Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (3 page)

Cotton caught up to Emily as she came out of the general store. She had her arms loaded with packages wrapped in brown paper. His first concern was that she had done more than replace his two shirts and, as he’d seen her do before, gotten carried away with finding other things she considered his wardrobe woefully lacking in. He took the packages from her and loaded them in the buckboard.

“Did you find out that Jack is capable of taking care of the town without you?”

“Quite the contrary, Emily, I found out that someone tried to kill him, or possibly me, depending on who the shooter thought was in the jail last night.”

“Mercy! What happened?”

“A shot was fired through the front door, barely missing Jack’s thick skull. I’m going to have to try picking up the
shooter’s trail. Don’t know when I’ll get back to the ranch. If it’s too late, I’ll stay here in town.”

Emily looked disappointed, but he could tell her concern was for the safety of both him and Jack. She knew he was doing what he had to do. She took his hand as he helped her into the seat. She reached over and pulled two of the brown paper–wrapped packages off the top of the pile and handed them to him.

“Okay. Here, take these so you will look halfway decent when you catch the vermin that would do such a thing. Stay safe.” She bent down and gave him a kiss before settling back for the long ride home. He watched as she drove off, raising a small dust cloud behind the one-­horse conveyance.

He went back into the jail, to find Jack making certain they had ammunition for a pair of shotguns and some extra bullets for their revolvers.

T
he day had turned into another hot one. Clear skies with nary a hint of breeze. They tied their horses to a nearby cottonwood and began their trek up through the rocks. Weaving in and around the monstrous boulders, each took a different dusty trail, slowly, methodically searching for any signs of someone having been up there recently.

They’d been at it for nearly two hours when, near the top, where a smaller flat-­topped rock jutted away from the rest, Cotton found what he was looking for.

“Jack, it looks like he might have been hunkered down behind this one. It’d be a perfect spot to steady a big-­bore rifle.”

Jack eased his way to the top beside Cotton. He nodded as he said, “You’re right. There’s a powder burn on the rock surface. He was waitin’ for the right opportunity. Still don’t tell us who it was, though.”

Cotton bent down to check the ground, a mixture of fine sand and gravel worn away from some of the sandstone
that also permeated the area. Boot prints with one heel showing more wear than the other indicated there’d been but a single shooter. He also found a couple of cigarillo butts stomped out in the dirt. The biggest clue, however, was the .50-­caliber brass cartridge of a type commonly used in the Sharps buffalo rifle. Cotton held it up. Jack took it and turned it over and over.

“Bring anyone to mind, Jack?”

“Nope. I haven’t seen anything like this since the buffalo hunters killed off all their prey and had to resort to bringing down jackrabbits.”

“I’m going to backtrack this fella as far as I can.”

“I’m right there with you, Sheriff.”

They began following the boot prints up and over the first hill, then down a slight drop into a narrow gouge in the ground. Water had cut a swash that wandered through the rocks to finally end up joining the creek at the edge of Apache Springs. During the rainy season, water gushed between the rocks, wearing them down slowly over the centuries. The prints followed the water’s course to where they found where the shooter had tied his horse.

“Left his mount here. The animal probably stood for a little more’n an hour, I’d say,” Jack said, bending down to feel how deep into the ground the prints went. “This ground is pretty soft, and slightly wet. But the prints aren’t deep, so I’d say he rode a smaller horse, maybe a pony.”

Cotton nodded.

“Let’s get on back. I’m thinkin’ we need to enlist the aid of a professional at tracking.”

“You’re thinkin’ Henry Coyote, aren’t you?”

“Who else?”

“Course Henry rides a pony, you know. What if he’s our man?”

“Now, why in hell would Henry Coyote want to take a shot at you?”

Jack thought about that for a moment. He squinted from the bright sun bouncing off the white rocks.

“Well, if he got me out of the way, you’d have to come
back to town and take up sheriffin’ again. That way, you’d be too far to call on in case Emily had a need, and she’d be forced to rely on Henry, once again.”

“Jack, sometimes I think that imagination of yours has slipped over the side of a steep cliff. The whole idea of Henry Coyote being our culprit is preposterous. Forget it.”

“Just sayin’ he’s the only one around here that rides a pony.”

“No, there’s another.”

“Who?”

“The man that took a shot at you.”

Whitey Granville reined in in front of the shabby cabin deep in the piney forest above Cedar City, a nearly abandoned mining town that had seen a steep decline in population after the last mine failed. His pony was lathered from the long, hot ride. It was nearing sundown as he tied his mount to a crude rail. A water trough was near enough for the animal to get a drink while Whitey went inside.

Two oil lanterns lit the inside of the single room. There were no windows. A potbellied stove sat in the center of the space, with a small pile of splintered wood stacked nearby, just in case the nights turned chilly. A man leaned on a long, wide plank held up at either end by an empty whiskey barrel. In front of him sat a glass and a half-­empty bottle.

“’Bout time, Whitey. What kept you?”

“Forty miles of hard ridin’ and a bunch of Indians on the prowl. I had to lay low for a spell till they decided to move on south. Got another glass?”

The man took a glass from behind him and set it in front of Whitey, who quickly snatched up the bottle and poured the glass full to the rim with the pale brown liquid. He raised the glass and took the entire contents down in one gulp.

“Did you kill that bastard? The one I paid you five hundred dollars for?”

“Don’t know fer sure. Couldn’t wait around to find out.
If he was sittin’ at the desk, as I’m certain he was, then my shot likely took his head clean off. He sure as hell didn’t return fire.”

“I’m not payin’ you for guesses, you idiot. I need to be sure. Damn!”

“You could ride back into Apache Springs and see for yourself. Don’t no one know you there, do they?” Whitey said.

The man stared at Whitey with anger growing in his eyes. He shot a hand across the makeshift bar and grabbed Whitey by the collar, yanking him halfway across the plank.

“You dumb sonofabitch! I didn’t shell out my hard-­earned greenbacks for the job to get done halfway. Now, you get back on that mount of yours and bring me proof that the man I sent you to kill is dead. You hear me? I’m headin’ for Las Vegas. That’s where you’ll find me, at the Saloon #1. And don’t fail me again or I’ll kill
you
, instead.”

“Y-­yessir. N-­no need for that. I-­I’ll just be on my way.” Whitey’s eyes were wide as he found himself being stared down by the very face of evil, a look that, gun or no gun, could take a man’s life as easily as any hunk of lead. He dropped the glass, which shattered as it rolled off the tabletop and hit the stone floor. He was out the door and back in the saddle in about twenty seconds flat.

As the sun sank low on the horizon, a warm red glow washed across the little cabin and the tall, well-­dressed man leaning in the doorway. A wry smile swept across his chiseled face. He liked the feeling he got putting the fear of a bullet in Whitey, and others before him, especially since he had never been known to carry a gun.

Cotton mounted up at the livery stable. Jack stood nearby.

“What do you want me to do while you’re gone?” Jack asked.

“You might spend some time doin’ what you do best. Go over to the saloon, down a couple whiskeys, and listen for anything that could be useful in findin’ this coward.”

“Ain’t had much time for drinkin’ lately, what with all the crime needin’ tendin’ to around here. Mighta forgot how.”

“Try hard to remember,” Cotton said as he spurred his mare to a trot straight out of town in the direction of the Wagner ranch.

Jack stomped off toward the jail, grumbling to himself about so-­called friends that can’t seem to ever let a man forget his past mistakes. Truth be told, Jack wasn’t all that good at forgiving himself for that night in Gonzales ten years back when he got drunk and shot up the town, ending the life of an innocent man sitting too close to a second-­story window. Cotton was the sheriff there, then, and Jack had been his deputy. After the incident, Cotton told Jack to get out of town and never come back or he’d be sure he was hanged for his stupidity. Not long after that—­primarily because of Jack’s bad behavior—­Cotton was voted out of office, and he began to wander from New Mexico to Texas to Colorado to Arizona and back, hiring out his gun to towns that needed a man who wasn’t afraid to shoot when it became necessary. And Cotton could surely shoot with the best of them. As soon as Cotton had left Gonzales, Jack had snuck back into town and stayed.

After coming to Apache Springs, ostensibly to help an aging sheriff cope with a gang of owlhoots bent on turning it into another Abilene or Dodge City, Cotton was asked to run for sheriff at the end of the old man’s term. He did and won, much to his surprise. He’d finally found a place to settle down after running from the Gonzales affair, in which Jack played the major role. While nothing could seem to keep Jack from the gambling tables and the whiskey and Melody, he still carried the scar of destroying not only his own career as a lawman, but that of a friend, also. Now Cotton appeared to be giving him a second chance. He wasn’t all that certain he was up to the task.

As he strolled into the saloon, he looked around, searching the myriad of faces, looking for anyone who could be the midnight shooter. He walked to the bar and ordered a beer.

W
hen Cotton rode into the yard at the Wagner ranch, Emily came running out to greet him. She had a dish towel in her hand and an apron tied around her slim waist. Her smile lit up the evening.

“Cotton, you’re safe. I’m so relieved you changed your mind about staying in town. C’mon in and have some supper.”

Cotton followed her inside. Three of her cowboys were seated around the table, savagely attacking some steaks and boiled potatoes. He took one of the empty seats. The cowboys muttered mouthful acknowledgments of his presence but shied away from any formal greeting that might take them away from their ravenous attack on the victuals. Emily placed a plate with a still-­sizzling steak in front of him, along with a cup of coffee. She sat down next to him, gave him a nudge with her elbow, and shot him a coy grin. His face turned almost as red as the bowl of beets that sat across the table.

“So, did you catch the man who took a shot at Jack?” she asked.

“No. I’m afraid not. In fact, I came out tonight to ask if you could see yourself clear to lending me one of your hands for a few days.”

“Certainly. Who do you want?” She looked around the table, expecting him to pick one of those in the room.

“Henry Coyote.”

“Henry? Why Henry?”

“Best tracker I know. I need someone who can follow whatever trail this ambusher might have left. The man appears better at coverin’ his route than I am at followin’ it. So—­”

“So, you need an Apache.”

“Seems so.”

“In the mornin’ soon enough?”

“Just right.”

A couple of the cowboys started coughing as if they’d choked on something. Cotton knew Emily had made no pretense of her relationship with the sheriff, but her ranch hands still found the affair a tad naughty.

Henry Coyote squatted on the front porch of the Wagner ranch house at dawn. When Cotton emerged, stretching and pulling up his suspenders, the Indian grunted a greeting, at least that’s what Cotton interpreted it as. The two of them had been friends for some time, especially since it was Henry who killed the man guarding Emily after her kidnapping by the Cruz gang. And it was Henry who brought her to safety and helped set in motion the downfall of a vicious bunch of cutthroats.