Cotton's Law (9781101553848)

by Dunlap, Phil

  “Hey you, Sheriff Cotton Burke.” The disembodied voice echoed off the wooden buildings.

  In the waning light of the afternoon, vague shadows stretched across the false fronts of the businesses. Tiny puddles of sunlight splashed the rutted street. Cotton watched as a man moved out from between two buildings halfway down the street. It was Sleeve Jackson. A touch of sun glinted off the nickel-­platted revolvers at his side.

  “It’s time we got to know each other a little better, Sheriff. Come on out into the street and let’s us talk a spell,” Sleeve yelled.

  Cotton moved from under the porch overhang. He held his gun to his side.

  “From all the mischief you’ve been into on Bart’s part, I feel I already know you, Sleeve. No need to shake on it, though.”

  “Didn’t figure on no handshake bein’ necessary, Sheriff. And you can tell that deputy of yours this is just between you and me.”

  “What’s on your mind, Sleeve?”

  “Thought you might like to have a little shootin’ contest. You up for that?”

  “Well, Sleeve it is late, and I’m normally startin’ to get ready for supper about this time. Maybe some other afternoon.”

  “I done had my supper, and I’m feelin’ jus’ fine. So what say we make it a quick contest?”

  “I can’t help noticin’ the shine on those fancy revolvers of yours. Smith & Wesson Schofields, right?”

  “Yep. They say Jesse James hisself favors these shooters.”

  “Yep. Nice, real nice. Nickel-­plated ones are rare. What ammunition do you use?”

  “The only proper one for such a fine instrument: Schofield .45s.”

  “Ah, that’s what I figured. My Colt uses Long Colt .45s.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, I hear tell that in a contest between the two guns, the fact that the S&W bullet is a shorter cartridge, so it takes longer to get out of the barrel, leaves that shooter at a distinct disadvantage.”

  “Huh?”

  Cotton could feel Jack’s questioning eyes burning into his back. Ever the cynic, Cotton thought. That didn’t slow him down, though.

  “Yep, a big disadvantage. I figured a top gunhand like you’d know that.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Sheriff. The length of the cartridge don’t make no difference. That’s crazy talk.”

  “I’m just sayin’ what I’ve heard. More’n once. That’s all. And from some pretty accomplished marksmen, too. Some of the best. So, it’s up to you whether you want to pull them hoglegs or not,” Cotton said with an air of nonchalance.

  A slight hesitation before Sleeve got his two revolvers out of their holsters was all it took for Cotton to raise his Colt and put two quick bullets into the greasy-­haired killer. Shock filled Sleeve’s eyes as he dropped his guns and sank to his knees. He flopped over facedown in a puddle. Muddy water splashed the corner of the boardwalk as he fell. Cotton walked over to the man lying still in his street. He shook his head and clucked his tongue before turning around and marching back to his office, taking care to avoid the puddles that dotted the roadway.

  Memphis Jack stood motionless outside the door, seemingly in disbelief at what had just happened.

  “What the hell was all that hogwash, Cotton? There ain’t a hill of beans’ difference between the two cartridges and you know it.”

  “There ain’t? Damn! Maybe I been misled.”

  “But, Cotton—­”

  “You’re probably right, Jack. I reckon it was just hogwash.” He placed his Colt on the desk, secured a cleaning rag from the drawer, and started rubbing. The undertaker, having heard the shots, came clomping down the street, attempting to miss the rivulets where rainwater had filled the wagon ruts, eager to gather up his latest customer.

  The stagecoach rolled by on its way out of town. The driver slowed at the sight of a man lying in the mud. He guided the horses around the unfortunate loser of the latest gunfight in Apache Springs. The wheels splashed the mucky water over the shiny Smith & Wesson Schofields still lying near Sleeve’s lifeless hands.

  Bart Havens was understandably furious over Sleeve Jackson’s death. Four men he’d paid a sizable amount of money to had now been killed either by the sheriff or his deputy. And he had nothing to show for his investment. His options were disappearing like wisps of smoke.

  Delilah Jones, Plink Granville, Comanche Dan Sobro, and Black Duck Slater were all in his office waiting for some ranting and raving over Sleeve’s demise. They weren’t certain what he expected them to do about Sleeve. After all, he’d made the decision to call the sheriff out with no mention of it to the others, making his move with no backup. Delilah was nervously wringing a frilly handkerchief. Plink was trying to keep from exposing his still somewhat besotted state to the notice of others by leaning on a high back, leather chair, his six-­shooter back in its holster thanks to Black Duck’s retrieval of it from the street.

  Dan and Black Duck both appeared bored by the whole thing and were clearly unwilling to accept any responsibility for the recent demise of either Sleeve or Buck. Expecting Havens to explode any minute now, they were surprised at what did happen. Bart broke into a sly smile when the door opened and in walked two well-­dressed men wearing identical pearl-­handled, .38-­caliber Colt Lightnings—double-­action with short barrels in shoulder holsters. It looked like they knew what to do with them. Havens stood up and extended a hand.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to Apache Springs and what I hope will be a lucrative venture for you both.”

  Both men shook hands with Bart, then turned to do the same with the others. They both tipped their bowler hats to Delilah. One even took her hand and gave it a peck. She blushed.

  “Let me introduce our new associates, Cress and Farley Coleman.”

  “They look more like city slickers than gunslingers, to me,” Black Duck said with a sneer. He turned away with a look of scorn.

  “I can assure you they are quite adept at the use of firearms. In fact, I have a special purpose in bringing them to town.”

  “I don’t need any help beating Burke,” Black Duck said.

  “You are welcome to the sheriff, Mr. Slater; in fact that’s part of my new plan. They are here to eliminate another problem. They are gamblers of the first order. Their target will be to push Memphis Jack Stump—­who I am informed considers himself a fair gambler—­into a confrontation after they’ve taken every last cent he has. When two such proficient shootists go after a target, he’ll not survive; I can assure you.”

  “Y-­you want them to kill Jack?” Delilah was horrified at Bart’s declaration. She knew he was jealous, but not to the point of a killing.

  Bart gave her a cynical smile. “Why yes, my dear. That does meet with your approval does it not? After all, you did say he meant nothing to you.”

  “That was fast thinking, Cotton, playing on Sleeve’s ignorance and all,” Jack said. “What made you think he’d go for it?”

  “I had no idea whether he would or not. I really just wanted to keep him talking as long as possible. I figured to get his mind off the purpose of him pulling a gun in the first place.”

  “That leaves Havens with only two more gun handlers, assuming that fella calling himself Comanche Dan is telling the truth.”

  “I think we’ll know very soon.”

  Cotton walked to the door and stepped onto the boardwalk. He looked up and down the street. He didn’t know who or what he expected to see, but the shooting still had him on edge.

  Chapter 42

  Ctton decided not to stay in town that night. He was restless and out of sorts. He told Jack he’d be out at the Wagner ranch and be back in the morning. Jack just shrugged and said maybe he’d go to Melody’s and sit in on a poker game. Cotton went to the livery, saddled his mare, and headed out for Emily’s soothing and understanding company.

  By the time he’d ridden about an hour, crossed the creek that cut through the southern quarter of the ranch, and started up the well-�
�traveled road to the house, his nerves had relaxed some. He was no longer thinking of pulling his Colt and plugging the first thing that moved. In sight of the house, he called out. Emily came out on the porch and waved. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching his approach with a warm smile. As he dismounted, she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck.

  “I was beginning to think you’d been shanghaied and taken out to sea. It’s good to see you all in one piece.”

  “There have been some developments since I was last here.”

  “Sounds ominous. Better come inside and get comfortable before you tell me.” She took his arm and they went inside in lockstep. “Let me get you some coffee, unless brandy sounds better.”

  “Coffee would be fine. Thanks.” He took a seat on the leather couch.

  She returned a couple minutes later. “Here you go, Mr. Sheriff,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. Steam rose from the cup, giving him ample warning to be careful of that first sip.

  He sat for a moment before sampling the coffee, as if he were off somewhere else. Emily saw this and brought him back to reality.

  “Okay, now, what is it that has you so preoccupied?”

  “I’m, uh, sorry. Reckon I was kinda drifting off, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I had to kill a man this afternoon. It never gets any easier. I suppose I’m still—­”

  “—­still facing the fact that there is someone out there who wants to kill you and wishing things could be different?” she finished.

  “Something like that.”

  “Reckon it’s time you let us in on your plan, Mr. Havens, so none of us go off and do somethin’ stupid like Sleeve did,” Black Duck muttered. His voice carried a note of scorn that could not be missed.

  “All right, Mr. Slater, I’ll do just that. Cress and Farley are going to be letting everyone know there will be a big poker game starting up at Melody’s saloon. From what I hear, Memphis Jack Stump is a sucker for a poker game. He won’t be able to resist the temptation to make some extra money. Being a deputy isn’t making him rich, and I happen to know he likes living well. The Coleman boys will be sitting in such a way that Memphis Jack will have to sit between them. They will let him win a hand or two, just to get him hooked on the possibilities, then his losing streak will begin in earnest.”

  “Lots of men lose at cards, that don’t mean they’re goin’ to blow up and try to kill someone,” Comanche Dan said nonchalantly.

  “True enough, Mr. Sobro, however, in this case, Farley will be the one to explode. He’ll jump up and claim he’s caught the deputy cheating, draw his gun, and before Stump can even offer a defense, blow him to hell. Since Stump will be sitting across and at an angle to my boys, he’ll probably not get off one shot. He’ll be caught in their cross fire.”

  “And what are we supposed to be doin’ while these Coleman boys do their circus act?”

  “You, Mr. Slater, will be ready to take care of the man you’ve been waiting for. As soon as he hears the shots, he’ll be stampeding through those saloon doors like a mad bull. That’s your chance to complete your part of the bargain. You three can all fire at once, if you’ve a mind to. I’ll up the ante to give each of you the bonus if it’s unclear who actually kills him.”

  Black Duck and Plink looked at each other and shrugged. Comanche Dan gazed off with a questioning scowl.

  “Questions, Mr. Sobro?”

  “No, Mr. Havens, no questions. Sounds like a solid plan. When is all this going to come down?”

  “Tomorrow night looks to be a perfect time. Gives the boys a chance to spread the word about the game.”

  All three of the gunslingers nodded and left Havens’s office. Delilah started to follow, but Havens called her back.

  “My dear, I strongly suggest you go directly to your hotel room and get some sleep. Be here early in the morning, as usual, but I don’t want you talking to anyone without me present.”

  “Why is that, Bart? Don’t you trust me?”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t. Therefore, please do as I say or the penalty could be severe. You may go now.”

  Red-­faced and angry, Delilah stormed out of Havens’s office and headed for the hotel. I’ve had about all I can take of that insufferable man. His day of reckoning is coming. I can feel it. And it can’t arrive too soon for me.

  When she started up the stairs of the hotel, a low voice from across the lobby startled her. She turned around to see Comanche Dan standing in the corner shadows. He took a couple steps toward her and removed his hat.

  “Ma’am, would you join me for dinner? I hate eating alone.”

  “Did Bart send you to keep an eye on me so I don’t violate his precious rules? Well, you can go back and tell him I haven’t needed a nanny since I was two.” She turned back to go up.

  “No, ma’am, I surely wasn’t sent by that pompous bag of wind. And my invitation is sincere. I would enjoy your company. So, could you see your way to reconsidering?”

  She hesitated for a moment. Havens had told her not to talk to anyone. He was so adamant about that, his words had frightened her. But he surely hadn’t been talking about one of his own handpicked killers. Gunslingers. The very word made her shiver. And yet, this particular gunslinger somehow made her feel different. She experienced no fear, no uneasiness whenever he was around. He didn’t have the same empty, cold eyes as all the others had. Certainly he was a killer, but she had to admit, only to herself of course, that there was something quite appealing about this man. Her decision was made.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sobro, that would be very nice.” She came to him and took his arm. They went to the dining room looking very much like any normal, happy couple.

  Chapter 43

  Cotton had washed his face and was combing his hair when Emily came into his room. She was still wearing a housecoat over her gown, and her hair was a tangle of curls. She leaned on the door frame and crossed her arms. She let out a sigh.

  “After our talk last night, I thought perhaps I could convince you to spend some time here, away from the constant threat of being ambushed.”

  He turned to her as he shrugged into his shirt. “There isn’t anything I’d like better and you know it. But I have to break up Bart Havens’s plan to destroy Apache Springs. I didn’t ask for his devilment, but I seem to have inherited it just the same.”

  “Couldn’t you ask the U.S. marshal to send some deputies to help corral these rattlers?”

  “I could, sure enough. But if I allowed myself to beg the marshal for help every time some threat wanders into town, how could the town have faith that I can protect them? That is what they elected me to do, isn’t it?”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but—­”

  “—­but you don’t want to come to another funeral, right?”

  “That’s right. Especially not yours. Cotton, you know how I feel and . . .”

  “Yes I do, and I feel the same way. It’s for that very reason, for us, that I must face this thing head-­on. And see it through to the end. Which, I might add, isn’t far off, I fear.”

  “What do you plan to do about Havens? Since he supposedly doesn’t carry a gun, and has never personally threatened violence to anyone, how can you go after him? I know he’s a devil, but that doesn’t mean you can simply walk up and shoot him.” Her look of despair suggested that she, too, had spent considerable time seeking an answer to his dilemma and had come up empty-­handed.

  “The idea of getting the folks who’ve taken loans out with Havens to pay up on the exact day their loans come due is a solid solution. The problem is, now that Sleeve Jackson, Bart’s most trusted hired hand, is lying dead at the undertaker’s, he’s bound to feel pressure to eliminate me, and likely Jack, before he’s forced to impose his scandalous loan contracts by himself. The one thing Bart has always understood is that without guns to back him, he’s vulnerable.”

  “Do you think he has enough money to keep buying up
hired guns until one of them gets lucky?”

  “That I don’t know. He’s done all right so far. That’s always been his ace in the hole. It appears the time has come to lay down the law to Mr. Havens. I think he needs to fully understand that in Apache Springs, he’s dealing with Cotton’s law.”

  Delilah and Comanche Dan spent nearly two hours over dinner at the hotel. His easy manner calmed her after Bart’s proclamation as to what would happen if she didn’t follow his rules implicitly. She had suffered enough at his hand but had been unable to come up with a way to divest herself of the restrictions he’d placed upon her as terms of her employment and his deranged perception of a relationship.

  She had yet to understand this man she sat across from, either. Here was a well-­known gunslinger, whose gun was available to the highest bidder, but he somehow seemed out of character. Inexplicably, he appeared to have the demeanor of a man of reason, a rarity in her experience. While not a woman of the world, she had certainly experienced enough of the underbelly of the frontier to know a decent man from a run-­of-­the-­mill scalawag.

  She’d found out early in life that being beautiful can be a double-­edged sword, bringing both prize and condemnation in the same thrust. Her beauty had been something to wear as a badge of achievement for Bart Havens. For her, it had been like making one’s way through a pitch-­black forest without benefit of even the tiniest hint of light. Beauty had brought her nice things, clothes and jewelry, but neither peace of mind nor respect for who she was. Now the question seemed to be What does this man Comanche Dan want of me, and what do I expect of him? And what would be the result if he saw firsthand how Havens had treated her? Would he shy away or rush to her rescue?

  “You seem distant, Delilah. Did I say something to distress you?”

  “Huh? Why, er, no. I was merely guilty of giving myself over to the luxury of drifting off into a bit of fantasy, I suppose.”