Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  “I really wasn’t concerned, Mr. Carson. I didn’t figure you for anything other than an upstanding citizen. I hope the folks in town make you welcome.”

  “Well, that’s mighty considerate of you, Sheriff. I thank you. You can be sure I’ll repay your trust.”

  Cotton stood up, reached over and shook Carter’s hand, then carried his beer to the bar. He set the glass down, winked at Billy, and went out, whistling as he went.

  Carter’s either very smart or very stupid, he thought. I reckon he’s worth keepin’ an eye on; however, I don’t see him gettin’ too close to Cruz. Two rattlers in the same hole usually don’t work out so well.

  Chapter 33

  Jack’s luck at getting in with Virgil Cruz and his gang had been better than he could have hoped for. Now all he had to do was gain their confidence enough for them to tell him where Emily Wagner was being held and what the object of their crooked intentions was.

  He was brushing his gelding when Virgil came stomping past him, grumbling to himself. He slammed the door to the bunkhouse. Jack could hear him shouting for Blade. Getting no answer, he stormed back outside.

  “Hey, Jack, or whatever the hell your name is, where’d Blade Coffman get to?”

  “It’s Jack Stump, Virgil, and I didn’t see where he went. He was here only a few minutes ago.”

  “Well, I want him back here, pronto. I got a job for him. You find him, and be quick about it. Oh, and another thing, since it appears I’m stuck with you, for the time bein’ at least, I’m Mr. Cruz to you. Don’t you forget it, neither.”

  “Right, Mr. Cruz. Anything you want me to tell him?”

  “Yeah. Tell him to ride into town and round up Ben Patch and meet me here in two hours. Also, I hope you can cook, or that Chinaman is goin’ to have to get his butt back in the kitchen, sick or not. Understand?”

  Jack nodded and started off to find Blade. He had an idea where he’d gone, but he wasn’t about to tell Virgil. In just the few words that had passed between them, Jack could see how contentious the man was, and how he’d have to be very careful with every word he said. The two times he’d had a verbal exchange with Cruz, he’d learned something about the man. He hadn’t liked any of it.

  Jack wandered down behind the corral, where the land slanted toward a winding creek. A stand of cottonwoods dotted the bank, and Jack thought he’d seen Coffman headed that direction. When he heard some shots, he was certain that’s where he’d find him letting off some of the steam that had been building up. As he neared the creek, he stepped out from behind a boulder and started to speak. Blade spun around with his six-shooter cocked. He eased the hammer down when he saw who it was.

  “You lookin’ for a bullet between the eyes, Stump, sneakin’ up on a man like that?”

  “Cruz sent me to look for you. He wants you to go find Ben Patch and then meet him back at the bunkhouse in two hours. Sorry if I startled you.”

  Blade said nothing but started back to the corral. Jack fell in beside him.

  “I saw you shooting. You’re pretty good with that thing.”

  Blade frowned. “I’m better than pretty good.”

  “Look, I ain’t aimin’ to cause you no grief. I’m just a fella down on his luck temporarily and needin’ a job. Once I get a little money in my pocket, I’ll be movin’ on. No need for us to get off on the wrong foot,” said Jack.

  For a moment, Jack thought he saw Blade soften a little, but his expression quickly returned to its former stone-cold facade when he saw Cruz coming toward them.

  “Where the hell you been, Blade? This fella tell you I want you to round up Ben and get back here, pronto?”

  “Yeah, Virgil, he told me. I’m headin’ out right now. It won’t take me long to get to town, but I don’t think we can get back in two hours.”

  “You better bust your ass tryin’ or you’ll know what for.” Cruz seemed to be pushing Blade as far as he could and for no reason that Jack could understand. There was increasingly bad blood between these two, which didn’t make any sense, since it appeared they had ridden together for a long time, and they seemed solidly in cahoots in some nefarious plan. But as long as they argued and sniped at each other in plain sight of others, Jack figured that made his job easier. Or more dangerous.

  Blade mounted up and spurred his horse to a gallop through the gate. Cruz turned to Jack and said, “Go see how that damned Chinaman is doin’. I’m near starved, and I don’t aim to wait much longer for some grub.”

  Jack headed for the house at a trot. When he got inside, he saw Cappy Brennan coming down the stairs from Hank’s bedroom.

  “How’s you father doin’?”

  “He’s growling something ferocious. I imagine he’s on the mend. So, you got any ideas on what we do, now? I’m afraid Cruz will find out Hank’s alive and storm in here to kill him.” Cappy’s look of bewilderment was tinged with fear. It was clear to Jack that this boy was inexperienced in the art of subterfuge, and the risk of him spilling everything was an ever-present reality. He had no choice but to make Cappy believe everything would be all right as long as he held firm and didn’t let anything slip about his father still being alive.

  Just then, Wu Chang came into the large living room with a bowl of soup to take upstairs to Hank. Jack knew he was walking a thin line with his whole scheme. The only thing he could think to do was to take the Brennans into his confidence—a major risk. But one that had to be taken if he was to come out with his skin intact.

  “Cappy, Wu Chang, come and sit down over here for a minute. I have something to tell you, and it’s probably best you’re both seated when you hear it. I’m about to place a lot of trust in you both.” The little terrier came up, sniffed at Jack’s pant leg, then returned to his bed near the fireplace.

  Cappy and Wu Chang sat down as they had been asked, each wearing a puzzled expression. Jack leaned on the mantel as he began to tell them about why he had come to the Brennan ranch and what he needed to do. Cappy’s eyes grew wide as Jack told about his being sent by the sheriff to gather information on Virgil Cruz. Wu Chang smiled and nodded, relief showing in his eyes.

  “I know fum sta’t you no like that man an’ his bunch. He no good like snake, but you got eye and heart of eagle. You count on me, okay?”

  “Okay, Wu. I’m counting on you from now on. First, you need to rustle up some grub for the men. Make it simple, like you were too weak to fix a full meal. I’ll get them to understand. Tomorrow, you can say you are feeling fine and everything will be okay. Don’t let anything slip about Hank being alive. That’s critical to remember. Not a word to anyone, understand?”

  “I unnastand, Missa Jack. I you man.” Wu Chang got up and went upstairs with the soup bowl. Cappy seemed dazed at Jack’s confession. He stared at the floor for several minutes before speaking.

  “Mr. Stump, what’ll happen if Virgil does find out my father is alive?”

  “He tried to kill him once, don’t think for one minute he won’t finish the job if given half a chance. It’s clear he wants Hank out of the way for some reason. Any idea why?”

  “N-no. I’ve never liked the man, but I didn’t figure him for a murderer. Reckon I underestimated him.”

  “You can’t afford to make that mistake again. Remember, if he tried to kill Hank to get his hands on the ranch, then he won’t stop before he’s gotten you out of the way, too.”

  “You think he’d try to kill me?” Cappy’s eyes were wide with surprise. Perspiration began to dot his forehead.

  Chapter 34

  Cotton sat with his elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands, worry etched on his face. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, at that moment Keeno came storming through the door with more bad news, the type of news the sheriff had never gotten used to hearing. Someone had found a body lying out back of the corral, and it wasn’t one of the town’s drunks sleeping off too much redeye. With a muffled curse, Cotton grabbed his hat and followed Keeno out. The two of them hurried down the stre
et toward the livery. It became evident pretty quickly that something noteworthy had gotten the public’s interest. There were a dozen people standing around, speculating in animated conversation as to what had happened and who might have committed such a dastardly deed.

  The liveryman, a man named Horst, was telling people to stay back, as he led the two lawmen out behind the barn, where fouled straw and manure were piled high, out of sight of most passersby. Several curious townsfolk tagged along behind, each muttering their best guess as to who the killer might be, including every known outlaw from Billy Bonney to Dave Rudabaugh.

  “You the one that found the body, Horst?” asked Cotton, staring down at the bloody corpse.

  “Nope, ol’ Kettle done it. Sniffed him right out first thing this mornin’.”

  “By Kettle, do you mean that skinny runt hound of yours, Horst?” said Keeno.

  “Now, Keeno, you know damned well what I mean. Why’d you ask such a fool question?”

  Keeno looked away, embarrassed.

  Cotton bent down and turned the man over. It was the man Keeno had identified as Red Carter. The same man who’d introduced himself as Carson to the sheriff. He’d been knifed once in the gut, then had his throat cut. The man’s gun was still in its holster, and his pockets didn’t appear to have been searched. Cotton found several dollars still on the body. He stuffed them back into the dead man’s pocket.

  “It doesn’t look like a case of robbery. So there had to have been another reason. You got any ideas, Horst?”

  “No, Sheriff. I hardly knew the man. He brought his horse in about three days ago, had me feed and board him till he come for him. Said he’d be around to collect the horse and pay any past fees on the sixteenth. Never got a name.”

  Cotton rubbed his chin, muttering to himself, “the sixteenth,” over and over. “Keeno, see if you can find someone who might have seen him with anyone in the last twentyfour hours, then get the undertaker over to haul the body away. I’ll be heading to the saloon as soon as the undertaker gets here.”

  Keeno rushed off to get the answers the sheriff had asked for, even though he thought he knew who might have done it. Ben Patch carries a large knife and some say he don’t hesitate to use it when necessary, thought Keeno. Horst’s admonishment of him for his earlier attempt at detective work was still ringing in his ears. Being shown up again might push him over the edge and force a lengthy visit to the saloon for himself. He went to the gunsmith to verify his suspicions.

  When he entered the gunsmith’s shop, he found the prune-faced man hunched over a small milling machine, staring intently through a pair of glasses that rode low on his nose, painstakingly engraving scrollwork on the frame of a Winchester. The gunsmith got up, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “What can I do for you, Keeno?”

  “Uh, well, that gunslinger that’s been hangin’ around town for a couple days, the one I figure to be Red Carter, the one you told me about the other day, have you seen him in the last ten, maybe twelve hours?”

  “Nope. The last I seen of him was when Blade come in askin’ about him. Blade seemed to be keepin’ an eye on him for some reason I never did figure out. Why’d you want to know? He causin’ some sorta trouble?”

  “Not anymore. Thanks for the information.” Keeno tipped his hat and left the shop. On his way to rejoin the sheriff, he stopped at the undertaker’s store and asked him to bring his cart to haul back a customer.

  “Undertaker’s on his way, Sheriff. The gunsmith says he ain’t seen anyone hangin’ out with Carter. I did hear Blade’s name mentioned as havin’ an interest in the man’s comin’s and goin’s, though.” Keeno puffed himself up with pride at having accomplished all that the sheriff had asked for. It hadn’t escaped Cotton’s notice, either.

  “Good job, Deputy. Thanks.”

  “Uh, Sheriff, what’s all this business about the sixteenth? I noticed you perked up when the liveryman mentioned it.”

  “Why, uh, nothing important. Just that more’n one jasper has been mentioning that date lately, and I aim to find out why.”

  Keeno looked bewildered but remained silent.

  The undertaker arrived minutes later with a twowheeled cart. Cotton and Keeno watched as Carter was loaded onto the bed of the cart and covered with a blanket.

  “I hope there’s enough money in his pockets to bury him, John. Don’t go over whatever amount you find there. The county don’t have the cash to make up any difference.”

  The undertaker quickly emptied Carter’s pockets and found forty dollars and a silver watch. He called out to the sheriff, who by then was halfway down the street. “Looks like he’s got just the right amount, Sheriff. It’ll do just fine.” A satisfactory smile spread across his face. A top-ofthe-line funeral could be had for fifteen dollars any day of the week in Apache Springs.

  Henry Coyote was growing weary of sitting around waiting for the sheriff to contact him, and he felt as if the walls of the empty bunkhouse were closing in. He’d convinced himself that Cotton Burke wasn’t going to lift a finger to rescue Emily Wagner. He hadn’t seen any of the other cowboys at the ranch for several days, not since Emily disappeared, so it looked as if it was up to him to find her and bring her safely back to her ranch. There was no point in putting it off any longer. He was determined to start out the next day before dawn. Day six. The day Sheriff Cotton Burke told him he’d be released from his word not to interfere.

  He would need to raid the cook shack for some beef jerky. And he knew he’d better take at least two canteens of water. He made sure his well-worn Spencer rifle was loaded and that the bandolier of cartridges that hung across his chest was full. He would set off on foot to cover every inch of Wagner land in search of where Emily might be hidden. His curiosity as to where the other Wagner hands had gotten to was of concern, as well, because he could use their help. What if they knew nothing about Emily’s abduction and were simply working at the farther reaches of the ranch? If he found nothing of her on Wagner property, did he dare venture farther? And what if he found no signs of the other wranglers? His confusion over their disappearance was growing. He could fathom no reason for their absence.

  He knew the next ranch to the north, the Brennans’ spread, was full of caves, gulches, ravines, and rocky promontories that offered a great many perfect hiding places to stash a helpless woman, with scant hope of anyone stumbling across her. The Double-B would be worth searching. As long as he stayed out of sight of any of Cruz’s bunch, that is.

  Henry was keenly aware of the consequences of being caught and what it could mean to Emily Wagner’s safety. She was a woman to whom he owed much. It was because of that debt that he felt compelled to strike out on his own, not waiting for word from the sheriff. He left no message to indicate where he was going or when he’d be back. It made no sense since he had no idea where the other men were. Of course, he seldom shared much with others anyway. Most of the men knew better than to press the Apache too hard about his activities. If Emily Wagner trusted him, that was good enough for them. Hard, though, for white men to trust any Apache when Geronimo was once again creating all sorts of trouble not far to the west, in Arizona Territory. But Henry Coyote didn’t owe his allegiance to any Apache leader, especially since he was fairly certain it was another Indian that had tried to kill him those years ago, probably for serving the U.S. Army as a scout. Now he owed everything to Emily Wagner, and he vowed to honor that debt.

  While he preferred living in the white man’s world, Henry was fully Apache. He let it be known that no one should ever mistake that. He wore traditional Apache garb: the high-top moccasins with fringe up the side, a long, loose-fitting, patterned shirt, and a headband woven of earth colors—with a single, wide red band wandering unevenly through it. He had explained that the blood-colored band represented the reality of death that surrounds everyone. Never more than now was that reality a factor as he squatted on the porch to await the safety of darkness.

  Chapter 35

  M
emphis Jack was all too aware that something was about to happen as Virgil Cruz and his men were suddenly running roughshod over the other hands. Cruz had taken to barking out orders left and right as if he were not only the foreman but also the new ranch owner. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he figured something had happened to Hank. He also made it clear he had no intention to look for him. “I didn’t hire onto this half-assed outfit to waste time scouring the countryside to find an old man that shoulda stayed put.”

  Cappy could do little but stay out of Cruz’s way. If Cruz was willing to kill Hank with no more thought than waiting for the right opportunity, Cappy stood almost no chance of survival. It was clear to everyone that Cruz assumed that Hank Brennan wouldn’t be coming back, although he hadn’t admitted to having had a hand in it. Jack was keeping a low profile as much as possible, but that didn’t mean he could stand by and not ask questions whenever he saw tensions rise between Cruz and his henchmen. Blade was Jack’s choice for information as the gunman was clearly chafing under Cruz’s relegating him to near obscurity. Something had gone down between them, and although Blade had remained tight-lipped about the circumstances surrounding his disenchantment with Virgil, he was still the best chance Jack had to break through the wall of silence to learn about either the impending robbery or the whereabouts of Emily Wagner. He didn’t care which he stumbled onto first, as long as it was soon.

  While he would have preferred to simply aim his Remington at Blade’s head and threaten to pull the trigger, he had a strong feeling that it would take more than a threat to his life to loosen Blade’s tongue. About two hours later, Jack was contemplating his options as he sat at a bunkhouse table cleaning his revolver, when Blade stormed in and threw himself on his bunk.

  “Looks like you got a burr under your saddle, Blade. What’s got you so riled?”