Cotton's War

by Phil Dunlap

  Sprays of dirt were being hurled into the air in front of him. How strange it looked from his vantage point, flat on his stomach, staring at ants busily carrying on their work unmindful of the giant only inches away. He wanted to laugh. It was all so strange and at the same time embarrassing that the sheriff of Catron County should be lying in the street. And those dusty geysers, what in the devil was causing that? He felt a wave of nausea come over him and a spasm in his gut. Perhaps it was something he’d eaten. Damn that One-Eyed Billy if he’d slipped him some tainted beef. Or perhaps it was bad branch water Billy used to water down the whiskey. Either way, he’d get even with the wily bartender for his carelessness, just as soon as he took a little nap to let his energy build back up. It was getting dark out, anyway.

  Cotton had barely closed his eyes when he heard a voice yelling his name.

  “Cotton! Cotton, dammit, get up! They’re shooting at you.”

  The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps an old acquaintance, someone from his days in Texas. Yes that was it. But what was he saying about being shot at? Why would anyone want to shoot at a man taking a nap? He closed his eyes, again, and was overtaken by a foggy darkness.

  Scat saw his opportunity. “Blade, I’ll finish him. Cover me.” He slammed through the saloon doors on a dead run across the street.

  Jack could tell from his vantage point that Cotton wasn’t moving and was obviously wounded. If he could tell that Cotton was down, so could the shooters in the saloon. He had no sooner shouted at Cotton to get up than he spotted a man bolting from the saloon, fanning his revolver at Cotton’s position, kicking up clumps of dirt all around him. It appeared his shots weren’t coming close, but then a real gunman wouldn’t fan a six-shooter while running.

  Jack took careful aim with the Winchester, leading the running man. He squeezed off a shot that caught the man mid-chest and dropped him. He fell in a cloud of dust and never twitched a muscle after that. Jack turned his attention to the remaining shooter, putting two quick rounds into the front window. But his shots remained unanswered. Within seconds he heard the sound of a horse pounding down the alley behind the saloon. The rider turned north, whipping his mount for all he was worth. Jack could tell by the man’s clothing that it was Blade Coffman making his getaway.

  Jack climbed down from the livery roof. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he ran to where Cotton lay. There was blood seeping from his side. A great deal of it. Several others began congregating around the two.

  “Someone get Doc Winters and do it damned quick,” shouted Jack. “And he damned well better be sober this time.” Jack was also wondering where the hell Cotton’s deputy, Keeno, was hiding out. Why wasn’t he here when he was needed?

  In minutes, the town’s only doctor arrived on the scene, ordering some of the men to gently pick up the sheriff and take him inside the saloon. The crowd was growing as Jack and two others placed Cotton’s limp body on a billiards table. Jack looked around for the bartender, but saw no one. As the doctor began fussing over the sheriff, Jack went behind the bar, intent on freeing up a bottle of brandy to calm his nerves. That’s when he saw Billy Black on the floor with a bullet in his chest

  “There’s one behind the bar and another one outside, gents, but you’ll need an undertaker for both,” Jack said, pulling the cork out of a bottle of brandy, and taking a long pull on it.

  As he went to a table at the rear of the room, he saw another sight that sent chills up his spine. A pair of boots was sticking out of the room where Billy kept his supplies, near the back door. Jack walked over to investigate. That’s when his question was answered as to the whereabouts of Deputy Keeno Belcher. He’d also been shot, once in the chest. He, too, was stone cold dead. That accounted for the two shots that he and Cotton had heard earlier, the shots that had brought them into the fracas in the first place.

  “This place reminds me of Shiloh,” said the doctor, after steadily working on Cotton for about twenty minutes, his hands covered in blood. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Virgil Cruz’s gang has decided to take over. That’s my assessment,” said Jack, his feet up on a table, the brandy in one hand and a glass in the other. The quantity of brandy had gone down appreciably, and Jack’s attitude seemed to be mellowing. “How’s ol’ Cotton doin’?”

  “He’ll live. Bullet busted a rib but didn’t go far enough to do any other damage. I got it out. Lost a lot of blood, though. He’ll be down for a spell, I reckon, unless he wants to bust open these stitches I’m puttin’ in and come down with a fatal case of excessive bleeding.” He stretched out the word “excessive” as if it were a whole paragraph.

  “That’s not much comfort, Doc. He’ll need to be up and around by tomorrow if we’re to stop this gang from blowin’ up a train and stealin’ a million dollars,” said Jack.

  The doctor turned to Jack, saw the badge pinned to his chest, and said, “Well, Deputy, this man shouldn’t be going anywhere tomorrow. Unless, of course, you want him leaving a trail of blood wherever he goes. However, I’ll wrap him as good as I can.”

  Jack’s eyebrows knitted together like storm clouds gathering for a downburst. Just what was his stake in all this now? He didn’t owe the town of Apache Springs a damned thing. He’d come at Cotton’s insistence and a healthy dose of conviction that he’d be shot if he refused. But now that the sheriff was down with a bullet wound, who would expect him to stick around and risk getting shot to pieces himself? Why not just take Melody and ride out of town like he’d been nothing more than a casual visitor? Hell, that wasn’t far from the truth, and there was certainly nothing in it for him anymore, if there ever had been in the first place.

  Jack downed the remainder of the bottle of brandy, thanked the doctor, and headed back to the jail to mull over his next move. If the doctor was right and Cotton was likely to be out of action a while, and with Keeno dead, it looked like he was the man in charge. He could set Melody free without consequence. They could get a room at the hotel and take up right where they’d left off. That sounded so good, he quickened his steps. He hadn’t realized how bad he’d missed having her lying by his side on chilly nights. Or warm nights, either.

  Chapter 50

  Henry Coyote held his breath. Several men were gathered on the front porch of Emily Wagner’s ranch house. Cruz’s men. He recognized them. They were the ones who’d tormented him, called him offensive names, spat on him for being a filthy Indian. They’d tried to run him out of town on several occasions, but his quickness had allowed him to escape untouched. He always came back with the supplies he’d been sent for.

  The townsfolk were generally accepting of the former Apache scout. Only Cruz and his men caused trouble. But what were these deadly men doing at the Wagner ranch? Just then, Ben Patch appeared leading several men, Emily’s men, around the side of the house. They were tied together like a string of horses. Ben kept nudging the last of them with his rifle.

  Henry slipped silently back to where Emily sat huddled beneath a boulder, kept hidden by a proliferation of brush that grew down the hillside.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “Cruz’s men. They hold your cowboys prisoner. That why nobody here when you need help. Cruz round up before he take you. Keep hidden away from ranch.”

  “What are we going to do? These men are murderers. If they discover their man shot to death, and me gone, they will hunt us both down and kill us.”

  Henry scratched his chin as he thought about the predicament they were in. His mission to save Emily from the Cruz gang was not over, not by a long shot. Several horses were in the corral behind the house, but it would be impossible to get to them without being spotted. It was up to Henry to figure out a plan to get them both away safely. It wouldn’t be easy, but his determination was strong, and his allegiance to Emily Wagner even stronger. If he crept closer, he might be able to make out what Cruz and his men were planning.

  He told Emily he’d be right back and to
remain silent. He then crawled through the narrow opening between the rocks and some mesquite, creeping ever closer to the group of men, who were milling around as if they were waiting for something or someone. Just then Henry heard a horseman approaching. The men came together as Virgil Cruz rode up with Blade Coffman at his side and dismounted.

  “Well, men, I have some real good news. The sheriff is no longer a problem. Blade here shot and killed him. That’s one gnat I won’t have to swat after we blow up that train.”

  He said it so loudly that Emily overheard him. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. She tried to keep her emotions under control, so that she wouldn’t be heard, but it was difficult. She pulled her long dress up around her face to help muffle her crying.

  “What’ll we do with the Wagner riders?” asked one of them men, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

  “We won’t need them after tonight. Ben, assign two men to keep ’em company and then shoot ’em once we don’t have no more use for ’em.”

  Ben nodded and pointed to two of his comrades. “You boys heard the boss. Put them in the barn and keep an eye on them.”

  “Blade, I want you to round up all the goose grease you can find. We’re goin’ to lather up the tracks starting at the base of the incline. That’ll slow that smoke-puffin’ son of a bitch down to a crawl. Then we blow the tracks in front of it with one stick of dynamite, and the express car with two sticks,” said Cruz. “We’ll surround her so no one can escape and get off a warning to someone foolish enough to try and stop us.”

  “Where’ll we meet up?” asked Blade.

  “Back at the Brennan place. I want to keep an eye out and make sure that fool son of Hank’s don’t get it into his mind to do something heroic, like gettin’ the townsfolk together to chase us off the spread. He hasn’t been a problem so far, but I don’t want to take any chances. So mount up.”

  “D-did you hear what they said about Cotton? They said that gunslinger, Blade, killed him,” sobbed Emily after the riders had left the ranch and Henry had rejoined her.

  “I hear, but I don’t believe. I must see with my own eyes,” said Henry. “That sheriff one good pistolero. He not die easy.”

  Emily wiped at her reddened eyes with the hem of her skirt. She tried to smile at Henry’s positive attitude, but it was easy to see she was crushed by the news. She, too, would have to see for herself, but the possibility that the man she had secretly loved for so long might be gone nearly overcame her.

  “Henry, we must do something,” Emily sniffled.

  “Miss Emily, we free men held captive in barn. They help us,” said Henry.

  “How do we do that? Those men are gunmen.”

  “We wait for dark, then I go and free them.”

  “You might get one, but the other will hear the gunshot and take cover. Then he will be free to await your next move, and he’ll shoot you.”

  “I no use gun, missy. I have this,” Henry said as he held up his Bowie knife. The blade glinted in the waning sun as he turned it. It was razor sharp. He grinned.

  As darkness overtook the valley, Henry prepared to free Emily’s wranglers. He glanced her way, gave her a nod of confidence, and then slipped off into the dark. The barn was about two hundred yards from where he and Emily had spent the afternoon, hunkered down in the thick brush that skirted some boulders spilling down the hill. He took the long way around, keeping low so as not to spook the horses in the corral. When he reached the barn, he put his face close to the rough-sawn walls, listening for sounds that might indicate where Cruz’s men were. A flickering light escaped the uneven boards and Henry could see a lantern hanging from a peg. It illuminated much of the inside. He could make out the men tied together and pushed back into a stall. Then he spotted Cruz’s two gunmen, sitting on the floor, one blowing smoke rings from his hand-rolled quirly.

  “Why don’t you go up to the house and see if you can rustle up some grub from the lady’s pantry. I bet you can find some coffee, maybe some salt pork or some beans up there,” said one of the gunmen. “My belly feels like it’s been abandoned.”

  “Yeah. Good idea. I’ll be right back,” said the other. He got up and stomped out of the barn and into darkness. Almost instantly, he was grabbed from behind and his throat slashed so deeply his head almost came off. He hadn’t been able to make a sound.

  Henry let the man’s body slump to the ground, wiped off his blade on the dead man’s shirt, and crept silently toward the barn. He waited outside for the other man to come looking for his partner. As hungry as the man claimed to have been, Henry figured he’d only wait a few minutes for the return of the other.

  He didn’t even wait that long. The knife’s work was once again done in one clean swipe.

  Chapter 51

  Jack lay beside Melody in a squeaky iron bed at the hotel. He looked over at her, a satisfied grin on his unshaven face. “I gotta admit, I sure have missed that,” he said.

  “Hmmm. Me, too. So how long are we going to stay in this godforsaken town? I wanna go home.”

  Jack interlaced his fingers behind his head, leaned back on the pillows, and stared at the ceiling. Her question carried with it a puzzling number of other questions. What was he going to do about Cotton? After all, wasn’t this Cotton’s war? And what would become of Emily Wagner, stashed away somewhere, not knowing what fate awaited her? And Hank Brennan, what about him after Cruz pulled off his train robbery? And why was Jack feeling guilty about walking away, leaving Virgil Cruz and his thugs to do whatever dirty dealings they wished? He didn’t owe this town anything, did he? Of course not. He was his own man, not obliged to follow anyone, so why were so many doubts gnawing at him?

  “Aww, hell, Melody, I can’t just up and leave these folks to the likes of that rattler, Cruz. Damn!”

  “Wha-whatever do you mean, honey? What’s this place ever done for you? And what about Cotton Burke? You can’t be forgettin’ that the jackass yanked you outta my soft and comfortin’ bed and dragged you through who knows what kinda hell. You can’t have second thoughts. And don’t forget, he threw a lady in jail. Not just any lady, neither—me. I shoulda plugged him when I had the chance.” Melody had worked herself up into one fine frenzy, and Jack liked it. When she took a bite of something she couldn’t spit out, she got prettier by the minute, and sexier, too.

  He rolled over and began smothering her with kisses. She dug her fingernails into him and pulled him so close he could hardly get his breath. They made love like they were half-starved for affection. After a half hour, Jack rolled back onto his side of the bed, wet with perspiration and thoroughly spent. Melody smiled as if she’d just been victorious over some phantom enemy. She felt certain she’d won him over to her way of thinking. He’d pack up and take her home now. She was sure of it.

  But Jack had been immersed in a world, though not of his making, that had presented him with a look at some of the frontier’s worst examples of humanity. And he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Melody’s lovemaking hadn’t changed his mind any. He had to stay and help the town. Had to stop Virgil Cruz. Had to save Hank Brennan from a second attempt on his life. Had to find Emily Wagner, if only to look upon the face of the woman who could corral Cotton Burke. He jumped out of the creaky iron bed and pulled on his britches and boots. He stuffed in his shirttails and strapped on his Remington. Melody was aghast at what she was seeing. Her expression said he couldn’t be doing what it looked like he was doing. But he was. She pulled the blankets up to cover her naked body and pouted.

  “Wh-where are you goin’, Jack?” she said with a whine.

  “I got to finish what I started. You stay right there and keep the bed warm for me, you hear. I’ll be back.” He opened the door, then looked back at her. “Oh, and don’t be prancin’ around town so Cotton finds out you’re not in jail. He’ll kill me when he heals up.”

  When Henry had freed all of Emily’s ranch hands, they gathered around with questions as to what they could do to even the sc
ore with Cruz and his bunch. Emily was much more herself now that the immediate danger of being recaptured had passed. Henry Coyote had saved her, but she still wanted to see Virgil Cruz and Scat Crenshaw pay for the torment and humiliation she’d endured at their hands. The shoe was on the other foot and she was ready to take charge.

  “We’ve put up with the likes of Virgil Cruz and his cutthroats for too damned long. It’s time we take our county back. I know it’s bound to be dangerous, but what I’m about to ask, I’ll only ask once. I intend to hold each and every one of you to your word if you sign on. Henry and me, we overheard one of Cruz’s men say Sheriff Burke is dead, shot down by one of their kind. I aim to even the score. Before we’re through, Cruz’s gang will either be dead or hightailin’ it out of Catron County.”

  “We’re with you, Miss Emily,” shouted one of the hands. Several others yelled their agreement. One cowboy stood silent, his hands to his sides. Emily noticed his lack of response.

  “You know, gents, something has been puzzling me. Cruz and his bunch was able to saunter in here pretty as you please, and there was no one around to put up an objection to me bein’ hauled off like a prisoner of war. Where were all of you?”

  “Toby, here, said we was all to ride out to the north pasture and put up that fence you been talkin’ about, ma’am,” said one of the men, pointing to the one fellow who had remained silent. “We was all together, except for Henry, there.”

  “Tell me, Toby, why you’d give such an order? I gave no such instructions,” said Emily.

  “I, uh, sorta took it upon myself, er, knowin’ it had to be done someday, and that day was as good as any, I reckon. Course, as it turned out, we rode right into a trap.” Toby looked at his feet. “Those men held us under armed guard for all these days down in the cut beyond the north range. Couldn’t so much as get up for a smoke without someone pointin’ a rifle at our heads.”