Cotton's Law (9781101553848)

PHIL DUNLAP

“Phil Dunlap’s
Cotton’s War
is a rip-roaring yarn that realizes the best traditions of the Western genre: strong, well-defined characters, the color of the West vivid and perfectly researched, and the writing entertaining and quick as a bronc set free to run wild. A surefire read for Western fiction fans.”

—Larry D. Sweazy, Spur Award–winning author

“
Cotton’s War
is an old-fashioned, barn-burning, gut-wrenching Western story that moves at a gallop over dangerous territory. Phil Dunlap’s sharp prose packs the punch of a Winchester rifle.”

—Johnny D. Boggs, four-time Spur Award–winning author

“This is a well-crafted story with a good, clear writing style. It hits a good pace and keeps it up.”

—John D. Nesbitt, Spur Award–winning author

“Dunlap uses his passion for history and the Old West to paint a realistic setting for his work. The prose is good without being heavy, and the story has a good pace that readers will enjoy. For those who share his love affair with gamblers, scalawags, and claim-jumpers with gold fever, this fun novel will keep you guessing.”

—
The Indianapolis Star

“With a raft of well-drawn, even indelible, characters, the novel also offers a compellingly involved, quite plausible, and tightly woven plot.”

—
Booklist

“[Dunlap] appears to be poised to become a new star in the Western writing firmament.”

—
Roundup Magazine

Berkley titles by Phil Dunlap

COTTON’S WAR

COTTON’S LAW

A Sheriff Cotton Burke Western

Phil Dunlap

BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

COTTON’S LAW

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / January 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Phil Dunlap.

Cover illustration by Dennis Lyall.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-0-425-24576-7

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

No books are ever produced in a vacuum, nor can they be written properly without the input of professionals, friends, and family. Support is essential. I must thank my editor, Faith Black, whose excellence in her profession makes me a better writer, and the designers and illustrators at Berkley for creating great books. Thanks, also, to my critique partner, Tony Perona, a top-notch author in his own right, and to my wife, Judy, who never fails to gently let me know if I’m veering off course. And I give a tip of the old Stetson to the folks at the Western Writers of America, whose tireless efforts to promote the Western genre are an invaluable asset to anyone hoping to entertain and inform about such an important period of our history.

Good friends all. Thank you.

Apache Springs, New Mexico Territory—­1880

C
ontrary to popular belief, a dark, soundless night may not always be a comfort.

The roar of the big-­bore rifle echoed off the rocks a scant two seconds after the bullet splintered the front door of the Apache Springs jail, barely missing Deputy Memphis Jack Stump’s head as he leaned over to pick something up off the floor. The hunk of lead then slammed into the back wall, knocking a one-­inch hole nearly all the way through.

“Sonofabitch!” Jack yelled as he crashed to the floor with a bone-­jarring thud. His heart was pounding like a stamp mill. He scrambled to untangle himself from the overturned chair. Hugging the floor in an effort to stay low, he gingerly reached up to retrieve his Remington .44 from atop the desk where he had removed the cylinder for cleaning.

“Damned lucky I dropped that cleaning cloth,” he muttered aloud, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was also happy the door had been made of solid wood, with no
glass to make the shooter’s aim more certain. He’d been shot at before, but never when doing a simple task in a closed room. The shock of it had him both rattled and furious at the same time.

With hasty fingers, he slipped the cylinder back into the gun’s frame, loaded it from his gun belt, and cocked it in readiness. Whatever might come next, he had no idea. Knowing that someone had just tried to kill him—­and would want to know if he had succeeded—­kept him on high alert. He waited. And waited. Dead silence. He scooted to the front of the office, carefully reached for the oil lantern on the wall, and blew out the flame.
The lamplight must have given him a perfect target
, Jack thought.
He only had to aim three feet right of the window and he would have had me cold.

He crawled on his elbows to the door, in preparation to yank it open and make a swift exit to the cover of a solid oak deacon’s bench sitting under the porch overhang. He figured it would give him a safe haven to determine where the shot had come from. Maybe even get lucky enough to return fire. But no shots followed. He listened for the telltale noise of a horse galloping away to assure the shooter’s escape. Several more minutes passed. He heard only the emptiness of the night, that hush that falls over the land when something terrible has happened and nature itself has gone into hiding.

Unwilling to wait longer, he threw open the door and dashed outside, throwing himself behind the bench. Peeking over the top, he realized that the probable source of the shot was from somewhere among the house-­size boulders a thousand feet east of town. There was a wide gap between the two buildings straight across the street, left vacant when a fire had destroyed the home of the town’s first minister. It was never rebuilt.

After several minutes of searching the darkness for any sign of movement up in the rocks and any follow-­up shot, Memphis Jack eased from his position behind the bench and moved farther back into the shadows. He didn’t wish to give anyone a clear target as, hunched over, he made his way
around the side of the building to the alley, then trotted several hundred feet in the dark to a place where he could safely race across the street. His aim was to get himself in position to rush the rocks. He maneuvered alongside the hardware store where the road turned slightly, which gave him natural cover for a sprint across to the side of the bank building. His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out several clusters of crates and boxes of trash set out behind stores. No sign of a single person, however.