Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (25 page)

“Where’d he go?”

“I had to kill him, I’m afraid.”

“Who are you?”

McCann suddenly found himself in a bad situation. He could tell her the truth and risk her blabbing his real identity all over town, at which time he would be marked for death by Havens’s other gunslingers. Or he could continue
with the Comanche Dan cover and tell her he killed Kentner because he couldn’t stand by and watch a woman shot. He studied her face for only a moment.

“Name’s Comanche Dan Sobro. I, uh, am new to Apache Springs.”

“What brought you out here to the bridge?”

“Luck of the draw, I reckon. Decided to take a walk after dinner, and, well, here I am.”

“Fortunate for me, I allow.”

Dan helped her to her feet. She was a little unsteady at first but soon got her footing sufficiently for Dan to let go of her arm.

“Thanks,” she said. “Come by my saloon anytime. I owe you a couple of free drinks, maybe even a little something more.” She gave him a come-­hither wink.

“I’ll gladly take you up on your offer, ma’am.” He walked alongside her until she was in sight of the saloon, and then he started across the street toward the hotel.

I need to get word to Cotton that Havens tried to have Deputy Stump back-­shot. He’ll also need to send someone out to pick up the body of Buck Kentner. Then, maybe after supper I’ll stop by and look in on Havens. He’ll want to know his scheme failed.

As he headed up the steps in front of the hotel, he saw Delilah coming across the street toward him. He stopped, tipped his hat, and said, “Evenin’, Miss Delilah.”

“Oh, Mr. Sobro, isn’t it?”

“Why, uh, yes, it is. Have you had supper yet?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I was just going up to my room. It’s been a long day, and I’m feelin’ poorly.”

“I’d sure appreciate the company, if you’d reconsider. Nothing makes a juicy steak taste so good as looking across the table at a lovely face.”

Delilah blushed and averted her eyes from him. She hesitated for a moment.

“Well, since you work for Mr. Havens and all, I suppose it would be all right if I joined you for a bit of repast. Thank you.”

She took his arm, hiked up her skirt to keep from tripping on it going up the stairs, and the two of them went straight into the hotel dining room. McCann’s mind had just been diverted from any duty he might have felt to tell the sheriff about a dead body cluttering up the path to the bridge. In fact, his mind was on something entirely different.

“Jack, Jack! Get the hell up. I’ve something to tell you. Something important,” Melody said, leaning over his still body and punching him with her fist.

“Wha-­what the hell? Melody? Have you lost your . . . ?”

“My what? Never mind, whatever you’re tryin’ to say isn’t as important as what I have to tell you.”

“Uh, okay, spill it,” he said, struggling to sit up while getting his leg caught in her billowing silk skirts.

“Someone tried to kill you tonight. He almost succeeded in getting me instead.”

“What the devil are you blathering about? Kill me? I’ve been right here.”

“One of those gunslingers that’s been hanging around town for some weeks. Buck somebody.”

“Buck Kentner?”

“Yes. That’s him.”

“What happened?”

“A note was delivered to Arlo to give to you, by that Delilah witch.”

“A note from Delilah to me?”

“Yes.”

“And how did you get it?”

“I took it from Arlo and brought it upstairs to give to you, but I didn’t because I read it first and it said for you to meet her down by the bridge over the creek and . . .”

“Whoa! Slow down. You’re sayin’ you read a note meant for me?”

“Uh, well, uh, yes. I—­” Melody sat on the edge of the bed, and her eyes seemed to be searching for some elusive answer to Jack’s question.

“You sure do have a lot of nerve reading someone else’s messages, Melody.”

“I-­I know, Jack, I shouldn’t have, but after what happened, I don’t feel all that bad about it because if I hadn’t, it’d be you lyin’ out there dead instead of Buck.”

“Buck’s dead?”

“Uh-­huh.”

“And you killed him?”

“No . . . no. He shot at me, but I tripped on a piece of rotten wood and fell. Musta gone down right at the same time as he pulled the trigger. Hit my head and sorta went all black and woozy for a while. Don’t know how long, but when I came out of it, there was this fella tryin’ to help me up.”

“What fella? And who shot Buck?”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. It was that fella who was helpin’ me to my feet.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not before then.”

“Well, did he give you his name?”

“Yeah, it was Comanche somethin’ or other. I was still pretty woozy.”

“Comanche Dan Sobro?”

“Uh, yeah, I think that’s it.”

“Let me get this straight. One of Havens’s killers, Buck, was shot and killed by another of Havens’s killers, Comanche Dan, that about right?”

“Uh-­huh. That’s what happened.”

Melody stood up, pale and disconcerted, straightening her wrinkled skirts. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. She finally settled on the latter. Jack took her in his arms.

“S
o, that’s the story on Buck Kentner, Cotton, at least as Melody tells it.”

“Looks like I need to talk to Comanche Dan. But before I do, I told you we might have more backup than we figured.”

“You figure he’d go against Havens even after taking the thousand dollars?”

“He came out to the Wagner place to find me. Scared Emily to death. She doesn’t take to gunslingers stoppin’ by for a casual visit. Still a little gun-­shy from her encounter with Cruz, I reckon. But he
did
tell me about him bein’ a deputy U.S. marshal and all. Still, I don’t plan to fold my hand until I see all the cards.”

“And none of the others knew what Comanche Dan looked like?”

“That’s what he said.”

“I reckon that’s possible, especially if these rats came out of their holes from all over.” Jack scratched his head and frowned. “You think he’s tellin’ it straight?”

“I’d like to think so, but I also like to see a bill of sale before I accept a man’s word that the horse he’s ridin’ is his.”

“I like your thinkin’. Where do you figure to go from here?”

“Havens has lost three of his hired guns already, and he’s no closer to getting rid of me than he was the day he arrived. I’d say he’s about to get himself real worked up over this last turn of events. Could bust the whole plan loose.”

“You thinkin’ of givin’ him a little extra push to kinda get things started?”

“Indeed.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve been watchin’ him, and I think I know the chink in his armor.”

“And that is… ?”

“Your beautiful friend Delilah Jones.”

“You’re fixin’ to get me killed, aren’t you? Either by Bart or by Melody.”

“One of the risks of being a deputy. You should know that by now.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Pay extra attention to Delilah. Drop by the bank just to say hello, meet her after the bank closes, walk her to her room, ask her to dinner . . . Hell, I don’t know, you’re the lothario around here.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I’ll assume it’s an insult since it’s comin’ from you, Cotton.” With a deep sigh, Jack pushed out of his chair, hiked up his sagging gun belt, and strode outside, muttering to himself.
Melody will use that derringer on me without giving it a second thought if she even suspects I’m fooling around. I know Havens doesn’t sport a gun, but he’s proven he’d not stop at payin’ one of his back-­shooters to even the score for him.

Sleeve Jackson was once again standing in front of Bart Havens’s large oak desk. He had been berated for the past half hour by the red-­faced man shaking his fist and pointing
his finger at him. He’d about had his fill of being treated like a galley slave. One thousand dollars didn’t give any man the right to chew on him like an old piece of meat. As he stood silently, gritting his teeth and seething inside, Delilah arrived and was immediately invited, none too politely, to receive her share of the blame for Buck’s death, which Bart perceived to be a failure on the part of them both.

“Can you explain why Jack sent that slut out to the bridge instead of going himself?”

“I . . . really . . . can’t, uh—­”

“I’d lay money that you didn’t give that note directly to him as I instructed. Isn’t that right?”

“The bartender said he was still asleep and that he would be certain that Jack got it as soon as he came downstairs.”

“Do you suppose that’s what happened?”

“Perhaps not. The woman who owns the saloon must have somehow gotten hold of it and figured I was asking Jack to meet me for, er, something romantic. She’s very jealous, or so I’ve been told, and I suppose she showed up fully intending to tear my eyes out.”

“Well, well, the lady has solved the riddle.” Havens stood up suddenly, slamming his fist on his desktop. “But your incompetence got Buck killed! Get out, Delilah! I’ll deal with you later.”

Delilah turned and abruptly left. Feelings of anger mixed with fear for her own safety. Tears dribbled down her cheeks as she returned to her hotel room.

After Delilah left, Havens redirected his fury back to Sleeve. Although the gunslinger had yet to figure out what part he’d played in Buck’s demise, he could but quietly withstand the tongue-­lashing he was getting. Had there not been another two thousand dollars awaiting his successfully shooting down the sheriff, he would have killed Havens on the spot.

“Who got the drop on Buck?”

“I don’t know. I went down to the undertaker to see the body. Had one bullet in him.”

“In the back, I suppose?”

“No. He saw it comin’. Undertaker said it looked like he’d failed to get a shot off before he went down,” Sleeve said, shaking his head.

“I’m betting that damned deputy was waiting for Buck. Probably dry-­gulched him. Well, never mind, I’ll take care of
him
.”

“How do you figure on doin’ that?”

“After the loss of Whitey Granville, J.J. Bleeker, and now Buck, we can’t afford to wait any longer. We’ll put the second part of a plan I been thinking about into motion. I want you to take this to the telegraph office and get it sent pronto. Do you understand? No screwups!”

Sleeve took the paper being handed him and left, grumbling to himself.

Having overheard Black Duck Slater and Sleeve Jackson discussing plans on how best to ambush the sheriff after the loss of Buck Kentner, and now Havens’s plan to bring in more help, Plink put down his whiskey glass long enough to try concentrating on exactly what they were saying. Drunk as he was, enough of their conversation had broken through the haze and gotten his attention. And he didn’t like what they were saying one bit. He saw their whispering as just a way to cut him out of his rightful money for being the one to do in the sheriff. He had no intention of giving up what he considered his right, the right of one brother to avenge another brother. He started to pour himself another drink, then stopped, thinking better of it. His blurry eyes and slow speech aside, he recognized that he must sober up long enough to do the deed. As tough as it was, he scooted the bottle aside, turned the glass upside down, and pushed his chair back from the table. He needed some fresh air to clear his addled brain. He knew the time had come to put together his own plan before any of Havens’s other gunslingers could beat him to the punch. He couldn’t allow any of them to take what was his and his alone. He, Plink Granville, would be the one to go down in
history as the man who killed Sheriff Cotton Burke. And that was all there was to it.

He stumbled through the batwing doors, nearly falling on his face once before catching himself on a post out front. He hugged the heavy timber, the one that held up the porch, for several minutes as his head stopped spinning. It had been quite a while since he’d stood up. His body was still adjusting when Bart Havens came strolling toward him.

“G’day to you, sir,” Plink muttered.

“And to you, my good man. Where are you headed?”

“Uh, thought I might get some fresh air, maybe take a short nap.”

“Do I detect a man driven by a purpose? Or do I just see another slovenly drunk looking for a place to pee?”

Plink was at once infuriated by the man’s callous words. The sting of Havens’s comments was like a rattler’s fangs sinking deep into his flesh. But what could he say? Havens was the source of the money he’d need if he hoped to make a clean getaway after the shoot-­out. He could only blink away the blur of liquor and mumble his acceptance of the insult.

He stepped off the boardwalk in front of the saloon and stumbled down the street, nearly losing his footing every so often in the uneven road. If he could manage to stay away from any whiskey until morning, he’d surely be sober enough to accomplish his task. That is, if he could control the shaking hands he’d experienced with every previous attempt to sober up. He was well aware that alcohol had consumed him for several years now, and any attempt to break free of its control over him would likely be futile in the long run. But for now, he needed only to be alert for a short time, and fast, like he had once been. He could take this sheriff, of that he was certain. Why, it wasn’t that long ago when he backed down one of the most notorious gunslingers in Texas. The man’s name didn’t immediately come to him, but he could still see clearly how the man had thrown up his hands at the realization that Plink Granville
would easily best him if the confrontation came to that point. It hadn’t, though.