Cotton’s Inferno (11 page)

Chapter 20

C
arp Varner had just finished cleaning a Winchester that looked like it had been used for pounding nails when he heard several horses riding past the front of the shop. Glancing out the dust-covered window, he didn't like what he saw. Three riders in long, oilcloth dusters had reined in their horses and were preparing to dismount in front of the saloon. He backed away from the window so they couldn't see him watching if they happened to look his way. The Callahan Brothers—Black Tom, Stretch, and Dal—were well known in Texas, although not likely as far west as Apache Springs. Was it possible they
had
spotted him back in El Paso, after all, and tracked him here? Perhaps he hadn't been as careful as he'd thought. The hair on the back of his neck felt as if it were afire.

He went back to the bench where he was ready to begin cleaning a couple of sadly neglected Colt revolvers, pushed them aside, and leaned on his elbows to ponder what his next move might be. He had found a perfect opportunity in Apache Springs, a way to make money and to ingratiate himself with the citizenry; a distinct advantage for when he decided the time was ripe for cleaning the town out. Another fire kind of appealed to him, but since he'd had no chance to see the sheriff in action, he didn't want to make any move that could get him killed. Biding his time had always been what Carp Varner did best. He was a professional at formulating his attack and then making his move when he had every living soul in town pegged for what he was, either a coward or a good prospect for getting back-shot. That's the kind of philosophy that helped him kill those who might oppose him, scare those who had no spine into staying indoors or getting shot down, and then burn the town with all but no resistance. He'd lived his whole life with but one dictum: strike those who can't strike back. And do it without warning, swiftly, with no remorse or sympathy.

He sat staring straight ahead, mulling over whether to stay put or actually let the Callahans see him by walking into the saloon like he owned the place. His first confrontation with them had not gone well, at least as far as the Callahans were concerned. If there was to be a second, he'd better be prepared. And this time it would be on his terms.

The need to get a grip on his propensity for volatile outbursts in situations where harm could come was one lesson his mother had failed to instill in the self-absorbed Mr. Varner. And so, after due consideration, and since he'd seen the sheriff and his deputy ride out early in the day and not yet return, he decided to wait for the Callahans to make a move. A move in which he figured to play a part beneficial to himself and to the detriment of the Callahans.

* * *

Henry Coyote, the full-blooded Mescalero Apache who worked on the Wagner ranch for Emily Wagner, was keen-eyed and deliberate as he began his search for Pick. Henry's life had been saved some years back when Emily and her husband, Otis, came upon him lying near death at the base of a ravine. They'd taken him to their ranch, where Emily nursed him back to health. Shortly thereafter, Otis Wagner was shot down during a bank robbery by a gang of cutthroats who were in turn killed by Sheriff Burke. Henry's allegiance to Emily had become an unbreakable bond, due in part to her caring for him during his convalescence, but also to the responsibility the sheriff had placed on him for her safe return after she'd been kidnapped and held hostage by the plotters of a fiendish train robbery. Henry had also taken a bullet intended for Emily fired by a crazed killer in the pay of another sworn enemy of Burke. The ties between the three of them were strong. And for that reason, Henry was eager to help the sheriff whenever needed. This was one of those times.

Henry slowly wound his way through the thick brush, approaching Pick Wheeler's former mine. He couldn't quite figure what had made Melody Wakefield, Jack's personal whore, invest her money in a worthless played-out silver mine. Even Henry figured Pick to be a blowhard and a worthless dreamer, whose manifold attempts to find silver or gold had led him to nearly every part of the territory, never with significant success. And now he was missing. That thought didn't sit well with the old Indian. He'd seen several men of Wheeler's ilk, none of whom ever stayed around long enough to make good on their boasts. He was thinking about how far the sheriff wished him to go in search of a man whose character was notably suspect. At that moment, he spotted the tracks of Pick's two animals.

He began his quest by squatting close to the first set of prints, nimbly feeling around the indentations, memorizing any quirk that would set it apart from any other tracks he came across. Other than the fact that the prints of the mule were slightly larger than most horses', he also took note of a series of jagged slices missing around the peripheries, most likely acquired by constant travel over the sharp rocks under heavy loads. Looking back at the mine entrance, Henry also noticed that whatever slag Pick had hauled out had been dumped not far from the mine's opening. That meant one of two things: either Pick was working by himself and was too lazy to haul it farther out of his way, or there was little of significant bulk to bother with. Henry decided it was a puzzle that needed answering before he continued his quest.

When he reached the mine, Henry was instantly aware of Pick's subterfuge. Several yards away from the entrance, behind several large boulders, he found a small number of silver shavings in the soft dirt, along with a discarded rasp. Entering, he struck a lucifer, touched it to the wick of an oil lamp, and started to the back of the tunnel. He quickly discovered that the mine had been almost worked to death years before Pick Wheeler showed up in Apache Springs, with only sporadic evidence of anything more than meager success since then. Cobwebs, mice nests, and rusting cans littered the mine the farther back one went. After about fifty feet and several turns, he found old shovels and picks, rusted and half-buried in dirt where the ceiling had begun to fall from lack of proper shoring.

Some white folks easy to fool
, he thought, leaving the hole in the ground, shaking his head, and starting back downhill to again take up his assigned task. The tracks proved easy to follow. The ground was soft from several rains in the weeks leading up to Pick's disappearance, and the mule's hooves sank deep. He'd gone nearly three miles when he came across the road that led northwest toward Albuquerque. The hoofprints showed where the animals had left the road originally to wander aimlessly back toward the mine.

Mules try to go back to place they know.

As he walked farther along the road, looking side to side in a zigzag pattern, Henry came across another set of prints that seemed to be tracking the mules'.
Other rider catch up to old man
. The prints showed they stopped in the middle of the road for several minutes, possibly to talk. Then the horse and rider turned back toward Apache Springs, while the mules stood around for a while, then wandered off into the brush to find food or water.

Old man must be nearby
.
I sense death.

Within thirty feet of the spot where the two men met, then parted, Henry found Pick Wheeler lying facedown in the dirt with three bullets in him. He'd been back-shot. He appeared to have hung on to the mule's neck for a distance, then fallen from his saddle and crawled off to die. There was no sign of any money on his person. Henry covered the corpse with branches to keep the curious at bay, and then began his sprint back to town. He took a route that, to most men, would have been the most difficult, but to an Apache was the most expeditious. It would be at least a two-hour ride on horseback, but Henry was able to make it in an hour and a half by cutting across slickrock-covered hillsides and cactus– and brush-infested gullies and ravines that horses would have found impossible to traverse.

Chapter 21

J
ohnny was grateful that the night had finally cleared from an early evening wind. The air was calm and he was now able to see a good distance. Too much of their time had been spent fighting dust that swirled around making visibility almost nonexistent. He'd wrapped his scarf around Rachael's face so taking deep breaths came easier for her. He feared she had come close to passing out several times, bringing him to a near panic. After what they'd been through together, he couldn't lose her now, especially not as the result of an attack he carried guilt for not avoiding. When they came to the top of a rise, he spotted dozens of twinkling lights in the middle of a wide valley.
A town, thank heavens we've found a town
, he thought he'd said only in his mind.

“Wh-what did you say, Johnny?”

“I-I guess I was mumbling, Rachael, sorry. I said it looks like there's a town up ahead.” He kicked the horse to a trot.
We should be able to make it in an hour or less. I pray there's a doctor there.

“That's good news, isn't it, Johnny?” Rachael said, barely above a whisper. Her head sank to her chest, and Johnny had to tighten his grip to keep her in the saddle.

“Yes, Rachael, it's very good news. Now we can get you the help you need.”

* * *

It was after dark when they arrived in a tiny little village along a river. That's when it hit Johnny as to where they probably were, in New Mexico Territory. He hadn't known that they'd left Texas some time earlier and now they had fortunately stumbled upon a collection of Mexican adobes. A low wall surrounded the village, which sat on the banks of what he was soon to discover was the Rio Grande, or Rio Bravo, as it was known south of the border with Mexico.

The small collection of oddly shaped buildings had been built around the residents' most treasured structure, the distinctly whitewashed church with a wooden cross over the main door. The only sounds Johnny heard were the barks of stray dogs, the strumming of a guitar, presumably in a cantina somewhere down the wagon-rutted street, and the cry of a small child demanding its dinner. He had no idea how to locate a doctor, so he did the only thing he could think of, he went up to the closest house and knocked on the door.

The door creaked open about two inches and the light of a candle streamed out. He could see the sleepy eyes of an old woman.

“What is it, señor? Can you not see it is late?”

“Yes, ma'am, I know, and I'm sorry to disturb you, but I have a lady with me who has been badly injured and I am seeking help for her. Do you know where I can find a doctor?”

“No. You have arrived in Mesilla, and we are too poor to have a doctor.”

“Where is the nearest help then? I'm desperate.”

“Continue on up the road and cross the Rio Bravo. It is shallow and you'll have no trouble. You will come to Las Cruces, and there you will find a doctor.”

“How far is that, ma'am?”

“Not so far.
Buenas noches, señor
,” the old lady said, closing the door. He heard a wooden bar slip into place
. Probably figures I'll break in and steal her nightcap.

He hurried back to where he'd left Rachael. He took the reins and began leading the animal down the road in the direction the old woman had said. Indeed, he did come to the river where it was shallow and would be an easy forge. He hadn't been paying as much attention as he ought since coming away grumbling to himself about the woman's refusal to help any more than give a vague set of directions. His distraction had left Rachael precariously perched atop the saddle. She was too weak to hang on tightly, and as the horse stepped into a dip in the rushing river, she tumbled from the saddle and fell with a splash into the water.

Johnny sprang into action, releasing the reins and making a dive to grab her before she went under. He took her by the shoulders and lifted her to his chest, as she spluttered from the intake of river water she'd sucked in. Johnny couldn't stop apologizing as he attempted to get her back into the saddle with himself behind her to keep her secure. They were both wringing wet, and with nightfall had come chilly breezes down from the mountains.

If she don't catch her death, more'n anything from my not watchin' her proper, it'll be a plumb miracle. Fact is, that's what I need right about now, a miracle.

The horse sloshed out of the river on the other bank, and to Johnny's surprise, the old woman had been right. Through the trees on the bank, he could see lots of lights and hear the sounds of a town that hadn't shuttered its windows at sunset. He headed for the center of where he figured the most noise was coming from. There before him sprang up a lively community of mixed adobes and wooden false fronts. Mostly the singing and music came from the open doors of several saloons, but his quest to find a doctor was his priority. Suddenly, a man crashed through the glass window of a saloon and landed on the boardwalk. He cursed, struggled to right himself, and staggered back inside, pulling a revolver as he went, only to find himself right back where he started from a couple seconds earlier. Only this time he arrived with a bullet in the chest. Lying in a spreading pool of crimson, he groaned and fell silent as Johnny looked on in shock. A few people drifted through the swinging doors, saw that the man was no longer in need of help, and disappeared back inside, where the revelry once again kicked into high gear.

“I'm goin' to have to leave you for a moment, Rachael. I'm goin' inside to see if I can find out where a doctor lives. Please don't move. Okay?”

“Uh-huh” was all Rachael could manage in the way of a response. Johnny had no idea whether she had heard and understood him or not, but he had no choice. He tied the reins to a rail and bounded up the three steps to the saloon. When he pushed inside, he was nearly knocked down by the smoke and the sickening smells of beer and whiskey that confronted him. Shouts and hoots accompanied the prancing about of scantily clad females. More whores than he knew existed displayed bosoms spilling out of scoop-neck dresses to the delight of all. Girls of all descriptions, sizes, and shapes went from cowboy to miner to merchant in order to secure a paid trip upstairs or to a crib out back for an evening's pleasure.

Johnny approached the barkeep, who busily refilled glasses for a line of cowboys along the bar. When the barkeep asked him what he wanted, Johnny asked where he could find a doctor. The noise was daunting, and he had to strain to hear the answer. Seeing that Johnny couldn't understand him, the bartender pointed to a man in a black coat at a nearby table playing poker with three others. Johnny nodded his thanks and moved to where the man was seated.

“Sir, the barkeep says you are a doctor. Is that correct?”

The man didn't take his eyes off the hand he held.

“Uh-huh. What's your problem, son? You don't appear shot up or nothin'.”

“No, sir. It's a young lady. She was attacked by a catamount and got pretty badly clawed up. Please, sir, we need your help somethin' awful.”

The doctor tossed in a couple chips and said, “I'm in.”

The hand was played before Johnny said another word, but inside he was fuming.
How can a man call himself a doctor when he'd rather play poker than help an injured lady?

Finally, the man scooted his chair back, stood up, and straightened his jacket. “It looks like duty is callin', gents. Don't figure this squirt is goin' to let me play in peace until I have a look at what he brought to town.” He motioned to Johnny to follow him outside. Rachael was still astride the mare, but just barely. She was leaning so far that Johnny had to rush to her aid in sitting up.

“Lead your horse down the street to the house with green shutters. I'll go ahead and set the oil lamps afire.”

“Yessir,” Johnny said, as he untied the horse and led her slowly down the street. He tied up in front of the house with shutters, the only one he saw. He helped Rachael slide off the saddle and carried her onto the porch. At the sound of his boots on the wooden steps, the door swung open and light poured out.

“Set her on the chair next to the table over there, son. And get to unwrapping those strips of bloody cloth.” The doctor rolled up his sleeves and carried a pitcher and a bowl over to the table. He then fetched a handful of metal objects, each one of which appeared to the boy to be potentially lethal. Johnny saw Rachael wince at the sound of them being dropped into a metal dish.

The doctor made several distressing grunts as he raised and lowered his head to first look through the glasses that sat on the end of his nose and then go back to looking over them. He reached for a bottle of clear liquid and picked up a folded piece of white cotton cloth. He poured some liquid on the cloth, hesitated, and said, “This is likely to smart some, miss,” and then he began dabbing at her exposed wounds.

It must have, because Rachael let out a muffled cry as tears rolled down her cheeks. It looked to Johnny like she might just faint at any time. The boy's frightened expression caught the eye of the doctor.

“I'm goin' to give her a spoonful of laudanum to ease the pain as I sew up the two deepest claw marks. The others will heal fine with a little attention at keeping them clean for a couple days so they can scab over. All in all, she's goin' to be fine. If you're travelin', I'd suggest you plan to stay over for a day or two so I can have another look before you leave.”

“We, uh, got no money for a room, sir. Reckon we'd best be gettin' on.”

“Now, son, a hasty move might cause her some grief. This kinda thing shouldn't be brushed aside so easily. I have to assume since you can't afford a room, you can't pay my bill, either. That right?” Johnny nodded. “Tell you what, I think I know a way to get you a place to sleep for a night or two.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The doctor left the room and was gone for several minutes. When he returned, a man with a badge accompanied him.

“There they are, Sheriff. Couple of deadbeats. I think they should rest up in your jail to teach them a lesson. What do you think?”

“Sure, Doc. I'll give them a bed and three meals a day. Just what they need to learn their lesson,” the sheriff snorted. He grinned at the doctor, who returned his expression acknowledging their way on the town's dime to help folks in need. Johnny helped Rachael to her feet, and the two of them followed the sheriff to their place of residence for the next two days.