about twenty feet short of their position.

  “They must be using sidearms, Bear. Guess they figured they could get close enough to be effective with a six-shooter. Why don’t you haul out that Sharps buffalo rifle and plunk one of them cannonballs into their position over there behind those rocks and cactus that look like a bunch of hens with their chicks. Don’t try to hit anyone until we know what we’re facin’.”

  Bear raised the rifle and blasted off a .50-caliber shot right where Cotton had told him to. A man burst out of the brush and scrambled for more substantial cover in the boulder-strewn hills higher up.

  Cotton grinned. “That ought to tell them something about our firepower. Maybe they’ll think twice before tryin’ again.”

  “That they should, Sheriff.”

  “You get a chance to see that fella well enough to know whether he’s a miner or a townie, Bear?”

  “He was movin’ too fast to get a good look. It looked a little like Orville Digby, a clerk at the general store.”

  “If that’s true, then we’re looking down the barrels of folk who want our prisoner dead,” said Cotton. “Probably not a real gunslinger among ’em.”

  “Easy to understand. The marshal was a fine fella. He was one of us, not a trained lawman, just a common, goodnatured sort. Then this rattler had to murder him for no reason at all. Ain’t that the way it was, McMasters?” said Bear, his face growing red with anger as he glared at the prisoner.

  McMasters scooted back as far as he could to avoid Bear’s rumored explosive temper. Cotton saw the same change in Bear’s demeanor and knew he had to step in. He placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “Bear, don’t forget what we’re out here for. This man has to stand trial for what he did. I’m sworn to uphold the law, and I intend to do just that.”

  “Don’t worry none, Sheriff, I ain’t goin’ to turn traitor on you. My word’s good. I promised to help you get him to Apache Springs safely, and I will. It’s just that I ain’t keen on shootin’ at my friends, that’s all.”

  “Ain’t any too fond of it, myself,” said Cotton.

  It was midday, with the blazing sun turning the desert into a furnace. As long as they could remain where they were, Cotton and Bear could hold out for some time. The townsfolk holed up in the rocks on the hill had no trees for shade and nearly a quarter of a mile of flat desert between them and their quarry. Cotton was consumed with what those men might be thinking. Would their resolve to get even with McMasters be dim
inished by the gathering heat, or would their hatred for the man drive them to hold out until they accomplished their task at all costs? And what could Cotton do to affect the outcome of their intentions?

  Suddenly, Cotton’s thoughts were interrupted by a number of riders coming into view on the road to Silver City. As soon as they got close enough to identify, McMasters jumped up and began yelling. They were his men. Bear had been right about the men on the hill, who were, Cotton saw now, undoubtedly citizens from Silver City.

  Gunfire erupted from the hillside. The miners found themselves caught in a potential cross fire, and they dove for cover in the brush alongside the road. So far, it appeared no one had been hit, but Cotton knew it was only a matter of time. The two sides began trading sporadic fire. Some of the lead thunked into the trees and ricocheted off the rocks where Cotton and Bear were hunkered down. All of the shots seemed to have been aimed high.

  Cotton stayed low, not firing back. He told Bear to do the same. “We’re tied up tighter than a calf at brandin’, pardner. We can hold out for a spell, but sooner or later, we’ll have to make some hard choices.”

  As Cotton pondered his possible options, he noticed a slowing in the two sides trading gunshots. After several minutes, McMasters suddenly yanked free of Bear’s grip and jumped up, making a dash for the group of miners that had dug in along the road to the south. Before Cotton could reach him to drag him back, McMasters had burst through the tree line and was running for all he was worth straight for his own crew.

  “Damn! I’m sorry, Sheriff. I reckon I wasn’t payin’ enough attention to that scoundrel and his wily ways,” Bear said with a look of guilt on his broad face.

  “It ain’t no more your fault than it is mine, Bear. But it sure looks like we’ve lost any chance at hustlin’ McMasters off to trial.”