Cotton’s Inferno (2 page)

Chapter 2

C
otton, you been staring out that window for a half hour. What's eating at you?” Emily Wagner said. She placed a steaming cup of Arbuckles' coffee on the small table beside him. “Drink this. It's freshly brewed. Might help cure whatever's ailing you.”

“It's nothin', Emily. Just got a head full of feathers this mornin'. Must be the election comin' up next month. Got a bad feelin'. I'm not sure just how the wind might blow this time, even though so far no one has decided to run against me. If some hotshot jumps in, I could end up comin' out here to work for you after all.” The Apache Springs sheriff lifted the cup, careful not to spill a drop on Emily's just polished floor. He took a cautious sip, fully aware that Emily Wagner tended to serve her coffee almost at a boil.

“Oh, don't be silly, Cotton. If it hadn't been for you, this town would likely have dried up and blown away. Why, there've been enough gunslingers through here to start their own regiment. Shucks. There's not a chance of you losing even one vote.”

“Most of those gunslingers were here because they were
lookin'
for me. They likely wouldn't have dropped by if I hadn't been here.”

“Yeah, well you
were
here, weren't you? You can't tell me that Virgil Cruz and his gang wouldn't have still had their eyes on that gold shipment, whether you were here or not,” she said, crossing her arms and looking disgusted.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Well,
Cotton Burke
, you can just stop moping around here and either get yourself off to that jail of yours or help some of my boys put up the rest of the fence back of the barn. Take your pick. I have too much work to do to sit around trying to cheer you up.” Her faux outburst got Cotton so tickled he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her just to keep her quiet.

Still grinning from ear to ear, he picked up his hat and gun belt and marched out the door, whistling as he went. He could feel his quickened heartbeat as the door squeaked shut.

* * *

When he got to town, Memphis Jack Stump, Cotton's deputy, was sweeping dirt off the boardwalk in front of the jail. Jack stopped, leaned on the broom, and gave Cotton a cynical look as the sheriff stepped up the single step.

“Nice to see my deputy accepting some of the domestic duties hereabouts,” Cotton said, with a sly grin.

“Don't get
too
used to it, Sheriff. It blew so hard last night that dirt was piled around the door, keepin' me from gettin' inside to make myself some coffee.” Jack followed Cotton inside and leaned the broom against the back wall. He then stuck some paper and a few sticks of split wood inside the stove and lit a lucifer to the paper. “What made you decide to leave that comfy bed out at the Wagner place? You know, I do understand why you don't like it that you got nothin' warm to snuggle up to in that squalid little dump of yours down the street,” Jack said, sniping.

“Yeah, well it
is
startin' to get nippy at night. But I figured it'd be best if I'm close-by to give you a hand keepin' the town safe from all the riffraff. Couldn't take the chance we'd get a sudden blizzard come roarin' through that'd strand me with nothin' to do but watch cowboys makin' tracks in the snow.”

“I reckon it
is
that time of year when you never know what you're gonna wake up to.”

“Anything happenin' that I should be aware of?” Cotton asked.

“Not unless you figure old Pete Baker gettin' a snootful and fallin' off the porch at the saloon is newsworthy. Broke his arm. I'd have sent a rider out with the news if I'd thought you'd find the incident all that interesting,” Jack said with a grunt.

“Reckon not. Although, if you happen to fall down and break somethin'
other
than your fool neck, better get word to me. I might just find
that
interestin'.”

* * *

A scrawny young man stared forlornly at the scene before him, shaking his head. He stood at the edge of the still smoking ashes of what
had been
Whiskey Crossing. His state of mind was unmistakable. Tears ran down his sooty cheeks as he choked back sobs. Wisps of smoke from dying embers curled around him. He felt a pang of guilt for not being among the dead.
I should have been here to try my best to put a stop to what that bastard did.
Johnny had been just over the ridge after hauling a load of manure from the livery in the little pushcart designed for just that purpose. It was one of his daily chores that paid for his keep. When he'd heard the gunfire and the screams, he rushed to the top of the rise and peered over. That's when he saw Carp Varner whipping his horse to a run, firing his gun in the air and laughing uproariously. Johnny raced down the hill waving his fist, cursing as he watched helplessly while Varner escaped the conflagration he'd created.

The young man shook his fist as he shouted, “The devil's comin' for you, you bastard! And I'll be the instrument of retribution! So help me, I will.”

Kicking aside smoking beams and pieces of tin siding, clumps of adobe and blackened shards of glass, he searched for whatever might be sufficiently salvageable to outfit him as he set out to trail the man who'd killed every last one of the town's citizens, the only family he had. He started his search where he remembered the cash drawer had been located beneath the bar at the saloon. He figured gold and silver coins might have survived the fire. To his surprise, the tin box had melted into a solid mass from the intense heat and was unrecognizable as to its purpose. Try as he might to salvage its contents—if anything remotely resembling coins remained at the core of that molten mass—he knew it would be useless as money. Barely into his manhood, eighteen-year-old Johnny Monk could only hang his head and weep.

* * *

Johnny spent most of the remaining daylight trying to gather anything he could find that might be of use. He was, by his own count, the only thing that drew a breath left living in that godforsaken pile of debris. Not a horse, mule, or donkey to use for transportation. Every man and woman now nothing more than charred cinders. He couldn't even bring himself to dig any graves, partly because the only shovel he found had the handle burned to charcoal, and also because he was too choked up to even look upon such a grisly sight.

He did find two scorched whiskey bottles at the bottom of a blackened heap. He poured out the contents and filled both with water from the nearby stream. With no more than the clothes on his back, his water, and the gun he had thankfully strapped on before hauling the manure,
and
before all hell broke loose, Johnny started off in the direction Carp Varner had taken. A bright red bandana was the last thing he'd seen as Varner disappeared over the western hills. He knew little of the country hereabouts, but he wasn't reluctant to travel at night. Since the weather had yet to turn too cold, he figured to make good time for a boy on foot. With seemingly endless energy, his strides were long and purposeful. He had no illusions about catching Varner on foot, but he hoped to come across a ranch soon. Maybe he could work out a deal to trade a few days' labor for an old nag. It was a long shot, but regrettably the only choice he had.

When he reached the top of the rise over which he'd seen the last of Varner, he could make out only a faint trail in the distance, and was nearly overwhelmed by the enormity of the landscape, and the task, that lay before him. In the light of a full moon, the desert created surreal and frightening images; that strange, bright heavenly illumination cast jagged shadows from jutting rock formations, trees, and shrubs. His trek would take him farther away than he'd ever been from the town that adopted him when his father died soon after reaching it. The pain of that day was so firmly etched in his mind he shuddered at the remembrance.

Since there had been no real doctor within a two-day ride, Johnny's father had had little chance of survival after being bitten by a rattlesnake as he walked through the brush alongside his horse. Johnny—having barely reached fourteen at the time—was left to fend for himself among strangers; his mother had died of a fever soon after they began their journey west. Now here he was, a teenaged boy with the weight of the world bearing down on him and a grating hatred growing in his heart.

An easygoing lad, Johnny had found Whiskey Crossing an acceptable place to live until something better came along, which he figured to happen by the time he reached nineteen. But then, opportunities in that part of western Texas were few and far between. And now, broke and unprepared for whatever the fates had in store for him, Johnny Monk would have to seek out his own salvation while dogging a vicious killer, and while bent on but one objective: revenge. It was an emotion with which he had experience, even at his tender age.

Chapter 3

C
arp Varner rode west at a good clip, reaching El Paso three days later. He'd pushed hard and his horse had been nearly ridden into the ground. He reined in in front of the corral at the livery, his mount heaving. Carp slid from the saddle as dust swirled around him. He watched a man come toward him. Taking note of the well-lathered horse, the man gave Carp a look that suggested he had little regard for anyone who'd treat a good piece of horseflesh that way. Varner ignored the man's snide look and draped the reins over a rail.

“You work here, old man?”

“Own the place.”

“Good. Take care of my horse. Feed, water, and give 'er a rubdown. I'll be back in the morning,” Carp said, tossing the man a greenback, which fluttered to the dirt. The man bent over with a groan, whisked the money into his pocket, and led the horse inside the barn, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Yessir, your lordship.” Carp ignored the comment and made a hasty retreat to the nearest watering hole, a place called “El Paso Rose's.”

He strode up to the bar, keeping a wary eye out for anyone who might recognize him from the last time he'd been through. Carp had made a habit of leaving evidence of his nasty temper all over Texas, most of it residing in cemeteries. The saloon was pretty crowded, but the only people he recognized were three men at a table already in their cups. All three weaved back and forth just trying to remain upright and not crash to the floor. He knew them to be nasty characters, although not all that fast with a gun. Certainly not in his league. The boys were brothers, the Callahan Brothers. One was a killer of sorts, the others just hangers-on. They were wanted in a couple of the smaller towns for robbery.

Carp eased up to the bar and ordered a whiskey, keeping his back to the Callahans to keep from being recognized. If they didn't see him, there'd be no trouble. Once, when they'd crossed paths in Amarillo, he'd had to club the older brother, Black Tom, over the head with his gun butt. Tom went down in the dirt, moaning and groaning, while Carp made off with his saddlebags, which contained the brothers' take from a recent stage robbery. Another brother spotted him and took a shot at him, but his aim was poor in the dimming light of evening and the bullet merely grazed his arm. Carp beat a quick retreat out of town in a cloud of dust, while the Callahans tried their best to follow. He lost them within a few miles and hadn't seen anything of them since. He wasn't looking forward to getting reacquainted, either, although he knew he could cut all three of them down before they could clear leather. Right now, he needed to rest up from his recent hasty retreat from the devastation he'd wrought in Whiskey Crossing. He figured there'd be no one alive to tie him into that burned out pile of debris.
But
,
lying low as best I can seems my best option, for the time being, at least.

“Where's a good place to rest up for the night?” he asked the bartender.

“We got three rooms upstairs. Only one's occupied at the moment. Six bits for a bed and breakfast.”

“I'll take it,” Carp said, as he tossed the coins on the bar. The bartender handed him a key and pointed upstairs.

“Second room on the right.”

Carp wound his way through the room full of cowboys, made his way up the stairway unseen by the Callahans, opened the door to his room, and tossed his saddlebags on the floor next to the narrow, iron bed. The mattress, such as it was, had rips and tears at one end where cowboys had failed to take off their spurs, chewing up the linen covering and spilling wads of cotton batting like confetti. He was too tired to care. He dropped onto the squeaky bed and drifted off in no time.

* * *

The next morning, he went downstairs for the breakfast he'd paid for. When he got to the bar, all that was left was some pickled eggs and three pieces of dry bread. The only piece of thinly sliced beef was lying on a plate already covered with flies. He pounded the bar to get someone's attention. No one came, and the saloon was devoid of other customers. He reached into the jar and scooped up a couple eggs and went outside. He plopped down in a chair. The town was just waking up, with freight wagons and buckboards rolling slowly up and down the street. Two men on horseback paid him no mind as they drifted by, both wearing badges.

Still hungry, Carp got up and followed the wooden walkway to find a restaurant. Half a block was all it took before he came upon a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place that advertised tortillas with frijoles and rice for ten cents. He went inside. A short, hefty lady came to his table and asked if he'd like coffee. He said yes and decided to order his frijoles with jalapeños, which, it turned out, were plentiful, spicy, and hot enough to take the skin off a man's lips. He ate them anyway, washing them down with generous gulps of coffee to quell the possibility of a blistered throat. After breakfast, he wandered down the street, looking in a few shop windows, before going after his horse. He had no intention of lingering too long
anyplace
in Texas, especially anyplace that endured the likes of the brothers Callahan.

As he was about to cross the street to the livery and corral, he failed to notice a large man stepping out of the bank. They collided, with the result being that the other man lost his balance, dropping a leather bag and spilling several gold coins onto the boardwalk. The man was furious as he caught himself before falling into the street. He got up, red-faced and sputtering. He took one look at Varner and spewed out a string of curses at the same time he was reaching for his revolver. Varner didn't flinch, drawing and firing in an instant. The man flopped off the boardwalk and groaned. Lying in the dirt, the man twitched once more before lapsing into unconsciousness and dying as the dust settled.

Seeing the scattered coins and the leather bag the man had dropped, Carp hastily grabbed the bag and what coins he could and made a run for the livery. He tossed some coins at the owner, quickly saddled his mount and sped off north across the border into New Mexico Territory, his intended destination before he'd decided to stop overnight in El Paso.

* * *

Coming to a tiny trickle of a stream about five miles out of town, Varner found refuge in a tangle of shrubs and scrub trees. He needed to let his horse rest before proceeding on. He also needed to see if he could spot any posse that might be following him. He climbed to the top of a rugged escarpment and cupped his hand over his eyes to shade them. He wiped his brow free of dirty perspiration with his shirtsleeve. The day was clear and bright, making it easy to see any dust that might be rising from anyone hot on his trail. To his amazement, he saw nothing. Not a hint of pursuers.

He slipped and slid back down to where his horse was nibbling at mounds of short grasses gathered around the bases of some scraggly cottonwoods. He would need water before he started off across the wasteland that lay ahead. The measly stream was too dirty and too shallow to even reach the lip of his canteen. He'd been lucky that no posse was on his trail, but he began to wonder if it was because they knew something he didn't. Maybe the direction he was headed, straight into a blazing desert, could turn out to be what cost him his life, especially if he didn't locate water soon. Scanning the horizon, he looked down on what looked like a thin ribbon of trees wandering through the desert.

If there are trees growing in a row, they must be following a stream or river. I think I'd better do the same.

Mounting up, he decided a change of course would be to his advantage. Heading down out of the mountains, he rode for about an hour before coming upon a wide but shallow river where the water was plentiful and cool. But that joyful revelation wasn't the only surprise that greeted him as he walked his horse into the rushing waters. Four riders sat watching him from the far bank. All well armed and all grinning. They wore sombreros with bandoliers across their chests, loaded with cartridges.

Damn! I was sure as hell right about a posse! But why aren't they coming after me?

That's when it hit him. The riders were Mexicans guarding their own turf from northern intrusion, probably because of all the cross-border cattle rustling that had been going on. Carp tossed the riders a salute and rode off to the north, following what he now figured to be the Rio Grande. He looked back several times to make certain his assumption had been correct. It had.

If I follow this river far enough, it ought to lead me straight to Las Cruces. A good place to rest up, especially since no one there knows me.