Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  The door flew open and Keeno blew in like a desert sandstorm. “Well, Sheriff, I reckon we can write Virgil Cruz off our list of suspects who might’ve killed Red Carter.”

  “Oh. Why is that?”

  “Well, several folks saw him leave town early in the day. He couldn’t have been around when it happened.” Keeno looked quite proud of his detecting abilities. He slipped into a chair with a satisfied look pasted on his unshaven face.

  “When did it happen?”

  “You mean the killin’?”

  “Yep.”

  “Uh, in the evenin’, I reckon. Ain’t no way he was lyin’ there all afternoon without someone seein’ his body, right?”

  “You better go check with the liveryman. Find out if he was there all day, and if he was gone any of the time.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  Keeno left with considerably less gusto than he had entered with. The disdain that showed on his face would have led most anyone to believe he didn’t like facing the possibility that all his hard detective work might have gone for naught. He sauntered outside and took his sweet time crossing the street to the livery. When he got there, he saw the liveryman pitching hay up into a wheelbarrow.

  “Howdy, Deputy. What can I do for you?”

  “Horst, the sheriff asked me to come over here and find out if you was gone anytime when that fella might have been cut up out back. Was you?”

  Horst scratched his chin for a moment. “Yep, I remember now. Reckon I was away most of the afternoon. I had to take a horse out to the widow Barnes’s place. Her old mule keeled over and died. A neighbor came in and asked me to take her a substitute.”

  “So you might not have been here when the cuttin’ happened?” Keeno wanted to make double sure there wasn’t any mistake about the time Horst was missing.

  “Likely I was four miles out of town. Didn’t get back till late and went straight home. I told you it was ol’ Kettle that found him the next morning.”

  “Uh, yeah, reckon you did at that. Well, thanks, Horst.” Keeno felt dejected. He took his time returning to the jail, stopping off for a quick beer at One-Eyed Billy’s. He even took several minutes to chat with the general store owner’s wife, who was out front sweeping a week’s worth of dirt and dust off the boardwalk in front of their store. When he returned, Cotton was reading a three-week-old newspaper. He seemed to have found an article that caught his attention when Keeno came in.

  “Well, uh, Sheriff, reckon Cruz and his boys coulda done the deed to ol’ Red Carter. Horst was away messin’ with a dead mule for most of the afternoon. Guess that pretty well tosses my theory into a cocked hat, don’t it?”

  “It does open more gates than it closes, at that. Listen, Keeno, I want you to stay here while I go talk to the newspaper editor. I’ll be back soon.” At that, Cotton got up, folded the paper he’d been reading, and hurried out the door. Keeno watched with a frown as he disappeared down the street.

  “Mr. Birney, it’s Sheriff Cotton Burke,” he called out to a seemingly empty office. “I wonder if I might ask you about an article here in your newspaper.” Cotton looked around as the door closed behind him and a bell tinkled.

  “One moment while I pull off this sheet and re-ink the platen,” came a raspy voice from the rear of the room that housed the Apache Springs Weekly Times. After a few minutes of clanking and shuffling around, a tall, skinny man, wearing an apron covered with ink and wiping his hands on a filthy rag, stepped out from behind a high-backed table on which were flat boxes filled with tiny, lead letters.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Birney. I was wondering what you could tell me about this little article that appeared a few weeks back. I found it buried in a stack of papers on my desk and hadn’t gotten around to reading it until today.”

  Birney, the editor and publisher of the Times, squinted as he scanned what was written. He pulled out a pair of spectacles from his vest pocket and smiled, obviously recognizing the article.

  “Ahh, yes. This was sent in by a reporter over in Tucson. I remember because it came in response to my inquiry about a rumor concerning a large shipment of gold that might be coming through soon from the San Francisco mint, bound for Texas. This reporter confirmed that, sure enough, there had been rumors that the mint was sending gold by way of the Southern Pacific to Fort Worth.”

  “Isn’t that kind of information usually kept secret? What makes you think it’s true?”

  “Well, actually I don’t know myself, but I can vouch for the veracity of the man who forwarded the information to me.”

  “What made you print such a story? Did you not consider it might cause some of the less law-abiding citizens to consider something dishonest, like a robbery?”

  Birney wrinkled his nose as if something offensively odiferous had just been plopped in front of him.

  “As a responsible journalist I cannot imagine who in this town would even consider such an outlandish act. Certainly not I, nor the banker, nor, nor . . . ,” he sputtered. “I’m shocked you have such little regard for our honest citizenry.”

  “Uh-huh. Also, I noticed you included the date: the sixteenth of this month. Isn’t it unusual to include such facts when divulging information that some might figure shouldn’t be exposed to the public anyway? Would you run a story about the date and time of money coming into the bank?”

  “Are you questioning my perspicacity or my motives, Sheriff? I assure you, I am not a gadfly, nor would I disseminate information that I felt inappropriate for public consumption. Besides, the public has a right to know these things. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I am a very busy man. I must get back to this week’s edition, so I will bid you a good day, sir.” In a huff, Birney disappeared behind his California job cases.

  Cotton stormed out of the newspaper office. His confrontation with the editor had given him a pretty good idea of Cruz’s potential robbery target and the source he may have relied upon for his information. If he was right, it was an ingenious way to get word to the outlaws without arousing suspicion. Cotton’s suspicions coupled with Birney’s pompous attitude served only to further lessen what little faith the sheriff had in the Fourth Estate.

  Cotton decided to send a telegram to an old friend in Tucson, the editor of the daily newspaper there. His question was simple: Would you ever print a story about a big gold shipment prior to its safe arrival at its destination? He had a reply in less than an hour. It read: “Not unless I wanted to attract half the gangs in the territory to some easy pickings.”

  Cotton now wondered if Birney’s story hadn’t been printed for that very reason. Could this editor be in cahoots with Cruz? And how could he ever prove it?

  Chapter 39

  Jack was nervous about Cappy accidently running into one of Cruz’s men in town. Since Ben Patch hadn’t been heard from for several hours, Jack figured he might have doubled back and gone to the saloon. He sat on a bench out front of the bunkhouse watching the activities at the corral, where Virgil seemed busy with several ranch hands, giving them orders and yelling at them when they moved too slowly. Just then, Cruz came storming out of the corral and toward Jack with fire in his eyes.

  “I can’t trust any of those fools to follow my instructions. I’d shoot them if I didn’t need them for a little something that’s coming up. I may have to trust you, Stump.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Cruz.”

  “Uh-huh, I wonder. Blade should be back here with Ben soon. If he ain’t, I’m goin’ to be a couple of men short because of premature death by bullet. You stay close by. Don’t go wanderin’ off. I may need you soon.” Cruz raised dust with every step as he headed off toward Wu Chang’s kitchen, cursing and grumbling.

  I’m beginning to think this man isn’t smart enough to run a Chinese laundry, Jack thought with a scowl. How the hell is he going to pull off some big job, whatever it is?

  Cappy stood eyeing every person he saw after he’d loaded the wagon with the things Wu Chang had sent him for. Perspiration poured down hi
s forehead, and he swallowed hard trying to work up his nerve to go into the sheriff’s office and spill everything Jack had told him to pass on. Just then, the sheriff came out of his office and headed for the saloon. Cappy followed after him, hoping to catch him alone where they could talk quietly. As Cappy entered the saloon, he saw Cotton at the far end of the bar chatting with One-Eyed Billy. Cappy looked around nervously to see if anyone from the ranch was inside. He saw no one, and, encouraged, he stepped toward the sheriff.

  “Uh, Sheriff. I’m Cappy Brennan, maybe you know my father, Hank,” he said barely above a whisper. “Could we go to a table and palaver a spell?”

  “Sure, I know Hank. How is he?” The two sauntered over to a table in the corner where no one could overhear what was being said.

  “He ain’t doin’ so well, I’m afraid. Virgil Cruz pushed him over a cliff. Tried to kill him. With the help of a fella who happened along, we was able to get him back to the ranch. Doc Winters come out and patched him up good as he could. Dad’s goin’ to live, but it’ll take a while to heal up them broken bones. This fella, Memphis Jack Stump, said to come in and tell you some things he’s learned.”

  “That’s good news, Cappy. Go on.”

  Cotton brightened at the news that Jack had gotten into the Brennans’ confidence so quickly. He bent forward, eager to hear what Cappy had to say.

  Ben Patch and Blade Coffman rode hard through the gate at the Double-B. They came to a dusty halt in front of the corral, both dismounting quickly. Blade took the reins of both horses and led them into the corral to unsaddle later. Ben headed for the bunkhouse, where he was met by a furious Virgil Cruz.

  “Where the hell you been, Ben? I told you to keep an eye out for anything suspicious that might be goin’ around. I didn’t tell you to plan on havin’ a vacation at the saloon. What happened? Where were you when Blade came looking for you?”

  Ben held up his hand. “Hold on, Virgil, I gotta good reason for not bein’ there when he come a-lookin’ for me. I met up with a problem.”

  “What kinda problem?”

  “I ran across Red Carter. He started jawin’ on me about the train and all, and sayin’ he knew what we was up to. He said he was goin’ to put together some men and take a shot at that train comin’ through on the sixteenth himself. He was getting too loud. I figured if we was overheard, someone might go to the sheriff. I had to handle the situation the best way I knew how.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Had to. Cut him up real good. He won’t do no more figurin’ on cuttin’ in on our job.”

  “Do you think he talked to anyone else in town before you got to him?”

  “I don’t know. I reckon not, because he kept sayin’ he was gonna send off a telegram to some owlhoots he knowed back in Santa Fe. After I done it, I hightailed it out of town.”

  “Anyone see you take him down?”

  “Naww. I was real careful. Carved him up out behind the livery. I took the long way just in case someone saw me and put the sheriff on my tail. I waited in ambush for him outside town for a spell. He never came. I musta been outta sight when Blade come for me the first time. I was on my way back to the ranch when he come a-yellin’ you wanted to see me in a hurry.”

  “He was right. And about what you had to do, it was for the best and good riddance. I never liked the man, anyhow. C’mon, we got to round up the rest of the boys and have our little meeting.” Virgil motioned for Blade to gather the others at the bunkhouse.

  “How about that Stump fella?” said Blade.

  “Yep, him, too.”

  “How do you know you can trust him?”

  “Don’t make no difference. After the job is over, you’re gonna shoot him. That way, neither one of us has anything to worry about ever again.” Virgil laughed hard at the thought as he led the way to the bunkhouse. Jack was already there, waiting out front. He stood up as the others arrived, and Blade grabbed his arm and shoved him inside. The other hands who’d been gathered for the meeting began to settle around the room, some at the table, others on bunks, a couple leaned against the wall.

  “Well, boys, the time has come for me to tell you what my plans are for the sixteenth. I been puttin’ off layin’ out the whole thing ’cause I needed to ponder all the unpredictables. So here it is. We’re gonna rob a train. It’ll be the biggest haul in the history of the railroad, and we’ll all ride away rich men. There’s talk of near to a million dollars in gold and greenbacks on the Southern Pacific coming from San Francisco. It’ll pass by ten miles north of Apache Springs. It’s headed for Texas and the cattle markets in Fort Worth. But that ol’ wood burner is goin’ to take a little detour,” Virgil again laughed at the thought of such a conquest.

  “How’d you find out about such a shipment, Virgil?” asked Ben.

  “Never you mind, Ben. I know things that you ain’t privy to, that’s all, mostly ’cause I can read. And you can take stock in it when I say it.”

  Chapter 40

  Jack sat in silence as Virgil outlined his plan to rob the Southern Pacific of a million dollars. Darkness had set in, and the only light in the bunkhouse came from three kerosene lanterns hanging from pegs in the walls. The shadows cast by the lanterns revealed the faces of hard men, men to whom life had dealt a cruel blow, men for whom the future held little or nothing. Only three of these men had any experience in what they were about to ride into. Most had never held up a store, or a bank, or a stagecoach, or even a single rider on horseback. And now they were being asked to risk their lives for the promise of great wealth and a future filled with ease. Of those in the room, only Virgil, Ben, and Blade were real criminals, and Jack sensed that the others had been included to convince the railroad of the gang’s resolve to actually go through with something as daring as holding up a train. A couple of the younger ones were looking about with eager anticipation of what would come their way with very little effort. That was Virgil’s promise. The way Virgil had put forth his strategy, any man could easily be brought under his spell, his guarantee of easy pickings.

  Cruz’s intent to rob the Southern Pacific was a carelessly constructed, poorly thought out jumble of “ifs” and “maybes.” Virgil’s information about the gold shipment came from the newspaper. His source was the editor of the newspaper, a man he’d beaten often at poker. He had promised to forgive the man’s markers if he’d print whatever he came across concerning potential targets for his gang. Birney had been an easy and gullible foil for Virgil’s evil intentions. Virgil had even promised him a small share in the loot for his contribution. Birney had jumped at the opportunity because he saw no way anyone would be able to prove complicity on his part.

  Even if the robbery does come off, that fool Birney will come up empty-handed, thought Jack. And these other rannies, if they live through it all, they’ll likely be shot afterwards for their trouble. Virgil had given no guarantee of sharing the loot. Jack wasn’t sure that Ben and Blade would get away with anything but a bullet, either. Virgil Cruz didn’t seem the kind to take great stock in friendship or sharing. His recent animosity toward Blade made that theory even more tenable in Jack’s mind.

  “Now, look at this piece of paper, boys. This here’s the route we’re gonna take to where we make the strike. I got special instructions for each one of you. Memorize them and you’ll know what’s expected of you. Any questions?” said Virgil.

  One cowboy held up his hand nervously. “Mr. Cruz, I cain’t read. Would it be okay if Billy read it to me?”

  Virgil hung his head in despair as he grumbled, “I don’t give a damn who reads it to you, you idiot, just know it by heart. Do you all understand me?”

  Red-faced and ashamed, the cowboy nodded.

  As Ben handed out the assignments to each man, Jack watched, uncertain as to whether Virgil was planning to include him and equally uncertain how much longer Cotton expected him to go along with these outlaws, putting his neck on the line. He now had enough information about the robbery itself, but getting
the specifics into Cotton’s hands was going to be difficult. Virgil seemed to be watching him like a hawk. Also, if Jack did manage to leave the Double-B ranch, how certain could he be that Virgil wouldn’t find out about Hank’s still being alive and living not more than a hundred feet away? Jack was sure Hank wouldn’t last ten minutes if Virgil found him alive.

  Things were becoming increasingly complex, and Jack hadn’t gotten any closer to finding where Emily was being held. Cotton had made it clear that Emily’s freedom was a priority, and Jack understood the deep feelings that went into such a decision. As he sat pondering Virgil’s illdefined venture, the crafty foreman pulled a surprise on all of them.

  “Now, listen up, gents, because this is where it gets serious. This here is how we get that lumbering monster to come to a screeching halt, which will make our grabbing the loot as easy as milking a cow,” said Cruz. “Blade, go outside and fetch in the crate by the door.”

  “How come I gotta do all the fetchin’?”

  “ ’Cause I said so, that’s why. Now, git to it.”

  Jack could sense that Virgil’s hammering away at Blade was taking an ever increasing toll on a man already stretched too thin. When Blade returned a minute later with a medium-size crate cradled in his arms, things went from bad to worse. Blade dropped the crate at Virgil’s feet.

  “You clumsy idiot. You coulda killed us all. Now, go sit down over there with the others. Now!” screamed Virgil. Blade had reached his limit. His hand went to his gun. He started to draw it, but before he could clear leather, Virgil had grabbed his own six-shooter and, in one smooth motion, cocked it and stuck it no more than an inch from Blade’s nose.

  “Either do what I said or finish your draw. I’ve had all of your dumb decisions I can take. Make your move.” Virgil was cool and deadly. Only a fool would not take him seriously. Blade backed off and slumped onto a bunk across the room, his gun still firmly in its holster.