Cotton’s Inferno (12 page)

Chapter 22

C
otton had finally had an opportunity to discuss with the mayor what to do about the Burnside Gunsmith Shop now that there was apparently someone interested in keeping the business going. The mayor, always at the ready to step away from anything that remotely resembled taking responsibility, had given his blessing to whatever Cotton thought was fair.

From what little the sheriff had observed, Carp Varner seemed competent at gunsmithing. But there was something that kept eating away at him about the man, and he couldn't seem to set things straight in his mind. On the surface, Varner appeared capable and, as far as Cotton had seen, ready and willing to sit at a bench and repair and clean guns of every type the livelong day. That should have been enough for even a naturally skeptical sheriff, but somehow it wasn't. At least not until whatever niggling doubt that kept rattling around in his head was cleared up. Cotton was shaken from his woolgathering by Jack's voice coming at just the wrong time.

“Melody is shoving me over the cliff.
I need help!
” Jack said, with a desperate growl.

“Walk away.”

“Walk away? How the hell do I do that?”

“Tell her she got herself into this mess, she can get herself out.”

“Yeah, Preacher, easy for you to sermonize. You don't have my problems.”

“And what problems would those be?”

“If I were to walk away, I'd have no place to sleep, no free food . . .”

“. . . and no whore to snuggle up next to.”

“Well, uh, yeah, that, too.”

“What exactly do you expect me to do about it?”

“We
got
to find Pick Wheeler and get her money back. That's the only thing that's goin' to satisfy her.”

“We'll find Pick, don't worry about that. Wherever he is, Henry Coyote will find him.”

“Yeah, I reckon I knew that. Sorry to be such a burr under your saddle, but . . .”

“Just make some coffee, Jack, and let's sit back and wait.”

“Oh, hell, might as well,” Jack said, grabbing the pot off the stove and storming out the back door to get water from the well. When he returned, he dumped some Arbuckles' in it, added a touch of chicory, and set it on the stove. He then stuffed some paper and kindling in the iron door of the stove and lit it with a lucifer.

Cotton stood up and walked to the door. The day was bright with sunshine, with but a hint of a cool breeze.
Good day to go fishing instead of flailing around with my musings and doubts.

Cotton was standing with his hands on his hips when the old Indian came into view, carrying his rifle across his chest and sprinting down the street. The sheriff blinked a couple of times, not quite believing his eyes.
How the hell did he get back here so fast?
He had often thought Henry had powers beyond his understanding, but he was certain flying was beyond even
his
unique capabilities.

When the Apache stopped in front of the jail, Cotton motioned him inside.

“I assume you found Pick, Henry.”

“Find him dead. You got coffee?”

“Almost ready. I'll get you a cup, Henry, just as soon as the water comes to a boil,” Jack said as he went to reach for one of the several tin cups on top of a file cabinet, the repository for cups, boxes of cartridges, and stacks of wanted flyers. He placed empty cups in front of Cotton and Henry.

Cotton motioned Henry to take a seat.

“Where is he?”

“He off road in desert. Three bullet holes in back.”

“Did you happen to find any money on him, a wad of it?” Cotton asked.

“No find anything.”

“Are the other two cowboys still out?”

“No. They ride in. Go to saloon.”

Cotton began rubbing his chin, obviously concerned about something, and it probably had little to do with Melody's money.

“Did you happen to spot his old shotgun?”

“No.”

“Whoever shot him likely took it.” Jack spoke up, as he began pouring coffee into Henry's cup.

“I 'spect you're right. But why would anyone want that old cannon? A ten-gauge isn't an easy weapon to tote around. It's heavy and it kicks like a mule. And it's rather rare, nowadays. Might be worth some money to the right person, I suppose.”

“Don't see why you'd care, Cotton,” Jack said.

Cotton seemed pensive as he said, “Me either. Let's drink a cup of your fine brew, Jack, and then get our butts out to look upon the recently deceased Pick Wheeler.”

“I'll go tell Melody that Pick's dead. That might help get me out of the dung heap.”

“No, don't do that, Jack. Let's see for ourselves what we've got before we let the whole world in on it,” Cotton said. He took his gun belt off a peg and started for the door. “Oh, and bring along something to wrap the body in.”

He put his hand on Henry's shoulder.

“No need to walk, this time, my friend; Jack and I'll pick up horses and a buckboard from the corral and get there the easy way. You can ride my horse and take it out to the ranch afterward, Henry. How far out of town did he get?”

“Where white man's road make two, go to side with knife.”

“Uh, what exactly did he say, Cotton? I don't have my Apache ears on today.”

“He said for us to go to the first fork, then follow the road to the left, toward the Apache cut. Simple, Jack. You need to learn to listen more carefully. Might learn somethin'.”

Jack just grunted and gave him a frown.

* * *

A couple hours' ride later brought them to a place where the land dropped away rapidly, a spot of particular concern to stagecoach drivers whenever the rain was coming down heavily. The road washed out quickly and a heavily laden coach could easily slip off and roll for several hundred feet before reaching a level spot. Cotton pulled up as Henry pointed to an area thickly populated with brush and heavy grasses.

Climbing down from the buckboard, followed closely by Henry and Jack, Cotton clomped his way through tugging burrs and unstable slickrock and gravel. He came upon Pick's body, lying facedown, arms spread wide. The corpse had already fallen victim to a few hungry creatures. Cotton looked around, then began a slow encircling of the spot where Pick lay. He widened his circle with each pass. Finally, about fifty feet out, he called back to Jack.

“I don't see any sign of Pick's shotgun, either. Let's try to get the buckboard down here and pick him up,” Cotton shouted. Jack nodded and sprinted back up the hill.

When they had the earthly remains of Pick Wheeler securely wrapped in a tarp and loaded onto the back of the buckboard, Cotton turned to Henry and said, “Henry, many thanks for your expert help in locatin' this ol' rascal. You go ahead, take my horse, and return to the ranch. Tell Emily I'll borrow Jack's horse and be out to see her later.” He waved as the Indian nudged the mare to a trot. He'd disappeared before Jack could say so long.

“That man is spooky, Cotton, in case you haven't noticed,” Jack said, as he climbed up beside the sheriff.

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm not quite sure how to break the news to Melody about Pick bein' dead, and also about there bein' not a red cent to be found. You got any idea how I'm goin' to survive this?” Jack asked.

“Buy a ticket on the next stage to Albuquerque.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks for your help.”

Cotton just got a great big grin on his face.

Chapter 23

J
ack steered the buckboard close to the undertaker's front door so as to make unloading Pick's body easier. He then hopped down and told the sheriff he'd take care of any particulars involved in putting the old weasel in the ground proper. He also passed on the sheriff's request that the undertaker remember to take the bullets out of the body and save them. The undertaker acknowledged the request and set to work. Cotton said he appreciated Jack's taking charge and rode on to the livery. After dismounting, he led the horse inside. He told the kid who regularly mucked out the stalls for the owner, “Don't bother to give her a brush down. I'll be back in about an hour to ride out again.”

After leaving the livery, but before he could get all the way inside the jail door, he heard his name being called.

“Sheriff, you got a minute to chat?” It was Carp Varner, and he was hurrying to get there before the sheriff shut the door.

“Uh, sure, Mr. Varner. C'mon in, sit a spell. What's on your mind?”

“Well, I hadn't heard how it went with the mayor. If I'm goin' to be stayin' awhile, I'd like to get a sign up to replace the one Burnside's got there. Folks ought to know there's a new gunsmith in town.”

Cotton took off his Stetson and began scratching his head. He looked pensive. He hadn't planned on talking to Varner further until he'd made up his own mind about the man. His uncertainty was palpable. Varner picked up on it.

“Course, if you don't want me, I'll just gather my meager belongin's and sashay on outta town,” Carp said.

“Oh, it ain't that I don't want you, Mr. Varner, it's the simple fact that there are a few legal, uh, matters that must be cleared up first, like unpaid bills and the like. It's not as easy as simply turnin' the business over to somebody else. I'm sure you can understand. It has also somehow fallen to me to make sure there won't be any claims comin' from relatives we haven't yet been able to contact. That's the whole of it.”

“I thought I heard someone say ol' Burnside didn't have no relatives. Must be I heard wrong.”

“I can't say one way or t'other. Fact is I'm goin' to have to search through all the records in the clerk's office and see what, if anything, I can scare up. I've been a little busy, what with havin' to go out in the desert and haul back a corpse and all. I'm sure I can get to it in a couple days, however. If, that is, you can wait that long.”

“Uh, you say you found a corpse in the desert?”

“That's right. Pick Wheeler, the miner.”

“Did you locate all that money the old bastard stole?”

“Uh, who told you there was money involved?”

“Why that purty little workin' gal over at the saloon, Melody, has been shoutin' it from the rooftops. Got her petticoats in a real whirlwind, she has.”

Varner's initial comment had piqued Cotton's interest, but after hearing the man's explanation as to his knowledge in the matter, he was convinced of its logic. Nobody knew of Melody's propensity for shooting her mouth off better than Cotton Burke.

“Yeah, well that's for sure. Listen, Mr. Varner, I promise I shall be through with examining the clerk's records by Thursday. Then I can give you an answer. Is that fair?”

“More'n fair, Sheriff, more'n fair.” He tipped his hat to the sheriff and sauntered out the door, whistling.

I appreciate your understanding, my impatient friend; I surely do.

Besides spending valuable time having caustic thoughts about Varner, Cotton decided it might be a good idea to find out what details of her deal with Pick Melody had blabbed. On his way over to the saloon, he met Jack in the middle of the street.

“The undertaker has Pick and we're shut of him and all the trouble he brought to town.”

“Unfortunately, that's not quite all of it. I need to talk to Melody. I'm glad you're here so you can kinda come between us if needs be.”

“That'll be fine with me as long as I can do it with a glass of brandy in my hand.”

“Don't see why not.”

* * *

“Melody, Cotton's downstairs and he needs to ask you some questions.”

“Did the two of you find Pick Wheeler?”

“Yep, we did indeed.”

“Wonderful. I suspect the sheriff would like to hand over my money personally, just so he's certain it got to its rightful owner.” She pulled a long satin dress over her head and began wriggling one way and the other to get everything in its place. She stood in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, just to make sure she was gorgeous from every possible angle. Jack whistled to make sure she got the point and the proper affirmation. He hated to tell her what Cotton's real reason for wanting to talk to her was, and he'd decided that letting things take their course would work out better for him. He'd already had to spend the last two nights sleeping in the jail because of Melody's wrath.

“I'm, uh, not real sure what the subject is, but I'm sure it'll be damned important to solving the, er, problem,” Jack said, grinning without his usual sincerity.

“Good. Let's go,” she said, sweeping by him in a flurry of skirts, ribbons, and sweet-smelling perfume. When they reached the bottom of the curving staircase, Melody stopped and looked around. “I don't see him. Where is he?”

Arlo saw Melody's questioning glances, picked up on what it was she wanted, and nodded his head toward the back room. Jack opened the door, allowing Melody to push through. Cotton was staring out the back window.

“So, I hear you've found that busted up old varmint, Sheriff. Where is he? I can't wait to get my hands on him. Where's my money?”

Cotton held up both hands. “Whoa, Melody. You're askin' for things I don't have to give you. I came to get some answers, that's all.”

“What! Answers to what? Where are you hiding the old coot?”

“He's down at the undertakers if you just have a powerful hankerin' to see him, but I'd advise against it. He's not in the best of shape right now, flesh torn from his arms, eyes plucked out of their sockets, and three big holes in his back. I don't suppose you know anything about how he came to such an ignominious end, would you?”

“He-he's dead?”

“Colder'n a January frostbite.”

“Bu-but what about my money?”

“We searched everywhere for it, but came up empty-handed. Sorry. Right now, I'm needin' to know how much the public knows about what Pick did to you and how he managed to pull it off. Suppose you tell me who all you told about the deal for the silver mine. It could lead us to a killer and the only way to find your money.”

Melody's face flushed, and the obviousness of Cotton's suggestion that she might have played a part in Pick's death became abundantly clear. And it embarrassed her. She drew a deep breath, one which pushed her breasts up, showing her most obvious assets above the scoop-necked dress.

“I don't remember. I, uh, might have told a couple folks about, uh, my buying the mine.”

“And when you found out you'd been swindled, did you express that with your usual calm demeanor?”

“What the hell does
that
mean?” Melody's eyes flared with her wrath.

“It means did you shoot your loud mouth off like you usually do?” Cotton glared at her, exchanging fire with fire.

Melody could no longer hold her rage back. She exploded in a flurry of expletives that would have made a stone-cold killer blush. And Cotton made it worse by just breaking into a gratuitous grin. She turned and stormed back upstairs. Jack could only blink.

“That seems to have gotten you the information you wanted, Cotton,” Jack said, with all the cynicism he could muster.

“No less'n I figured,” Cotton said. He gave Arlo a salute as he left the saloon.