Cotton's Devil (9781101618523)

by Dunlap, Phil

  What he found wasn’t encouraging. A boy no more than a teenager wielded a twelve-gauge coach gun with no sign of any ammunition other than the dozen shells left in his cartridge belt. A man in a sack suit and a bowler hat, holding tightly to a flat wooden box with brass fittings like it was a newborn baby, hunkered behind the others. He appeared to have no weapon and was obviously scared out of his wits. Thorn McCann was sitting propped up against a boulder, a scarlet stain seeping from beneath and through a wad of white cloth being held to a wound in his shoulder to stem the flow of blood. From the looks of it, the wound was damned serious. He was white as a newly washed sheet hanging on the clothesline. And the mystery of the dark-haired woman had been solved, too. The one holding the cloth was definitely Delilah Jones. Cotton figured she had ripped the cloth from one of her own petticoats. Thorn loosely held his revolver, the barrel of which dangled in the sandy soil. Delilah cradled a .41-caliber Remington double-derringer in her lap.

  Somewhat out of breath, Cotton managed a snide greeting. “You folks new to the area? Looking for a guide to show you around? Hmm, Thorn McCann. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Didn’t…exactly seek out…the opportunity, myself,” he gasped.

  “You’re not lookin’ too good. Could you use a hand?”

  “Mighty nice of you…to ask, Sheriff. Wouldn’t mind a taste of brandy…if you have any,” Thorn said, managing a weak smile.

  “Fresh out, pard. Got a canteen we can dip in that stream behind you, if you’ve a hankerin’ for some liquid refreshment.”

  “Couldn’t turn down such a mag-magnanimous offer,” Thorn said, then started coughing.

  “Any of you sharpshooters manage to hit anything out there?”

  Thorn stared at him like he was a raving lunatic. “With a short-barrel shotgun, a near empty forty-five, and a peashooter?”

  “You folks do seem a little short of firepower. I’ll go get you some water…and a Winchester. May make the odds closer to even, at least until those redskins decide to quit playing with us.”

  Cotton scurried back to where he’d left his horse. The mare was nonchalantly drinking from the stream. Fortunately, the spot where he’d chosen to leave the mare was completely hidden from the view of the renegades. He took one of two canteens he’d brought along from around the saddle horn, unscrewed the cap, and dipped it into the cool water, watching it bubble as it filled. Then he grabbed his saddlebags and withdrew the Winchester from the scabbard. By the time he had crawled back to the safety of the rocks, the Indians were preparing for another frontal attack. He dropped the canteen in front of Delilah and began loading bullets into the Winchester. He levered a round to await the charge. He looked over at the kid with a questioning look.

  “You ever been in a situation like this before, son? What’s your name?”

  “N-no, sir. This is my first trip on the stage. They hired me because I needed a job and didn’t care how little the pay was. Reckon I know why there weren’t no one else standin’ in line for the opportunity. Name’s J-Jimmy. Jimmy Culp, sir.”

  “You know how to use that twelve-gauge?”

  “Yessir, I-I grew up on a farm and went huntin’ for wild turkeys and such.”

  “Ever shoot at a man before?”

  “Just today, and I don’t think I’ve hit anything but the dirt.”

  Cotton turned to the gent in the sack suit. “And you, sir, got a gun or know how to use one?”

  “D-Denby Biddle’s the name. I, uh, don’t carry a gun. I’m only a simple printer.”

  “Any chance you could hit anything if I gave you one?”

  “I-I c-could try.”

  “Get yourself up here and take this.” Cotton took Thorn’s revolver from him and handed it to the man. “Sorry, Thorn, but I don’t see you as bein’ much use at this crossroads.”

  Thorn grunted something unintelligible as Delilah wiped perspiration off his forehead. Having been wounded himself more than once, Cotton could tell at a glance how serious Thorn’s condition was. He’d lost a lot of blood and was in great pain. Cotton looked into the beautiful but worried eyes of Delilah. She answered his silent question with eyes beginning to flood with tears.

  He silently willed Delilah to hold on to herself. The last thing they needed was a sobbing woman to make the situation worse.

  “Looks like they’re gettin’ ready to come at us. Jimmy, you come here beside me. Only fire that shotgun when I say to, understand?”

  “Yessir, I do at that. You want me to make my shots count. I understand right well.”

  “Good. Now, Denby, you scrunch down between those two boulders over there. That’ll make you a tough target to hit. You can still fire easy enough, though. But don’t squeeze off a shot unless you are certain of a hit, man or horse. We can’t afford to waste ammunition.”

  He’d no more than finished giving orders to his tiny army of less-than-eager volunteers than five Apaches came racing toward their position. Cotton waited until they were at most fifty feet away before he rose up and began firing his Winchester as fast as he could lever the next cartridge. The lead rider flew over the back of his pony and was trampled by the one right behind him. As one rider yanked his pony to skirt the makeshift fortress, Cotton shouted to the boy.

  “There! Jimmy, to your right. Now!”

  The kid jumped up and pulled both triggers. The twelve-gauge spit out smoke and flame with a mighty roar. The Apache grabbed at his chest as he was hurled off his mount into a sea of cactus. He didn’t feel any of the flesh-piercing barbs, however. Any pain he’d experienced during his young life had abruptly come to an end.

  As much as he hated shooting any horse, Cotton squeezed off one more shot that brought down a pony, throwing its rider and leaving him afoot and limping back to the safety of the arroyo where the other Apaches had gathered for their initial attack. The lot of them retreated to regroup out of range of the sheriff’s deadly rifle. If the Indians had figured they’d have an easy time picking off three men and a woman, they’d been sorely mistaken. Cotton was hoping the eight or nine that were left might consider retreating to fight again another day. He didn’t really care, though; it was as good a day as any to kill some renegade Indians bent on his destruction.

  Chapter 7

  I-I don’t think I hit anything, sir,” Denby said. He’d only pulled the trigger once and closed his eyes when he did it.

  Pondering his next move, Cotton noticed Delilah staring intently at Denby.

  “Have we met before, Mr. Biddle? You look real familiar,” she said.

  “Nope. We never met.”

  “You’re certain? I never forget a face. Since the stage was so dusty, I didn’t get a good look at you before.”

  “Dead certain. I woulda remembered,” Denby said with almost angry conviction. Delilah gave up further inquiry to return to helping Thorn.

  Thorn groaned and tried to scoot to a sitting position. “Let me have my six-shooter back, Cotton. Then drag me over to where you got Denby. I’ll not be much good, but at least I can hit what I’m aimin’ at.”

  Cotton thought about that for a moment. Thorn was right; Denby wasn’t much good in a life-and-death situation. The sheriff glanced at Delilah, who was very subtly shaking her head. She obviously didn’t think Thorn could sit up long enough to be any help. She must also have been concerned about his loss of blood. Her compresses had slowed the flow some, but not entirely. Cotton knew he had to make short work of the bloodthirsty Indians or Thorn would be dead before long. He decided on a long shot. He pushed cartridge after cartridge into his Winchester, levered one into the chamber, then made sure his Colt had all six cylinders full.

  “If I don’t make it back, folks, reckon you’ll have to get yourselves out the best you can. If I don’t shake those redskins up real good, I fear Thorn will be breathin’ his last right here.”

  “Me ’n’ the kid will do our best to keep the one or two you miss at bay. Good luck, Cotton,” Thorn said, struggling to eke
out a weak smile.

  Delilah put a hand on his arm and wished him luck. Denby huddled as far back into the rocks as he could, shivering like a frightened rabbit facing a rattlesnake.

  Cotton made a scrambling, sliding dash for his horse. When he got to where he’d left her nibbling on some short grass along the stream, he grabbed the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and spurred the mare to a thundering race around the largest of the boulders. Following the stream downhill below the rim of the ravine would, he prayed, keep him hidden from the Apaches’ view until he could outflank them, before they could gather in readiness for their next try at their prey.

  His plan seemed to be working until a bullet ricocheted off a rock five feet from his head. He yanked the mare’s reins to the left to gain a better place from which to observe where the shot might have come from and avoid the next one being even closer. But before he could get complete control of the mare to get a look, the question was answered for him. Suddenly, a young brave jumped from between some boulders and raised a Spencer rifle at him. Looks like the one whose horse I shot, Cotton thought. He didn’t have time to get to the Winchester, so he yanked his Colt and sent two quick shots at the Apache. The first one grazed the man’s rifle butt and ruined his shot. Cotton’s second bullet found its mark, and the Indian tumbled backward, rolling down the embankment, gathering spiny cacti as he went. The element of surprise now lost, Cotton’s only choice was to charge into the midst of the howling and whooping warriors, firing as he went. His hope was that at least a few of the shots would find flesh.

  He spurred the mare from behind a mix of piñon and sagebrush, into a stretch of desert grasses and chaparral. Ahead, several renegades were bunching up for the kill, raising their rifles above their heads and whooping for the spirits to give them a glorious victory over the white-eyes. That was Cotton’s call to action. As the mare raced directly into the middle of the suddenly surprised Apaches, his Colt was blazing away, taking two Indians with it and scattering the others. The Indians were now down to six by Cotton’s count, and with the Apaches trying to regroup sufficiently to drive off or kill this madman who’d dared take on a superior force, the sheriff had time to pull his Winchester from its scabbard, cock it, and urge the mare on toward the rock sanctuary where his comrades were holed up. He fired left and right, yanking the horse’s reins back and forth to come as close to the Indian ponies as he could, in an attempt to frighten the animals sufficiently to make shooting back at him all but impossible. He took down at least two more renegades as they clambered to evade the crazy white-eyes. His horse thundered on in a dusty cloud as his more powerful mount broke from the remaining four Indians and drove downhill toward the safety of the boulder fortress he’d left only a few minutes before.

  One renegade took up the chase, but as they neared the makeshift fort, Jimmy Culp cut loose with a load of buckshot that knocked the Indian from his mount with a dusty thump. He didn’t move.

  Cotton reined up only after he was sure he’d eluded what was left of his followers. Sporadic gunfire erupted from his little band of ill-equipped defenders. As he dove for cover, Jimmy Culp hollered a victorious, distinctly Confederate yell. Thorn was trying mightily to sit up but tottering and obviously in great pain. The look on Delilah’s face told Cotton much about the condition of the bounty hunter, and it wasn’t positive.

  “Boy, oh, boy, Sheriff, you sure scattered them redskins. Looks like you got a bunch of ’em, too. I count only three left that ain’t hunched over tryin’ to keep sittin’ their ponies,” Jimmy said with a wide grin.

  “That last shot of yours looked like it might have sealed their fate, Jimmy. Good shootin’.”

  “Thank you, sir. Does it look like they plan on another try?”

  “Hard to tell, but if I was a bettin’ man, I’d say they’re finished for the day.”

  Barely above a whisper, Thorn muttered, “Damned good shootin’, Sheriff. Glad I never made it a point to go up against you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Cotton pulled his field glasses from the saddlebag and tried to take his own accounting of the damage done or imagined. “Looks like you’ve made an accurate count, Jimmy. And from the looks of things, I’d say they’re gettin’ set to withdraw. At least, I hope that’s what their thinkin’ is. We’ll wait for a spell, just to make sure before we go venturing out, though.”

  “Sheriff, I-I don’t know how we’re going to get Thorn to a place where he can get patched up. He sure can’t walk, and he’s damned sure too heavy to carry,” Delilah said, eyes misty.

  “Yeah, and I don’t see any tree limbs strong enough to make a travois, either. Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll come up with somethin’. Jimmy, where’s the next stage station?”

  “Hard to tell from here, but figurin’ from where we left the coach, I’d say about four miles to the Hardins’ place.”

  Cotton just grunted. He went back to his horse and pulled the other canteen from the saddle horn. He brought it back, unscrewed the top, and handed it to Delilah. She took only a sip before holding it to Thorn’s dry, blistered lips. He guzzled like he hadn’t had a drink in weeks.

  Cotton sat back against a boulder, chewing his lip as he pondered his best chance at getting out of here with everyone still alive. For the moment, at least, prospects were looking dim, for Thorn at least. As Cotton sank deeper and deeper in contemplating their predicament, his eyes suddenly lit up. He turned to the kid with the shotgun.

  “Jimmy, doesn’t the Hardin ranch have a stream that cuts though it right behind the corral?”

  “Why, yessir, now that you mention it, I believe so.”

  “Any chance it might be the same stream that’s dribbling down the hill behind us?”

  “Could be. Can’t be certain, but the direction is right,” Jimmy said.

  “If it is the same stream, and if I’m right, we could follow that water right to the place we want to go. And it should cut about a mile or so off the trip. What d’ya think?”

  “I’d say it’s a good plan.”

  “All right, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll load Thorn on my mare. The rest of us will have to hoof it, but with water always at the ready, shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “If there ain’t any Indians figurin’ the same damned thing,” Thorn muttered.

  “You better pray there aren’t, McCann, because your future depends on it goin’ the way I hope for.”

  Thorn’s head rolled and settled on his chest. Delilah had dark circles around her eyes from fear and worry, Cotton assumed. He had a feeling she’d bear up all right once they got moving, but he didn’t say so, for fear it might push her to tears, and he didn’t need that right now.

  Nearly an hour had passed before Cotton decided it was safe to venture out. He and Jimmy hoisted Thorn into the mare’s saddle. The horse nickered as if she knew she was the only chance the wounded man had of surviving. Cotton led the mare into the middle of the swiftly running stream. The others followed, with Jimmy and his shotgun bringing up the rear. He’d been told to keep a keen eye out for any sign of danger from the remaining renegades seeking to revenge their fallen comrades. Cotton had given Thorn’s revolver to Delilah, figuring it was safer in her hands than Denby’s. At least she knew which end to point at the enemy. By the time twilight was upon them and a full moon began its rise over the mountains, the shadowy outline of the corral where the Hardins kept fresh teams of horses for the stage line came into view. When they got to within earshot of the house, Cotton called out, “Hello, the house!”

  He was greeted by a rifle shot that struck the dirt ten feet in front of them.

  Chapter 8

  Sorry to put a scare into you, Sheriff. These old eyes don’t see as well as they used to. ’Specially when it’s gettin’ dark,” Mrs. Hardin said as Cotton and his band walked up to the house.

  “It’s all right, Miz Hardin, no harm done. Sorry to be comin’ up on the house from the back way, but we ran into a bit of Indian trouble and we got a wounded man wi
th us. Could use some help.”

  Mrs. Hardin yelled for her husband to get his lazy butt outside and lend a hand. It was no more than ten seconds later when a scrawny, balding man appeared at the door, tugging up his suspenders with one hand and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin in the other.

  “What’s all the commotion?”

  “Got a man shot. Don’t just stand there, lend a hand gettin’ him inside,” she said.

  Mr. Hardin reached up to steady Thorn as Cotton eased him from the saddle. Thorn groaned, but tried to get his legs under himself when they got him to the ground. Cotton knew he didn’t dare let loose of McCann’s one good arm or he’d collapse like a squeezebox. They got Thorn inside and placed him on a bed. Mrs. Hardin said she’d fetch something to get the bullet out, but Cotton allowed as how that wouldn’t be necessary.

  “I haven’t looked real close, but considering the blood on both the front and back of his shirt, and two distinct holes, I’d have to say it went all the way through.”

  “That’d be a blessing,” Mrs. Hardin said. “We can clean and sew up the holes. Why, he’ll be good as new in short order.”

  “That might be a tad optimistic. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Get his shirt off and let’s take a look. He won’t be the first hombre with holes I’ve had to stitch up.”

  Delilah helped get the bloody shirt unbuttoned. Cotton tugged it off as Thorn’s eyes rolled back and his head lolled from side to side. Mrs. Hardin brought a bowl of water and placed it on the bedside table. She clucked her tongue at the sight of the two holes, one fairly small going in, but a larger one where the bullet exited. She said, “Looks like the bullet might have nicked a bone on its way through,” as she reached for a cloth and dipped it in the water. She washed the wounds, but it didn’t stop the bleeding.

  “You folks got any alcohol around?” Cotton asked.