by Dunlap, Phil
“What the hell do you want, mister? Can’t you see we’re doin’ business here? Move on.”
Cotton held both hands in the air in mock surrender, a look of puzzlement on his face.
“Sorry, son. Didn’t know you were even here. I’m lookin’ for a drink to parch a powerful thirst from a long drive. I don’t mean to interfere. You can go on about your business.”
The kid stared at him for a moment, then jabbed his .45 in Cotton’s direction.
“Get your damned drink, then get on your way. I got no patience with interruptions,” the kid snapped. He turned his attention back to the bartender and the man in the bowler.
The old man held a Winchester Yellow Boy in both hands, cocked and pointed at the floor, but unmistakably at the ready. The look on his dirty, heavily lined face seemed to find complete agreement in the youth’s actions. A toothless grin wrinkled his chapped and sunburned lips.
“Thank you, son,” Cotton said, turning to the bartender and pointing toward a bottle of whiskey sitting on the bar top. “Pour me one of those, bartender, if you please.”
The bartender, lean and lank, was sweating profusely. His hand shook as he tried in vain to pour whiskey into the small glass without spilling half of it. Cotton remained calm, slowly sipping the amber liquid, hoping to catch a bit of what the fuss was all about. While obviously full of piss and vinegar, the younger of the two men was not a gunslinger. His nervous demeanor also suggested that the last thing he wanted to do was kill someone. His main weapon was his anger and his willingness to demonstrate it. Cotton hoped someone would mention what the problem might be, though. The mouthy kid didn’t disappoint him.
Directing his rapidly building anger toward the man with the bowler hat, the kid said, “What the hell made you figure you and your men could just up and steal our horses? You got no right, and we want to be paid for ’em.”
“Son, those horses weren’t yours in the first place. They had the Campbell brand on ’em plain as day. You shoulda knowed that.”
“They had no such brand, and they was on our land, that makes ’em ours. And that’s that. Now, fork over a hunnert dollars apiece for all ten, or I’m goin’ to put a bullet in you.” The kid jabbed his .45 toward the man a couple times for emphasis.
Cotton could see this wasn’t going to end well. Whose horses they were wouldn’t make a bit of difference if a man died defending his position. The seated man was beginning to get nervous. Sweat ran down his forehead. His hand slid slowly toward his own revolver.
“I wouldn’t go for that hogleg if’n I was you, mister,” hollered the kid. That’s when Cotton decided it was now or never to make his move.
“Son, the gent’s got a point. But if you can prove the horses are yours, he has to give ’em back or pay you for them, don’t he?” Cotton kept one hand on the bar and the other holding his whiskey glass.
“You stay out of this, whoever the hell you are. It ain’t none of your business. Now, drink up and move on.”
By looking past the old man, Cotton could see Bear Hollow slip silently in the back way. He was carrying his ever-present Sharps carbine. They had the two in a cross fire if it came to that. He hoped it wouldn’t.
“I didn’t come lookin’ for trouble, just a little sip to settle my stomach. But it sounds like you got yourself a hornet’s nest. I’d like to help you out if you’d let me. I got some experience in situations like this,” Cotton said to the kid.
“How? How the hell you gonna help me? You don’t even know me or my pa.” He waved the Smith & Wesson in Cotton’s general direction once more.
Cotton turned to the man at the table. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted several other men scattered around the room placing their hands on their guns. One false move by this kid and there’s gonna be another Shiloh in here, he thought.
“Sir, are the horses in question nearby? Might be we could solve this whole problem real quick if they were. We can easily check those brands.”
“Like the kid says, it ain’t none of your business. Now, shove off. Me and my boys can handle this little shit and his old man.” The man in the bowler stood up slowly, scooting his chair back with his legs. His hand fell to his six-gun. But before he could even clear leather, Cotton’s Colt .45 was in his hand, cocked and aiming at the man’s head. They were less than ten feet apart. The man stopped his draw, tossing Cotton a cold, narrow-eyed stare.
“What’s your stake in this, mister?”
“I like to have peace and quiet when I come to a town. You’re spoiling it for me. Now, answer my question.” Cotton’s voice had quickly changed from casual observer to the man in charge. This turnabout in attitude didn’t elude the other cowboys that had apparently been behind the man claiming ownership of the remuda.
The man in the bowler looked around at several of the other men. None still had his hand hovering over a six-shooter. Two had sat back down. The man seemed to be getting more and more nervous. He removed his hand from the butt of his gun and wiped at his forehead.
“No, they ain’t nearby. I-I sold ’em…to the army. A-ain’t got ’em no more.”
“So, I’m guessin’ there wasn’t a Campbell brand on ’em, and they likely did belong to these fellows. Did I guess right?” Cotton’s eyes narrowed as the man nodded.
“It’s possible…”
Just then Bear Hollow, who had heard every word, spoke up.
“Sounds like you just admitted to horse stealin’, friend. That’s a neck-stretchin’ offense around here.” He pointed his Sharps at the man, who had now begun to rock back and forth. “I’m thinkin’ you best cough up a hundred dollars apiece for them horses or plan on meetin’ up with the meanest judge these parts ever saw. He sure does love a hangin’.”
“But, I…”
“And you best unbuckle that gun belt, too, ’cause you’re goin’ to visit my jail until you can find it in your heart to pay what you owe these folks,” Bear Hollow said. He thrust the business end of the Sharps at the man, just to make sure there were no doubts as to his intentions.
Cotton fished out his own badge and pinned it on his shirt. He looked back at the other cowboys, who gave every impression they were preparing to leave town while they still could.
Chapter 5
Pretty clever the way you buffaloed that fella. What was it made you think the fool kid wouldn’t plug you?”
“He wasn’t a killer, and I had my doubts whether that old gun would even shoot. It was rusty and he hadn’t cocked it, either. He was bluffing. Now, the old man was a different matter altogether. He looked near to the breakin’ point. He was the one that worried me.”
“Well, by gosh it turned out right and proper. The old fellow and his boy got paid for their horses, and I doubt we’ll ever see that horse-stealin’ scoundrel in these parts again,” Bear said with a gleam in his eye. “Thanks to you, Sheriff.”
“Just returnin’ a favor.”
“Just so’s you know, I’m obliged. I learned something about gettin’ myself out of a tight spot, thanks to you.”
Cotton started out into the street to reclaim his mare. He patted the horse on her neck, took the reins, and swung into the saddle. Bear Hollow had followed him outside.
“You plannin’ on goin’ after that Thorn McCann fella, Sheriff?”
“Only if his tracks lead back in the general direction of Apache Springs. Got no hankerin’ to traipse all over the countryside to find a man I don’t know for sure did anything wrong. A hunch says so, but…”
“I know what you mean. It’s only a hunch. Some fellas got a knack for swayin’ folks with an easy way about ’em, real likable sort. He’s one of them. Hope you’ll drop in next time you’re in the area. I think I owe you a meal. Or if you’re feelin’ generous again, I’ll gladly join you in one on you.” The marshal gave a gleeful snicker and went back inside to get out of the sun.
Before he left town, Cotton decided to stop at the stage depot. As he strolled down the street, he couldn’t h
elp thinking that the description of ‘Eve Smith’ closely matched Delilah Jones. He began to search his memory for some sense that Thorn and Delilah Jones had been more than casually involved during the Bart Havens affair. She had been employed by Havens, but he’d not noticed any particular alliance with McCann. Had there been a conscious effort to keep it secret? Was it a coincidence or was it planned all along? And how long had they known each other? He had no intention of leaving Silver City with questions hanging over his head. He tied the mare to the railing and went inside, ducking under the Butterfield Stage Line sign that had begun to droop on one side from a broken chain.
A short, balding man stood up from behind a counter at his arrival.
“Good day to you, sir. Where is it you’re lookin’ to travel to? The next stage will be arrivin’ in three hours from Las Cruces.”
“I’d like a couple of answers, rather than needin’ a ticket. When was the last stage out? And where was it headed?”
The man thumbed down the last page in his ledger and, looking over half-frame glasses, said, “Well, sir, the last one left here at six o’clock this morning, going to Albuquerque by way of Apache Springs. Two paid passengers, a man and a woman.”
“Can you remember what the man looked like?”
“Businessman, as I recall. Short, rumpled suit, carryin’ a wooden case of some sort. Had brass hinges like a gun case.”
“And the woman?”
“Hard to forget her. Right smart-lookin’ lady. Dark hair and a smile that could, er–”
“I got the picture. Only the two of them, you say?”
“That’s all. Only sold two tickets.”
“Thanks,” Cotton said over his shoulder as he rejoined his horse.
He was several hours late for any chance of catching up to the coach, and it made little sense to try, especially during the heat of the day such as it was. Best he casually head on back to Apache Springs. Maybe the coach got there and had a layover. Reckon I’ll just have to wait to find out if the mysterious dark-haired woman is anyone other than Delilah Jones, but I’d stake my reputation it’s her.
He had a wry smile on his lips as he rode out of town.
The road out of Silver City was an easy ride, at least until he reached the foothills several miles north. A slight breeze kept the day’s heat down to a bearable temperature, and clouds had begun to move in, heralding the possibility of a few drops of rain, but well before it reached the ground the dryness of the desert usually sucked up any moisture that didn’t come in the form of a thunderstorm. This day was no different. Cotton felt not a drop of anything other than perhaps some slight perspiration on his forehead.
He reached down and pulled one of his canteens from around the saddle horn, unscrewed the cap, and sipped some of the warm water. Unlikely as it was, Cotton didn’t feel alone. All around him were the calls of birds and the howls of coyotes. A family of Gambel’s quail sauntered in front of him, then, taking notice of him just for a moment, hurried on their way into the brush on the other side. A grunt from a javelina, or peccary as they were sometimes known, emanated from off to his right, although he never caught sight of it. He did catch a brief glimpse of a couple of mule deer making their way up a rocky slope in the distance.
With nothing of particular importance to concentrate on, the sudden mental image of Emily popping into his head almost startled him. He’d been away only a short while, not long enough to start missing her any more than he normally did. But somehow he was surprised by his vision of her, almost as if she were in trouble. It was a very strange feeling. He tried to shake it off as nothing. But he couldn’t. A tinge of fear came over him and he urged the mare to increase her pace.
She’s all right; I know she is. Although, I do have a powerful feeling someone is in serious trouble. And it feels like it’s not far off. He gave his horse a knee to her sides to add a little incentive to pick up the pace even more.
He’d gone no more than another mile when his fears were realized. Up ahead, lying on its side in a ditch was the stagecoach. And a man was lying in the road. He wasn’t moving. Cotton kicked the mare into a run. As they approached the stricken coach, he reined the horse to a dusty stop. He jumped from the saddle and ran to the man. Dead. A bullet had torn much of his head off. Cotton spun around to check on the stage, or what was left of it, yanked open the door, and peered inside. Empty.
It was obvious that someone had presented a threat to the coach and given chase when the driver tried to elude whatever danger had been thrust upon him. When the racing stage had come to a sharp curve in the road, it appeared to have lost its balance and slid sideways, dropped into the ditch, then turned over on its side, ripping a wheel off and shredding one side. Baggage was scattered everywhere, bags and valises ripped open, not by the force of the crash, but by deliberate intent from whoever had precipitated the attack.
Indians! Damn! And Apaches at that!
He looked around to see if he could pick out where the passengers might have gotten off to, or if they had been taken hostage. He found tracks of four people where it appeared they had made a hasty retreat up a slight incline, but were not followed by the Indian ponies. At least not immediately. The team of horses pulling the stage had been taken, cut from their traces and led away. That must have been what gave the passengers time to make their escape, Cotton thought, or hoped anyway.
Just as he was thinking he should get the body of the dead man into the ground, he was drawn to something that gave solid evidence of his greatest fear. The passengers were not out of danger. Gunshots could be heard coming from the other side of the foothills just ahead, foothills that led up the side of a mountain. He swung into the saddle to seek the exact location of the roar of the rifles. It didn’t take long to spot smoke from the Indians’ weapons being fired into the air, a dead giveaway that they had their quarry trapped and were preparing to go in for the kill.
Chapter 6
Cotton saw his only option placed by fate right in front of him.
He rode like the devil himself was hot on his trail, pushing him straight into a battle he was woefully outgunned for. He dared not ride straight for the Indians, but instead he circled to the east to follow a ridgeline toward where the ground dipped into some trees. As he spotted a small rise, he headed for it, and reined in at its base.
Cotton dismounted, with the intention of climbing the rest of the way up the ridge on foot. He didn’t want whoever was on the other side doing all the shooting to spot his silhouette astride a horse. With the sun at such an angle as to make that likely, he hunched over, keeping himself as insignificant as possible against the terrain, slipping and sliding up the tricky incline. When he reached the top, he dropped to one knee, keeping as close as possible to the larger of the boulders around him. He had pulled his field glasses from his saddlebags when he dismounted. He raised them to his eyes, focused the ring, and shook his head at what he saw. Below were about a dozen screaming Apaches firing at some people who had obviously sought shelter in a slight ravine in a copse of cottonwoods. They were protected by several large boulders that had at some ancient time broken from their brethren at the top of the mountain on the other side of the ravine. The huge hunks of granite and sandstone had come crashing down to land near a stream, thus giving the hapless souls trapped by the marauding Indians almost a fortlike cover from which to defend themselves. It took no more than one quick glance to know that the four people hunkered down were sadly outgunned and outmanned. More’n likely those folks are from the stage, Cotton thought.
Cursing under his breath as he returned to his mare, he mounted up and began to follow a narrow trail that he hoped would lead to a position to make a flanking maneuver on the renegades. While the trail did get him to a spot slightly behind the Indians, he could see he would also have to ride like hell straight through their ranks to make it to those trapped in the ravine.
“Nothin’s ever easy. I hate situations like this,” he muttered, thankful no one could hear him b
ut the mare. He had almost a hundred yards of rocky, cactus-laden ground to cover, and six shots weren’t going to give much protection for that great a distance. Racing through a bunch of Apache warriors while trying to shoot would be even more difficult. He urged the horse to a run, hoping to gain as much ground as possible before he was noticed. He had his Colt in his hand, cocked and ready. When one of the renegades saw him and shouted an alert, he began firing at any painted savage within range. He leaned over the mare’s neck to make himself a small target, as if, considering the odds, that made any difference. He began yelling, making as much noise as he could in hopes of confusing the enemy, although he didn’t hold out a lot of hope of that having much effect.
When he found that fate had allowed him to reach the creek unscathed—for which he was both grateful and surprised—he splashed through the water across to the other side, whirled the mare around, and jumped off, dropping the reins as he raced to the cover of the cottonwoods. He dove behind some tree trunks as several bullets careened off the rocks straight ahead, thwacking off small limbs from the trees behind him. He looked around to get his bearings just as another volley of shots tore through the trees, clipping more branches and thudding into the soft trunks. Realizing his position was untenable, he dove for the dirt, then half-crawled, half-scooted to reach the relative safety of the boulders where the others were huddled together like puppies.