Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (28 page)

“When do you figure those that are still standin’ will make their move, Cotton?”

“Don’t know. Just want to be ready when it comes.”

“If Havens stays true to what I saw him do in Texas, he’ll keep sendin’ for more gunslingers every time we take
one down. Seems like he’d be runnin’ out of money before long.”

“It does at that.”

Just then a shot rang out. Cotton stepped to the door and eased it open. He peered out slowly, making sure no one was immediately outside waiting for him to emerge and then get filled full of lead. The street seemed empty, so he cautiously stepped out onto the boardwalk. His Colt .45 rested easily in his hand. Jack was behind him with a rifle, a cartridge levered in place.

T
here had been a soft rain since just after dawn. Cotton felt a chill in the air as he stepped out onto the porch, and a slight breeze carried with it a hint of the coming rainy season. The morning had adopted the gray garb of a dowager queen. Only now and then did an occasional shaft of sun find its way through the cloudy overcast.

“Hey you, Sheriff Cotton Burke.” The disembodied voice echoed off the wooden buildings.

In the waning light of the afternoon, vague shadows stretched across the false fronts of the businesses. Tiny puddles of sunlight splashed the rutted street. Cotton watched as a man moved out from between two buildings halfway down the street. It was Sleeve Jackson. A touch of sun glinted off the nickel-­platted revolvers at his side.

“It’s time we got to know each other a little better, Sheriff. Come on out into the street and let’s us talk a spell,” Sleeve yelled.

Cotton moved from under the porch overhang. He held his gun to his side.

“From all the mischief you’ve been into on Bart’s part, I feel I already know you, Sleeve. No need to shake on it, though.”

“Didn’t figure on no handshake bein’ necessary, Sheriff. And you can tell that deputy of yours this is just between you and me.”

“What’s on your mind, Sleeve?”

“Thought you might like to have a little shootin’ contest. You up for that?”

“Well, Sleeve it
is
late, and I’m normally startin’ to get ready for supper about this time. Maybe some other afternoon.”

“I done had my supper, and I’m feelin’ jus’ fine. So what say we make it a quick contest?”

“I can’t help noticin’ the shine on those fancy revolvers of yours. Smith & Wesson Schofields, right?”

“Yep. They say Jesse James hisself favors these shooters.”

“Yep. Nice, real nice. Nickel-­plated ones are rare. What ammunition do you use?”

“The only proper one for such a fine instrument: Schofield .45s.”

“Ah, that’s what I figured. My Colt uses Long Colt .45s.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, I hear tell that in a contest between the two guns, the fact that the S&W bullet is a shorter cartridge, so it takes longer to get out of the barrel, leaves that shooter at a distinct disadvantage.”

“Huh?”

Cotton could feel Jack’s questioning eyes burning into his back.
Ever the cynic
, Cotton thought. That didn’t slow him down, though.

“Yep, a big disadvantage. I figured a top gunhand like you’d know that.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Sheriff. The length of the cartridge don’t make no difference. That’s crazy talk.”

“I’m just sayin’ what I’ve heard. More’n once. That’s all. And from some pretty accomplished marksmen, too. Some
of the best. So, it’s up to you whether you want to pull them hoglegs or not,” Cotton said with an air of nonchalance.

A slight hesitation before Sleeve got his two revolvers out of their holsters was all it took for Cotton to raise his Colt and put two quick bullets into the greasy-­haired killer. Shock filled Sleeve’s eyes as he dropped his guns and sank to his knees. He flopped over facedown in a puddle. Muddy water splashed the corner of the boardwalk as he fell. Cotton walked over to the man lying still in his street. He shook his head and clucked his tongue before turning around and marching back to his office, taking care to avoid the puddles that dotted the roadway.

Memphis Jack stood motionless outside the door, seemingly in disbelief at what had just happened.

“What the hell was all that
hogwash
, Cotton? There ain’t a hill of beans’ difference between the two cartridges and you know it.”

“There ain’t? Damn! Maybe I been misled.”

“But, Cotton—­”

“You’re probably right, Jack. I reckon it
was
just hogwash.” He placed his Colt on the desk, secured a cleaning rag from the drawer, and started rubbing. The undertaker, having heard the shots, came clomping down the street, attempting to miss the rivulets where rainwater had filled the wagon ruts, eager to gather up his latest customer.

The stagecoach rolled by on its way out of town. The driver slowed at the sight of a man lying in the mud. He guided the horses around the unfortunate loser of the latest gunfight in Apache Springs. The wheels splashed the mucky water over the shiny Smith & Wesson Schofields still lying near Sleeve’s lifeless hands.

Bart Havens was understandably furious over Sleeve Jackson’s death. Four men he’d paid a sizable amount of money to had now been killed either by the sheriff or his deputy. And he had nothing to show for his investment. His options were disappearing like wisps of smoke.

Delilah Jones, Plink Granville, Comanche Dan Sobro, and Black Duck Slater were all in his office waiting for some ranting and raving over Sleeve’s demise. They weren’t certain what he expected them to do about Sleeve. After all, he’d made the decision to call the sheriff out with no mention of it to the others, making his move with no backup. Delilah was nervously wringing a frilly handkerchief. Plink was trying to keep from exposing his still somewhat besotted state to the notice of others by leaning on a high back, leather chair, his six-­shooter back in its holster thanks to Black Duck’s retrieval of it from the street.

Dan and Black Duck both appeared bored by the whole thing and were clearly unwilling to accept any responsibility for the recent demise of either Sleeve or Buck. Expecting Havens to explode any minute now, they were surprised at what did happen. Bart broke into a sly smile when the door opened and in walked two well-­dressed men wearing identical pearl-­handled, .38-­caliber Colt Lightnings—double-­action with short barrels in shoulder holsters. It looked like they knew what to do with them. Havens stood up and extended a hand.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Apache Springs and what I hope will be a lucrative venture for you both.”

Both men shook hands with Bart, then turned to do the same with the others. They both tipped their bowler hats to Delilah. One even took her hand and gave it a peck. She blushed.

“Let me introduce our new associates, Cress and Farley Coleman.”

“They look more like city slickers than gunslingers, to me,” Black Duck said with a sneer. He turned away with a look of scorn.

“I can assure you they are quite adept at the use of firearms. In fact, I have a special purpose in bringing them to town.”

“I don’t need any help beating Burke,” Black Duck said.

“You are welcome to the sheriff, Mr. Slater; in fact
that’s part of my new plan. They are here to eliminate
another
problem. They are gamblers of the first order. Their target will be to push Memphis Jack Stump—­who I am informed considers himself a fair gambler—­into a confrontation after they’ve taken every last cent he has. When two such proficient shootists go after a target, he’ll not survive; I can assure you.”

“Y-­you want them to kill
Jack
?” Delilah was horrified at Bart’s declaration. She knew he was jealous, but not to the point of a killing.

Bart gave her a cynical smile. “Why yes, my dear. That
does
meet with your approval does it not? After all, you
did
say he meant nothing to you.”

“That was fast thinking, Cotton, playing on Sleeve’s ignorance and all,” Jack said. “What made you think he’d go for it?”

“I had no idea whether he would or not. I really just wanted to keep him talking as long as possible. I figured to get his mind off the purpose of him pulling a gun in the first place.”

“That leaves Havens with only two more gun handlers, assuming that fella calling himself Comanche Dan is telling the truth.”

“I think we’ll know very soon.”

Cotton walked to the door and stepped onto the boardwalk. He looked up and down the street. He didn’t know who or what he expected to see, but the shooting still had him on edge.

C
tton decided not to stay in town that night. He was restless and out of sorts. He told Jack he’d be out at the Wagner ranch and be back in the morning. Jack just shrugged and said maybe he’d go to Melody’s and sit in on a poker game. Cotton went to the livery, saddled his mare, and headed out for Emily’s soothing and understanding company.

By the time he’d ridden about an hour, crossed the creek that cut through the southern quarter of the ranch, and started up the well-­traveled road to the house, his nerves had relaxed some. He was no longer thinking of pulling his Colt and plugging the first thing that moved. In sight of the house, he called out. Emily came out on the porch and waved. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching his approach with a warm smile. As he dismounted, she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck.

“I was beginning to think you’d been shanghaied and taken out to sea. It’s good to see you all in one piece.”

“There
have
been some developments since I was last here.”

“Sounds ominous. Better come inside and get comfortable before you tell me.” She took his arm and they went inside in lockstep. “Let me get you some coffee, unless brandy sounds better.”

“Coffee would be fine. Thanks.” He took a seat on the leather couch.

She returned a couple minutes later. “Here you go, Mr. Sheriff,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. Steam rose from the cup, giving him ample warning to be careful of that first sip.

He sat for a moment before sampling the coffee, as if he were off somewhere else. Emily saw this and brought him back to reality.

“Okay, now, what is it that has you so preoccupied?”

“I’m, uh, sorry. Reckon I was kinda drifting off, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were.”

“I had to kill a man this afternoon. It never gets any easier. I suppose I’m still—­”

“—­still facing the fact that there is someone out there who wants to kill you and wishing things could be different?” she finished.

“Something like that.”

“Reckon it’s time you let us in on your plan, Mr. Havens, so none of us go off and do somethin’ stupid like Sleeve did,” Black Duck muttered. His voice carried a note of scorn that could not be missed.

“All right, Mr. Slater, I’ll do just that. Cress and Farley are going to be letting everyone know there will be a big poker game starting up at Melody’s saloon. From what I hear, Memphis Jack Stump is a sucker for a poker game. He won’t be able to resist the temptation to make some extra money. Being a deputy isn’t making him rich, and I happen to know he likes living well. The Coleman boys
will be sitting in such a way that Memphis Jack will have to sit between them. They will let him win a hand or two, just to get him hooked on the possibilities, then his losing streak will begin in earnest.”

“Lots of men lose at cards, that don’t mean they’re goin’ to blow up and try to kill someone,” Comanche Dan said nonchalantly.

“True enough, Mr. Sobro, however, in this case,
Farley
will be the one to explode. He’ll jump up and claim he’s caught the deputy cheating, draw his gun, and before Stump can even offer a defense, blow him to hell. Since Stump will be sitting across and at an angle to my boys, he’ll probably not get off one shot. He’ll be caught in their cross fire.”

“And what are we supposed to be doin’ while these Coleman boys do their circus act?”

“You, Mr. Slater, will be ready to take care of the man you’ve been waiting for. As soon as he hears the shots, he’ll be stampeding through those saloon doors like a mad bull. That’s your chance to complete your part of the bargain. You three can all fire at once, if you’ve a mind to. I’ll up the ante to give each of you the bonus if it’s unclear who actually kills him.”