and by damned, he was going to take that town down along
with
its almighty sheriff.
Havens spun around and stormed back inside, slammed the rickety door, and yanked the whiskey bottle off the table. He lifted it to his lips and swigged it like it was mother’s milk. When he slammed the bottle back down on the table, he looked like the devil himself come to claim his prize. Sleeve watched Havens’s quixotic behavior indifferently.He’d seen it before. He took another sip from his own glass, then leaned back in the chair.
“What do you want me to do, Boss?”
“We’re going to do things a little differently this time, Sleeve. It’s time we stacked the deck on Burke. I want you to ride to El Paso and bring back four of the best gunmen you can find. Let ’em know there’s money to be made and they can count on me to pay ’em well. Make sure none of them are squeamish about puttin’ a bullet in a man, whether he needs it or not. Got that?”
“Yessir. I think I know just who to round up,” Sleeve said with a wry grin. “You want I should bring ’em back here?”
“Yeah. If I’m not around when you get back, sit tight and wait for me. I’ll be workin’ on another part of my plan. Rodriguez and his wife will feed and take care of your horses. Now, get on your way.”
Sleeve downed the last of his drink and slipped outside. The wind was whipping up a chill, and he pulled his jacket up tighter around his neck, untied his horse, and mounted up. Havens was standing in the open doorway as Sleeve gave him a mock salute and spun his horse around, spurring him in a trot toward El Paso. The look in Havens’s eyes as he watched his hired killer ride off was dark, full to the brim with hatred.
Chapter 10
C otton was standing at the open door staring out on the bustling street. A high-sided wagon pulled by six mules lumbered past loaded with wood from the mountains and headed for the sawmill. Two ladies chattered away as they walked by him, turned briefly to smile, then hurried back to their conversation with little or no break. Memphis Jack emerged from the saloon down the street and wobbled his way toward the jail. He stopped short when he saw Cotton watching him. He shook his head then continued on.
“You just come from your usual whiskey breakfast, Jack?”
“What’s it to you, Cotton? You ain’t my momma.” He brushed by the sheriff and dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk. Cotton followed him in.
“No, Jack, I’m not your nursemaid, either. But I’d appreciate it if you’d stay sober long enough to handle anything resembling gunplay that might come along. I’d as soon you shoot the bad guys rather than a passerby.”
“You just can’t let it go, can you? A fella makes
one
damn mistake, and the high and mighty Cotton Burke has to keep rubbin’ it until it festers.”
“Let me remind you, Jack, someone tried to plug each one of us, and that ain’t a trifling matter. I need you sharp, not constantly crawling out of a bottle. Got it?”
Jack stood up, yanked his Remington, and blasted a hole right next to the other hole in the door, no more than an inch away. He put the revolver back in his holster and sat back down, hard.
“Maybe I have lost my edge, Cotton. I meant to put that one right through the same hole.”
Cotton scowled at Jack the way a father would a wayward son, even though their ages were no more than two years apart. He shook his head and went outside. He called back, “I’m going out to the Wagner ranch.”
The ride to Emily’s place took about two hours and wound through cottonwood- and oak-lined canyons and across a wide, grassy valley. Emily’s deceased husband, Otis, had chosen well when first they’d come to Apache Springs seeking property to buy land and settle down with a moderate-size cattle operation. Otis had sent east for some of the English breeds with more meat on their bones, rather than the longhorns so plentiful in Texas.
Longhorns are
with
its almighty sheriff.
Havens spun around and stormed back inside, slammed the rickety door, and yanked the whiskey bottle off the table. He lifted it to his lips and swigged it like it was mother’s milk. When he slammed the bottle back down on the table, he looked like the devil himself come to claim his prize. Sleeve watched Havens’s quixotic behavior indifferently.He’d seen it before. He took another sip from his own glass, then leaned back in the chair.
“What do you want me to do, Boss?”
“We’re going to do things a little differently this time, Sleeve. It’s time we stacked the deck on Burke. I want you to ride to El Paso and bring back four of the best gunmen you can find. Let ’em know there’s money to be made and they can count on me to pay ’em well. Make sure none of them are squeamish about puttin’ a bullet in a man, whether he needs it or not. Got that?”
“Yessir. I think I know just who to round up,” Sleeve said with a wry grin. “You want I should bring ’em back here?”
“Yeah. If I’m not around when you get back, sit tight and wait for me. I’ll be workin’ on another part of my plan. Rodriguez and his wife will feed and take care of your horses. Now, get on your way.”
Sleeve downed the last of his drink and slipped outside. The wind was whipping up a chill, and he pulled his jacket up tighter around his neck, untied his horse, and mounted up. Havens was standing in the open doorway as Sleeve gave him a mock salute and spun his horse around, spurring him in a trot toward El Paso. The look in Havens’s eyes as he watched his hired killer ride off was dark, full to the brim with hatred.
Chapter 10
C otton was standing at the open door staring out on the bustling street. A high-sided wagon pulled by six mules lumbered past loaded with wood from the mountains and headed for the sawmill. Two ladies chattered away as they walked by him, turned briefly to smile, then hurried back to their conversation with little or no break. Memphis Jack emerged from the saloon down the street and wobbled his way toward the jail. He stopped short when he saw Cotton watching him. He shook his head then continued on.
“You just come from your usual whiskey breakfast, Jack?”
“What’s it to you, Cotton? You ain’t my momma.” He brushed by the sheriff and dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk. Cotton followed him in.
“No, Jack, I’m not your nursemaid, either. But I’d appreciate it if you’d stay sober long enough to handle anything resembling gunplay that might come along. I’d as soon you shoot the bad guys rather than a passerby.”
“You just can’t let it go, can you? A fella makes
one
damn mistake, and the high and mighty Cotton Burke has to keep rubbin’ it until it festers.”
“Let me remind you, Jack, someone tried to plug each one of us, and that ain’t a trifling matter. I need you sharp, not constantly crawling out of a bottle. Got it?”
Jack stood up, yanked his Remington, and blasted a hole right next to the other hole in the door, no more than an inch away. He put the revolver back in his holster and sat back down, hard.
“Maybe I have lost my edge, Cotton. I meant to put that one right through the same hole.”
Cotton scowled at Jack the way a father would a wayward son, even though their ages were no more than two years apart. He shook his head and went outside. He called back, “I’m going out to the Wagner ranch.”
The ride to Emily’s place took about two hours and wound through cottonwood- and oak-lined canyons and across a wide, grassy valley. Emily’s deceased husband, Otis, had chosen well when first they’d come to Apache Springs seeking property to buy land and settle down with a moderate-size cattle operation. Otis had sent east for some of the English breeds with more meat on their bones, rather than the longhorns so plentiful in Texas.
Longhorns are
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