Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (6 page)

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.

“Y
ou 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 stopped 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.”

John Burdsall thanked the sheriff for his thoughtfulness. He promised to be there straightaway, just as soon as he could slip into his britches. He closed the door as Cotton turned and began walking back to the jail.

“Looks like I missed all the action last night,” Jack said as he dropped into the chair across form Cotton’s desk. He yawned. “I saw that body leanin’ against a board in front of the undertaker’s. There were a couple fellas starin’ at him. One of ’em said he thought it was Whitey Granville.”

“You sure?”

“That’s what I heard. You know anything about him?”

Cotton proceeded to relay everything that had happened to bring the shooter to his ultimate and ignominious end. He told Jack that it had only been by sheer luck he hadn’t been killed. He also said he’d had no opportunity to question the man before he died.

“So, you’re pretty sure you know who sent him, but—­”

“Yep. That’s the unfortunate part; if it was Whitey Granville, I can’t tie him to Bart Havens now. I only have Henry’s account of the fellow meeting with a man matching the description of Havens. That would never hold up in court. Too many convenient circumstances. So, all I have is a dead man who tried to kill me—­or you, depending on your viewpoint.”

“I prefer to think it was
you
he wanted all along. There’s something unsettling about knowing someone wants to get you in his sights and never knowing when that bullet’s going to come,” Jack said.

“I know what you mean.”

“Does Emily know how close you came to being the ‘former’ sheriff?”

“No, and I’d rather she heard it from me and not some idle talk floatin’ around town.”

“She’ll not hear it from me. And not from Melody, either, in case that’s what you were suggestin’.”

“You catch on quick, Jack. I like that about you.”

“Uh-­huh. So, still no word from Henry?”

“I hear my name?” Henry Coyote slipped into the open doorway with the silence of the wind. Cotton and Jack were both startled by his sudden appearance.

“Uh, yeah, Henry. Jack was just asking if I’d heard from you. I was about to say I expected you to return anytime, but you—­”

“Appear like spirit of puma?”

“Uh-­huh, something like that. Did you find our man?”

“I find him.”

Cotton sat, waiting for Henry to disclose the whereabouts of Bart Havens. It was easy for him to visualize the consummate swindler sitting back in a plush high-­back chair at the best hotel in whatever town he’d last worked his deviltry in. Most likely, he’d be sipping a rare French wine and smoking a hand-­rolled cigar from Cuba. It came as a surprise when Henry finally blurted out his whereabouts. “He sleep with sheep.”