Cotton’s Inferno (10 page)

Chapter 18

J
ohnny and Rachael were perched on the back of the horse that had belonged to the man everyone had assumed was Rachael's father. Johnny rode in front, with Rachael's arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He liked the way she felt; her small yet firm breasts pushing against his back sent a thrill coursing through him. It introduced him to an excitement he'd not experienced before, and he hated the thought of having, at some point, to dismount and move on. He also liked the smell of her when she laid her head on his shoulder, especially when the wind blew her hair, tickling his cheek. Although he was well into his eighteenth year, his knowledge of girls had been severely stunted. There were no young girls in Whiskey Crossing. In fact, the only woman who remotely attracted him was a thirty-year-old whore who went by the name Gold-tooth Sally, for an obvious facial attribute. He never sampled her sought-after charms, mainly because he'd never had enough money to meet her price. Swamping out a saloon after closing hours and cleaning the stables, while honest, steady work, had proven only sufficient for three meals and a bed each day.

And now, good fortune had come upon him in the form of a lovely young lady who seemed to appreciate his company. His days had brightened despite the hardships they'd endured together. Coming across the very place where Rachael's “master” was buried, and where his horse had wandered to, had also been a stroke of good fortune. They could, if they didn't push their mount too hard, make it to a town of sufficient size for them to possibly obtain some type of short-term employment. Any money they might cobble together, they'd agreed, would be put toward stagecoach passage farther west. That was the direction Johnny figured Carp Varner was headed, at least from the few signs he'd seen up to now. Even though Rachael had only a passing and unpleasant knowledge of Varner, she sensed from Johnny's telling of his evil exploits that he was a man who should be caught and made to pay in the harshest way possible for his crimes.

The riding had been easy thus far, and the air smelled fresh from a recent rain. Wildflowers dotted the landscape from here to there to everywhere—striking shades of purple lupine, yellow brittlebush, and cactus flowers, each attracting bees and birds, and unseen things as well. Cottonwoods, birch, and willows lined the several small creeks they'd crossed. Sufficient grass dotted the land that there arose no danger that the horse might starve. In discussing with Rachael their trip across western Texas, Johnny made certain he left out the part about dangers they might face, like scorpions and rattlesnakes and pumas, and all the other creatures that take full advantage of the dark of night to come out of hiding and feed on the unsuspecting. He figured she'd heard about all these things, but he wasn't all that certain she'd spent many nights outside, under the stars, with only a blanket and a rock for a pillow.

It was a certainty they would not reach any sort of settlement before nightfall, so Johnny began scouring the horizon for someplace to make camp. Rachael, too, must have known they'd need to stop soon. If she was getting hungry, she'd know Johnny was also. He'd need sufficient light to bag something to eat, since the only food they'd brought with them was wrapped in a checkered cloth and rolled up in the saddlebags, and though Johnny hadn't examined their stash, he suspected it mostly consisted of biscuits or bread, with maybe with some jerky thrown in. Whatever it was, he was certain the intent had been to supply them with items that would sustain them without turning bad during the long ride to civilization. Seth and his wife wouldn't hear of their departing without something to fill their bellies the farther away they got. Rachael made a suggestion that a copse of trees off to their right might be a good place to settle for the night. It wouldn't have taken a lot to talk the boy into getting off the horse he'd been astride for more than nine hours.

Having guided the mare between the trees to a place that looked safe and reasonably comfortable, although a little too rocky for his pleasure, Johnny dismounted, helped Rachael down, and quickly began searching the landscape for signs of wildlife. He lifted the trapdoor on the Springfield and slid in a cartridge, then snapped it shut, ready for whatever might happen by. One rabbit would do just fine, he thought. However, though he tried as hard as he could, the place they'd chosen didn't seem to be teeming with critters eager to become someone's dinner. He heard not one bird, and found no tracks in the sand. A thin ribbon of a spring, little more than a seep, wandered down the side of a rocky hill and through the trees, certainly not deep enough for any fish. He was puzzled by the lack of larger tracks, though. No sign of deer, horses, or cattle were to be seen along the stream's edge. He had a sudden sense of something off-kilter. Could there be some unseen danger lurking just beyond his usually acute awareness of his surroundings?

He was now faced with a problem: Did he dare tell Rachael of his premonition or hold off and wait for whatever was going to happen, then react accordingly?
No, that's foolish, simple-minded thinking. I can't put her in danger just waiting for an imagined threat to show itself. It would be best for us to move on, find another spot. This can't be the only desirable place for a camp.
Rachael had wandered down to the stream and was squatting at the edge, cupping her hands and splashing water on her face to rid her eyes and mouth of trail dust. She was directly beneath a substantial rock outcropping. A large ledge hung over where she drank. Whatever it was that had Johnny's skin crawling remained elusive. But the more he scanned the landscape, the more he felt discomfited. Rachael seemed quite content, oblivious to any danger, real or otherwise. Was he simply imagining some ghostly presence? If so, why was it so pervasive and growing in intensity? He stared at the ground as he pondered the situation.

In an instant his fears came screaming into reality in the form of a tawny puma perched on the ledge jutting out immediately above where Rachael played in the gurgling stream. The large cat was poised to jump. Johnny let out a warning yell as he raised the Springfield, cocked it, and pulled the trigger. He managed to hit the animal, but not fatally.
Damn!
he thought.
Now Rachael's in more danger than before.
Few things are more dangerous than a wounded mountain lion.
He had no time to reload the rifle, so he drew his revolver and, racing toward her, began firing as quickly as he could at the animal that was now on her. The cat screamed at each hit, but in its frantic need for food, it refused to roll over and die. Finally, all six shots expended, Johnny grabbed up the rifle once more and began violently clubbing the puma in the head with it until, with blood splattered everywhere, it slunk away from the stricken girl and fell over dead. It was Johnny's furious beating, unleashed by the sense that his dear Rachael might lose her life, that had finally brought an end to the cat's attack.

He stood over the carcass, shaking with disbelief at what he'd done, but also harboring a strange desire to continue the fight. His adrenaline subsiding, he was suddenly aware of a groan coming from behind him. He turned to see Rachael, the sleeve of her dress shredded by the beast's wicked claws, bleeding profusely. Her dress had almost been torn off her, and she was dazed and bewildered by the suddenness of the attack. She didn't move except to utter a slight whimper. Terror still filled her eyes when Johnny bent down to take her in his arms. He picked her up and carried her to a wide patch of grass. Her lips were moving but nothing came out.

“Shh. Don't speak. The cat is gone. It's going to be okay.” The agony on his face as he looked at the deep claw marks down her arm suggested he wasn't so sure of that. Time was of the essence. He had to stop the bleeding and clean the wounds. He gently leaned her back onto the grass and ran to his horse to secure a canteen of fresh water. What about bandages? That thought brought him a rush of panic. He tore through all the things they'd packed when leaving Rachael's cabin for the last time. But, being as how they were afoot, carrying more than the basic necessities had been out of the question. So there was little to pick through.

When he came to her simple, cotton nightgown, he bit his lip. She had made a point of bringing it because it held some sort of fond memory for her. It was the only thing he could find now, though, that might suffice for wrapping the worst of her wounds. He would have to rip it into strips, thus rendering it forever useless as a garment. He cringed at what she might think of him for taking away something so personal and dear to her without her explicit permission, but his choice was limited to strips of nightgown or poultices of mud and leaves.

He began ripping the bottom of the gown into long pieces of clean, white cotton and wetting some of them down to wash her arm where the claws had made bloody furrows. He winced when she made a soft groan at his touch. He swallowed hard and continued washing her flesh.

No tellin' where all those claws had been. I have to get her to a doctor, and for damn sure it can't wait.

Chapter 19

C
otton, Jack, and the two cowboys rode out of Apache Springs in search of Pick Wheeler. They had no idea where he'd gotten off to, so they could but choose the most likely direction a man would head if he were flush with a pocket full of money and a dream of going to Chicago. Cotton's first thought was to start at the mine, since that was where Jack had found the mules, but after some consideration, and armed with the knowledge that Pick had deliberately salted the mine with silver shavings, he doubted the man would have been foolish enough to go near the scene of his crime. Even Pick was smart enough to realize his secret would be discovered at the first turn of a shovel. His best choice would have been to head for Albuquerque, catch a stagecoach from there to Santa Fe, and then head east to the first rail station he could find, probably Las Vegas. Since Pick had spent several years deep in a dark mine shaft, though, Cotton figured it was doubtful the old highbinder had any idea of the railroad's present-day westerly progress.

Should they detect no sign of him before he exited the county, the only thing they could do would be to turn back, since Sheriff Burke had no jurisdiction in any other county but his own. Then he'd just have to send out telegrams to every place he could think of, to be on the lookout for a “fugitive” wanted for robbery—for that's what it was, plain and simple. Pick Wheeler could have been no less a robber than if he'd walked up to a teller's cage and demanded all the cash.

After two hours of steady riding, Cotton reined up at a stand of cottonwoods. He told the two cowboys to spread out, keeping each other in sight, heading in the general direction of Albuquerque. That way, if anyone saw anything indicating where Pick had gotten off to, he'd be able to signal the others. That wasn't the only thing the sheriff wanted them to be on the lookout for. Also
buzzards
. That would be a sure sign of something dead. He was hoping that if they did spot any of the graceful carrion circling an area, it would prove to be nothing more than a dead rabbit or a javelina, the wild boar of the desert. But since Jack had reported seeing blood on the saddle, something violent having happened to Wheeler appeared likely. Sheriff Burke was bracing for bad news. As the cowboys rode out, Jack seemed puzzled by Cotton just sitting his saddle, making no move to join in the hunt.

“You figurin' on sittin' this one out, Sheriff?”

“Not exactly. Just waitin' for the most important member of the search party. Should be here about now.”

“Who might that be?”

“What do we need more'n anything else?”

“A good tracker. Why if we . . . Aah, I get it. You sent for Henry Coyote, didn't you?”

“You stay on this job awhile longer and you might be able to figure out what I'm wantin' for breakfast, Jack.”

Jack had no more than tossed a disgruntled frown Cotton's way, than seemingly out of nowhere there suddenly appeared a bronze-skinned man with long, graying hair, a colorful cotton shirt, and a bandolier across his chest, full of bullets for the Spencer rifle he carried. The Mescalero Apache held up a hand in greeting. He was afoot.

“Good to see you, Henry. Where's your pony?” Cotton asked.

“Find missing man better this way.”

Cotton nodded. “Have you ever met the man we're after, Pick Wheeler? He's an old miner from up near the Dog Creek cut.”

“I know him. Foolish man who no like coffee.”

Cotton laughed. “Yeah, that's him, all right. He was always partial to rotgut whiskey. Could hang one on with the best of them. Well, he seems to be missing, although we aren't sure of that. Jack, here, found his two animals still saddled up near the mine, a mine which
he
no longer owned. There were signs that something possibly happened to the old man, too.”

“Who foolish enough to buy empty mine from man who no like coffee?”

“That's a long story, Henry. But at the moment, Jack's lady friend, Melody, appears to be the rightful owner. We need to find Pick and sort it all out. So far we haven't seen any sign of him along the road north.”

“Bring him to
you
, if he alive?”

“Yes. I don't want him harmed; however, do whatever it takes to get him to the jail, unless he's hurt, in which case get word to me so we can get him to a doctor. I'm goin' back to town. Jack's going back with me. There are two other cowboys lookin' also.”

Henry nodded and began to sprint away. As he looked back over his shoulder, he shouted, “Have coffee ready, back soon,” and he disappeared into the brush.

“He looks to be headed straight for the mine. I thought you said that'd be the last place Pick would go,” Jack said, with a puzzled expression.

“Never figured Pick would go to the mine. Henry's goin' to do just what I'd do in the situation, only better.”

“What's that?”

“Backtrack the damned mules.”

* * *

Johnny lifted Rachael from her grassy resting place as gently as he could. Carrying her to where their horse was picketed, he was noticeably nervous about her condition. All his efforts at cleaning and wrapping her wounds had barely slowed the bleeding. He was rattled and worried.

“Where are we going, Johnny?” she said, in a tiny, almost whispering voice.

“We have to find a town with a doctor. I can only do so much. You're pretty badly scratched up, and you got to get care from someone who knows about those things. I can't let anything happen to you.”

She smiled weakly, trying to squeeze his hand but finding even that small expression of her faith in him difficult. Johnny's plan was to put her in the saddle in front of him, so he could hold her with one arm around her, while at the same time grasping the reins with the other hand. That way, she could sleep without fear of tumbling from the horse's back. His main dread was that some even greater danger should befall her before he could get her to a settlement where professional help might be obtained, although he had no idea how he was going to pay for such a service.

After she was settled and sitting comfortably, he swung up behind her. He gave the horse a little thump with his heels, and the mare seemed to grasp the need to move with care. It was getting late when they finally got started, and Johnny was praying they might reach civilization before nightfall. He'd seen what happened when wounds went untended for very long, and the most dreaded of all consequences could create terrible pain and finally death, or amputation.
Gangrene!

He shivered at the thought of Rachael possibly losing an arm simply because he had failed to keep a more watchful eye out for danger. He should have seen that cat creeping up on them. But he hadn't. And now this lovely young girl was in grave danger. If she died, he'd never forgive himself.