Cotton’s Inferno (5 page)

Chapter 8

J
ohnny Monk was in a state of near collapse. He'd been stumbling, almost to a fall, for the last several miles, trudging across the rocky desert for two days now, and he was near tuckered out. His water bottles were empty. He'd all but given up hope of finding another soul, when a trickle of smoke rose in the distance. Campfire? Chimney? It didn't make a darned bit of difference. It signaled another human being, and that spelled hope, something of which he was sorely in need. So that's the direction he headed.

* * *

Dehydrated and exhausted, Johnny Monk stumbled to grasp the fence post twenty yards from the front of the run-down ranch cabin. There were no signs of life—no horses, no cattle, no voices. But he didn't dare approach without a warning. That kind of thing could get a man shot.

“Hello, the house. Is anyone home?” he shouted. Wiping perspiration from his brow, he made no attempt to move closer without an invitation or at least an acknowledgment of his presence. He hollered again, then waited a few moments. He heard not a sound. Staying outside what he figured to be reasonably safe and proper distance, he moved slowly off several feet to see if there might be someone out back. Then he spotted a well at the rear of the house, and his thirst was getting the best of his common sense. He started through the gate toward what he hoped was cool, clean water. But he hadn't gone ten steps before a smoky shot erupted from an open window and a bullet slammed into the dirt no more than three feet in front of him. He stopped and held up his hands, not certain what to do next. He called out, once more. “I'm not here to steal anything, mister. I'm just real thirsty. I just need a drink, that's all. I been in the desert for several days and my water bottles are dry as a bone. Please, just a drink . . . and I'll be on my way . . .”

The front door slowly squeaked open, and a frail young woman appeared. She was holding a Smith & Wesson .32-caliber, spur-trigger revolver, although shakily. She looked too weak to even lift the thing, small though it was. She motioned with the barrel of it to let Johnny know it would be okay for him to go to the well and pull up a bucket of water. He acknowledged that he understood with a mumbled “thanks” and began making his stumbling, halting way toward the back of the house. The lady kept the gun pointed at him until he was past her line of sight.
That's a relief
, he thought. It made him less uncomfortable now that the revolver was no longer pointed at him. That soon changed, though, as he heard the opening of the rear door and there she was, weapon in hand.

Johnny pulled the rope and drew up a bucket of water. He used a tin scoop to dip out a cool drink. After several minutes attending to satisfying his immediate needs, he filled the two bottles and hung them around his neck as before. Ready to move on, he glanced up to thank the lady, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Ma'am, I sure do appreciate your generosity. You likely saved my life. I'll be on my way now.” He had just started to walk around the side yard when he noticed something strange in the doorway. He was reluctant to head straight for the house, but it looked very much like the little shooter was lying on the floor of the porch and a shoeless foot was sticking out from a prone position.

“Ma'am, are you all right?”

He got no response. He moved a few steps closer to enable a better look-see.

“Don't know if you heard me, but I said thank you for the . . .” He was now close enough to recognize that the woman was lying flat on her back, the weapon no longer being held. He eased closer.

“Are you sick or somethin'? Maybe I could help if you thought it would be okay if I come some closer.”

Still no answer. Emboldened by her lack of movement, Johnny put his water bottles on the porch and commenced to step to within four feet of the woman. She was unconscious.
Well, whether she wants it or not, I reckon I better see what can be done here.
He took a step forward and stooped to get a better look at her face. This was no full-grown woman. Up close he could tell she probably wasn't even as old as he was. She was pale, and her eyes fluttered like they were trying to stay open, but to no avail. Her breathing was shallow, and she made little groaning sounds. Johnny didn't know much about women, in fact he knew nothing at all, but it was clear this lady needed help. And right away.

He bent over to get a grip on her arms to help her sit up. She was limp, as lifeless as a rag doll.
I'm going to have to pick her up and carry her over to that bed
. He could only pray she didn't wake up, panic at being carried to her bed by a strange man, and do something foolish that might imperil them both. Although, he couldn't imagine what that might be, particularly in her present state. He placed her gently on the bed. He stuffed a thin pillow beneath her head and started looking around for something to bring her a drink of water in.
The cup at the well. Of course, how could I have forgotten that?
On his way back out, he glanced around to see if there was any food in the house. He could find no root cellar, no smokehouse for storing meats, no barrel of salt pork, and no firewood beyond the few spindly sticks making the wispy trail of smoke that had attracted his attention in the first place. That fire had all but gone out.
It looks like she hasn't eaten for days, maybe more. I'm going to have to see what I can scare up in the way of a rabbit or two.
Knowing he'd never get close enough to shoot a rabbit with his six-shooter, he looked around to see if she might have a rifle somewhere. That's when he spotted it: a single-shot sharpshooter's rifle mounted above the fireplace, stock-mounted peep sight and all. He stared in awe at that rifle, barely able to take his eyes off it. He recognized it as a Springfield Trapdoor model of about 1873 or maybe '75. He remembered that a fellow had come through Whiskey Crossing toting one. It got lots of attention, especially after the shooting exhibition he put on. Johnny took it down very carefully. When he opened the breech, he found it empty. He groaned in disappointment.
Now I'll have to find something to shoot with
. It was one of the newer models, chambered for .45-70 cartridges. He began pulling out drawers and looking into cabinets.
Has to be some bullets around here somewhere
, he figured.

As he mulled over where the best place to look would be, his attention was drawn to the lady.
Damn! If I don't do something, and quick, she could die.
First, he brought her a cool drink, lifting her up enough so she wouldn't choke on the water; then he set about finding some ammunition for the rifle. As he continued to move about, shuffling through her personal belongings, he thought he could feel her eyes following his every movement. But when he turned in her direction, she appeared to be sleeping. He'd been unable to find bullets to go hunting with, food for their immediate needs, and something to tide them over until he could figure how to get her to safety. He'd checked her little revolver and was shocked to find she'd fired off her last bullet at him. And there was nothing to indicate another soul inhabited the cabin. No men's shirts, boots, long handles, or socks. So how had this poor young lady managed to survive all by herself without even sufficient ammunition to defend herself? He was puzzling over that very question when he was startled by a weak voice.

“What might you be looking for? I'm too poor to have anything of value if thievery is your intent . . .” The lady had struggled up on one arm and was blinking as she tried to focus her eyes on him. “The last animal who came through here could find nothing but the food he took, either.”

“Oh, no, ma'am. You have me all wrong. I got no intention of robbin' or hurtin' you in any way. I was just lookin' for some bullets for that rifle so I can go shoot us a rabbit or two for dinner.”

“Oh. I-I'm sorry.”

“It's just that I figure in your weakened condition and all, you likely ain't up to fixin' a meal. Besides, I didn't see hide nor hair of anything edible hereabouts anyway.”

“Would you mind bringing me another drink of water?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Johnny filled the cup with more water and put it to her lips. She drank nearly the whole cup.

“Thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I know what you're thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You want to know what a woman is doing out here on this hardscrabble piece of land.”

“I admit that thought had crossed my mind. Especially since I don't see any sign of a man. And I ain't quite got it figured out how you survive here.”

She turned her head, trying to avoid his gaze, as she sank back onto the pillow. Her attempt at avoidance hadn't succeeded, and he could see tears forming in her eyes. He winced at the whimpering sounds she uttered. He'd never liked hearing a woman cry. It reminded him of his mother, whose cries of pain from the fever had sent chills up his back. He really didn't have any idea what to do. After a few minutes, she stopped, turned to him, and whispered, “There are a few bullets in a box under my bed. Take what you need and Godspeed.”

Johnny gave her a smile. “Don't you worry, ma'am, I'll get us something we can eat sooner'n you can say ‘lickety-split.'” He slid a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle and tore out of the cabin. He was out of sight in less than a minute.

Chapter 9

A
foggy seven o'clock sharp found Melody impatiently pacing outside the saloon, waiting for Pick Wheeler. She was dressed as he'd instructed, ready for a ride into the wilderness, in a very unflattering outfit cobbled together from one of Jack's flannel shirts, a deerskin jacket, and a pair of men's pants rolled up so they didn't trip her. She wore brogans she'd borrowed from Arlo and only had to put three pair of heavy wool socks on to keep them from falling off. When she saw Pick coming down the street leading two of the scraggliest mules she'd ever seen, she nearly called the whole thing off. But she didn't. An opportunity to strike it rich outweighed her reluctance to suffer the indignity of being seen astride some flea-bitten mule.

“Mornin', Miss Melody,” Pick said cheerily. “Nice day for a ride, don't you think?”

“Knock it off, you jackass. I'm here for only one reason, and a ride in the hills on one of these mangy critters isn't it. Now, help me onto the back of this beast and let's be off.”

Pick was amused by her belligerence at being forced to appear in public as anything but feminine. He bent over and held his hands cupped for her to step into. She did, and he grunted as she put all her weight on him. He gave a mighty heave and she settled atop the mule. She growled at his veiled suggestion that she was heavier than he'd expected. The mule didn't appear all that amused, either.

* * *

It took nearly three hours to reach Pick's mine property. The mine itself lay at the bottom of a cliff. The mules had no intention of negotiating the steep, rocky incline.

“Well, Missy, this here's where we get down and get to goin' by shank's mare.”

“Excuse me, Pick, but I don't walk down steep inclines. Now, you just get this mule moving or I'm turning around and heading back to town. Understand?”

“Suit yerself, lady, but I guaran-damn-tee you that mule isn't goin' to take one step further.”

Melody sat staring angrily, first at the mule then at Pick Wheeler. She couldn't decide which one was the more stubborn. After running all her prospects through her exhausted brain, she wiped a film of perspiration from her brow, swung one leg over the saddle horn, and, holding on for dear life, slid down the mule's side until she felt solid ground beneath her feet with a jolt. Solid though it may have been, the hill was littered with small pebbles, sandy soil, and clumps of things she dared not try to identify.

“All right, you moron, I'm here. Now let's get to it.”

Pick turned away from her before she could glimpse his sardonic smile, eminently pleased at his victory. He didn't offer her his hand, but instead took off in a direct line for what appeared from above to be a timbered entrance to his diggings. His experience with the landscape got him down to the entrance quickly and easily. Melody's lack of anything remotely akin to experience with hiking this rugged landscape or any other sent her slipping and sliding almost the entire way, all except for the last twenty feet, which she traveled as if her posterior were a sled, after losing her balance on loose gravel.

She got up in a huff, grumbling and brushing herself off as she managed to stand straight as a ramrod, to let the old miner know she wouldn't be cowed by anything or anyone that put obstacles in her path to success.

“Well, you old goat, show me the way in there.”

Pick opened a door that appeared to be a castoff from another mine, probably one of the many failed ones in the vicinity. He had to ease it open carefully.

“Can't hurry things around here. Anything made outta wood sooner or later falls prey to those damned termites.” When the door was open, he slipped inside and lifted a coal-oil lantern from a peg on the interior of the door frame.

He pulled a lucifer from his pocket, struck it with his thumb, and touched the flame to the wick. Suddenly, the sides of a tunnel were revealed, dark and narrow. Melody looked around. She'd never been in a mine before and hadn't had any idea of what to expect. Judging from her expression, this dank hole in the ground wasn't what she'd envisioned. Pick took another lantern from where it sat on a stack of timbers and lit it, handing it to Melody.

“Here you are, Missy. You're gonna need some light to keep yourself out of trouble. Mighty easy to stumble in here if it's too dark. Your eyes will get used to it in a few minutes, though.”

Melody was obviously not too certain of the safety of the wooden beams keeping the ceiling from crashing down on them, pinning them to the wet floor for eternity. Pick seemed perfectly confident, but then he'd been digging holes in the ground for years. And she had no intention of letting on just how scared she was. She took measured steps to keep up the pace as he sloshed along, going deeper and deeper into the hillside.

Melody was just about to speak up and ask a question, when she stopped, her eyes wide as saucers. Pick looked back at her, stopped, and offered a subtle grin, fully aware of what was puzzling her.

“Uh, Pick, what is making all those little sparkles in the walls? They seem to be catching the light from my lantern. What the hell is it?”

“Melody, that's what you're paying me all that money for. That's silver!”

“Oh, my . . . it's everywhere. I never imagined you could see it so easily. Why, I can just walk up and pick a piece of silver, real silver, right off the wall.”

“Yep. Real purty, ain't it?”

“I'm not sure pretty is the right word for it. But it does do my heart good to know I've made a fine investment. How much silver do you figure there is?”

“Dunno. Reckon you'll have to find that out for yourself. But I'll be thinkin' of you whilst I'm in Chicago, winin' and dinin' them fine ladies.”

“Then let's get back on those confounded imitation horses of yours and make for home. I can't wait to seal this deal before you change your mind.”

“Hmm, well to tell the truth, I do feel a tad wistful about leavin' it all behind. But, a deal is a deal, and I ain't one to go back on my word.”

They exited the mine to find the late morning sun making its trek for the noon hour. The birds had ceased their singing because of the clatter of humans rattling up the hill. Melody hastened to begin her climb to where the mules had been picketed at the top. Pick followed far enough behind and off to one side to make sure that if Melody should lose her balance and take a tumble, he didn't end up on the bottom of the heap. Lying with a whore was one thing, but being crushed by one in a landslide of rocks, cactus, and sand was something entirely different.

Strangely, whether it was from enthusiasm about returning to Apache Springs as quickly as possible or because she was getting more used to traversing the uneven ground, Melody sprinted to the top like a mountain goat. Pick was surprised by her sudden agility. He didn't even have to give her a leg up to mount her mule.