Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) (8 page)

When he came to a stream where he could climb down off his saddle, rest awhile, and water his horse, he marveled at the number of cattle grazing everywhere. As he leaned over to fill his canteen, he heard hoofbeats. He stood up to find several tough-looking cowboys at a dead run, racing for the very place he was standing. When they came upon him, they circled around as if they were expecting trouble. Lots of it.

“What're you doin' here?” said the one who'd led the approaching riders.

“Just waterin' my horse. What's it to you?” Hogg was angered by the man's stern questioning of what he had felt was his right to be there.

“You ever heard of Charlie Goodnight?”

“The cattle baron? Why, sure, who hasn't?”

“Well, you're on the JA Ranch, which, in case you're too ignorant to know, is Charlie's ranch. He don't like fellas wanderin' around in the middle of his cattle. Lots of rustlers in these parts. You one of 'em?”

“Do I look like a rustler?”

“You look more like an idjit who don't know his head from his ass.”

That kind of talk had gotten more than one man killed. But with more men than he could hope to cut down, even
with both revolvers blazing away, Hogg decided he'd better try a friendlier approach.

“I'm sorry, gents, but in fact I didn't know I was on Goodnight land. Just stopped to water my mare. I'll be moseyin' along, then.”

“Where you headed?” the cowboy asked, with eyes squinted like he was waiting to catch Hogg in a lie of some sort. The way the cowboys stared at him, glancing to one another as if a hanging might be appropriate, was beginning to rattle Hogg.

“I'm goin' to Apache Springs. That's in New Mexico, in case you don't know.”

“No, I didn't know. What's in them saddlebags?”

“Food. It's a long trip to where I'm goin'. I don't intend to starve on the way.”

The leader turned to one of the others and said, “Joe Bob, check out his story. Make damned sure there ain't no runnin' iron in there. If you find one, he hangs. If not, well, we make sure he gets on his way, pronto.”

The one called Joe Bob dropped to the ground and grabbed Hogg's saddlebags from behind his cantle. He wasn't gentle in his approach, either. He nearly tore one of the leather straps off before he was able to ram a beefy hand down inside and feel around for anything that remotely resembled a running iron, a makeshift piece of iron that could be used to alter brands. Many a man had been judged and hanged for just having such a piece of equipment in his possession. Joe Bob shrugged and shook his head.

“Sorry, Boss, no iron in there. Guess he's tellin' the truth.”

“Then you have just one hour to clear the JA,” the leader growled at Hogg, then yanked his reins and spun his roan around in the direction they'd come.

Hogg wiped sweat from his forehead as he watched the riders disappear in a cloud of dust. Looking after them, he grumbled, “If there'd been no more'n four of 'em, they'd all
be lyin' in the dirt, deader than a stick.” He mounted up and headed west, angry, and eager to pick a fight with someone, just not a dozen rough-looking, armed-to-the-teeth cowboys, all at once.

T
he day was shaping up to become a real summer blow. No rain, but plenty of wind. And wind meant clouds of dust and dirt swirling up and down the streets of Apache Springs hard enough to find their way through loose-fitting siding, windows not closed tightly, and doors propped open to keep the stifling heat from driving folks gasping to get their breath. From the law's standpoint, things were quiet, so Jack had closed the jail up tight to partake of his daily libation—a shot of whiskey followed by a glass of beer—across the street. It didn't
really
make any difference in which order they came because, after about three rounds, he could no longer keep count anyway. No one had created a stir worthy of being given a free night on a wooden bench in the jail since Cotton Burke left town more than a week before. Therefore, Jack was left to his own devices, or in his case, vices. He was leaning on the bar at Melody's Golden Palace of Pleasure, the combination saloon and brothel recently bought and revamped into a burgeoning
moneymaker by his lady friend and sleeping companion, Melody Wakefield, the town's only madam.

“When do you figure Cotton will get back?” Arlo, the saloon's bartender, asked as Jack downed his second whiskey/beer interlude.

“He'll get back when he gets back, Arlo. That's the way it is with our sheriff. He has his own schedule. I have no idea where he is right at this moment. Probably got himself in some tight spot and is figuring a way out,” Jack said with snort. Arlo gave him an understanding grin and moved down the bar to serve a new customer.

Melody glided down the stairway, one hand on the polished railing, slowly surveying everything that was happening below. A couple of tables were surrounded by consummate cardplayers deeply ensconced in their games of chance, while two of her girls were trying to entice cowboys to let go of their dollars for a visit upstairs instead of blowing it on watered-down whiskey, and one rangy man in coveralls could be seen leaning on the bar sucking the foamy head off a glass of warm beer. One of the girls found her efforts successful and had latched on to a young, scrawny wrangler and was directing him toward the stairs. The kid kept glancing around, appearing shy and embarrassed, unsure of what he was about to get himself into.

Melody walked up to Jack and slipped her arm through his. The top of her dress was open far enough to reveal more than most men could tolerate and control themselves. Jack, on the other hand, knew every inch of her body and was less moved to a public reaction than another might be. A satin ribbon that usually tied at the bodice was undone and dangling free, adding to the enticement. She smelled like wildflowers, and not one person in the house let it go unnoticed as she strolled by. Jack liked the idea of being kept by a real head turner.

“Melody.” Jack acknowledged her arrival and squeezed her arm. She smiled a coquettish smile and moved her head in a way that suggested they retire to their upstairs
hideaway. Before he could respond, a tall, mean-looking hombre pushed open the swinging doors and limped inside, getting everyone's attention by his noisy arrival. Melody showed her immediate disdain for the man with a grunt of disapproval.

The man, wearing a Remington .44, a flat-brimmed hat, and a large red scarf draped around his neck, headed straight for the bar, paying no attention to the other patrons. He seemed to have a singularity of purpose as he slammed his fist on the bar and demanded a whiskey. “A double, and leave the bottle,” he growled in a most unfriendly manner. His face was sunburned and dirty. A long, thin nose had a bump in the middle, making him look not unlike a buzzard.

“Comin' up,” Arlo said as he slid a bottle in front of the man and placed a large glass beside it. “That'll be fifty cents.”

The man dug into his dusty coat pocket and pulled out two coins, tossing them on the bar so hard they bounced across and onto the floor. Arlo frowned as he bent over to pick them up. The man snorted at Arlo's discomfort. But, gentleman that he was, the bartender seemed to take no offense and went back to doing what he'd been doing prior to the man's rude appearance.

The man turned to notice the badge on Jack's shirt.

“Say, Deputy, can you tell me where I might find a feller named Burke?”

“You mean Sheriff Cotton Burke?”

“Hell yes, the sheriff. I doubt you got more than one Cotton Burke in this pitiful town.” His sneer was anything but the kind you'd expect from a friend. That wasn't lost on Jack, as an instant dislike of this rude oaf welled up in him. “So where can I find this ‘sheriff'?”

“Can't rightly say. He could be here or he could be there. He hasn't been around for a spell. What'd you want with him?” Jack asked.

“Just a little unfinished business for Judge Arthur Sanborn. And it ain't none of yours.”

“I'll tell him when he gets back to town. Who shall I say was lookin' for him?”

“Ain't important. I'll just hang around and wait. No hurry.” The man poured himself another glass of whiskey and strolled over to watch a table of serious-looking cardplayers with a pot that really didn't amount to much, but which had certainly captured the imagination of those involved. The stranger stood, drink in one hand, the other hand hanging on his gun belt, with a thumb stuck through a loop. He said nothing.

“What do you suppose he wants with Cotton?” Melody whispered.

“I have no idea, but whatever it is, I have a sneaky suspicion Cotton isn't goin' to like it.”

“I don't like men like that hangin' around. Why don't you shoo him off?”

“He hasn't bit nobody yet.
Seems
bent on keepin' the peace. So, until he strays from the herd, I'm obliged to keep hands off.” Jack took Melody's arm, with the intention of leading her toward the stairs. She pulled away and walked over to stand beside the rough-looking man. He gave her a quick glance.

“I ain't interested, lady. Maybe some other time,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“I'm not offerin', mister, but you said something about wantin' to find the sheriff.”

“Yeah. You know where he is?”

“Maybe. Sometimes he stays out at the Wagner ranch with his lady friend, straight up Old Hill Road about five miles to the north. You can't miss it.”

The man grumbled something unintelligible, then limped away and pushed through the doors, taking his bottle with him. Melody returned to Jack's side and took his arm, with the clear intention of continuing their liaison upstairs.

“What'd you say to get him to leave?”

“Nothin'. Just said he might be out at the Wagner ranch,” she said with a smirk.

Jack stopped mid-step. “Melody, I swear sometimes you do the dumbest things.”

“I didn't want him in here. Seemed like a good way to get rid of some trash.”

He pulled away from her and left the saloon, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

After leaving the saloon and getting mounted, the man in the red scarf stopped at the livery before venturing into a countryside he didn't know his way around in. He asked the stable boy how to get to Old Hill Road. The young boy leaned on his pitchfork and looked at him as if he were stupid.

“You makin' fun of me just because I'm muckin' out horse shit?”

“I'm not makin' fun of you at all. Just want to know where the damned road is, that's all. If you don't want to tell me, I'll be on my way.”

“You're on it, mister. Don't you know nothin'?”

The man's first impulse was to draw his Remington and put a hole straight through the scrawny smart-mouthed kid, but he decided instead to ride on, erasing his anger by sucking on the whiskey bottle as he went.

As soon as I find that sheriff's lady friend
, he thought,
I reckon that's when my job begins
.

E
mily had come out on the porch when Henry Coyote called to her about an approaching rider. As she took a step closer to Henry, the rider pulled up just in front of the steps. He did not offer the courtesy of tipping his hat to a lady but instead leaned forward, dark, brooding eyes searching about as if he expected to find someone else.

“What can I do for you, mister?” Emily said.

“I'm lookin' for a gent I was told would likely be here.”

“What gent would that be?”

“A man named Cotton Burke. Where is he?”

“Why would you figure him to be here?”

“I was told in town that if he wasn't there, this is where I could find him. Spoke like you was his woman. You sayin' that ain't true?”

“I reckon you've been led astray. I'm nobody's woman, and he isn't here. Now it's time for you to move on,” she said, and turned to go back inside. “And don't come back or I'll have you thrown off the ranch.”