Cotton’s Inferno (3 page)

Chapter 4

C
arp Varner's hopes of laying low for a spell in Las Cruces were short-lived. He'd wasted no time making himself persona non grata by clubbing a hapless Mexican, with his usual aplomb. A conscience was something with which he'd never felt the need to saddle himself. He rode out in a hurry, certain he would have a posse on his tail in no time. But history seemed to repeat itself. He fairly flew across the desert and over the mountains, with nary a hint of anyone on his trail. So he headed northwest to find some other place where he wasn't known. Perhaps a place where his talents would fit well. And the smaller the town, the better.

* * *

After what seemed to him a year in the saddle, Varner slipped into Apache Springs in the early evening and left his horse inside the livery when he couldn't find the hostler and figured he'd gone for dinner. He removed his saddle, attached a note with instructions, and tossed it over a wooden horse next to the stall. He then hung the bridle and blanket on a peg, gave his gelding a bucket of grain, and wandered down the street to find a room at the hotel along with a bite to eat. He had no idea whether the law in New Mexico had any reward posters on him yet, or even if any existed. There was not a living soul left back in Whiskey Crossing, Texas, to give chase. He'd made damned sure of that. There were no witnesses to his crime except some smoldering ruins which he'd left behind in a hurry. And he made certain he'd already ridden far enough away to avoid recognition from any cowboys who might have met up with him sometime as they passed through the miserable crossroads. He had no doubt that no one could have escaped the conflagration, and he had no interest in going back to make double sure. He'd never spotted anyone on his trail, so he figured he'd just hole up in this little out-of-the-way town to consider his future. That column of smoke had looked somewhat like a lone figure, but it could only have been his imagination, an apparition of departed souls formed in the rising columns of smoke. Although, in the back of his mind,
something
was eating away at him. He just couldn't come to grips with what it was.

After finally remembering the leather bag he'd taken from the man he'd shot in El Paso, he opened it and found it contained nothing more than receipts from a business and a few coins.
Wasn't worth the trouble or the risk
. He'd need a way to make some money, something honest for a change, not that it mattered all that much to a man who'd shown no compunction burning a whole town to the ground and killing its citizens. But it did make sense to keep from attracting attention to the fact that he had no visible means of support, which might, at some time in the future, bring his crimes down on his head. The one talent he had for making a living was the thing he did
second
best: the repair and care of firearms. His most notable gift was, however, his quickness with a handgun. As he walked toward the hotel, and in need of money to even pay for a room, he noticed a small shop with a shingle saying it was the gunsmith shop. He figured to just drop by and see about getting hired. Temporarily, of course.

When he cupped his hand over his eyes to peer through the shop's dusty window, he saw an old man hunched over his workbench, holding a stripped-down Colt frame in his hand. A paper sign in the window said the shop was closed, but he tapped on the door to get the man's attention anyway. When the door opened, Varner knew in an instant there would be trouble. The old man recognized him as soon as he got inside far enough for light from the three oil lamps to illuminate his face. Carp had no choice but to act, and act quickly.

* * *

“Cotton, we got a problem,” Jack shouted as he approached the jail. Cotton looked up from doing some paperwork when his deputy, Memphis Jack Stump, came bursting in the door.

“Slow down, Jack. What's happened to get you in such a lather?”

“It's Carl Burnside. One of the other storeowners found him lyin' on the floor of his gunsmith shop this morning. They took him down to Doc Winters, but it don't look good, not good at all.”

“What happened to him?”

“Don't know. Thought I ought to come tell you first before hoofing it on down to the doc's to see what I can find out. If that's okay with you, of course.”

“I'll go with you,” Sheriff Burke said. He snagged his hat off a peg and followed Jack into the street. A chilly breeze whipped up dust and sent it swirling through town in miniature dirt devils. The fall season was but days away, and already a few of the deciduous trees had begun to turn red and gold, a sure sign that winter wasn't far off.

When they got to Doc Winters's porch, the grim-faced doctor greeted them. He came out wiping his hands on a towel. He slumped into the only chair on the porch, staring off into the distance. He barely acknowledged their presence. Cotton waited in silence to see if the doctor was going to volunteer information as to the gunsmith's condition. Jack wasn't that patient.

“What's the story with Burnside, Doc? He goin' to make it? Any idea what happened to him?”

Winters gave Jack an impatient scowl, scrunching up his mouth before the words began to trickle out.

“Even if he does live, he's going to need lots of care. I doubt he'll be working on anyone's shooting iron anytime soon, if ever.”

“What happened?” Cotton asked.

“It appears to be a condition I haven't seen much out here. It's when a blood vessel in the brain bursts. It's called apoplexy.”

“How's a thing like that happen?”

“Can't say. He could have fallen and hit his head. He's got a nasty bump as evidence of that happening. Or it could have been something that got him all excited suddenly, and he could have fallen after it happened. There could be any number of possible reasons. Maybe just his advanced years. I don't have any answers yet, Cotton. Sorry.”

“Has his wife been informed?”

“I can't say. Haven't seen her for, oh, maybe four months. Someone should let her know.”

“Then I reckon it's up to me. Is she going to be able to care for him while he gets better?” Cotton asked.

“There's no guarantee he's ever going to get back to the way he was. Wish I could tell you more, but I can't. He's mostly crippled and unable to speak. If he could only say something, it would make treating him easier. Only saw this kinda thing once before, and that time it didn't turn out well, even though the man lived, he was never himself.”

“Keep me informed, Doc. A town like Apache Springs can't go long without a gunsmith.” With that, Cotton left the doctor's office, with Jack close behind.

“That ain't good news,” Jack said, as they crossed the street. “You think if we went down to his shop we might find some reason for him collapsing like that?”

“That's not a bad idea, Jack. Tell you what: you go look around and I'll call on Mrs. Burnside, let her know what's happened.”

* * *

Jack nodded and headed off for the gunsmith's storefront. Cotton went to collect his horse, since the Burnsides lived about a mile outside of town. When he arrived at the Burnside place, he was surprised at the sad state of things that he saw. He'd known the old gunsmith ever since coming to Apache Springs, and he'd been impressed with how both the man and his wife kept everything neat and organized. The Burnsides' plot of ground was small, no more than enough to have a few chickens and a milk cow, but then the man had never claimed to be a farmer, he just liked privacy. A small structure sat at the back of the property to house what few tools Mr. Burnside needed. It was a three-sided building, little more than an elaborate lean-to. It, however, seemed to serve the purpose.

Cotton dismounted and walked across a yard surrounded by a short picket fence. Walking onto the porch, he noticed how a deadly silence seemed to gather all around. Knocking on the door resulted in no response. He attempted to peer through one of the windows, but couldn't see through the dust, plastered on by fierce rainstorms that drove the soil ahead of them in horizontal waves. It looked like the windows hadn't been cleaned for a year or more. That kind of housekeeping didn't follow with the fastidious homemaker he'd known Mrs. Burnside to be. He knocked again and, again, was greeted by an eerie, dead silence. He tried the door but found it locked. He walked around to the back thinking the lady of the house might be out there doing her weekly wash or feeding the chickens. What he found, however, was quite unexpected.

Off to the side of the house under a cottonwood tree was a freshly mounded grave with a simple cross protruding from one end. Scratched into the wooden marker were the words
ELIZA BURNSIDE.
BELOVED WIFE 1830–1880
. That was all. But that was enough. It surprised Cotton that Burnside had never said a word about his wife being ill or in failing health. The man had ridden in every day and tended to his business just as if nothing were wrong. Cotton realized how devastating the loss of his wife must have been. That incident alone could easily have brought on that “apoplexy,” that Doc Winters said it was.

On his slow ride back to town, Cotton began to have thoughts about who besides Emily would give a hoot if
he
suddenly dropped over? His living alone, having no real commitment to anyone or anything except the town, sent a shiver up his spine.
It may be time to rethink my relationship with Emily
.

* * *

When he reined his mare up in front of the jail and dismounted, he saw Jack trotting along the street toward him.

“What'd she say, Cotton? Pretty upset, huh?”

“I'd have to say I found her beyond caring, unfortunately.”

“What do you mean? Why, Mr. and Mrs. Burnside were closer'n two peas in a pod.”

“What I mean is: Mrs. Burnside has passed away. And I'll bet that's what brought her husband to his knees. Poor soul. I'd say he was completely lost without her. What'd you find at his store?”

“I'm not sure I know what to make of it. You'd best come along with me and see for yourself,” Jack said, turning about with the obvious expectation that the sheriff would hurry along right behind him. That turned out not to be the case.

“Hey, Cotton, you comin' or not?” Jack said, with a hint of disapproval in his voice.

“Yeah, I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm goin' to see Doc Winters first. I'll catch up. You go ahead.”

* * *

That morning, after arriving in town, Carp Varner stepped into the only saloon in Apache Springs and immediately caught sight of Melody.
Looks like I might finally be at the end of a long and dusty trail. This could be where I'm goin' to have to stop my wandering and settle for a spell. I can see myself all wrapped up in the sheets with that pretty filly. I surely can.

A cunning, hungry smile crossed his lips as he stepped up to the bar and was quickly greeted by the bartender, Arlo, who wiped a wet spot from in front of his new customer.

“Howdy, stranger, what can I get you?”

“Well, that pretty little lady over there for starters. Give me a whiskey to seal the deal.”

“The lady to which you're referrin' is the owner and she's not available anymore, leastways not since hookin' up with Memphis Jack, the deputy sheriff. Still want the whiskey?”

“Certainly. I don't intend to let a little thing like a whore's stupid commitment come between me and my desires. And you can count on it, I
do intend on havin' her
.”

Arlo set a glass in front of the stranger, poured it full with whiskey, then leaned over to speak without others hearing. “Whatever you say, mister, but don't say I didn't warn you. Memphis Jack isn't a man to trifle with.”

“Well, my good man, I'd have to say he isn't alone on that count.”

Chapter 5

P
ick Wheeler was whistling to himself as he slowly rode a flea-bitten mule out of the hills and down into Apache Springs. His grizzled face bore a well-lined smile for the first time in months, maybe years. He rocked from side to side on the back of one mule, letting the lead rope to his second mule slacken at the unhurried pace. The pack was piled high with clothing, a straight-back wooden chair, a copper tub, a near worn-out feather mattress, and a ten-gauge shotgun. When he turned the corner at the town's entrance, he straightened as his thoughts turned to his prospects for that day. Old Pick Wheeler had been prospecting in the hills outside Apache Springs for almost two years. His silver claim had never brought him the riches he'd sought, and he was never able to buy more than a few supplies, just enough to keep body and soul together. He'd claimed to have built up a small nest egg at Darnell Givins's Apache Springs Bank, but no one ever saw him make any deposits, and never any withdrawals.

Pick reined in his mule in front of the livery and dismounted. The hostler shielded his eyes as he stepped out into the sun with a warm greeting for the old man.

“Good to see you, Pick. What can I do for you?”

“Like to leave my animals with you while I do some business. That be all right?”

“Sure, Pick. Happy to help out.”

“Much obliged.” Pick gave a nod as he strode off in the direction of the saloon. The liveryman called after him.

“Hey, Pick. Don't you think you ought to go to the assayer's first, so you don't spend all your silver on foolishness?” The liveryman snickered.

Pick grunted and called back, “Don't you worry none, Mother, I plan to behave.”

The liveryman shook his head with a grin. He turned and coaxed the two mules inside the barn doors, kicking up sawdust that covered the floor.

Pick continued on undaunted by his friend's admonition concerning his well-being, until he reached the steps to Melody's Golden Palace of Pleasure. He stopped before entering to slap the dust from his clothes, take off his battered bowler hat, and lick his fingers to slick down what little hair he had; then he pushed through the swinging doors. He walked straight up to the bar, where Arlo, the bartender, was wiping the surface with a badly stained rag. Arlo looked up as the man approached.

“Well, well, Pick Wheeler. Haven't seen you in here for a month of Sundays. Where you been keepin' yourself?”

“I been diggin' so much silver my bags are about to burst. But I'm tired. I'm an old man, Arlo, and I can't keep up with such backbreaking work day after day. I'm about to drop in my tracks.”

“I'll draw you a beer while you sit yourself over there at one of them empty tables. Maybe a little rest will help settle your mind before you start back to your diggin's.”

Pick dragged himself over to the nearest table and plopped into a chair. Arlo removed a glass off the stack behind the bar, pulled the handle on the beer tap, and drew off a full pint of the golden ale. He carried it over to the old miner and set it before him. Pick thanked him as he slurped the foam off the top, grinning a nearly toothless grin. While he drank slowly, Pick looked up at the balcony, as Melody Wakefield came out of her room and leaned on the railing a moment before gliding down the stairs. Smoothing the wrinkles out of her satin dress, she glanced about, seeming to take notice of each and every one of the saloon's patrons before walking over to talk to Arlo. Pick watched her every move. When her eyes fell on him, his head bent and his shoulders slumped, the sure sign of a nearly worn out prospector.

“Did the whiskey I ordered arrive, Arlo?” Melody put her hands on her hips in a display of the authority of ownership.

“Yes, Miss Melody. I had them stack the boxes in the back room.”

“Good. I got a very good price on this shipment. Ordered it all the way direct from Kentucky. Some little upstart brewery near a town called, uh, hmm, oh yeah, Bardstown. But I figure it has to be premium quality because the salesman swore to it. I told him if it wasn't, he'd be walkin' the territory without his manhood intact.”

“I reckon he likely took you seriously, Miss Melody. Most men do.” Arlo gave her a snort as he pulled a bottle off the back bar. “Want a drink, ma'am?”

“Not right now, Arlo. I'll wait for Jack to get his lazy ass out of bed. Say, isn't that Pick Wheeler over there? Crazy old coot probably already blew his poke on that one beer sittin' in front of him.”

“That's Pick, all right, but I allow he's crazy like a fox. Why, I've overheard him braggin' he has over two thousand in the bank. Of course no one's ever seen a penny of it. When he comes in, he orders one beer. That's all. Just keeps on crowin' that his bags are burstin' at the seams.”

“What's your opinion, Arlo? He doesn't strike me as bein' wealthy. He just looks like a beaten old goat.”

“I'll admit he doesn't strike me as havin' been all that successful at minin' silver, either. I think he is too tired to go on. Leastways that's what he said.”

“That's interesting. I'll go talk to him. Maybe I can cheer him up,” Melody said. She walked seductively to the table where Pick was still taking small sips from his one beer.

“Mr. Wheeler, I'm the owner of this fine establishment. Name's Melody Wakefield. Are we treating you well?”

Pick looked up with tired, sad eyes. His voice trembled as he spoke. “Wh-why, yes, miss, I'm always treated well here. The bartender is a fine fellow.”

“May I sit with you?” Not waiting for an answer, she promptly squeezed into the nearest captain's chair with a rustle of several layers of silk and satin. Pick nodded after she was already seated.

“Pleased for the company, ma'am.”

“Would you like a drink? Something more rewarding than that beer?”

Melody signaled Arlo to bring a bottle. He hurried over with a new bottle and two glasses, setting one in front of each of them.

“None for me, ma'am. That stuff's too rich for my pocketbook.”

“It's on me, Pick. Why, a gentleman like yourself should have nothing but the best. After all, you're a man with lots of money and a successful silver mine.”

“Yes, well to tell you the truth, Miss Melody, I'm a very tired old man, as you can probably tell by all the wrinkles in my face. I'm thinking of retiring, giving it all up and headin' back East, maybe St. Louis or Kansas City. I got enough to keep me in style. Don't need no more. I'll just advertise for someone with a hankerin' to dig in the ground.”

“And what about your men?”

“I been workin' the mine all by myself for a spell. Didn't care for sharin' the wealth with a bunch of lazy fools that I had to stand over to get 'em to work.”

“Oh. Well, I certainly do understand. Probably would never succeed with the likes of any of the worthless miners I see come through these doors running things. Your mine deserves the best. Someone who will take up where you leave off, build it into the best silver producer in the county.”

“Uh, well, yes, ma'am, I reckon you got a point there. But where would I find someone like that?”

“Look no further, Mr. Wheeler. You and I are about to get down to the business of
ensuring your retirement
.” Melody gave him a wink and poured his glass full of some of her newly acquired Kentucky bourbon. “Let's drink to your settling down in someplace like, say, Chicago, right on the lake.”

Pick Wheeler was delighted by this beautiful woman's desire to help him with his plans for retirement. If he played his cards right, his future would be as solid as a hunk of iron, and a whole lot more profitable.