Cotton’s Inferno (26 page)

Chapter 50

W
hat're you sayin'?”

“Someone forced him to write this note.”

“How do you know?”

“Turner is spelled with an ‘e', not an ‘o.'”

“Why would they do that?”

“Isn't it obvious? Carp Varner must have kidnapped Burnside, forced him to leave town, and this note would appear to give him clear title to the gunsmithing business. I reckon I should have listened more carefully to that kid out at Emily's place. Now he's probably here in town just waiting for the opportunity to smoke Varner. After hearing his story, I can't say I blame him.”

“Then I better get back out there and find him. You got any idea where I should start?” Jack asked.

“He's bound to be tryin' to stay outta sight. The back alleys are where I'd start.”

“All right.” Jack took his rifle and started out the door. “Where will you be if I should find him?”

“Bring him back here, but keep it hushed up. Don't make a ruckus. I'm goin' to have a little visit with Varner.”

“What're you gonna say to him?”

“Not certain, just yet. I'll come up with somethin' that'll be sure to startle the son of a rattler, though. Oh, I sent a telegram to Marshal Wilson in Silver City to put Burnside right back on the next stage for Apache Springs. Said to tell him you'd meet the stage when it arrives. Supposed to get in here at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“What'll I do with him?”

“Take him to the hotel but keep a lookout for Varner. Tell Burnside I'll be by to figure somethin' out.”

“That ought to toss another pig in the bag. You gonna let Varner know what you've done?”

“Better to keep him guessin'.”

As Jack left chuckling, Cotton took the note, smoothed it out on the desk, and refolded it. He jammed it in his shirt pocket and started down the street for the gunsmith's shop. On his way, he kept an eye out for Johnny, but saw neither hide nor hair of the young man. He hadn't really thought he would. But he knew one thing: if that boy was telling the truth, they were both dealing with a dangerously deranged animal without a conscience. That put things in a different perspective.

Varner was leaning back in a swivel chair with his feet on the desk, drinking from a whiskey bottle. He barely moved at the sound of the door opening when Cotton entered. His words were slurred, his mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk.
He must think he has me over a barrel
, thought Cotton.

“Ahh, Sh-Sheriff. I'll bet you got the note young Burns . . . Burnside left for you. Quite a surprise, eh? It was to me, too, ya know. But at least the whole things sh-s-settled and we can both move on,” Varner said, slurring his words.

“Uh-huh. Yep it was a surprise. Kinda tough to take when a man gives his word then suddenly goes back on it. Whole thing makes you wonder if there wasn't some dirty doin's.”

“D-dirty doin's? Why, Sheriff, I hope you don't think I'd have anything to do with Burnside's changing his mind. After all, he's a grown man and able to make his own decisions.” Varner put the bottle on the desk and sat up straight. His Schofield lay not fifteen inches from his reach. He eyed it. Cotton took notice but didn't let on.

“Yeah, I reckon you're right. Well, I sure do hope you're up to all the work that'll likely come pourin' in here once folks know for sure we got ourselves a steady gunsmith.” Cotton touched a finger to his Stetson, then turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. There's a rumor goin' around that you might be interested in runnin' for sheriff.”

Varner looked startled. “Runnin' for sheriff? Ha! Not on your life. I'm not interested in always lookin' over my shoulder to spot the next crazy hombre thinkin' to plug me.”

“So you aren't runnin' for office?”

“I didn't say that. I
am
puttin' my name in the hat, just not for sheriff.”

“What, then?”

“Why the job that'll give me the power to influence the decision makin'.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Yep. I'm runnin' for mayor. Posters will start goin' up tomorrow.” Varner leaned back with a pleased gleam in his eye. Cotton nearly burst out laughing as he walked away.

* * *

On his way back to the jail, Cotton couldn't help being amused at the thought of Carp Varner as mayor. Although, if Carp was that delusional, the sheriff didn't see any harm in encouraging him just a bit. After all the grief Mayor Plume had given Cotton over the years with his arrogance and complete lack of concern for the citizenry, he figured a little fear might do the current mayor some good. Time to let the cat out of the bag.

He altered his course and made a beeline for Mayor Plume's office. When he entered, the mayor was sound asleep with his feet on his desk, leaning back in a swivel chair that, by the looks of it, could at any moment topple over backward. The sight gave Cotton pause. The information he carried would probably be enough to send the portly mayor into a dither anyway, and he didn't want to compound the potential for a heart attack, so instead of completing a very noisy entrance, he quietly took a seat on an overstuffed chair usually delegated for honored guests. Cotton was pretty sure Plume didn't consider him to be one of those. Nevertheless, the sheriff eased into the comfortable seat, leaned on the plush arm, and let his mind wander as he awaited the arrival of the mayor back to the land of the wide awake.

Any possibility of a lengthy wait was cut short when Cotton sneezed from the lack of any sort of housekeeping in Plume's office. The noise brought the surprised mayor to an upright position and on alert.

“Oh, it's, uh, you, Sheriff. I was just resting my eyes for a moment. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. I just dropped by to see how your campaign was progressin',” Cotton said.

“Why, er, just fine. Strange you should ask.”

“Not really. I figure it's a sheriff's duty to be interested in the health and welfare of the town's elected.”

“Uh,
my
health and welfare?”

“One never knows how someone will react to news of an unexpected opponent in an upcoming election.”

“Opponent? For mayor? Is this a joke? What fool would do something so idiotic as to run against me?”

“Carp Varner,” Cotton said with a wry smile.

It was all Cotton could do to keep a straight face at the mayor's reaction to his revelation.

Chapter 51

C
arp Varner leaned back in his only chair, fingers interlaced behind his head, leaning against the wall. He'd just picked up his posters, the ones proclaiming his candidacy for mayor. He was already making plans for how he'd run his campaign. He wouldn't make the same mistake he'd made in Whiskey Crossing. There, he'd been warned not to run because most of the town was either a relative or beholden to their inept mayor. He should have seen it coming. In retrospect, if he'd gone from person to person, sticking his Schofield under their noses, maybe they'd have gotten the picture and voted him into office. Maybe.

This time, he'd be damned sure that every citizen knew who he was and what he intended to do. First off, he'd be reminding everyone that it was him that took down two of the Callahans. With the sheriff grabbing the third brother, they'd cleaned out the entire gang. He'd be certain to tell that story over and over. A story well worth repeating. Why, he could appeal to their expectations that with a team like Varner and Burke watching over the community, things would be quiet, a sure way to attract new business to the area.

When he thought back to his Whiskey Crossing days and the failed election, he also began to think about what he might do if the good citizenry of Apache Springs failed to elect him. That would be a major mistake on their part. His thoughts took a turn to the dark side as he began to conjure a plan to burn Apache Springs to the ground the same way he did Whiskey Crossing. Of course, the vast difference in size presented a circumstance he might not be able to overcome using the same technique. This would take more careful planning. And since the election wouldn't be held for another couple days, there was no point in spending his vast intellectual resources on planning retribution when he could be thinking about the many attributes he could bring to leading a community this size. Not to mention the customers who would naturally flock to his gunsmith shop. People just naturally liked doing business with important folks.

He was smiling to himself in his enjoyable reverie as to his increasing success, when another dark thought crept across his manic mind. The one thing he'd brushed off as inconsequential had slipped back into his mental meanderings, as a vivid and unsettling scene. That wavering column of smoke he'd noticed as he rode away still haunted his imagination. Could there have actually been a lone soul who escaped the inferno, the death trap he'd created with coal-oil lamps and bullets?

No! Absolutely not.
I killed them all, every damned one of those fools who'd not voted for me.
The mayor, bartender, liveryman, the nosy old lady and her husband at the general store, the one whore who'd been trapped in a windowless back room along with her hapless customer—all disposed of most efficiently.
He could conjure up no other person who hadn't either died in the flames or been the victim of his deadly aim. Not one. That's when it hit him.

Where was that kid that swept up the saloon? I don't remember seeing him that whole day. Damn! He must have been down the hill with his wheelbarrow dumping the manure from the livery. What if he survived and he's the only living soul who knows what I did?

That sudden speculation tied a knot in his stomach and sent his imagination soaring.
What the hell happened to that kid? Where did he go? He had no horse, and no one else's could have survived. I made certain of that. There was absolutely nothing he could have used to get away from Whiskey Crossing except his own two feet. And who the hell is going to walk three hundred miles over mountains and through desert scrub? Why hell, there's all manner of dangers out there to make a man rethink the advisability off such an adventure, and most of them lethal. And how could he ever find me anyhow? This is crazy. He'll have me looking under every rock and around every corner.

He sat up and reached into the desk drawer for what was left of a bottle of whiskey, which, by its foul taste, had made him certain it was cut with turpentine and creek water. He pulled the cork and took a swig anyway. He needed the comfort of the euphoria he got from drinking to escape his own shadowy demons.

* * *

Cotton returned to the jail to find Henry Coyote squatting on the floor, leaning against the desk. The sheriff squinted in the dim light after coming in from a bright sun. He took off his Stetson and hung it on a peg. He stood looking down at the placid Indian with a questioning curl to his lips.

“If I had to guess why you're here, Henry, I'd say Emily sent you to find Johnny. Am I on the right trail?”

“She say more eyes needed to locate young fool. Bring back to ranch.”

“She's right as usual. In fact, since you're here, I'll turn the search over to you.
But
, when you find him, I would rather you merely keep watch over him and keep him from doing something he'll regret, instead of taking him back to the ranch. Report to me when you find him, then we'll decide what to do with him. He could be helpful. Jack's out looking for him, as well. If you see him, tell him what I've told you.”

Henry sprang to his feet with an agility few men half his age could demonstrate and strolled out the door, quickly disappearing alongside the building and down the back alley. Since he'd been told of Johnny's mission to make Carp Varner pay for his murderous ways, the obvious place to start his search would be the gunsmith shop. As he slipped through the alley, down past the hotel, and across the street to the empty lot behind Varner's place of business, he ducked behind a water trough when someone came out or a rear door and threw a pan of table scraps out. When the person went back inside, Henry edged closer to where he figured Johnny would have visited once he figured out what his prey did for a living.

Numerous boot prints in the dust were undeniably those of the young man bent on revenge. Smooth soles, worn nearly through by his years without a horse of his own for transportation, and low heels, scuffed and leaning from an irregular stride. He'd seen those same prints at the ranch. They would be easy to backtrack. He kept a keen lookout for any sign of the boy as he returned again and again. It took Henry mere minutes to determine the direction where the prints originated and returned to: the livery. Henry sought out a comfortable place hidden in the shadows of a rear-facing overhang behind the millinery shop, to watch and wait. He shrugged in behind a rain barrel and the whipsaw siding of the tiny building. It was nearly an hour before Johnny emerged from a side door to the livery. He looked around to make sure he wasn't seen, then, brushing off pieces of straw from his shirt and pants, he slipped into a side alley and headed for the hotel. His behavior and actions told Henry much about where the boy was planning to sleep. He'd obviously already spent time in the second-story loft where hay and straw were stored.

Henry followed, taking his own special precautions against being seen. There wasn't a person on earth who could spot the wily old Indian if he didn't want to have eyes set on him. And this was just such a case. Johnny's footsteps led once again to the back of the gunsmith shop, where he stood on his toes to peer in through the tiny rear window. Henry watched from a safe distance, close enough to come to the rescue if necessary, but far enough away to avoid discovery.