by Dunlap, Phil
That fellow, Thorn thought, doesn’t seem to make friends real easily.
Chapter 37
The peaceful, sleepy town of Albuquerque was anything but calm and restful that night. Thorn could hear shouts of a celebration of some sort, a mariachi band playing, people singing, and guns being fired into the air. Those Mexicans sure do know how to have a good time, he thought.
It was after midnight before the noises on the street subsided and Thorn could get to sleep. A half-empty bottle of tequila likely helped, though. He struggled to roll out of bed when the desk clerk began pounding on his door.
“Señor, it is time to rise. You said to wake you before the stage left. And now it is that time. You must hurry!”
“Okay, okay,” Thorn mumbled. His best attempts to wake up were falling short. He fell back on his thin pillow. Twice. Finally, he was able to toss his legs over the side of the bed, reach down for his boots, and try to tug one of them on. He was failing miserably until he realized he had the wrong boot on the wrong foot. He cursed under his breath and started all over again. He sat up fully, stretched, and painfully reached a standing position to look into the Chatham mirror above a pitcher of water and a bowl. He was greeted with a frown. He splashed water on his face, wiped it off with a towel, pulled up his suspenders, and left the room. Stopping halfway down the hall, he turned around and went back into the room. He sighed as he grabbed his shirt, picked up his two pieces of luggage, and again tried to negotiate the hallway. When he finally did manage to locate the bottom of the stairs without tumbling down them, he saw the shotgun guard leaning on the stair railing, grinning ear to ear.
“Figured we owed you somethin’ for that fine shootin’ on the road, yesterday. Without your help, one of us might not be here today to tell about it. We’ve been holdin’ the stage for you.”
“Damned nice of you, son, thanks.” Thorn followed the younger man outside into the bright sunlight. Thorn found it necessary to shield his eyes from the glare by pulling his hat low over his bloodshot eyes.
As he got into his seat, he noticed that the man who’d claimed he had been wronged was not on board. The lady, however, was and she was beaming at his presence. This time when he smiled at her, she didn’t look away. He figured that amounted to a certain degree of progress.
Ten miles out of Albuquerque, on the road to Santa Fe, Thorn was fully engaged in a cozy conversation with the young lady. She wasn’t beautiful, certainly not at all as pretty as Delilah, but she was attractive and enjoyable to talk to. It didn’t take him long to find out she was from Ohio and had trained to be a teacher. She’d heard there was a shortage of teachers on the frontier, and she was excited to make a place for herself. She said she had been engaged once but that her intended turned out to be somewhat of a rounder and she dumped him. She’s got spunk, I’ll give her that, Thorn thought.
If the conversation hadn’t been going so nicely, Thorn might have been tempted to look out the window and watch the scenery. But, of course, he was too busy engaging a pleasant young thing to be bothered by scenery. As it turned out, that mistake nearly cost him his life. It was the bark of a rifle that brought him out of his reverie. One shot, then two, three. A bullet crashed through the coach, barely missing him. The lady screamed, and Thorn stuck his head out the side window just in time to see the driver tumble from his seat and plummet down a steep ravine that ran alongside the road.
Thorn squeezed out the door and, once again, found himself trying to hang on to anything that would hold his weight as he struggled to climb up top. It took only a second to see that the horses, panicked by the shooting, were racing hell-bent-for-leather toward a narrowing of the road between several huge boulders.
There was little chance of the coach making it through traveling at such speed.
The shotgun guard was doing his best to grab the one rein that was still within reach, while also pushing on the brake handle as hard as he could with his foot. His shotgun had fallen between his legs, into the forward boot. Thorn took over the driver’s position and drew his revolver. So far, he hadn’t been able to locate the source of the shots. After several attempts, he got hold of the one rein and began yanking on it. With only one, however, he was mostly just pulling the lead horse’s head to the left, right toward the ravine. He reached down and retrieved the shotgun and shoved it into the guard’s hand. He signaled that they should change places. He’d take over the brake and the guard could seek out the position of the shooter. With a broader pattern of lead pellets, Thorn figured they stood a better chance of hitting something while he wrestled with bringing the coach to a halt.
With every ounce of force he could muster jammed against the brake handle, the coach finally skidded to a dusty halt fifty feet short of the boulders, where, if they’d continued on at the speed they were, the stagecoach would surely have been reduced to kindling. The guard gave a huge sigh as he jumped from the seat and began gathering up the other three reins. But before he could climb back aboard, two men stepped from behind the boulders, both pointing rifles at Thorn and the guard.
“Throw them hands up, gents, or say your prayers,” one of the masked men said. “And drop those weapons on the ground.”
The guard followed the instructions without hesitation. Thorn wasn’t quite as interested in acquiescing. He was prompted to comply by the other bandit, who fired a shot into the dirt two feet in front of him.
“The next one won’t miss!” the bandit said, and Thorn tossed his gun in the dirt.
The man’s voice sounded familiar. Thorn searched his memory for what face might fit the gravelly sound coming from behind the sugar sack. Sugar sack. That’s the same thing those owlhoots were wearing on the first attempt to rob us. That’s when he remembered where he’d heard that distinctive voice: the man on the stage who’d said Thorn had wronged him. He also remembered seeing the man and another arguing on the street in Albuquerque just after they’d arrived there.
“All right, miss, climb down out of that coach and be quick about it. I want everyone’s valuables, and right now!” The second bandit handed his rifle to the first one, then drew his revolver, and approached the young lady. She stepped gingerly from the coach, shaking like a wet puppy.
“I-I d-don’t have any v-valuables,” she stammered. Something caught her eye. She was staring at the bandit’s shoes, dark brown brogans with a cream-colored stitching.
“Don’t give me that bull, lady; I can see a broach around your neck that ought to fetch a pretty penny.”
“And I know who you are, too, you thieving coward. Hiding behind a mask can’t change those shoes. I remember them from when you were on the stage from Apache Springs. You ba—”
“Don’t be givin’ me any of your backtalk, bitch,” the bandit yelled as he stepped forward, raising his gun to strike her.
That was Thorn’s opportunity to change the course of events. He dove for his revolver, grabbed it up in both hands, and rolled over while the bandit with both rifles fumbled to get rid of one of them so he could shoot somebody. Thorn thumbed back the hammer with his left hand and pulled the trigger with his right, a trick he’d seen Cotton use. He fired three shots, so close together they didn’t register more than a single echo off the towering rocks. Both robbers lay writhing in the dirt. The one with the fancy brogans coughed a couple of times, trying to speak as blood bubbled from his mouth. He quickly stopped moving and died after one last gasp.
The other bandit was hit in the upper chest. He struggled to get his breath. He had dropped to his knees, then fell back against a boulder. Thorn figured the bullet had gone through his lung. He bent over the stricken man.
“Too bad you fools didn’t learn your lesson the first time. I don’t figure you’re goin’ to make it, friend. Any last words you’d like me to pass on to a mother, father, wife?”
“T-tell ’em I’m sor-sorry.” He began spitting up blood. “Name’s B-Benjamin Wil…”
He died before getting his name out. Thorn stood up an
d shook his head at the guard.
“I gotta tell you, mister,” the guard said. “I’m damned glad you were with us…both times. When we get to town, I’m givin’ up this job. Makes the fifth time someone’s tried to hold us up in just the last month alone. And the driver, nicest fellow you’d ever want to meet, he didn’t deserve what he got.” The guard took off his hat and held it over his heart.
Thorn glanced around at the carnage. “I s’pose we best load ’em onto the stage and get ’em into Santa Fe. Have to send someone out to fetch the driver’s body. We’ll never be able to reach him down in that ravine.”
The girl stood frozen with fear as she watched the two men pile the deceased outlaws onto the rear boot and strap them on. She blinked through tear-filled eyes. “Th-thanks, mister,” she sobbed.
Thorn put his arm around her and walked her back to the open stage door. He helped her inside and then climbed up to take a seat next to the guard.
“I’m prayin’ for an uneventful trip the rest of the way,” he said. “But I do have to say, the Butterfield Stagecoach Company sure does offer a man plenty of excitement for his fare.” They both chuckled.
Chapter 38
As the day waned and darkness began its descent over the buildings in Apache Springs like pouring maple syrup, Cotton’s thoughts drifted to sudden unexpected feelings of remorse. He couldn’t explain exactly what had come over him, but when, as the town settled down for the night, he finally had an opportunity to sit in the stillness, accompanied only by his thoughts, a nagging fear crept in as an unwelcome stranger. What would I have done if Emily had been killed by James Lee Hogg? He shuddered at the thought. He began to blame himself for all the killing and his involvement in it. Would this town have been more peaceful if I weren’t a part of it? Maybe I should pack my things and move on. Leave Jack in charge. I always figured he’d make a decent sheriff given the time to shake off some shortcomings. His remembrances of when they’d both been lawmen—before Jack went around the bend in a drunken stupor and accidentally shot a man to death—came back, not as regrets but as fond memories.
And then the trials he’d gone through when Emily was kidnapped, his feelings and his fears of that time, all rushed in like an overwhelming storm. If I were still in Texas, she would not have had to suffer the indignities Virgil Cruz put her through. It was all because of me and the fact that I love that woman.
How much death has been directly attributed to me? Havens would never have come here and brought his cutthroats had I not been here. And now my actions have brought Judge Arthur Sanborn to town seeking his own demented revenge—on me and my town. Evil seems to seek me out like a hawk seeks a rabbit.
He was brought out of his misery by the sound of boots on the boardwalk in front of the jail. He unconsciously dropped his hand to his Colt and drew it, placing it on the desk in front of him. Just then, the door opened and Jack stepped in, grinning. His smile changed when he saw the look on Cotton’s face and the .45 lying in front of him.
“Hey, ol’ buddy, why the firepower?”
“Uh, I reckon you caught me off guard. Lost in my own doom and gloom.”
“You figure a boogeyman was coming in to grab you?”
“Somethin’ like that. Why aren’t you snuggled up next to that wh—er, woman of yours?”
“Not sure. For the time being, at least, I reckon we solved our little difference of opinion. Guess that’s what you’d call it, or maybe it’s just a temporary truce.”
“So, she told you to come sleep in the jail until you come around to her way of thinkin’?”
“You all of a sudden some sort of a mind reader, Cotton?”
“Just an observer of things you seem unable to see, that’s all.”
“Like…?”
“See what I mean?”
“I don’t get what you’re tryin’ to say. I know you don’t like Melody, but she certainly doesn’t pull me around on a leash.”
“So you say.”
“Well, never mind me and my situation, what’s eatin’ at you that you can’t go home and get some sleep, yourself?”
“You ever have terrible regrets that eat at you like the gangrene?”
“Some. I try not to let it get me down, though.”
“Yeah, well you haven’t had several piles of human waste come here to do you in. Try not lettin’ that get you down.”
“Which one of all them gunslingers you’ve had to deal with seems to be most distressin’?”
“All of ’em.”
“Heavy load.”
“Yeah.”
“Since I’m havin’ to bunk down here for the night, I thought to bring some liquid company. Join me?” Jack pulled an unopened bottle of brandy from a sack. He’d also put in some biscuits and a couple pieces of beef jerky.
Cotton drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Don’t mind if I do.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a couple of small tin cups. “I just knew these would come in handy someday.”
Jack smiled knowingly as he poured each cup nearly full to the brim.
“Now, let’s talk over what’s got you all tangled up in barbwire.”
“To start with, I have absolutely no idea how to handle Sanborn. If he’s really a judge, I’m sure to meet my maker, and soon. If he’s not a judge, I can’t just gun him down. He’s never been known to carry a gun. And if I let him go, he’ll not stop tryin’ to figure a way to see me dead, not till the day he drops over himself.”
“Hmm. That might be the answer.”
“What?”
“If he was to, say, have a heart attack or a fatal case of the ague, well, you’d be free as a bird. Now, ain’t that right?”
“Yeah, but you can’t just will a man into a failure of his ticker.”
“Might have to encourage him a little,” Jack said, with a most devious grin.
“And how do you figure to do that?”
“You ever hear of some aged gent keelin’ over due to a frightful incident, like almost bein’ run down by a runaway team, or nearly losin’ his balance and fallin’ off a balcony? Or some fallen angel gettin’ too frisky?”
“I suppose, but those are accidental, not planned.”
“How do you know that?”
“Don’t reckon I do, but—”
“But nothin’. Happens all the time. I know, I read about such things in a gazette once. Why, back East, there’s been some poor women who got to be rich widders in some very suspicious ways.”
“What’s all this got to do with me?” Cotton scratched his head.
“Well, what if the old judge met with some bad luck?”
“Like?”
“Like drinkin’ somethin’ that didn’t agree with his delicate stomach.”
“What are you suggestin’?”
“Uh, well…” Jack raised both hands with a questioning shrug.
“Forget it, Jack. I know you’re lookin’ out for me, but I can’t stoop to murder, no matter how dire my circumstances become. That’s how I come to be in this mess in the first place.” Cotton leaned back and downed the cup of brandy. “But, I do appreciate your wantin’ to help. I’ll figure it all out. G’night.” The sheriff got up, wobbled a bit from the brandy, and walked out the door and toward his house, looking for some welcome sleep.
Chapter 39
Lazarus Bellwood left the hotel by the front door and went down the street looking in various windows as he went. He appeared to anyone watching to be nothing more than a man out for a leisurely stroll on a cool summer evening. Looking behind him, he turned suddenly into an alleyway between two stores and circled back to the hotel. He reentered the three-story building by the back door, checking and rechecking his back trail, taking care to be seen by no one. He quietly climbed the rear stairs to the floor Judge Sanborn’s room was on. He tapped lightly on the judge’s door, looking around nervously to make sure one more time that he hadn’t been seen. The door opened a crack and one eye peered out.
�
�Come in, but be quiet about it,” Sanborn whispered.
“I done what you said, sir, checked out the perfect place to do our deal.”
“Good, very good. Let me hear about your plan.”
“Well, sir, just like we done all those times when Lucky Bill’d get hisself tangled up with a shootist, I found me a perch up above the street, and when the other fella goes for his gun, that’s when I’ll plug the owlhoot with my Sharps. Never miss. Everybody always figured Bill done the killin’, and you got him off with a self-defense claim.”
“I know how we did it all those times before, Mr. Bellwood, but this time is different. This sheriff is very good with a gun. He also has a curious deputy that’ll likely be watchin’ his back. This must be foolproof. No hitches, no mistakes. It must appear as though James Lee Hogg outdrew and outshot the sheriff, no questions asked.”
“And I got me the perfect spot for just such a gunslinger greetin’ ”
“Not only must the place you’re shooting from be perfect, your timing has to be down to the split second. Do you understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Now, as at the other times, you pull the trigger exactly when the sheriff starts for his gun. James Lee couldn’t possibly beat Burke, so you’ll have to keep an eye on Hogg, as well. He’s a real nervous type, and there’s a chance he’ll actually be dumb enough to try beating Burke.”
“What’ll I do if he does shoot and actually manages to hit the sheriff? Two bullets in the body is gonna be frowned on when the shooter only fired once.”
“I’ve already thought of that. You ever heard of a dummy bullet?”
“Uh, no. What is it?”
“You pull the lead out of a cartridge and replace it with candle wax. The gun still goes off, but the only thing that comes out is a harmless wad of melted wax. That way, the sheriff only gets hit with one bullet.”