Cotton’s Inferno (25 page)

Chapter 48

C
arp Varner and Turner Burnside arrived at the rear door of the Butterfield Stage office just ten minutes before the stage was scheduled to leave. Varner paid for a one-way ticket for one, then they walked swiftly past the counter and straight through to the awaiting coach, Varner's stiletto still in Burnside's back. Varner took the suitcases from Burnside and tossed them up top, into the waiting hands of the shotgun guard. He shoved Burnside into the coach, closed the door, and gave the reluctant traveler a bone-chilling glare. Burnside swallowed hard and looked away.

“I hope you have a good trip. Don't
never
come back.” Varner stayed put until the driver snapped the whip and the team of six bolted forward. The coach made a dusty trail as it departed straight out of Apache Springs, bound for Silver City.

Varner hastened back to his shop to further hone the next part of his plan. He had written a note to the sheriff telling him that Burnside had made a decision not to take over his uncle's gunsmith shop. Varner forced a signature from Burnside before leaving the hotel room. Now he had but to deliver the note to the sheriff's office when no one was there. He planned to leave it on the sheriff's desk.

He hadn't seen Burke since the evening before and assumed he'd gone to the Wagner ranch to stay. When Deputy Memphis Jack left the jail to go over to the saloon, that was his signal to drop the fake note off. If all went as he'd hoped, the sheriff would undoubtedly offer him the gunsmith business and all the contents, and there'd be nothing standing between him and his goal of making himself important in the town. That would be right after he won the race for mayor, of course. He figured to be a shoo-in.

A vicious smile crossed his lips as he strolled down the street to the print shop to have some posters printed announcing his upcoming candidacy. Completely unaware of youthful eyes watching his every step, taking care to remain unseen behind some crates stacked in an alleyway.

* * *

When Cotton reached the town limits, he began his scan of every person he saw. He figured the kid shouldn't be hard to spot, even though he'd surely try to make himself less than conspicuous. As the sheriff rode slowly down the street, looking left and right, hoping to catch sight of Johnny coming out of a store, he saw not one glimpse of anyone who could even
pass
for an eighteen-year-old boy. Not unless, that is, the lad had found some women's clothing and been able to struggle into a corset and get someone to cinch him up.

Cotton dismounted in front of the jail, drooped his reins over the rail, and had started inside when he saw Jack coming across the street.

“Didn't expect to see you for another hour or so,” Jack said.

“I'm trying to track down a troublesome young man who seems destined to get himself killed or hanged, one or the other.” Cotton leaned against a post and hung a thumb in his gun belt.

“What's he look like? Maybe I've seen him.”

“Skinny, about what you'd expect from a kid with too little to eat and too much energy to spend. About five-ten, a hundred and twenty pounds, maybe. Brown hair that's too damned long and brown eyes. Likely wearing ratty jeans and a too-big shirt with the sleeves rolled up.”

“Yup. I did see someone like that. Yesterday, if I recall correctly. He was standing at the entrance to the alley by the general store. I asked him if he was lookin' for someone and he said yes. But he never got a chance to tell me who. That young fella Teddy something-or-other yelled at him to get his scrawny ass around to the back and help load some wire.”

“That's the boy I've got to find before he gets himself gunned down. You haven't seen him today, have you?”

“Nope. If I do, what do I do with him?”

“Arrest him.”

“For what?”

“His own safety. Lock his scrawny ass up tight and then hunt me down.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Bet your ass it is. He's lookin' to gun down one of our erstwhile citizens.”

“Now, who'd that be?”

“Carp Varner.”

Jack looked at the sheriff like he'd lost his mind. Cocking his head and narrowing his eyes, he said, “Do you really figure I'll jump over a barrel to save that scoundrel's life?”

“We can't sit by and allow someone to cut him down in the street, can we? No matter what we think of him. Besides, from what I'm gatherin', Varner's damned good with that Schofield. And I don't want to have to bury some snot-nosed kid before he's had a chance at life.”

“All right. I'll do it, but I won't like it,” Jack said.

“I'm not askin' you to like it, just help me save an innocent soul,” Cotton said, standing next to his deputy.

“When do you figure on him gettin' here?”

“I think he's already in town. We just can't see him. He knows I'll stop him if I can, so he'll stay hidden until the right opportunity arises. It could happen anytime. And we need to keep an eye out for Varner, too.”

“What're you gonna be doin' while I'm savin' the world?”

Cotton had started to say something when he looked down the street and saw Mayor Plume headed his way. “Looks like I'm goin' to be busy defendin' some dereliction of duty on my part, sort of a regular occurrence accordin' to him,” Cotton said, pointing to his oncoming and constant adversary.

“I see what you mean. I'd rather not be subject to the talk of a fool. I'll be lookin' around for the boy, and keepin' an eye out for Varner, too,” Jack said, slipping around the corner, availing himself of the short span of time before the mayor got to the jail.

“Mornin', Mayor. You look like a man with somethin' on his mind.”

“Not particularly. Nothing of any real importance anyway. Just thought you'd like some time to think about your predicament. Got any coffee?”

“C'mon in and I'll rustle you up some and you can elaborate on the hidden meanin' to those cryptic words.”

They went inside, and Cotton pulled a clean cup from atop the filing cabinet. He poured a cup full and handed it to the mayor. That's when he noticed the folded paper lying on his desk. He pushed it aside until he was through with the mayor.

“Take a seat and tell me about my ‘predicament,' and what you're
really
here about.” Cotton sipped some of his own half-full cup.

“I been talking to that new gunsmith, and the fact that I think he's figuring on running against you in the election. Reckons he's done the town proud by shooting down those two bank robbers, enough that folk'd be grateful enough for a change in the law.” Plume sipped his coffee, watching the sheriff like a hawk, obviously awaiting some reaction from him.

Cotton didn't even blink. “Well, I must say I've been havin' second thoughts about continuin' to put my life on the line for a bunch of ingrates, as well. I might not even oppose Varner's decision, if, that is, he follows through with what you're suggestin'.”

“Uh, well, I'm not certain it's official.” Plume took another hurried sip from his cup, apparently uncomfortable with the obviousness of his position in the matter.

It was no secret the sheriff and the mayor had seen many differences of opinion during Burke's three years as sheriff. The way Cotton gave Plume a look like he knew exactly where the suggestion that Varner run for sheriff had come from caused the mayor to break out in a sweat.

“Well, I can tell you're a busy man. I'm sure you've got many things need attending to, Sheriff, so I'll be running along.” He pushed himself up from the chair, set the cup on the corner of the desk, and skittered out the door like a mouse discovered in the cupboard.

Cotton's mouth curled into a wry smile.
Just how stupid does that jackass think I am?

Chapter 49

J
ohnny was taking no chances on being seen. He knew that by now the sheriff would probably be out looking for him. In fact, he figured he could already be in town. The sheriff and his deputy both knew Apache Springs from top to bottom. That put him at a disadvantage, but he figured the one thing he had going for him was his youth and resourcefulness. Since he wasn't known by anyone in town, though, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. Staying out of sight would have to be his main objective.

It was only by a stroke of luck that he'd spotted Varner soon after riding in that morning. The man he wanted to see dead in the street had come out of a gunsmith shop and walked to the sheriff's office, then on down the street.
Bold as you please. I'm going to enjoy putting him in the ground, no matter what happens to me afterward.
His plan not yet formed, Johnny began looking for some sort of a pattern to Varner's wanderings about town. How well did he know the sheriff? Did he go to the hotel on a regular basis? Did he have a room there? What was his connection to the gunsmith? The answers to these questions would go a long way toward showing Johnny his best shot at catching the gunslinger off guard—the only way he'd ever get the first shot off. That first pulling of the trigger was essential. Varner wasn't merely one mean, heartless bastard, he was also the fastest shootist Johnny had ever seen, not that he'd actually ever seen a real gunslinger in action. But then, with all the men Varner had gunned down, the man had to be good, didn't he? Johnny tried his best to move from place to place as unobtrusively as possible, using crates and water barrels up and down the alleyways to conceal his presence from townsfolk. He was doing pretty well keeping out of sight of Varner and felt good about his plan to follow the man until he fully understood his daily schedule. That knowledge would undoubtedly reveal the best time and place to confront the killer before plugging him on the spot.

As he watched Varner go into the print shop, he began thinking about Rachael. He couldn't put his finger on why at that particular moment she'd popped into his head, but he was both delighted at the pleasant thoughts she brought to mind and fearful that after his dealing with Varner, he might never see her again, especially if he was caught and hanged for murder. He shuddered at the thought.

* * *

Cotton drank the last of the coffee and strolled outside. He stretched, glancing up and down the street. He decided it was as good a time as any to get down to business with Turner Burnside. He had a lot on his mind what with Burnside, Johnny Monk, and Varner himself all knotting up his stomach, as he headed for the hotel. When he got there, the clerk was sweeping the lobby floor.

“G'mornin', Sheriff. What brings you down here? I think the restaurant has closed off the breakfast menu. Be ready for lunch in about an hour, though.”

“Naw, thanks anyway. I'm needin' to have some words with Mr. Burnside. He in his room?”

“Why, uh, no sir. I saw him get on the early stage. Been gone for over two hours.”

“Uh, I don't suppose you know where he was headed, do you?”

“Nope. But the stage he took was going to Silver City.”

“Thanks,” Cotton said, turning on his heel and breezing past the clerk. He made tracks out into the street and straight for his office. That's when he remembered the paper he'd pushed aside. He opened it, quickly scanned the contents, and slammed his fist on the desk. He dropped the paper back on the desk. Pensive for a moment, he got to thinking a trip to the telegraph office was his best move. He ran out of the jail, quickening his steps, glancing about in hopes of seeing Jack wandering the town.

When he got to the telegraph office, a tiny wooden structure squeezed between a ladies' apparel shop and the general store, he found the telegrapher busy tapping away at the key. The man didn't acknowledge the sheriff's presence until he had completed whatever message he'd been sending. When he finally looked up, pushing back in his chair, Cotton had already scribbled out the message he wanted sent. He handed it across the counter. In bold letters at the top, he'd written:
SEND IMMEDIATELY.
The man read it, nodded, and commenced to stroke the key once more, responding to the importance placed on the message.

It was intended for Town Marshal Bear Hollow Wilson in Silver City. It asked if he'd meet the stage and take Turner Burnside off. He requested the man be put on the first stage back to Apache Springs. It said a deputy would meet the stage on its return to ensure his safety.

* * *

Out behind a store, Johnny had scooted down behind a short fence meant to keep stray animals out of the garbage. He had seen Varner going about town as if he was just another businessman. Johnny saw him as a craven killer and nothing more. Johnny picked up with his following and surveillance. He thought it strange when Varner returned to the gunsmith shop.

What could he be doin' goin' in and out of that place? It don't make sense.

He decided to find his way to the back of the shop in order to get a better view of the goings-on inside. When he identified the back of the shop, he was pleased to see it had a small window right next to the rear door. He approached the window slowly and cautiously, stooped over so as not to be seen by anyone inside. He glanced around often, hoping no one would suddenly emerge from one of the other stores and discover him sneaking about. When he got to the window, he rose up very slowly until he had a good view of whoever was inside. He was surprised to see no one but Varner, and he was seated at a workbench. Johnny scrunched up his nose, trying to conjure up what could have happened to the gunsmith. Then it hit him.

Damn! He's the gunsmith. How'd he do that? I remember he'd worked on some firearms for folks back in Whiskey Crossing, but I don't recall him sayin' he was an actual gunsmith.

Staying low, Johnny shuffled down the alleyway toward the back of the livery. He needed to be by himself to do some thinking. And planning. And he hoped to do that before he starved to death. The memory of his last meal at the Wagner ranch caused his stomach to growl. The more he turned things over and over in his mind, the more he wished he'd just let the sheriff take care of Varner.

* * *

When Cotton walked into the jail, he found Jack reading the paper he'd dropped when he went to the telegraph office.

“Whatcha got there, Jack? A bill for Melody's services?” Cotton asked, with a smirk.

“Not quite. I just got back and this here is a note I found lyin' on the desk. It says Turner Burnside decided
against
bein' the gunsmith. Says he's turnin' it over to Carp Varner, lock, stock, and barrel. Says he's goin' back to Mobile, where he came from.”

“Yeah, I know. Already read it.” Cotton walked to the window, after taking the note from Jack and wadding it up. After a few seconds, he turned back to Jack. “I reckon you know it's a fake, don't you?”

“How do you know that?”

“Burnside never lived in Mobile. And I'm pretty sure I know what caused him to leave town.”