Cotton's Devil (9781101618523)

by Dunlap, Phil

  “We need to put togeth—” was all Jack could get out.

  “You two haven’t the guts to tackle that son of a bitch, and you know it!”

  “Melody, either sit down and shut up or get the hell out of here!” Cotton roared. He slammed his fist down on the desktop. Jack jumped.

  Startled by his unexpected response, Melody whirled around, hands on hips, and made a beeline for the door. The last thing she said as she exited was “Never mind! I’ll handle that bastard myself!”

  Jack started to get up, but Cotton put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Let her go, Jack. We’ll get him; I make you that promise.”

  * * *

  James Lee Hogg staggered into the dining room at the hotel. He saw Arthur Sanborn and dropped into a chair at his table. Sanborn gave him a serious frown, taking note of the man’s bloody hands and the crimson on the butt of his gun.

  “What has happened, James Lee? What have you done?”

  “Nothin’ much, Judge. Just a little dustup over at the saloon. I can handle it.”

  “Was someone hurt? You have blood all over you. Go wash up.”

  James Lee shrugged and stared across the room.

  “If you’ve done something I can’t undo, Mr. Hogg, you’re on your own. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, uh, sure, Judge.”

  James Lee pushed out of his chair and slumped out of the room by the back way. He left just as the mayor was coming into the dining room.

  Chapter 35

  When he saw Judge Arthur Sanborn sitting alone at a table in the hotel’s dining room, Mayor Plume decided to take advantage of the opportunity to quiz the old man. Since he’d been in town, Judge Sanborn had scheduled no cases, nor had he indicated his preference for a place to hold such trials if he did.

  “Judge, may I join you?”

  “Why certainly, Mayor. Always happy to share a meal with a man of your caliber.”

  “Thank you, thank you. You are too kind,” Plume gushed.

  “You look as though you might have something on your mind. You looking to discuss anything in particular?”

  Tugging at his collar in embarrassment for being so transparent, Mayor Plume cleared his throat and said, “As a matter of fact, Judge, there is a question I’m bound to bring up. That is to say a certain curiosity as to when you planned on having your first trial.”

  “I’m gathering information as we speak, sir. And I’ll happily announce the first such exhibition of a properly run court’s vital role in controlling the outlawry so often found in the Territory.”

  Plume gave the old gent a curious stare.

  “Uh, I assume you mean the rustlers and shootists that roam freely about to do their devilry.”

  “Indeed, I do. Wherever there are men who take it upon themselves to place their own brand of justice on the populace, there will always be a need for a court to deal with those men in a proper manner.”

  “And that manner is…?”

  “Death, my good man. Death at the end of a rope or a gun.”

  “Certainly whenever there is a death caused by such a man, a hanging is proper. But there is also a need to deal with petty thieves and vagrants who prey on merchants in less serious crimes, but crimes nevertheless.”

  “Don’t give a hoot about vagrants, sir. Murderers! That’s all I’m interested in. And a spectacular hanging will be a good lesson to all who would indiscriminately impose their self-righteous authority upon the innocent.” Sanborn’s face had turned red in his rant.

  Plume could say nothing. He motioned for the waiter to bring him some coffee.

  “I believe I understand what you’re saying, Judge, but as a man not well versed in the law, I’m really more interested in what having a judge right in our midst might mean to the community. Whenever a court is in session in other towns our size, business usually picks up considerably. The folks would like that.”

  “Ah, yes, I see where your interest lies.”

  “So, is there a trial of someone that I haven’t heard about coming soon?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes there is. Very soon.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wise to set up a courtroom, then? The town doesn’t have one, you know.”

  “Won’t need one. We’ll hold the trial near where prisoners are normally incarcerated and the sentence carried out. For me, that will be on the street for everyone to see. It will be spectacular.”

  “Y-you’d hold court in the street?”

  “I believe that’s what I said, yes.”

  “But the dust and dirt from horses and wagons passing by would be most disruptive. Not to mention the sounds coming from the saloon, dogs barking, horses whinnying. I fail to see the advantage.”

  “Fail as you will, sir. The site for my first trial is not only perfectly situated but most apropos.”

  Sipping from his steaming cup, Mayor Plume displayed confusion and surprise that a judge would not wish his courtroom to be properly appointed with a bench, chairs for a jury, not to mention for the many onlookers who would undoubtedly wish to see the doings. It was obvious from the mayor’s words that he was unaccustomed to the ways of the law. At least, Sanborn’s interpretation of it. Sanborn abruptly set his empty cup on the table and wiped his mouth. With that, he excused himself.

  “Good day to you, sir.”

  Plume sat stunned at the conversation he’d just had with the town’s new judge. He couldn’t fathom how any judge worth his salt would actually believe holding court in the middle of the street would work to the court’s favor, toward achieving a fair trial for some poor soul. His confusion also encompassed a fair amount of doubt about the sanity of such thinking. It just plain didn’t seem judicial to him. If this man wasn’t all he’d claimed to be, it was up to Mayor Orwell Plume to get to the bottom of it. If all was on the up-and-up, so be it. But if not, the sheriff should be told and appropriate action taken. Whatever the appropriate action might be Plume had absolutely no idea. Seeking out the sheriff was exactly what he intended to do.

  Cotton’s concerns about Sanborn being in Apache Springs were growing by the minute. After Jack made tracks for the saloon in an attempt to get Melody under control, the sheriff stood staring out the open door to the jail. He’d not seen Emily since she’d left to go back to the ranch. The latest developments concerned exactly how dangerous things were becoming and how it appeared that James Lee Hogg was completely out of control. So Emily didn’t yet know about the prostitute’s beating at the hands of one Hogg. Cotton knew he should have learned his lesson after the problems that arose from his keeping secrets from her before, but that had had to do with his own actions, not the potential for several lives to be affected by someone else’s actions. And the consequences thereof. He was scratching his head, considering if he should ride out and tell her, or send someone, when he saw Thorn McCann coming toward him. I’m not certain I’m up to listenin’ to McCann, right now, the sheriff thought.

  “Sheriff, got a minute? There’s something I feel obliged to discuss with you.”

  Cotton knew he was trapped. He just shrugged, went back inside, and dropped into the chair at his desk. He waved Thorn to a chair and offered him some coffee, which was declined.

  “All right, McCann, what’s on your mind?”

  “Delilah.”

  “What about her?”

  “For starters, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Nice to hear it, but I fail to see how that affects me. Or why I might find it noteworthy.”

  “I reckon you won’t, but there’s a point to all this if you’ll hear me out.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You’ll be glad you did, assuming you’ll give me your undivided attention for ten minutes.”

  “You got ten minutes.”

  “I got more than that, I got a proposition.”

  “Huh?”

  “I seem to be a big part of the troubles that have been visited on you. If I hadn’
t found out from Bart Havens where you were when he hired me to help take you down, Arthur Sanborn would never have known how to find you. That old reprobate would still be lookin’.”

  “You told Sanborn?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. Since he’d hired me to find you and bring you back to Texas, he asked if I had any idea where to start lookin’. I told him I’d hired on with a man named Havens to track you and that Havens might know. He told me to stay in touch.”

  “And you did?”

  “Not exactly. When I realized takin’ you back to Texas was the wrong thing to do, as well as dangerous as hell, I sent Sanborn a telegram sayin’ I was no longer workin’ for him. I told him I thought you were a good man and didn’t deserve what he had planned for you.”

  “And he figured out where you were by where the telegram came from. He also figured out we’d met by your judgment of my character. That about the way it happened?”

  Thorn hung his head and bit his lip. “Uh-huh.”

  “Your ten minutes are up. Go back to Delilah. She’ll give you more sympathy than you’re goin’ to get here.”

  “I’m not lookin’ for nothin’ except a chance to make things right.”

  “And how do you figure on doin’ that?”

  “I got a friend in Santa Fe who owes me a favor. A big favor. He works for the governor.”

  “Go on.”

  “I got a hunch there’s something smelly about Sanborn bein’ made circuit judge. I’d be willin’ to ride up there and maybe get a look-see at the appointment he’s claimin’ to have received. If you think that’d help matters any.”

  Cotton rubbed his chin pensively. He slowly began nodding his head.

  “Matter of fact, I think it might help. And it could answer a whole passel of questions. Get some supplies from the general store and charge it to the town. Let me know the moment you find anything out, whether you figure it’ll be helpful or not. And the sooner the better. Oh, and take the Butterfield. You still look a tad peaked after your run-in with the Indians.”

  Chapter 36

  The day dawned with a slight overcast. Cool and breezy. Thorn McCann stood under the portico outside the Butterfield office awaiting the departure of the stagecoach that would take him first to Albuquerque and then on to Santa Fe. His shoulder wound was nearly healed but still giving him occasional stabs of pain. The doctor had told him not to worry about those twinges; they were normal. It would take time to completely heal. Those twinges, as the doctor called them, came frequently enough to dissuade him from trying to ride his horse all the way to the capital.

  The driver and the shotgun guard stepped out of the stage office with a steel box between them. They hefted it up and dropped it into the forward boot. The driver then turned to the awaiting passengers and told them it was time to get aboard. Thorn stepped aside to allow the others, two men and a woman, to board before him.

  He tossed his valise up to the driver with a groan, keeping another smaller bag with him. As he settled at a window seat, sitting next to the lady, one of the men across from him kept eyeing him. That made Thorn nervous. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the gent before, but when you carry a gun for a living, there are probably lots of people you run across that you don’t remember. Not all of them are that eager to forget you. The man kept staring at him. Thorn’s uneasiness was growing by the second. Finally, after they’d been on the road for about a half hour, he spoke up.

  “Mister, you’ve been eyein’ me ever since we got aboard this buggy. Have we met?”

  “Oh, yeah, indeed we’ve met, Mr. Thorn McCann, bounty hunter.”

  “You’ve got a better memory than I do, then. So, who are you and when did our paths cross?”

  “You really don’t remember?”

  “Nope.”

  “Three years back. Fort Worth. A gambling hall named Big Nellie’s.”

  “Go on.”

  “You claimed I was cheatin’, and you knocked me out of my chair and dragged me over to the sheriff’s office. Then you demanded I be put behind bars. I never cheated at the pasteboards in my life. Never had to. I’m the best cardplayer you ever saw.”

  “I vaguely remember somethin’ like that. So, what happened to you?”

  “The sheriff couldn’t prove I did anything wrong, and none of the other players claimed I had, but they ran me out of town anyway. Just on principle, I reckon. Cost me all my winnin’s. Near to five hundred dollars.”

  “Sorry, mister. No way I can make it up to you now, however.”

  “You could cross my palm with five hundred greenbacks.”

  “Not likely. I’m flat broke. Besides, there must have been somethin’ about the way you were shufflin’ the deck or dealin’ that raised my suspicions.”

  The man turned to look out the window without answering Thorn’s veiled conjecture. He made not a sound the rest of the way to Albuquerque, even with two stops for food and a change of horses. The man’s sullen silence had infected the other passengers, as well. Only the occasional flirtatious comment from the other man to the lady broke the silence. The lady did manage a smile at McCann on a couple of occasions. He returned it only to have her turn away suddenly, drawing a lacy handkerchief to her dainty mouth. I wonder if she thinks I did her wrong somewhere in my past, too.

  As the coach lumbered on, hour after hour, he decided to dwell on something pleasant for a change: Delilah. That brought a smile to his lips.

  “I just saw Thorn McCann boarding the stage. I suppose that means you aren’t plannin’ on makin’ a fuss about the counterfeitin’,” Memphis Jack said to Cotton as he approached the jail.

  “Nope. That’s a thing of the past. Instead, I decided on makin’ a trade.”

  “A trade? What kind of trade?”

  “I let the counterfeit charge go up in smoke if he can dig up a snag in Judge Arthur Sanborn’s appointment that’ll help me take him down.”

  “How the hell’s he gonna do that?”

  “Says he’s got a friend on the governor’s staff, that’s how. If, that is, there is anything to find.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow, suggesting he had some doubts but was willing to let it go. He crossed in front of the sheriff’s desk and picked up an empty cup. He lifted the pot and started to pour some. When nothing came out, he opened the lid and peered in. Empty.

  “Someone around here drink all the coffee?” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why didn’t that someone make some more?”

  “I don’t make coffee.”

  “Why is that? You too good to do such a menial task?”

  “I’m the sheriff, that’s why. I don’t make up the bunk beds in the cells, either.”

  “We don’t have bunk beds in the cells,” Jack replied.

  Without looking up from his perusal of a heavy, leather-bound volume that looked very much like a legal book, Cotton said, “That may be the reason.”

  Jack threw up his hands and poured coffee beans in the pot, along with a half teaspoonful of chicory, and then went out back to the well for water.

  About fifteen miles short of reaching Albuquerque, the driver slapped the reins and started shouting to the horses in order to spook them into a run. The guard leaned over and yelled at those in the stage that they were about to be receiving visitors. Thorn muttered something about being damned tired of Indians. He leaned through the side window to see up ahead. There were two riders wearing sugar sacks over their head with holes cut out for eyes.

  Bandits! Damned if I haven’t had enough excitement for a lifetime!

  He opened the door and swung an arm out and up to grab on to the top railing. He had to use his right arm, the one attached to the shoulder that hadn’t recently had a hole blown clean through it, to get the strength to haul himself up to climb onto the roof. The guard saw his struggle and leaned over to lend a hand. Once topside, Thorn pulled his revolver and asked if there was an extra rifle in the boot. The guard said no. So there they were: a shotg
un with two barrels and a smoke wagon with six shots. There was soon going to be a need for some very accurate shooting.

  Thorn’s estimate of two minutes was shortened to about thirty seconds as another masked rider came out of the brush barely ten feet behind them, just as the coach passed. He had a Colt in his hand and looked ready to blaze away. Thorn decided not to give him a chance. He fired at the rider with a sudden swing of his gun. The rider was obviously not prepared for such a quick response, as he hadn’t even cocked the hammer on his revolver. He tumbled backward over the horse’s rump. Landing on his head, he was dead before hitting the dirt.

  The other riders, seeing what had happened to one of their own, made a dash for the brush. Only one made it. The shotgun guard unloaded both barrels of his twelve-gauge coach gun into the back of the slowest of the bandits. He wouldn’t be much help to his partner in crime on any future get-rich-quick schemes—if, that is, he lived.

  The coach barreled down the sloping road toward a curve the driver knew to be treacherous. He hauled back on the reins sufficiently to slow the team and get around the curve safely. Behind them, the third bandit was bent over his bloodied partner. He fired a couple of quick shots at the coach as it faded into a dusty haze. One shot sang past Thorn’s ear and the other buried itself in a piece of luggage.

  When the coach reached the Butterfield station in Albuquerque, the driver was quick to praise the fast action and deadly shooting of Thorn McCann. Thorn, on the other hand, passed his congratulations on to the shotgun guard. The two of them shook hands and Thorn headed inside to cool off. The stage to Santa Fe wouldn’t leave until the next morning, and he needed to rest his aching shoulder. The pain he thought he’d left in Apache Springs had returned in Albuquerque.

  Maybe a little whiskey and a soft bed will help, he thought, mounting the steps to the hotel. He looked back to see the passenger he’d apparently arranged to have jailed in Texas talking to a rider who had just arrived in town. The horse looked familiar. They appeared to be arguing, one poking his finger in the other’s chest repeatedly.