Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) by Phil Dunlap Page A

of you, Mrs. Hardin. I may take the rest of these folks out tomorrow and head on to Apache Springs. Hopefully we won’t run into any more Apaches. Word is these hills are full of ’em. You better keep a keen eye out yourself.”
    â€œJeremiah and I have been drivin’ them red rascals off every whipstitch for over ten years now. They don’t comearound much anymore. They never did take a liking to Jeremiah’s ten-gauge,” she said with a crooked grin.
    â€œSince the stage is out of business for a couple more days, how’s about loanin’ me three horses to transport Mr. Denby, Miss Delilah, and Jimmy back with me? The county will reimburse you for their use.”
    â€œReckon that’d be all right. You plannin’ on leavin’ in the mornin’?”
    â€œThat’s my plan.”
    Mrs. Hardin hollered for Jeremiah to have three extra horses saddled and ready at first light.
    â€œYes, Ma,” Jeremiah answered, somewhat bitterly.
    Cotton marveled at the way she got things accomplished with just the two of them, and, of course, Jeremiah’s complete acquiescence to everything she demanded of him.

Chapter 9

    I n a dust-blown town on the East Texas prairie, weeks before Sheriff Cotton Burke departed on his quest to save Thorn McCann from the hangman’s noose, the devil’s own plans were being set in motion, which would change Apache Springs forever.
    A large, rough-looking man with a scowl that seemed to say, “keep the hell out of my way,” tied his dun-colored mare to a railing in front of a narrow storefront with peeling paint and filthy windows. He looked around before entering through the door, almost instantly coming face-to-face with the man he was there to see. The man motioned for him to take a seat across from him.
    A thin, shriveled old man sat behind a huge oak desk littered with scraps of newspaper stories, clipped and tossed randomly about. Paper nearly covered the entire top of the desk. The balding gent wore a wrinkled shirt that might have been white at one time but was now a sad, badly worn and faded gray. A wooden gavel sat next to a hunk of stained walnut that was dented from too many abuses from the oldman’s rulings. A lightly stained, hand-carved wedge of wood at the front edge of the desk proclaimed the man who sat behind it was Judge Arthur Sanborn.
    Across from Sanborn sat a grizzled, Kentucky-born, self-styled gunslinger with a flat-brimmed hat tilted back on his head. He wore two guns: one a .44 Remington and the other a .38 Smith & Wesson with a spur trigger that rested in a shoulder holster. He went by the name his daddy had bestowed upon him at birth: James Lee Hogg. He hung his duster on a peg behind him. The office–or what Sanborn referred to as his courtroom–was tiny, dusty, and cluttered. No trials had been held there for a very long time.
    â€œHogg, I sent for you to do a job for me, a serious job. So let’s get down to business.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m here for, Mr. Sanborn.”
    â€œJudge! That’s
Judge
Sanborn! And don’t you forget it!” Sanborn slammed his hand on the desktop.
    â€œI heard a rumor that the county commissioners fired your scrawny ass two years ago, and that you ain’t a judge no more. Ain’t that right?”
    â€œNever you mind about whether I am or am not currently a judge. This is but a temporary setback. So it don’t affect our association. Got that?”
    â€œYeah, sure, whatever you say. Go ahead and lay it out for me.”
    â€œYou must listen carefully and do just as I say,” Sanborn said.
    â€œJust as long as the deal is for cash on delivery.”
    â€œThat’s the deal. What I want you to do is make nothing but trouble for a certain Sheriff Burke in Apache Springs. You ever heard of him?”
    â€œWe’ve met and it weren’t all that friendly.”
    â€œWell, I want him pushed to the limit. He