by Dunlap, Phil
“While who’s gone? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Melody, that’s who. She’s goin’ back to Gonzales to put together some sort of deal. Didn’t really get the gist of the thing. Damn, Cotton, don’t you never listen to anything I say?”
“Sorry, Jack, got some things on my mind right now. Like how to keep Apache Springs from blowin’ away like a tumbleweed in a whirlwind when Bart Havens hits town.”
“Maybe someone should go visit the bastard and give him some friendly advice before he arrives here.”
“Who do you suggest?”
“I got nothin’ to do until Melody returns. Think on it.”
“I got no problem with you havin’ a talk with that scalawag, but first we got to locate him. Henry Coyote should be back with information on where he’s hangin’ out in a day or two. As soon as we find him, I reckon that’s when I’ll have to figure on how to handle him. Since he’s likely painted a bull’s-eye on my back, anyway.”
“You just let me know what you want me to do, talk him out of comin’ to Apache Springs or shoot him. I’m willin’ to do either. Suit your fancy.”
“The way I’m feelin’ right now, that could well be a toss-up. You two ever meet up?”
“Nope.”
“So you don’t even know what he looks like, right?”
“Nope.”
Jack left to get help carrying Melody’s belongings to the stage office. A devilish grin came over Cotton’s face.
Chapter 7
Upon arriving by stage in Gonzales, the town she’d called home for the past several years, before having her lover rudely uprooted by Cotton Burke, Melody went straight to her hotel. She called all her girls together in the large, elegantly appointed lobby. She chased out any remaining customers and locked the front door, pulling down the shades on the windows at the same time. As the ladies settled onto the plush velvet couches and high-backed chairs, Melody leaned one arm on the registration counter and cleared her throat. She occasionally sipped from a glass of brandy brought by one of the girls.
“Well, ladies, as you know I’ve been up in Apache Springs with Jack. He’s there because of that scoundrel Cotton Burke who kidnapped him right out of my bed. At first I was furious, but after watching things unfold in that collection of shanties and termite-infested haciendas, I think I’ve found a gold mine right under the noses of those backward fools.”
“And I’m bettin’ you want us to help you work that mine, huh, Melody?” Texas Rose said with a suspicious sideways glance. “All at a big profit to you, right?”
“You always were quick to catch on, Rose. Just don’t get too smart for your own welfare.”
“Not me, Melody. I’m just a poor workin’ girl, bound to do my mistress’s bidding. Uh-huh.”
“I don’t need no yappy bitches workin’ for me, Rose. If you’d rather strike out on your own, just say so. Otherwise, keep your mouth closed.”
Rose looked around the room for indications that any of the others might have some of the same inclination to break away from a woman who always thought first of herself. Once, when one of the girls got sick, Melody had told her to either work or get out. The girl had worked because she needed the money, but she only lasted a week before she died. The fever had taken her. Melody didn’t even attend the funeral.
If Rose was seeking confirmation of a willingness on the part of others to brave the storm and break out on their own, it wasn’t evident in the blank expressions she saw. Most merely pulled their gowns closed, crossed their arms, or fiddled with their hair. All eyes were devoid of any interest in anything even resembling a revolution. So, after a few agonizing moments of introspection, Texas Rose—the wind now taken out of her sails—fell into line and acquiesced to Melody’s wishes.
“Okay, I s’pose I’ll stick it out. What’s your plan?”
“That a girl, Rose. Now, everybody listen up, here’s what I’m aimin’ to do.”
For the next hour, Melody outlined an elaborate plan to buy the only saloon in Apache Springs, expand it by adding more rooms out back, and make the small offices on the second floor into cribs for the girls. She would expand gambling by bringing in some of the new games of chance that were wildly popular in the bigger towns, like roulette and faro. And she planned to up the profit from the alcohol sales by watering down the bar stock with branch water while also offering high-priced Kentucky bourbons, Tennessee whiskeys, and French brandies. She related how she had also come across a source for some homegrown bathtub gin that several of the hill folk had expressed an interest in getting their hands on. When she finished, she glanced about as if she might entertain questions, but the stern look on her face suggested she’d better not hear any objections. She got only nods of agreement. She then broke into a satisfied smile.
“And I’m going to rename it ‘Melody’s Golden Palace of Pleasure.’ Don’t you just love it? It’ll have a pressed tin ceiling like back East, and flowered wallpaper with all the trappings of a first-class bawdy house.”
The ladies seated about the room exchanged glances ranging from “Who cares as long as it brings in the customers” to “Can her self-indulgences get any more grand?” Melody took the lack of formal comment to mean they approved.
“When does all this take place?” Rose asked.
“I’m going to have to find a buyer for this place, although I doubt that will be too difficult. I’ve been asked several times by various businessmen right here in Gonzales if I’d consider selling. Once I find the person with the right amount of money offered, we’re on our way. I’ve already started putting together a deal in Apache Springs to purchase the saloon. I’d guess, at the most, two weeks and we’re off to a whole new life. A very lucrative life, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Ain’t all this gonna be powerful expensive?” one of the girls asked.
“Shouldn’t be a problem getting a healthy loan. I’ll close on the deal once we get to Apache Springs, provided the seller is still interested.”
“Did you give any consideration to maybe keeping this place going while you make sure the new one pays for itself?”
At first, Melody shot Texas Rose an angry glance, then, seeing that some intelligent reasoning had gone into the question, she glanced off into the distance to consider that idea. It was something she had not contemplated before. But it did made sense. If she could find someone she could trust not to steal her blind, since she’d not be in Gonzales to keep an eye on every transaction, there might be merit in Rose’s plan.
“Come up to my room, Rose, and we’ll talk further. Bring that bottle of brandy with you. This might take a while. The rest of you, open back up and go on with what you do best.”
The girls got up and began roaming around. One of them opened the front doors and pushed open the drapes to allow folks wandering by to view the wares. One buxom blonde went outside to stand in the doorway, long legs spread apart, while she smoked a cigar and blew short puffs of bluish smoke in the air. She let her robe fall open slightly and put one hand on her hip. Her stance couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than what it was: a not-so-subtle invitation to an evening of pleasure.
Meanwhile, Melody and Rose disappeared upstairs, a bottle of brandy and two glasses in hand.
Bart Havens sat glumly at a worn, cast-off desk in Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory, the only place where his past few attempts at residency hadn’t resulted in him being ridden out of town on a rail. And the only reason he had been welcomed here was because he hadn’t dared try his signature bank takeover scheme, since the only bank was owned by the wealthiest cattleman in three counties, and he had enough money to fight back. The entire population consisted of about two hundred, all of whom owed their livelihoods to that same cattleman in one way or another. Much to the chagrin of drovers pushing herds through for other markets, the largest number of inhabitants was overseen by a scraggly old man who spoke very little English, the lack of which amounted to n
o distraction to his charges: two thousand sheep.
Havens hated sheep, but at least they didn’t seem to object to his negative attitude toward them. The sheepherder, who also owned a restaurant, was a generous man, one who saw to it that whoever sought a meal was treated—for a healthy sum, of course—to a daily ration of mutton stew. Havens cursed his circumstances as he awaited word from his henchman as to the outcome of his late evening foray into the outskirts of Apache Springs and the shot that should have proved the last moments of Bart’s mortal enemy, Sheriff Cotton Burke. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand that Whitey had no choice but to flee after firing the bullet through the door of the jail, but he hadn’t wished to wait for several days to know if Burke was dead. That was, after all, what he was paying for. His desire to see the sheriff displayed in a pine box for all to see overwhelmed any other considerations.
The sheriff needed to be out of the way in order for Bart to rape and pillage the town of Apache Springs, complete its downfall, and take his onetime banking partner, Darnell Givins, with it. A sly grin crossed his lips as he contemplated his return to the world of banking and the untold rewards that awaited a socially deviant businessman such as him. He drew a cigar from his inside coat pocket, lit it, and rolled it around between his fingers. He let his mind wander as he conjured up a scenario whereby he might end up in total control of several thousand acres of land and a substantial percentage of the town’s real estate, too.
On a high, grassy hill overlooking the cluster of adobe and wooden buildings and outhouses, a keen-eyed Mescalero Apache watched for any activity below. He waited as an old Mexican closed a gate that separated the structures from a vast field of sheep. The only sounds he could hear were the cries of the herd and the clank of the gate latch. After a bit, a man stepped out the back of what appeared to be a saloon and wandered to an outhouse. He was well dressed in a pair of dark trousers with wide suspenders. He carried no gun. His collarless shirt was open several buttons. He was clean-shaven save for a mustache that curled down at the corners of his mouth.
The Apache hurried back to where his pony grazed. He had a satisfied grin. He hadn’t needed to get any closer to smell the perfume.
Chapter 8
“You heard from Henry yet, Cotton?”
“Nope. He hasn’t returned. Be patient.”
“Got any idea where Bart Havens went after you ran him out of Benbow Creek?”
“Sorry, Jack, but the last place I heard he’d been seen had also asked him none-too-politely to get his crooked ass out of town and never come back or suffer the consequences. Seems to me the words ‘necktie party’ had been uttered. I think that might have been El Paso. His reputation has apparently spread.” Cotton removed his hat, then scratched his head. “Be nice if he’d confined his exploits to Texas.”
“If Henry don’t get back pretty soon, I reckon I could start lookin’ for him in El Paso. Ask around. Maybe someone can head me in the right direction,” Jack said.
“We’ll wait awhile longer. No sense gettin’ ahead of ourselves. Henry will get here; it may be that Havens is trying to be real careful that word doesn’t get out about what he’s up to before he’s ready. It does seem strange, however, that some stranger in the saloon would know Havens was plannin’ something in Apache Springs. Very curious.
“Just remember, if I do let you loose, you can’t just plug Havens. If we’re to take this owlhoot down, it has to be done legal. Unless of course he draws on you, then it’s every man for himself.”
“If what I’ve heard is true, that ain’t goin’ to happen. They say he don’t carry a gun, or so the story goes.”
“I admit I never saw him with anything in his hand more deadly than a forged deed or an ace up his sleeve.”
“Well, unless you need me, I think I’ll go take a nap,” Jack said. “Likely be up late coverin’ our butts in case this dry-gulcher returns.”
“I’ll wake you if Henry gets back anytime soon.”
The sun had set and the air was moist and heavy, with dark gray clouds being hoisted up over the mountains to the west like sacks of grain. A storm was brewing that would bring much needed moisture to the ranches. But only if it brought rain. That was never a certainty. Often, what at first appeared to be a blessing turned into a storm in name only, fetching nothing more than a thundering display of lightning that could spook a herd of cattle faster than a stick of dynamite, or turn a man leaning on a wire fence into a cinder. Of course, that much of a display of heavenly power also brought fires to dry timberlands and split trees down the middle. Cotton figured the storm would likely get to Apache Springs by midnight.
He was seated on the porch of the jail, leaning against the clapboard wall in a rickety ladder-back chair that had long ago seen its best days. It creaked every time he shifted his weight. He’d been sitting outside the stuffy office trying to get a breath of fresh air after a day that had seen no breeze, not even a hot one. The storm’s onset was announced by a thunderous discharge, followed by flashes of cloud-to-ground lightning erupting like gunfire on the Fourth of July. Thousands of shafts of electricity lit up the sky, the ground, and all the buildings. If it hadn’t been so potentially dangerous, he might have enjoyed the display.
That’s when he saw it. In one nearby strike of lightning, he caught a flash, a glint off a barrel out in the distance, up in the rocks, right where he’d assumed someone had taken a shot at the jail two nights before. He had no time to think about it, puzzle it out, or come up with a plan of action. He dove for the porch planking just as a bullet splintered the chair back. A second later, the roar of the rifle caught up to the bullet’s whine. It had missed the sheriff by inches.
Drawing his Colt, he rolled far enough to find minimal cover behind a water trough next to the boardwalk. He scrambled to his feet and made a dash for the alleyway and the deeper shadows between the buildings. As lightning continued to shower the landscape with brilliant flashes, his world danced back and forth between daylight and pitch-black every few seconds. He tried timing each movement, but that proved impossible, so he had to take a chance that the shooter was having as much trouble adjusting to the changing light conditions as he was. If that was the case, it might give him an opportunity to get to the other side of the street and down the opposite alleyway, where he could move more easily using shrubs, cactus, and brush—anything to cover his movements. He needed to get up into those rocks where the shooter was, or had been moments before. And he needed to get there quickly or lose his opportunity to capture the man who was trying to kill him. He doubted the man would be foolish enough to stay put for long hoping for another opportunity to send a bullet his way. This time, on target.
Cotton was in a dead run, dodging and ducking to make himself as difficult to hit as possible. He raced to get closer to the outcropping of boulders where he and Henry had found evidence of a man with a large-bore rifle having sat in wait to commit murder. A murder Cotton was certain had been ordered by his old nemesis: Bart Havens. He’d recognized Havens from the way Henry had described him at the shanty where he’d tracked the shooter. There was no doubt in his mind that Havens was simply waiting to hear that Sheriff Cotton Burke had been shot down by some unknown person, which would be his signal to arrive in Apache Springs all puffed up with supreme confidence and ready to take another unsuspecting town for a ride straight down into the pit of hell. Havens would certainly wish Sheriff Burke dead rather than have to face him once again. After their last encounter, Cotton knew Havens would stop at nothing to eliminate anyone or anything that might offer resistance to his skulduggery.
Cotton stopped to catch his breath and listen for any sound that might give away the shooter’s position. He doubted he’d be lucky enough to find him, but there was always a chance, slim as it was. He eased up farther into the boulders, working his way cautiously around each one with the expectation of coming face-to-face with the “lunger” with a buffalo rifle. Halfway hoping he would. He stoppe
d every few steps, straining for the sound of a pebble being dislodged by a careless step, or the unmistakable squeak of gun-belt leather as a man took a step.
Suddenly, a horse nickered in the distance, from the other side of the hill. Cotton stood up, cocked the Colt, and hurried his steps toward the sound. Gravel skittered about by his footfalls rattled across the downgrade like dry beans spilled from a bag. The man must be heading for his horse in hopes of an easy getaway, Cotton thought. Then, another sound, one he’d not expected. The distinctive sound of a hammer being cocked. The hammer of a single-shot rife. A Sharps buffalo gun. A Sharps .50-caliber with a bore that could send a shot three-quarters of a mile with incredible accuracy. Cotton spun around in the direction of the sound and came face-to-face with a stringy man lifting the barrel of the rifle to bear. Cotton’s two shots were fired so quickly that the echo sounded as one shot. The man’s rifle flew from his hands and discharged into the dirt, blowing a crater a prairie dog could make a home in. The fallen man groaned once, then fell silent.
Cotton knelt down to get a closer look. The man was dead. Both bullets had found their mark: one in his throat and the other in the middle of his forehead. He would be no use as a source of information about the man who’d sent him to commit such a devilish crime. The sheriff picked up the Sharps, grabbed the dead man by the back of his shirt collar, and began dragging him downhill, through the rocks and over cactus that could exact no greater toll on his body than had already been done.
Cotton dragged the corpse to the jail and let it drop in front of the door. He then marched straight to the undertaker’s shop, knocked on the door, and waited for a light to come on. The door creaked open, and a squinty-eyed man peeked through the crack.
“Oh, it’s you, Sheriff. Sorry, you caught me sound asleep.”
“That’s okay, John, it’s late and I’m regretful of the necessity to disturb you, but I have a customer for you. He’s on the planks in front of the jail. I’d have brought him here, but I was afraid it might be your wife answering the door, and I didn’t want to expose her to the bloody mess I brung you. Come get him when you can.”