by Dunlap, Phil
He remembered asking the girl what had happened. Her story was unsettling to him. She’d described how this man had ridden up to the ranch house asking whether there might be a reward for the rustlers who’d stolen her father’s cattle. The little girl didn’t know, but said she would go inside and ask. She had, to that point, been carrying a small dog in her arms. When she turned to go inside to find her father, she put the dog down, skipped up on the porch, and disappeared through the door. She heard the dog barking but thought nothing of it until she heard a gunshot. When she ran back outside, her dog was lying on the ground, bleeding from a bullet wound. The man told her she best keep “that mangy mutt” away from him or the next time he’d kill it. He then rode off before the child’s father could respond.
The distraught youngster told Deputy Cotton Burke in detail what had happened and described the man with a flat-brimmed hat and the horse he was riding, a dun mare. Cotton remembered seeing someone fitting the description in town. When he got back to town, he spotted the man outside the saloon, sitting in a rocker with a glass of beer in his hand. Cotton would never forget the conversation that took place that afternoon. He had walked up onto the porch and stood in front of the man, casting a long shadow across him. He stared through narrowed eyes at the evil seated before him.
“Somethin’ I can do for you, Deputy?” the man asked, sipping from his glass as he glanced up.
“Uh-huh. You just ride in?”
“Been here a couple hours, I reckon. Why?”
“I just came from a ranch where a little girl’s dog was shot by a man fittin’ your description. You know anythin’ about that?”
“I look like a dog-shooter to you?”
“Matter of fact, I’d have to say yes.”
“Words like those could get a man in a heap of trouble. Maybe you ought to rethink ’em.”
“Don’t think I will. I figure you’d best be unbucklin’ that gun belt and come with me over to the jail,” Cotton said. “We’ll wait on a little girl and her father to ride in and identify you as the low-life, cowardly bastard who would gun down a helpless mutt.”
“For what reason would I do a damned foolish thing like that?”
“To keep me from pluggin’ you where you sit.”
“I don’t allow no one to talk to me that way, Deputy, so maybe you’d best be on your way and leave a peace-lovin’ man to his rest.”
Two men who’d stepped out on the porch watched the confrontation. They started back inside, but stopped at the sheriff’s next words. They both looked surprised. Neither spoke.
“All right, whoever in the hell you are, I reckon gettin’ a judge to string you up for shootin’ a dog would be damned nigh impossible.”
“That’s the way I see it, too. Reckon you might as well be on your way,” Hogg said with a big toothy grin on his face. He settled back in his chair and began to rock. He turned away from Cotton, so he didn’t see the deputy draw his .45 Colt, take careful aim, and pull the trigger.
The bullet blew through Hogg’s boot, taking with it his big toe. Hogg fell out of his rocker, screaming and writhing on the porch as Cotton strolled away as if nothing had happened.
“Reckon the matter’s settled now. You and the dog are even.” It was Cotton’s turn to break into a wry smile.
* * *
After a few minutes, Emily followed Cotton outside. Jack trailed behind.
“I figure to get some sleep, Cotton, if you don’t need me,” Jack said.
“Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll talk in the mornin’.”
Jack strolled down the middle of the street, heading straight for Melody’s Golden Palace of Pleasure.
“Wh-why was that man looking for you, Cotton?” Emily’s voice caught as she wiped at a tear. “He was looking to kill you, wasn’t he?”
“I ’spect.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes, when he least expects it, a man’s past can catch up to him. Reckon mine has.”
“I don’t understand. Please tell me.”
“Emily, I’ve told you before that not everything I’ve done in my life has amounted to something to be proud of. What happened between James Lee Hogg and me doesn’t mean nuthin’, although I imagine it does to him. But the real reason he’s here might not be something you want to hear.”
“Cotton, there is nothing you could tell me that would make me turn away from you. Please, I have to know what this is all about, especially since it appears to involve me somehow. Please. You owe me that much. And Henry, too.”
Cotton flinched at her words. She was right, he did owe her an explanation after she was nearly shot as a result of his perceived misdeeds. But could he actually steel himself to the task? It was a question he’d wrestled with for some time. There still seemed no answer in sight.
Chapter 15
Thorn McCann was groggy and disoriented when he awoke. He tried to sit up, blinking his eyes to clear them, to figure out where he was. And why. The stabbing pain in his shoulder knocked him back onto the pillow quickly, with a vague remembrance of Indians and an attack and…and Cotton Burke. He groaned and licked his chapped lips. Delilah heard him and came to his side. She sat down on a spindle-back chair next to the bed.
“That you, Delilah? Where am I? What happened?” He tried once more to sit up, but another surge of pain changed his mind.
“We’re at the relay station. The Hardins’ place. Mrs. Hardin patched you up. Just lie still so you don’t undo the good work she did sewing those bullet holes up so no more of your blood leaks out.” Her words were barely above a whisper as she leaned in close.
“Holes? Was I hit more’n once?”
“One bullet, clean through.”
“I sorta remember being on the stagecoach, and the attack of them blasted Apaches, and us trying to climb a hill to get you out of there before they saw us, and…and that’s all that comes to mind. Well, I do have some recollection of Cotton Burke, but that could have just been a bad dream.”
“Not a bad dream, Thorn. If he hadn’t come along when he did, we’d all be dead by now. Those Apaches weren’t all that keen on letting us live.”
“Saved by Cotton Burke. Damn! That’s humiliatin’.”
“Owing a man your life isn’t nearly as bad as being under a pile of rocks for eternity.”
“Yeah, I s’pose you got a point, Delilah,” he sighed. “How long I been laid up?”
“Three days now. You got real feverish for a couple days. Looks like its finally broke, thank goodness. Mrs. Hardin said if you lived through the fever, you’d survive.”
“Where’s Cotton?”
“He took the kid with the shotgun and that passenger, Denby, and went on to Apache Springs. Said he’d be back with a buckboard to haul you out of here. I don’t think he figured you’d be able to sit a horse for a week or more, bad as you were wounded. I look for him anytime now.”
“The driver, what happened to him?”
“Killed.”
Just then Mrs. Hardin came into the room. Thorn could hear some commotion outside but couldn’t make out what it was about. Delilah smiled and said, “It looks like your patient might pull through after all, Mrs Hardin.”
“Looks like. You up to a little soup, mister?” she said.
“I hadn’t given it much thought, but I could use a little somethin’, yes ma’am. What’s all that hollerin’ outside?”
“A couple of Apaches came demandin’ whiskey. Jeremiah don’t hold with givin’ whiskey to Indians. They know that. He tells them every time they come, but they don’t give up trying.”
Mrs. Hardin turned and left the room. She reappeared only a couple minutes later with a bowl—from which a thin cloud of steam curled—and a spoon. She held out a cloth napkin that had stitching around the sides to stop it from fraying. It had mostly worked. She handed the bowl to Delilah.
“Here, child, he’ll surely need some help.”
Delilah took the bowl from her, spooned out a bit of stew, and
thrust it toward Thorn. He sheepishly leaned forward and slurped it, his face growing pink from being fed by a woman. The memory rushed back of being spoon-fed as a young boy after he’d come down with a fever his mother said could have killed him. While his mother was long gone, that same feeling of dependence on another came upon him like a sudden shower. He’d not felt anything akin to this need for any other woman, and yet here he was gazing into Delilah’s eyes and experiencing a strange fullness in his heart. That was just before the roar of a shotgun blasted him out of his reverie.
“They’ve killed him! Those bastards have shot my Jeremiah!” Mrs. Hardin’s screams could have likely been heard for a mile.
Delilah raced to the door and opened it just enough to see two Indians standing over Jeremiah’s bloody form. He was lying facedown in the dirt. One Indian had a rifle. The other had obviously wrestled Jeremiah Hardin’s twelve-gauge away from his aged hands and turned it on him. The old man had had no chance to save himself. Mrs. Hardin was running to her husband when one of the Indians pulled a long knife from his high boot top. Just as he was about to slash it across her throat, another shot rang out.
The Indian’s legs went out from under him as he was tossed over backward. His companion looked shocked as a sudden realization came over him: there had been someone other than the old woman inside. The two Apaches hadn’t counted on any deadly resistance. He raised his rifle to combat whatever threat showed itself, but was just as quickly dispatched by another deadly shot from inside the building. Mrs. Hardin looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Thorn McCann leaning on the door frame, a still-smoking revolver hanging limply from his hand. He dropped the gun as he slid to the floor with a groan.
Delilah grabbed him by the arm before he hit his head on a heavy bench. She eased him down. His breathing was labored and coming in short, desperate gasps. Delilah pulled and pulled, trying to lift him up to get him back to bed, but her efforts were fruitless. He was too big a man for such a slight lady to ever hope to even drag across the floor. He closed his eyes and quickly lost consciousness.
Mrs. Hardin stumbled through the door, sobbing and dabbing at her eyes with her apron. Torn over what she should do, Delilah turned her attention to the distraught woman, helping her to a chair nearby. Delilah could feel the tears welling up as she wiped the hair out of her eyes, leaned against the wall, and slid to a sitting position on the floor. She had never known such fear and desperation in her life. She found herself conjuring up images of many more Apaches swooping down on the relay station in retaliation for their two dead comrades outside. Her heart was in her throat and she could feel it pounding in her chest. She glanced over at Thorn’s revolver lying near the door. She began to question if she could even lift it, let alone hit anything with it. Her little .41-caliber Remington derringer was easy. It was small, light, and it took no more effort than pulling back the hammer and squeezing the trigger.
Thorn groaned and tried to move.
“Lie still, Thorn, or you’ll open those wounds.”
He mumbled something unintelligible. She leaned down to try to understand, and heard only the weakest attempt at a whisper—no words came out.
Chapter 16
Sitting at the breakfast table, Emily sipped from a cup of tea, which she daintily held in both hands, while glaring across the table at Cotton. He had as yet not been forthcoming about his suspicions regarding the presence of James Lee Hogg in Apache Springs, and any possible explanation of why she might have been a target, even though he knew he owed it to her to come clean. Cotton merely fidgeted in his chair, taking an occasional bite of a plate of eggs. His eyes wandered around, taking in the floor, ceiling, and various pieces of furniture, as Emily remained quiet and patient, blowing on her cup between swallows. Her stoicism told him she would willingly die where she sat waiting until he was forthcoming.
“Haven’t you ever done anything in your life that made you ashamed of spilling the beans?” Cotton finally said without looking her in the eye.
“I have. When I was seven, I pushed my little brother off a fence. He broke his arm. At first, I claimed he fell because he was teasing me and not paying attention to what he was doing. I allowed he shouldn’t have been climbing the fence in the first place. After a couple of days, my guilt took over and I confessed, expecting the worst. It never came. No recrimination, no anger, no punishment. My mother just hugged me. My brother wasn’t even all that mad, although he was pretty uncomfortable until the arm healed.”
“I’m not talking about things you did as a child. I’m talking about serious, life-altering things. Life-and-death things.”
“How many people have you had to kill, Cotton? Ten, twenty, more?”
“What difference does it make? Probably more than I’d like to remember. And I’m not particularly proud of any of ’em.”
“Well, I know that not one was done for anything other than a righteous reason. You’re a legally elected lawman, not a murderer. Of that I am certain.”
Cotton stiffened at her mention of murder. That was exactly what he considered himself to be. A murderer. And yet, I’d do it again in payment for the life of my sister. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then scooted his chair back and walked to the window. He parted the curtain and stared out on the street. Jack was just entering the jail.
“I get the feeling you know why that man tried to shoot me. Am I right, Cotton?”
“I don’t rightly know. I have an idea, a mere suspicion, that’s all. I’ll know more when I can see him face-to-face.”
“So what’s your idea?”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s me he’s after. Of that I am certain.”
“Something that happened recently?”
“Nope.”
“So, he’s someone from your past.”
“Yep.”
“But why me?”
“He knows you’re important to me. That’s why.”
“Then this is about revenge?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why does he want you dead?”
“Payback, money—both, likely.”
“Are you saying he’s a hired killer?”
“That’s my guess.”
“People don’t hire killers for no good reason, do they?”
“Nope.”
“Is that reason what you can’t seem to bring yourself to tell me?”
“Likely.”
Emily knew she had only succeeded in chasing the goat around the barn and still hadn’t caught it. She sighed and took another sip of tea. She sat silently as he continued his gazing out the window. If she was hoping he would relent, he was just as rigid in his intention not to tell her the whole story. After several minutes, he returned to the table, picked up his own cup, gulped the rest of his coffee, which had cooled sufficiently to allow such a daring act, and started for the door.
“I’m going to the livery to rent a buckboard to go fetch Thorn McCann and Delilah Jones. I’ll be back in a few days.”
“Wait! If you don’t mind my staying with Henry until he’s able to travel, why don’t you take my buckboard? No sense in it sitting here for no purpose. If I need to go out to the ranch, I can ride your mare. You won’t be needing her, I presume.”
“All right. That is a good plan. I’ll tie Mr. Hardin’s horses to the back. They’ll be needin’ them as soon as the stage line gets its schedule back to normal.”
Emily stood and walked up to Cotton. She put her hands on his chest and looked up. He leaned over and kissed her, then opened the door and walked out. He went around back to hook Emily’s two horses up to the buckboard. That finished, he tossed his saddlebags and a blanket in the back, climbed into the seat, slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps, and the conveyance rumbled into the street. Emily watched from the porch as he stopped briefly at the jail, hollering to Jack through the open door. After asking Jack to make sure nothing happened to Emily while he was gone, he waved and started off again.
As soon as Cotton
was about to pass the stage line office, he pulled up and called out to the young shotgun guard, Jimmy Culp.
“Hey, Jimmy, you in there?”
Jimmy appeared from the side of the building. He walked up to the sheriff with a questioning look.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“I’m on my way to the livery to pick up the Hardins’ horses. I need to get them back out to the relay station and pick up the two passengers we left out there. I don’t know if Thorn will be any help in case of trouble, but if you’ve gotten some rest and a belly full, you and your shotgun would ease my mind a bit. How about comin’ along?”
“Might as well. Until the company gets a crew out to where the stagecoach is lyin’ all busted up, we’re out of business on that route anyway. Nothin’ to do but service the coaches from the two other lines that come through here. And none of them need a guard. Wait till I get my Greener and some supplies.” The kid took off at a dead run back around the building from where he’d appeared. He returned in minutes with two boxes of shells, the short-barreled shotgun, and a gunnysack with who knew what stuffed inside. He climbed up next to Cotton with a possum-eating grin.
Jack wandered down to Cotton’s house, where Emily stood staring after her buckboard and the dusty trail it left. She had crossed her arms, looking wistfully after her departed love.
“Emily, Cotton asked me to keep an eye on you while he’s gone. Reckon that’s a good idea since you already had one close call from that hombre James Lee Hogg. Anything I can do for you?”
“Thanks, Jack, but right now the only thing I want is some straight talk from your boss. But it doesn’t appear I’ll get that anytime soon.”
“I don’t understand. Far as I know, he confides in you more’n anyone I know. Sure as hell more’n me.”
“He’s got something in his past that’s eating him up, but he can’t bring himself to share that with me. Must be terribly painful for him.”