Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (19 page)

Sleeve’s late afternoon ride out of town took him to a campsite along a creek, well hidden from the road, among a copse of cottonwood and oaks. He reined up short of the burbling water and turned his horse loose. He felt a presence and spun around to find J.J. Bleeker seated on a boulder with a shotgun across his legs.

“Where the hell you been, Jackson? You said the wait wouldn’t be long. I’d call four days one damn long time for a fellow to wait for the money he was promised.”

“Yeah. Mr. Havens had me doin’ errands and such. But don’t worry, I brought the money with me. I also got you a room at a little boardinghouse on the edge of town. The hotel is full up. Got any coffee?”

J.J. slid off the boulder and sauntered over to the remains of a small fire. A coffeepot sat on the fire ring, a collection of rocks placed around the fire to keep it from spreading. He picked up a cup, poured some coffee in it, and handed it to Sleeve.

“Thanks,” Sleeve said as he took a sip while fumbling in his pants pocket. He came up with a wad of bills and held it out to Bleeker. J.J.’s eyes lit up at the sight of all that cash. “Sorry it took so long.”

“The sight of all them bills has done took away the pain.”

“Good. We can ride back towards town together, but we gotta split up before we get there. Havens don’t want us lookin’ too friendly with each other. I’m hopin’ Havens don’t find out I was in a card game with Buck Kentner last evenin’. Damn near come to blastin’ some sidewinder we caught cheatin’.”

“What kept you from it?”

“The deputy sheriff stepped in. Saved that ornery gambler’s butt.”

“You said we was to kill the sheriff. You didn’t say nothin’ about a deputy, too. There more in it if we gotta take him down?”

“Havens ain’t said a word about the man. As far as I know, he ain’t part of the deal. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“What’s this deputy’s name? He any good?”

“Name’s Memphis Jack Stump.”

“Reckon I just answered my own question.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ve never actually met him, but I heard about him in El Paso. ’Bout four years ago.”

“He’s alive, so I reckon he won,” Sleeve said.

“Uh-­huh. Against three of ’em.”

Sleeve began stroking his chin.
Damn
, he thought,
I didn’t figure on Memphis Jack gettin’ in the middle of this
.
I got to think Havens knew about him all along. I wonder if he’s figurin’ that we ain’t all gonna come out of this alive. Maybe cut down on his investment. Wouldn’t put it past the bastard. I may need to move things along a little faster than I figured. I don’t intend to be left out of that two-­thousand-­dollar bonus
,
after which Mr. Havens will quickly get to see the real Sleeve Jackson.

“You sayin’ he’s fast?”

“Didn’t say that, but he’s damned accurate.”

“How accurate?”

“You ever see Wild Bill Hickok shoot?

“No.”

“It was a sight. You didn’t never want to be the one he was aimin’ at. Gone now.”

“What happened to him?”

“Got back-­shot. That’s what.”

T
he town had been quiet—­too quiet—­for several weeks. Cotton didn’t like how unnatural it felt. All the while unsavory characters seemed to be gathering in Apache Springs like it was a convention site. Normally, he’d be taking in drunks for sleeping one off in doorways or trying to bust up the saloon after losing a month’s pay in a card game. Nothing of the sort had happened. It was as if someone had lit a very long fuse and was just waiting for it to reach the dynamite and blow everything to hell and back. Havens’s crew had as yet caused no problems, and they seemed to be keeping everyone else in check just by their presence. None of the cowhands from nearby ranches dared come up against men that, judging by their very looks, would be formidable adversaries—­drunk or sober. Man’s natural instincts for survival kept those less adept at gunplay alive to return to their families and out of the town’s Boot Hill.

And the longer the lack of normalcy lingered, the more Cotton was fraught with turmoil, although he’d been trying
hard to keep it inside. He didn’t want Emily to worry about him, and he sure as hell didn’t need Jack getting ahead of himself by trying to push one of Havens’s men into making a move. He’d seen that response in Jack before. Memphis Jack Stump was an easygoing, soft-­spoken man whose needs seemed to be met with a bottle of whiskey and a willing woman. He didn’t need a fortune, nor was he driven by the need to take a chance on one more hand of cards or roll of the dice. Not that the occasional game didn’t have its appeal, but never a man driven to succeed, for the most part Jack was content to sit back and let others do the heavy lifting. Being a deputy was a perfect position for such a man. Of course, as with many men with the same lack of ambition, he
did
have a couple of quirks that could be downright dangerous.

Pushed to pull his Remington or die, Jack Stump had always chosen to risk a responsive hail of bullets by thumbing back his own hammer and letting fly. Never one to try talking his way out of a fight, Jack would shoot. And he was damned good at it. Sometimes, maybe, too good. That was just his way. Jack Stump had never precipitated a gunfight, but he’d ended his share of them, and almost always with a fatal outcome. That was one of the reasons Cotton had yanked Jack out of Melody’s house of prostitution in Gonzales and brought him here to help with that good-­for-­nothing bunch that had kidnapped Emily. Jack had proven perfect for the job.

“Cotton, did you take note of that big fella that rode in about an hour ago?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Couldn’t place him at first, but I got to thinkin’ maybe I’ve seen him before.”

“And . . .”

“And I have. I went back through some of the wanted dodgers we got piled up. I found him. Name’s J.J. Bleeker. He’s apparently not a man to trifle with.”

“Where’s he wanted?”

“Now that’s the question. Says he was wanted for robbery and murder about three years ago in Colorado. That’s long enough that things might be different today.”

“Send a telegram off to the sheriff of wherever he was wanted and see if he served some time or if he’s still got folks lookin’ for him.”

Jack left and went to the telegraph office. When he walked in, he found the telegrapher tapping away at the key with one hand while writing something down with the other.

“Be with you in a minute, Deputy,” said the man, without missing a beat.

Jack nodded and turned toward the door. He stood in the doorway watching two riders pass by as they left town, while a wagon loaded with crates was arriving. A lady across the street stepped out of the millinery shop, trying to close the door with one hand and keep her new hat on with the other. She managed the door just in time to catch her skirt as it began to billow from a brisk wind whipping down the street. Dust whirled along the boardwalk causing a black-­and-­white dog to scuttle around the corner for refuge.

“Now, Deputy, what can I do for you?”

Jack turned. “I need to send a telegram off to Colorado, place called Lake City. I need information from the sheriff there about a man named J.J. Bleeker. Can you get that out for me?”

“Sure. You want to know if he’s wanted or what?”

“That’s exactly what I want. And if he knows, whether he’s got anything newer than three years as to the man’s more recent crimes.”

“I’ll let you know soon as I get a reply. Do I bill it to the sheriff’s office?”

“Yup.”

And with that, Jack braved the wind and, since he would have to go by Melody’s saloon on his way back to the jail, decided to stop in for one quick beer.

When he pushed through the batwing doors, Arlo was
staring off into the distance, gritting his teeth, clearly annoyed about something.

“Say, Arlo, you look like you’re having a bad day. Why don’t you tell me about it over a beer?”

The bartender stepped away, returning in seconds with a foamy glass. He set it down in front of Jack without a word. Jack sipped, gave Arlo a questioning look awaiting an answer, then sipped some more. The bartender wasn’t talking.

“Melody step on your toes, Arlo?”

“It ain’t her. It’s them damned pistoleros comin’ and goin’, causin’ trouble, demandin’ service, never askin’ politely. They chase the decent folks away. Half the time they leave without payin’, and between you and me, I’m sick of it. I get a cut of what gets taken in by the bar, you know that?”

“Nope. Did you complain to Melody?”

“Yeah. Didn’t do no good. She said one of these days they’d up and leave, and things would get back to normal. She must know something I don’t.”

“You might not be alone.”

Jack downed his beer, dropped a dime on the bar, and headed back to the jail. Cotton had gone by the time he got there, so he took off his gun belt, rolled it up, and laid it on the corner of the desk. He sat down and put his feet up. That’s when he noticed the piece of paper with his name on it. It was from Cotton.

I’ll be gone for a while. Just continue handling things as if I was still there. Also, keep an eye out for anything unusual concerning the town’s newest scruffy inhabitants. If we get an answer to your telegram back from Colorado, hang on to it until I return.

The note intimated he’d be back in the morning.

“J.J. Bleeker is in town, Mr. Havens. I gave him his money, and I think he’s down at the boardinghouse as we speak.”

“Good. You told him the rules, didn’t you? No trouble before I give the word?”

“I, uh, reckon them’s not exactly the words I used, him bein’ who he is and all. But I can’t see him creatin’ a stir over nothin’, ’specially since he don’t know no one hereabouts.”

“He’d better not. Things are starting to pick up at the bank. I don’t want anything to get in the way of our success. I’ll depend on you to keep a lid on those gunmen you signed on. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Yessir.”

“And you told him everything that’s expected of him?”

“I did just that, sir.”

“Sounds like you’ve done a good job, Sleeve. Keep it up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Havens. You can count on me.”

“Good. Now go out the back way and leave me to my bookwork. But keep me informed if you hear anything I should know.”

“C
otton, it’s him. He’s come back.”

“Who’s come back, Emily?”

“That man with the vest and the sliver conchos. He scares me, Cotton, truly he does.”

Cotton got up from the table and walked to the window. He pulled back the curtain to see Thorn McCann quietly sitting astride a dun mare. He had just pulled out a cigarillo; he lit it, blew a cloud of white smoke, then placed his gun hand on the pommel.

“Stay in here, Emily. I’ll go out and talk to him.”

“I’ll go around back and fetch Henry Coyote. He’ll back your play.”

“No! Please don’t do anything. It will be okay. I promise.”

He stepped out the door and onto the porch. The man tipped his hat and blew a ring of smoke into the still air. “Nice mornin’.”

“Yup. You come for a reason?”

“I did indeed. We should talk about it. Maybe we could wander down by the little bridge at the end of the lane.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

Cotton stepped off the porch as McCann dismounted. They strolled slowly toward the nearly dried up creek at the bottom of the hill.

“Been a fearsome dry summer,” McCann said. “Could use some rain.”

“We could, at that.”

“We far enough away that we can’t be overheard?”

“I reckon. You got some news?”

“That’s
just
what I got. I told you I’d let you know Havens’s plans as soon as he told us.”

“And . . . ?”

“Thought you ought to know, all of Havens’s gunslingers have finally arrived in Apache Springs. Plus one additional varmint.”

“J.J. Bleeker?”

“Uh, yeah, how’d you know that?”

“Bad news travels faster than good news. You should know that.”

“Yeah, reckon I do. Here, this should help you know who you’re up against,” Thorn said, handing Cotton a folded paper.

“What’s this?”

“Names and descriptions of all Havens’s crew of gunmen.”