Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (21 page)

This incident would certainly emphasize to everyone that dangerous men were in town, and Havens had made it clear he didn’t want to draw attention to that fact. Not that he figured the sheriff couldn’t see for himself, but if everyone was behaving themselves, even the sheriff would be hard-­pressed to raise a hand against any of them.
A man is free to go where he wants, isn’t he?

But all Sleeve’s inner unrest wasn’t going to make Havens’s reaction any less explosive. How was he going to tell him? He went inside and eased up to the bar, sidestepping the stain of blood that still covered a two-­foot area like a crimson puddle right below the brass railing. Arlo came up to Sleeve and asked what he’d like.

“Uh, I’ll have a beer. But I’d like to know what happened here, too.”

“Well, sir, that big smelly gent tried to manhandle the lady owner of this establishment and Deputy Stump took offense to her mistreatment. The big man decided he’d settle it with that shotgun, not realizing, at least the way I figure it, that Memphis Jack ain’t someone to trifle with when it comes to his woman. Only took one shot. That’s about it. I’ll get your beer.”

When Arlo returned with his glass of beer, Sleeve took it and walked to a table and sat. He needed some time to work out a story to tell Havens that would take the pressure off himself. He’d learned the hard way that just because a man seems friendly enough on first meeting, it don’t mean
he can’t be set off by some trifle. In this case, it appeared that Melody was that trifle.

It looked like he’d made two blunders: hiring first Plink Granville and then J.J. Bleeker. And now Sleeve had to face Havens’s wrath. He drank his beer and asked for another.

J
ack came into the sheriff’s office looking like he’d been on a two-­day drunk. His eyes were bloodshot and droopy. His clothes appeared to have been slept in. He dropped into a straight-­back chair facing Cotton. The sheriff looked up, leaned back, and crossed his arms.

“Are we feeling shooter’s remorse this morning, Jack?”

“Naw. Drinker’s remorse—­brandy, actually. Shoulda stuck to beer.”

“Uh-­huh.”

“Any response from any of those other jackals over losin’ one of their own?”

“Nothin’ yet. I expect there will be as soon as Havens has finished chewin’ on everyone’s ass.”

“I expect you’re right. I wish we had another gun to back us up. We could use someone to watch our backs,” Jack said.

“Fortunately, I think we have one. I been meanin’ to tell you some good news, or at least good news for the time bein’.”

“I could use some good news about now.”

“That gunslinger that calls himself Comanche Dan Sobro? Well, he isn’t.”

Jack blinked at Cotton’s words. “Huh?”

“Comanche Dan is actually U.S. Deputy Marshal Thorn McCann. McCann took down the real Comanche Dan a month or so back, and when he found out someone was lookin’ for him to help kill a sheriff, well he decided to assume Dan’s identity until he could find out what was goin’ on. Once he found out none of the other gunslingers had ever seen Comanche Dan, the whole thing fell into place.”

“Where did you hear about this?”

“From McCann himself. He’s given me his word that he’ll back our play when the time comes.”

“And you
believe
him?” Jack scratched his head. His eyes showed he doubted such a tall tale.

“I do until I hear somethin’ different. I reckon I’ll have to.”

“I’m not sure I can muster that kind of faith in a man I don’t know. One who looks as much like a gunslinger as he does. Besides that, he don’t have the eyes of a marshal.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know, a man can see another’s trustworthiness by lookin’ into their eyes.”

“Uh-­huh. Well, don’t worry, we’ll
both
be keepin’ a close eye on him. Besides, he thinks he’s got somethin’ on me.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not up to sharin’ it right now. I will when the time comes for reckonin’.”

“You can be a real puzzle at times, Cotton, and now is one of those times.”

“Go get some sleep, Jack. Come back when you’re rested. We both need to be ready for when the fireworks start, and if I’m any judge, they should be about ready to give us a show anytime now.”

The next morning, Jack sauntered into the sheriff’s office, whistling. Cotton was reading the weekly newspaper and
frowning at something he’d just read. He glanced up as Jack plopped into the chair across from him.

“Sounds like you had a good night’s sleep. Melody treatin’ you nice?”

“Uh-­huh.”

“You look like you got somethin’ on your mind besides Melody.”

“Yeah, Cotton, there is somethin’. I just came by Darnell Givins’s bank. He was standin’ in the window starin’ across the street at Havens’s new enterprise and lookin’ like someone shot his dog,” Jack said.

“That shouldn’t come as a surprise. With all that advertising Havens is doin’, I’ll be surprised if Darnell can survive the year.” Cotton frowned at the thought. “There has to be some way to best that smoky scorpion Havens.”

“
If
we survive his army. Another second and
I’d
have been chopped meat from Bleeker’s scattergun.”

“You’re good, but you were also damn lucky. Bleeker had other things on his mind when you showed up. Not certain we can hope to come out on top every time. A couple of these gunnies have particularly nasty reputations.”

“Don’t need to be told. I’m aware of what we’re up against.”

“Wish
I
was,” Cotton said. He shoved out of his chair and ambled toward the door.

“Where you goin’ now?”

“Down to see Givins. He needs to know someone is on his side.”

Cotton felt several eyes on him as he reached Givins’s bank. He went in and was greeted by a large, mostly empty room, with only one of the two tellers’ cages manned and Darnell sitting blankly behind a wide desk at the back. His expression was difficult to read. He was either thinking of shooting himself or considering jumping in front of a freight wagon. Havens’s three-­week advertising campaign obviously wasn’t sitting well.

“Ah, Sheriff, to what do I owe this pleasurable visit?”

“Need to talk. And I figure you know what about.”

“Yeah, the man who is already digging my grave. Havens. That bastard.”

“How is he able to offer loans without interest?”

“He isn’t. The whole thing is a scheme to defraud and destroy a lot of good people, and me in the process.”

“Tell me whatever details you have. How does it work? Or do you know?”

“Oh, I know, all right. One of my old customers, Blanchard, came in waving his no-­interest contract in front of my face. Said he just had to rub it in that he’d landed a deal when I refused the same terms.”

“I take it you couldn’t because . . .”

“Because I couldn’t operate very long if I gave such terms. It’s crazy. Although, after reading the contract that rattler put in front of folks—­folks he knew damned well wouldn’t read it—­I thought seriously about going over there and putting a bullet in his head. He’s bamboozled a lot of good folks hereabouts, and I don’t like it one damned bit.”

“The details?”

“Okay, here’s how it plays out. Havens makes you sign a loan, interest-­free for six months, using your property as collateral. Sounds like a great deal, but it isn’t. Not considering the fine print at the bottom of the contract. He knows nobody reads that small stuff. The terms are if you pay the loan off early, there’s a huge penalty. And if you don’t pay until
after
the term of the loan is up, you forfeit your property. Devious, dishonest, and downright despicable, if you was to ask me.”

“So anyone who signs up for a loan with Havens is tossed into a nest of vipers with no chance for survival?”

“That’s right. Not a chance.”

“You’re sure these contracts are ironclad?”

“I’m not a lawyer, mind you, but I haven’t found a way to bust ’em.”

“What did Blanchard do when you explained what he’d signed?”

“He was furious. Said something about making Havens pay for his deception.”

“You think he’d actually go after Havens?”

“Don’t know. Don’t much care, neither.”

“So, what are
you
going to do? You can’t wait until Havens starts foreclosing on everyone. If he ends up owning half the land around here, you won’t have enough customers to warrant a second bank.”

“That’s what he’s counting on. His whole plan revolves around my demise.”

“Why? What’s he got against you?”

Givins seemed to sink in on himself. His face changed. Grew dark. Despair was written all over him. He leaned forward, stacking his hands on the desktop.

“Oh, hell, what have I got to lose? I’m finished here anyway. Might as well spill the beans. Havens and me, we go back a ways. Back to Kansas right after the war. Border raiding was rampant. The Red Legs, William Quantrill, Bloody Bill Anderson—­murder, robbery, plundering—­there was so much bloodshed everywhere, a man had to look both ways before making a run to the outhouse.”

“You don’t appear to be the type of man who’d do anything like that.”

“I wasn’t, but someone had to help folks get back on their feet, and that meant they needed money. Havens and I went into business together and started loaning money to businesses to rebuild.”

“Sounds like an honorable venture. What happened?”

“I caught Havens embezzling from folks’ accounts. I called him on it, and he told me to keep my mouth shut or he’d make sure I got what was coming to me, whatever that meant. I never did find out.”

“Why?”

“Because I turned him in to the U.S. marshal. He skedaddled out of town just ahead of some vigilantes with a roll of hemp. Went to Texas with some new scheme to defraud people. He’s been doing it ever since. I suspect when he found out that both you and I were here in Apache
Springs—­two folks he has no love for—­well, he just naturally saw a way to kill two birds with one . . .”

“Yeah, I get what you’re sayin’.”

“Of course that isn’t all he’s doing here. He’s also telling folks if they put their money in his bank, he’ll pay three times the interest rate I can offer. If this keeps up, I’ll be out of business within a month.”

Cotton sat back, stroking his chin. He knew Givins was right: no one reads the little print at the bottom of anything. Half the time, people can’t even get their eyes to focus on anything that small unless they’ve got a pair of store-­bought spectacles. And people are naturally greedy when it comes to making money. If their deposits can give them a substantial rate of interest, well, who wouldn’t jump on a deal like that?
Surefire,
Havens is a snake, but is he really so clever that there’s no way for a man to get out of his crooked contract without losing his shirt?
Cotton narrowed his eyes and turned to look out the window at the same place Givins had been staring when he came in. He eased out of the chair, leaned over to shake Givins’s hand, and said, “Darnell, I’ll think on this for a spell. Maybe between us, we can come up with a way to get one over on this jasper.”

Cotton left the bank wondering what made a man like Havens tick. He pulled out his pocket watch and, seeing it was almost time for lunch, went back to get Jack. There was something niggling at the back of his mind. A little food in his belly might help spark the idea that was lying there, just out of recognition.

“Miss Delilah said you wanted to see me, Mr. Havens?” Sleeve Jackson stood in front of Havens’s desk, hat in hand and very nervous.

“Sounds like you can’t figure out why I’d be interested in having a little chat with you, or can you?”

“Why, er, no, I can’t rightly say as how I have any idea.”

“Then let me refresh your memory about a certain
shotgun-­toting polecat with a powerful odor wafting off him to whom you handed a thousand dollars of
my
money for the purpose of killing a certain sheriff, and who then proceeded to get
himself
killed over some damned whore.”

“I, uh, can explain. You see . . .”

Havens slammed his hand on his desktop. “Shut up!”

Sleeve’s hand slipped to the butt of his revolver and rested there. He was shaking with anger as Havens chewed him out. Bleeker’s getting himself killed had been his own fault. Sleeve had been assigned the task of hiring gunmen to take care of a job that Havens wanted done. That job would take men with a will of their own and nerves of steel. He paid to get men he figured could succeed. And he sure as hell wasn’t some nursemaid. And no one was going to treat him like a wayward child. He pondered his next move as Havens blathered on. Sleeve didn’t hear a word.