Cotton’s Inferno (27 page)

Chapter 52

A
s posters announcing Carp Varner's candidacy for mayor started appearing in store windows, tacked to trees, and pasted on the sides of everything from watering troughs to outhouses, interest in the upcoming election began to pick up. Carp stood out front of his little shop, thumbs stuck through his suspenders, grinning from ear to ear and beaming with pride at all those who passed by, giving each a courteous “Howdy do. Hope you'll give me your vote.”

Watching the gunsmith's antics from the front window of his own office, Mayor Plume was furious, while finding it necessary to keep his dissatisfaction over the latest turn of events to himself, lest he turn those he expected to cast their votes on his behalf into ballot changers. He'd spent too many years forging a solid place in the community to shoot himself in the foot now. He'd play it very smart and act as if having an opponent was the very thing the town needed to keep things on the up-and-up. While the very thought nearly tore a gaping hole in his innards, he was smart enough to know that folks could spot a phony, and he daren't risk any behavior that might suggest he was such a man.

Perhaps it's time to go to Melody's and get chummy with some of those filthy cowpokes, as much as I hate the thought of rubbing elbows with men who only bathe when the moon is full or they're forced by circumstance to keep company with an honest-to-goodness “lady,” rather than one of Melody's “shady girls,” no matter how briefly.
And so he wandered down the boardwalk, tipping his hat to the ladies and nodding to the gents as he passed by shop after shop. When he pushed through the double doors to the saloon, he was immediately hit with the stench of stale whiskey, cigar smoke, and spilled beer. It gagged him. He seldom ever set foot inside the place and hated it when he found it necessary to do so.

“This is a rare pleasure, Mr. Mayor,” Arlo said, from behind the polished bar. “What brings you to the seedy part of town?”

“I'm, uh, looking to shake a few hands and maybe get a few opinions from folks as to what they might be expecting from my next term in office. Just a friendly visit.”

Arlo looked around. and seeing only a few cowboys, each too busy trying to end up on the winning end of a hand to notice the mayor's arrival, he shook his head.

“You're sure welcome to move about and start up any conversation you'd like, but, frankly, I don't see many men in here who'll give a hoot what you do. They seem pretty satisfied with the way things are, or they live outside the town's limits and can't vote for the mayor anyway.” Arlo gave Plume a weak smile. The mayor seemed somewhat disillusioned by his frankness and the low prospects of achieving his intended goal of getting folks in that place solidly behind him.

After a few minutes of scanning the faces he saw, the mayor sauntered back outside to clear his lungs of whatever poisons hung in the stale air like fog. He coughed a couple times, gave a sigh, and walked across the street to return to his office by a slightly different route, thus offering the possibility of greeting anyone he hadn't seen on his way down. Captured by the inviting smells emanating from the hotel restaurant, he darted inside for coffee and pie. He figured there might be a customer or two who wouldn't mind talking politics over lunch. At least, that was his hope.

* * *

“Know where boy stay and where he go. What you want do?” Henry asked the sheriff.

“Where is he right now?”

“Went back to livery. He sleep in loft. He wait for something.”

While Cotton puzzled out his next move, Henry grabbed a cup from atop the cabinet and walked to the stove, where he poured himself some coffee. Sitting across from the sheriff, he drank and stared, awaiting some response. He knew it was futile to rush a decision from a man like Cotton Burke, an enduring, deep-thinking man of great inner strength. At least that was Henry's impression.

“If it looks like he's decided when and where he's goin' to take his revenge, stop him. Bring him here even if you have to do it at gunpoint. If there's no one here, lock him up. I can only hope he waits until after the election, so there'll be fewer people in town to catch a stray bullet if he decides to make his play. I hate to lock him up for what I think he might do, but it's the only way I know to save his life.”

“Why you wait to bring him here?” Henry asked.

“Kinda wonderin' about that myself,” Jack said, as he walked in on the last few words of the conversation.

“Uh, Jack, do you even know what we're talkin' about?”

“Somethin' about the election I gather. Leastways that seemed to be the gist of the conversation.”

“Uh-huh. You got part of it right anyway.”

“You gonna fill me in on the other part?” Jack said, plopping into the sheriff's desk chair. Cotton gave him a scowl and rolled his eyes.

“No, but I do have a job for you. It will require you gettin' the hell out of my chair. And Henry, you go ahead with your part of the plan. Oh, and go tell the lady at the hotel restaurant to get you somethin' to eat. Tell her to put it on my bill. She'll understand.”

Henry left immediately at the suggestion of food.

* * *

“So, what's this job you want me to do?” Jack asked.

“I reckon I'm messin' in somethin' that isn't rightly my business, but if what Johnny claims is true about Carp Varner, I can't take any chance that he could actually win the election for mayor.”

“I agree, but you can't be stickin' your nose in where it doesn't belong. Besides, you're up for re-election at the same time, and that probably makes whatever it is you're thinkin' illegal, as well.” Jack raised an eyebrow to emphasize his questioning stare. “Even if you got no opponent in the race.”

“You'd be right if I
was
gettin' involved, but I'm not.”

“Sounds to me like you are.”

“Nope, not me. You!”

“Me? What the hell can I do?”

“Spread a rumor.”

Jack looked at Cotton like he'd lost his mind. “Rumor about what?”

“Not what, who. I want you to casually drop by the barbershop, livery, general store, hotel, and especially Melody's place, anywhere that people can be counted on to help spread the rumor. Start up a conversation about the election. Tell anyone who seems interested that there's a man in town who swears he personally witnessed Carp Varner setting fire to an entire town and killing every one of its inhabitants. Then drop a hint that it was likely because he lost his election for mayor. Maybe even suggest that the same circumstance might happen here.”

“Whoa, pardner. Words like that could get a man shot.”

“I'm countin' on it. Just be especially watchful of your back.”

“You know the spot you're puttin' me in, don't you?” Jack showed no inclination to find the request amusing.

“I figure it's the best way to draw the man out, show just what sort he really is. If Johnny isn't one powerful blowhard, and what he's said is factual, it could be the best way to get Varner to jump at the bait and show himself for what he is. First, he'll probably try to find out who it is that's makin' the claim against him. Then he'll try to silence him. That's when we move in and nail the bastard. Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it. I'm just not certain I like bein' the bait, that's all. But, I'll do it.”

“Good. Tell folks it's somethin' you heard and you don't have any idea who the fellow is that's made the claim. You've never even seen him. Just passin' on what's been bandied about.”

Jack put on his hat, pulled it low over his eyes, and started for the door. Before he was even outside, he began muttering something about probably being taken for some nosy old biddy.

Jack's reluctance was soon replaced by acceptance that what he was doing might actually be for the good of the town when he watched one person after another eagerly take up the tale he was spreading around, embellish it a bit, then seek out the ear of another. He was so confident after watching the thing take on a life of its own that he made a wager with himself about how long it would take Carp Varner to get wind of it and explode.

He bet a bottle of rum it would take no more than a couple hours.

Chapter 53

I
s that true, Jack, that Carp Varner wiped out an entire town?” Melody asked, when she jumped on the bed while he was attempting to take a short nap. “Everyone died?”

“Appears so. Anyway Cotton is convinced the tale has the ring of truth to it.”

“So who is this person who claims to have been an eyewitness? Do I know him?”

“Uh, it's not likely. Anyway, Cotton told me to keep the fellow's name a secret until the right time.”

“C'mon, Jack, you can tell me. You know I can keep a secret.”

Jack snorted and gave her a look that clearly suggested she'd lost her mind. And that's exactly how she took it. Lips pursed, mouth curled into a forming volcano, Melody exploded. “What the hell do you mean by that look?”

Jack shrugged as he sat up and began pulling on his boots. She started screaming as she tried grabbing him by the arm to pull him back down, but he jerked away, her long fingernails ripping the sleeve and leaving three visible scratches. But he was clearly sticking to his guns and in no mood for one of her tantrums as he began buckling on his gun belt. That's when he heard the distinctive sound of a hammer being cocked. He spun around to see Melody holding her little .41 derringer. The look in her eyes was unmistakable. Recognizing that she was dead serious, Jack made a dive for the door, almost making it before the gun went off. The bullet grazed his shoulder, plowing a thin furrow across it. He stopped, glaring at Melody with unmistakable murder in his eyes. When she saw what she'd done and the blood leaking from the tear in his shirt, her eyes grew as big as saucers.

“Oh, my god, Jack! I'm so, so sorry. I-I don't know what got into me. I—”

Those were the only words she managed to get out before he dove on her, ripping off what few clothes she had on and struggling out of his gun belt, boots, and pants. In the ensuing half hour, they made love like they were trying to kill each other, to their mutual, violent satisfaction. At the battle's climax, both lay gasping for air, perspiration pouring from their overheated bodies. Jack was the first to get a word out.

“Son of a bitch, Melody, you sure do piss me off good.”

“Yeah. It used to be like that all the time. I wish—”

“Uh-huh, me too. But for now, I need to go see Doc Winters. I seem to have sprung a leak. I'm gettin' blood all over everywhere.”

Still panting, he struggled into his jeans, pulled on his boots with some difficulty, and decided to forgo putting on his shirt, tossing it over his shoulder instead. He stumbled out the door and down the stairs. Melody cooed after him, “I love you, Jack. Don't forget that.”

Arlo followed Jack with his eyes all the way to, and out, the batwings, with mouth agape.

* * *

When Jack tapped on Doc Winters's door, the doctor's surprise at seeing him was unmistakable.

“Jack! What the hell happened?”

“Melody and I had a few coarse words. Things got a little heated.”

“Sit down. Your sleeping arrangement seems to bring a lot of tension to your life, Jack. Maybe you ought to consider finding a more amiable lady, actually marry her, and settle down. You might live longer,” the doctor said, as he threaded a needle, the sight of which made Jack wince, so he lifted a bottle of brandy to his lips to ease the pain.

* * *

The first indication that Jack's attempt to spread the Whiskey Crossing conflagration rumor was having its desired effect gave Cotton Burke reason to break into a cynical smile. Word of it had apparently reached Carp Varner in a most unusual manner. He spotted several of his newly hung posters marked across the face with an “X” in red paint and the word “Murderer” beneath it.

Furious, Varner ripped down all those that he could find defaced and stomped back to his shop to get replacements.
If I find who did this, I'll blow the bastard away
, he muttered over and over. At first he thought perhaps the mayor had done it to get back at him for entering the race, but that didn't seem to be a reasonable explanation. How could the mayor have any knowledge of his past? But there was something going on, and he didn't like it one bit. His thoughts kept drifting back to that day when he'd destroyed a town, small and insignificant as it was, and his vision of looking back to see nothing standing . . . except one lone imaginary, smoky figure staring at the ruins. That figure, faceless and unidentifiable, haunted him like none other of his infamous, murderous deeds. He was unable to sleep and driven wild by an inability to keep much in his stomach that was quickly becoming a serious problem. A problem that needed solving and now!

* * *

“Where is your young friend, Henry? Is he still safely beyond the reach of Varner?” Cotton asked.

“He sleep in barn loft.”

“Still at the livery, huh?”

Henry nodded.

“Go get him and bring him here. Keeping him safe will become more and more difficult if Varner's defaced posters have the effect I anticipate. Bring him in the back way.”

Henry left and hurried down the alley behind the jail. When he got to the livery, he slipped inside and climbed the ladder to the loft. He could hear the liveryman out back in the corral, so he didn't think anyone knew of his arrival. His surprise at not finding Johnny curled up on a blanket behind some hay bales showed. He hurried back down the ladder and tried to pick up on the newest footprints he could find. Johnny had obviously left in a hurry, and out the front way, which was unusual. That was a careless move and gave Henry pause to consider the possible consequences of the lad allowing himself to be seen by people on the street, one of whom could easily be Carp Varner. And why the hurry?

Henry knew of the posters being scrawled across in red paint, and there could be little doubt that a man with no moral character would consider such an act sufficient provocation to use force. One more killing wouldn't make any difference to Varner. Of course, Varner couldn't possibly know who had done the deed, but Henry knew. He'd known since coming into the sheriff's office and spotting red stains on Cotton's fingers and a small can with a brush sticking out of it sitting on the top of the file cabinet. It was a devilish plan, but one that would surely bring whatever crimes the gunsmith had committed out in the open. And put an end to his aspirations to become the next mayor. That was clearly the sheriff's intention. A wry smile of approval crossed the old Indian's lips as he trotted down the street, ducking into the first alley he came to that would lead him to the rear of Varner's shop. That's where he figured to find Johnny, carrying his revolver this time. Henry had a bad feeling that the young man was coming quickly to the end of his patience with Varner being allowed to run free and even enter the race for mayor.

When Henry rounded the corner, he broke into a dead run. There, behind Varner's shop, Johnny stood on a large wooden crate, gun in hand, peering through the window.