by Dunlap, Phil
“I ain’t sure James Lee is gonna like it if he knows he’s slingin’ a candle at the sheriff. I figure he actually thinks he’s gonna win the shoot-out.”
“If he practiced for a month of Sundays, he couldn’t beat Burke. Believe me, I’ve seen him. Fact is I was in the saloon the day he shot down my son. Bill tried to outdraw Burke when he saw him come through the door. Bill was pretty quick, but that damned Cotton Burke drew, shot him, and had put the Colt back in his holster before poor Bill hit the floor, gun barely in his grip.”
“Should I tell James Lee what our plans are?”
“No. I’ll be the one to inform our hapless gunslinger about what must happen, when it will take place, and where. Everything has to happen perfectly, timed to the exact second. If James Lee knows ahead of time what we’re planning, he’ll mess everything up. I didn’t choose him for his brains, his expertise with a gun, or his ability to follow orders. I picked him because he’s nothing more than a second-rate gunman with a nasty disposition and a powerful need of the almighty dollar. He’s too stupid to be anything else. In fact, I may let you kill him when this is over. That way he can’t blab to some lawman.”
“I understand, sir. You can count on me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Now, where have you chosen as your position to take the fatal shot?”
“Right about where I’m standin’.”
“Here? From my hotel room?”
“Yessir. The angle is perfect, and I figure when James Lee calls Burke out, the sheriff will walk out in front of the jail. He’ll likely start down the street toward James Lee, who’ll be standin’ right about there,” Lazarus said, pointing through the lacy curtains to a spot right below Sanborn’s room. “If he walks to that particular spot, it gives me a perfect shot, and I can watch them both without moving my head.”
Sanborn’s mouth twisted into an evil grin. “That seems almost prophetic.”
Henry Coyote had spent the last two days squatting on the front porch of Cotton’s house. He leaned his back against the wall with his Spencer rifle lying across his knees. He never took his eyes off the front of the jail, yet he was keenly aware of everyone’s movements throughout the whole town. Nothing got by the old Mescalero’s notice. Jack or Cotton stopped by several times each day to ensure that the Apache had fresh coffee, food, and a blanket, in case he continued his refusal to sleep inside at night, when the air could get quite cool. One man whose movements had caught his attention was one of the town’s newest arrivals, a man who went nowhere without his rifle, the one in the fancy scabbard. While the man had done nothing in particular to draw attention to himself, Henry Coyote could sense something was amiss. The way he walked, always checking behind him to see if he was being followed, avoiding conversations with folks he passed along the boardwalk, and staying in shadows as much as possible. Cotton had asked him to be especially watchful of the man’s movements. He had no intention of letting his friend down.
Thorn was stopped at the gate to the territorial capitol building. He asked specifically to see Captain John Berwick and was told to wait. The guard left and returned several minutes later carrying a piece of paper with very official writing on it.
“Show this to the guard at the main door, sir, and he’ll show you in to see the captain.”
“Thank you, Private.” Thorn followed a brick pathway to the porch of the capitol. Another private was standing stiff as a board just outside the huge oak doors. Another soldier stood on the opposite side. Thorn handed the first soldier the paper and was ushered inside. Across a wide room and sitting at a desk that could easily have hidden a squad of soldiers beneath it was a man about Thorn’s age in a snappy uniform with captain’s bars on the shoulder. The captain seemed not to notice as Thorn approached.
“I see you finally conned the army into giving you a nice pay raise. When we were just lieutenants, I never figured you for a lifelong professional soldier.”
The man looked up at the obvious insult. Then his stolid expression turned all smiles.
“Thorn McCann! Good grief, is it really you? How long have you been out of prison?”
He reached a hand across the desk. Thorn returned the favor, but with a frown.
“Nice talk from a friend, John. I’ve never been in prison, and you know it. Now, maybe a short stay in a jail a couple of times, but that didn’t count.” They both laughed.
“What the hell are you doing in Santa Fe?” Captain Berwick asked.
“I’m lookin’ for something.”
“Something or someone?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether the ‘something’ is granted.”
“And that something is?”
“A favor. A very big favor.”
Chapter 40
James Lee Hogg was hiding out. After getting completely sober, he found out he’d beaten one of Melody Wakefield’s prostitutes badly during one of his well-known drunken furies. He had no doubt the sheriff would be hot to find him, even if he figured the badge he wore was legitimate. Considering his past with Cotton Burke, he couldn’t count on leniency, either. And since the whole thing had occurred at Melody’s Golden Palace of Pleasure and Deputy Sheriff Memphis Jack Stump was romantically tangled up with the whore that owned the joint, he was running from more than one lawman. He wasn’t certain if Judge Sanborn had gotten wind of his blunder, but when he did, James Lee knew there’d be hell to pay. So, for the time being, he figured he’d better lie low in the woods above the town. He sat poking at a small fire with a stick, wishing he’d thought to steal some food before he took flight as if the devil himself was on his tail.
Just in case the judge still expected him to confront Cotton Burke, he figured he’d better sharpen his skills with the .45. It had been a while since he’d faced another man with the intention of putting a bullet in him. As a matter of fact, he’d never actually faced anyone. Every man he’d killed, all three of them, he’d had to ambush or shoot in the back and then ride like the wind to avoid capture and hanging. As an accomplished gunslinger, he was nothing more than a sham, a fraud. His hand dropped to the revolver he’d carried for at least five years. Truth be told, he’d taken it off a man who was lying dead drunk in the street one night. He’d exchanged his old Colt percussion revolver, a .36-caliber Navy model. He got a crooked grin whenever he remembered that night, wondering what that drunk thought when he found his new Remington had changed into an old gun with a tendency to misfire half the time.
He drew the Remington and picked out a target, a small rock the size of a man’s fist lying on top of a larger boulder fifteen feet away. He held the revolver at his side, then suddenly yanked it up and fired. He blinked through the smoke to see how many pieces he’d blown that rock into. As it turned out, none. He pulled and fired again. Same result. He emptied the cylinder, six shots total. He hadn’t hit his target once. And, as close examination revealed, he’d even missed the larger boulder it sat on. He looked at the Remington like there was something wrong with it. He stuck it back into the holster without putting more bullets in it. The disgusted look on his face told a discouraging story. He was no gunslinger, probably never would be. And he damned well knew it.
How the hell am I going to outshoot a man like Cotton Burke? I’m dead as dead can be if I try facin’ him down. How did I let that old buzzard, Sanborn, talk me into this? Oh, yeah, two thousand dollars.
He sat on his saddle, which was straddling a fallen tree trunk. He stared at the dying embers for a long time. He needed a plan. Unless he gunned the sheriff down from the darkness of an alley, he hadn’t a prayer of coming out of the mess he’d gotten himself in. He sat shaking his head, dismayed at his prospects of living more than a few more days.
* * *
“What’s eating at you, Cotton? You’ve been moping around like your best friend ran off with your woman, and we both know that isn’t going to happen,” Emily said.
“This Sanborn thing has me grasping at
straws. How am I goin’ to beat that old devil?”
“Come into the dining room and eat something. We’ll talk about it. You probably haven’t eaten anything since you rode out.”
Cotton got up and followed her into the same room she used to feed her wranglers. She didn’t have a cook, having chosen to save the money by doing all the cooking herself. She was good at it, and she enjoyed doing things around the ranch house. The hands all loved being served by the boss lady, too. She had several sets of china cups, saucers, and plates she’d ordered from a catalog. She said it gave the place a homey air. Cotton sat down, pulled his chair up close, and started to pick up the coffeepot and pour a cup.
“Let me do that, Cotton. You have a tendency to pour it too full.”
“You’re right. I am kinda clumsy around your fancy china cups.”
“You’re not clumsy, you’re just…eager.”
Cotton laughed at Emily’s attempt to ease the situation with a compliment, or at least a sort-of compliment. Then his expression turned from light to serious. Emily looked at him askance.
“What is it, Cotton?”
“Eager. You said I was eager…”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just kidding you. You know that.”
“Yes, of course. But that word has given me an idea.”
“I don’t understand.”
“James Lee Hogg beat up that girl at Melody’s saloon. He’s on the run. He has to know both Jack and I are just waiting for him to show his ugly face in town. I figure if I went to Judge Sanborn and let him know all about Hogg’s indiscretion and made him understand that Hogg’s a dead man if he comes round, he’d be forced to change his plan.”
“How do you think he’ll take that?”
“The same way most people would, he’s goin’ to have to hurry up his plans to take me down. He’ll also try to get word to Hogg to either stay away or to come sneakin’ into town at night to back-shoot me.”
“Wouldn’t you be better off to face him in the daylight, out in the open?”
“Yes. But if I can make him rush his play, he might make a mistake. And that’s to my advantage.”
“Just how good is he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know of any man he’s ever faced down.”
“How’re you going to get Sanborn to lead you to him?”
“I think I’ll just hit him with the truth. His marshal is a woman-beater and is going to jail for it. I’ll let the old bastard know it’s his duty to set a trial date as soon as I bring him in.”
“Won’t that make him tell Hogg to stay away?”
“Won’t make any difference. He, or someone he sends to tell Hogg of my intentions, will lead us straight to him.”
“You’re going to be kept busy keeping an eye on Sanborn. Don’t you think he’ll know if you’re dogging him?”
“I won’t be.”
“Okay, then Jack.”
“Nope. Not Jack, either. I have a special weapon.”
“What weapon?”
“Henry Coyote.”
Emily poured another cup with an acknowledging smile.
Chapter 41
Is Judge Sanborn in his room?” Cotton asked at the hotel’s front desk.
“No, Sheriff, I believe I just saw him come down and go into the dining room. Shall I fetch him for you?”
“Nope. I’ll just join him. He’s, uh, waiting for me,” Cotton lied.
The sheriff located Sanborn reading a newspaper and sipping coffee at a table across the room, somewhat away from any table where other patrons were eating. I reckon he likes his privacy, Cotton thought. He’ll want it even more after he hears what I have to say.
Cotton walked up to Sanborn’s table and sat. “Well, Judge, I hope you’re enjoying our little town.”
“I was enjoying the solitude afforded me here, before your arrival, that is. What is it you have to say? I’m sure you’re not here just to share pleasantries.”
“You are absolutely right. So I’ll just have my say and leave you to your dinner.”
“That would be most appreciated. What is it, Sheriff?”
“It’s about some trash you brought to town, your deputy marshal, James Lee Hogg. He beat up a whore over at the saloon late yesterday in a drunken fit. He’s now a wanted man and on the run. I’m surprised you haven’t heard by now. When I catch up to him, I expect you’ll want to set a quick date for the trial. I’ll inform you as soon as he’s in my custody. Unless of course you’d rather not be bothered, in which case I’ll handle the matter myself.”
The shock on Sanborn’s face was the exact reaction Cotton had hoped for. Fear filled his cloudy gray eyes, telling the whole story. The old man acted as if he had suddenly realized he’d picked the wrong man to do his dirty work and he was now in a corner. And it was obvious he didn’t like it one bit. He began chewing his lip nervously. His complexion seemed to turn paler as his expression darkened.
“Good day to you, sir,” Cotton said with a snide, contempt-filled smile, as he strode from the room, thinking, If the old man is going to have one of those “accidents” Jack suggested, now would be a perfect time. Leaving the hotel, Cotton broke into a wide grin, giving a group of ladies on the porch a cheery “Howdy.”
Arthur Sanborn saw his best chance to take his revenge on Sheriff Cotton Burke begin to go up in smoke. If the sheriff got a posse together and went on the hunt for James Lee, the chances were they’d find him. There weren’t that many places to hide while staying near the town. Sanborn knew that Hogg wouldn’t go far from the payout he expected for killing the sheriff. Therefore, Sanborn concluded that his only recourse was to enlist Lazarus Bellwood to find James Lee and smuggle him back to town. The plan wasn’t complete as of yet, but if he could keep Hogg under wraps for only two more days, he figured to be ready to set the trap and have James Lee call the sheriff out. Only difference now was he’d have to get rid of James Lee, too. He dabbed at his mouth, pushed his plate away, and left the dining room.
When he got to the desk, he asked if the clerk had seen the man who had checked in carrying a rifle.
“No, sir, I haven’t seen him since earlier this morning. Shall I run up to his room and see if he’s there?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll do it myself if you can you tell me his room number.”
Sanborn took the three sets of stairs slowly and gingerly, holding tightly to the handrail all the way. He had an arthritic knee, and putting weight on it gave him severe pain. He stopped halfway up, pulled a silver flask from his inside coat pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. Replacing the cap, he took a deep breath and continued up the stairs, each step bringing a reminder that choosing a first-floor room would have been more advisable. However, after hearing Lazarus’s plan for shooting Burke, he was glad for the pain the second floor brought him. It seemed a small price to pay for such sweet revenge. And its perfect vantage point.
Cotton’s gleeful revelation about James Lee Hogg almost drove Sanborn to buy a gun and do the job himself. He wouldn’t, of course, not because he thought it might place a stain on him as a judge, but because the truth was he was a coward. Always had been. In fact, his son, Bill, had suffered from the same trait. That’s why the judge had paid large sums to Lazarus Bellwood to shoot any unfortunate fellow who made the mistake of crossing “Lucky Bill’s” path. The scheme had worked several times, and each time with great success. Until, that is, Bill made the fatal mistake of pushing himself on a deputy sheriff’s sister and killing her when she rejected him.
Having to climb to the third floor to reach Lazarus’s room, Sanborn was nearly out of breath by the time he reached the right number. He tapped lightly with the handle of his cane. He heard some shuffling coming from inside, and he stood back as Lazarus opened the door only slightly. The first thing Sanborn saw was the muzzle of the Sharps rifle, followed by one sleepy eye.
“Oh, it’s you, Judge. Sorry. I was taking a siesta. Won’t you come in?” Lazar
us stepped aside as Sanborn breezed by him, making his way for a chair. He slumped into it and sighed.
“Would you like a drink of whiskey, sir? You look plumb tuckered out.”
“No, thank you. I have my own right here,” he said as he again pulled the silver flask from his pocket.
“Is there something wrong, Judge? I sure didn’t expect to see you at my door.” Lazarus seemed fidgety, more nervous than usual.
“Yes, there is. We have a very large problem on our hands. That jackass James Lee Hogg went and lost his mind while in a drunken rage. He beat up a whore at that bawdy-house saloon. Now he’s on the run, and the sheriff’s going after him.”
Lazarus stood silently, stunned by the news. He looked around almost as if he were looking for a way out of there. He shook his head.
“What do we do now?”
“It is imperative you find him before that damned sheriff does. I’m guessing you know where he’d go to stay out of sight.”
“Not for certain, but I have an idea.”
“Good. Go get that idiot and sneak him back into town in the middle of the night. Bring him to your room and make him stay here until I’m ready for him to confront Burke. If you have to tie his ass to the bed, so be it.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll leave right after the sun goes down.”
“Fine. And one more thing, I figure we’ll have to change the plan a tad to get that deputy in a position to take James Lee down as soon as you shoot Burke. That way, there’s no one left alive to connect you and me to the killings.”
“I understand, Judge. But how do we make sure the deputy is where we want him?”
“I’ve heard talk that the whore that owns the saloon has him wrapped up tighter than a pig for roasting. I’ll have to drop a hint in her presence that there’s a gunslinger looking to kill the sheriff. If she wants to make certain her lover is out of harm’s way, she should demand he stay off the street at a certain time and day.”
“Think she’ll do what you suggest?”