Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2) (10 page)

Then he slapped the haunch of
Parris’ horse and that normally placid animal leaped wildly
forward, almost unseating the portly sheriff. The four horse
cavalcade thundered out of town. The bartender, Blass, had watched
everything that transpired through the smeared windows of the
Oasis. He turned now back to his bar as the crowd in the street
broke up, and the saturnine stranger who had precipitated the
downfall of Art Cotton came up towards the batwing doors of the
saloon.

Blass watched him as he came in, followed by the
Hornby boy, who was looking at Green as if the cowboy had just
stepped off a winged charger. Blass nodded to himself as he moved
across to serve them.

‘
By God,’ he muttered. ‘I do
believe there’s hope for us yet!’ And then he did something that
nobody in Cottonwood had heard for many years. Raising his voice,
he called out to everyone within earshot ‘Belly up, boys! The
drinks are on the house!’

The Cottonwood ranch was not big,
considering the range it controlled. Altogether, Sim Cotton had
only fifteen men on his payroll, and this number included a cook
and a horse-wrangler, neither of whom was to be considered in any
way a fighting man. The cook was a grizzled oldster of perhaps
sixty summers who had been badly stove-up in a stampede many years
previously at Doan’s Crossing on the Red River, and the wrangler
was a half-Indian boy who spoke about three intelligible words in
English. Sim Cotton was a calculating man. He had always believed
that power was a tool, like a branding iron or a gun, to be used as
necessary, in the circumstances best suited to it. Power was
impersonal, and so was fear, and Sim Cotton knew how to use both.
Thus had his little empire in this valley remained in his grasp
long after the time when such empires had crumbled in other parts
of the West. Now he stood with his back to the fireplace in the big
living room of his ranch and considered the battered face of his
brother Art, the fawning figure of the sheriff, and the ugly
expression in the eyes of Chris Helm.

‘
So yu let that two- bit kid an’
his sidekick run yu out o’ my town?’ he asked his brother mildly.
There was no indication in his voice of the deep-wounded anger, the
searing hurt pride inside him.

‘
He buffaloed me afore I seen him
properly, Sim Helm told him. ‘I was out cold the whole time him an’
Art was scrapping Sim Cotton’s measured gaze swung towards his
brother.

‘
An’ yu…?’

Art Cotton did not answer. He could
not bear the truth, that he had been thoroughly beaten. He could
not invent a plausible enough excuse to offer his brother to
explain his condition, so he simply sat, smoldering with hatred for
the man who had so marked him before the entire town burning
through him.

‘
An’ our brave sheriff was
sleepin’.’ Sim Cotton’s reptilian eyes rested now on the
apprehensive Parris, who threw up his hands in front of him as
though to defend himself against a blow, though Sim Cotton had not
moved a finger.

‘
I … I figgered the same as yu,
Sim … Mr Cotton…’ he stuttered. ‘That this Green feller was taken
care of, an’ the kid was snug in the jail … I just plain didn’t
know … couldn’t have known…’

‘
Mebbe yo’re givin’ me the
straightest story at that, Harry,’ Sim Cotton rumbled. ‘Helm here
was buffaloed while he was goin’ for his guns —-I thought yu was
supposed to be fast, Helm? An’ Art got his ears beat off, an’ him
reckoned to be the toughest fist-fighter north o’ the Rio.’ He
smiled, without warmth. ‘I don’t see how I could expect Harry to do
any better than yu two misfits.’ He glanced around the
room.

It was a spacious room, stone
floored, solid. The huge fireplace was dominated by a mounted elk’s
head, and scattered catamount and wolf pelts made warm splashes of
tawny color on the floor. The walls were of adobe, plastered and
painted white; and the furniture, although simple, was solid and
shone with the use of years. On one wall hung an oil painting of a
white-bearded old man in range clothes. The artist’s knowledge of
the range had been limited and the background was one which would
have made a real cattleman laugh, but the face of the subject had
been well caught: it was a ruthless, devilish face, and the eyes
were twins for those of Sim Cotton, who gazed at the picture as he
spoke.

‘
My father built this range,’ he
told the men in the room: his two brothers, Helm, the Sheriff, and
his assembled riders. ‘He made Cottonwood. He made it, an’ by God,
I can unmake it. If I have to. I’m hopin’ I won’t have to. I’m
goin’ to try talkin’ to this man Green. I’ll make no threats.
But
I
will have
my way
!’ He smashed his fist downwards upon
the heavy table. ‘I’ve waited too long to lose know.
I will have my way
.’
His youngest brother’s expression
caught his eye and he turned to face him.

‘
Buck,’ he snapped. ‘What’s so
damned funny?’

Buck Cotton stood up and stretched lazily.

‘
Yu,’ he said, coldly. ‘Yu could
ride in to Cottontown an’ burn it down if yu wanted to, an’
nobody’d lift a finger to stop yu. Yu could ride in an’ take those
two out an’ hang ’em in the street, an’ nobody’d interfere. But no,
not yu: yu let two four-flushers try to kill me, beat the hell out
of Art, gun whip yore foreman, an’
run yore
Sheriff out o’ town, an’ then yu jaw about goin’ in an’ talkin’ to
them.’

Something very sudden and violent
happened deep inside Sim Cotton at that moment. His affection for
his kid brother was real and sincere. It had persisted out of habit
long after he had learned that Buck was as unworthy of it as the
meanest drunk in Cottontown. And in this moment, Sim Cotton knew
that it was gone. Up to this point, he had not thought about Buck
personally. The involvement of Buck in a town fracas was nothing
new, but this time the events had changed the nature of things.
Where normally an insult to Buck —-to any of them —-was an insult
to all the Cottons, now he realized that this handsome youth, whose
eyes were as shallow as rain, had jeopardized the future of
everyone by his stupid, senseless, unnecessary attack on the
girl.

Sim Cotton had worked hard to build
what his father had left him into something bigger, stronger, more
flexible. He had spent thousands of dollars on drinks for
Congressmen and Senators in the plush clubs of Santa Fe, listening,
waiting, hoping for the stray item of information which he could
use, bend, turn to his own advantage. He had heard about the plans
to irrigate the Bonito valley long before they had been drafted.
Now, with the draft Bill to go soon before the Territorial
Legislature, those years of hard work were going to pay off. But
Buck—Buck had never worked in his life. His hands were as soft as
those of a girl. Sim Cotton saw the danger of losing everything
because his stupid kid brother couldn’t be bothered to keep his
hands off some nester girl. Now the work of the ranch had to be
suspended; already three men were lost —-maybe four if you counted
Art, who looked broken —-and here was Buck taunting him, daring him
to ride into Cottontown and burn it to the ground, as if he were
Charley Quantrill.

His calloused hand moved almost of its own accord,
and his full weight was behind it. The slap caught Buck Cotton on
the side of his head and lifted him physically off his feet,
hurling him into the corner of the room. He slammed into the wall
and slid down, huddled, tears of outrage and shock springing to his
eyes, his hand scrambling for the gun which had swung around behind
him with the force of his fall. In one mighty bound, Sim Cotton was
towering over him, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face
taut with an almost uncontrollable rage.

‘
Touch that gun an’ I’ll kill yu
with my bare hands!’ he hissed. Buck pulled his fingers away from
the gun butt as if it had become
red hot.
Sim Cotton turned his back contemptuously on his brother and
stalked back into the centre of the silent room as though nothing
had occurred. His rage was under control again, and his mind was
already foraging ahead, planning, examining, discarding.

‘
I’m goin’ in to town,’ he
announced. ‘Yu, Helm. Ride with me. Yu too, Harry. The rest o’ yu
stay here. Get on with yore chores.’

One of the riders, a man called Hitchin, put in a
word.

‘
Yu ain’t aimin’ to take nobody
with yu, boss?’

‘
No,’ said Cotton, his mouth
closing like a trap. ‘I’m goin’ to call that stinkin’ town’s bluff.
An’ Mr Green’s along with it!’

‘
I’m passin’ a vote o’ thanks to
Jim Green!’

The shouted words came from the
lips of Bob Davis, the storekeeper, and they drew a ragged cheer
from the crowded saloon. The word of Art Cotton’s beating had
spread like wildfire through the town, and within half an hour of
Sheriff Parris’ leading the battered ranchman out of town, lolling
and swaying like a straw dummy on his saddle, nearly every
able-bodied man in Cottontown was in the saloon, craning to get a
glimpse of the cold-eyed stranger who had effected this
miracle.

The object of their attention
leaned against the bar, a thin smile on his lips. The bartender
pounded him on the back, insisting that the puncher take another
“snort” to celebrate what he called ‘the biggest day in Cottontown
since the Centennial!” Even Doc Hight had hobbled in and joined the
general enthusiasm. After a while, Green held up his hands for
silence, and the forty or so men in the saloon gathered around. He
hitched himself up to sit on the bar where he could see their
faces, and waited until he had their complete attention.

‘
I’m thankin’ yu gents for yore
enthusiasm,’ he began. ‘But I’m thinkin’ that lickin’ one o’ the
Cotton brothers ain’t the end o’ the rope. They ain’t goin’ to take
this lyin’ down, an’ that means more trouble afore we’re
through.’

The men nearest to Green shuffled
their feet and looked doubtful for a moment, but someone roared out
from the back: ‘Let ’em come. We’ll give ’em somethin’ to think
about!’

Another cheer greeted this
hot-blooded boast, and the townspeople nodded enthusiastically to
each other.

‘
Talk’s cheap!’ snapped Sudden. ‘I
ain’t savin’ yu boys don’t mean what yo’re sayin’, but have yu
given a thought to what happens if the Cottons ride in here in
force? Some o’ yu have got wives an’ kids. If it comes to a
showdown, there’s goin’ to be
shootin’, an’
yu better think about it afore yu go any further!’ A silence
greeted these words. In truth, most of the men in the saloon had
been swept along on a tide of enthusiasm composed of two parts
alcohol to one part defiance. Green’s sobering words brought them
jokingly to their senses, and there was an outbreak of muttering
and whispered consultation in the crowd.

‘
Are yu stayin’ to face Cotton,
Green?’ asked one bearded man.

‘
I been in a scrap today,’ Green
told him, smiling, ‘an’ even if I won, it still feels like I lost.
I’m a mite tired for runnin’.’

In the ragged cheer that followed,
Billy Hornby shouted, ‘I’m stickin’ with Jim!’

He pushed through the crowd and
placed himself by Sudden’s side. In another moment the crowd
parted, and Doc Hight limped forward to turn and face them. Rob
Davis came forward too, and then looked expectantly at the other
men.

‘
Ain’t none o’ yu comin’ out
here?’ he faltered. The men in the front of the crowd edged
backwards, unable to meet his eyes. He looked at them in deep
scorn.

‘
What kind o’ town is this,
anyway? Ain’t yu men goin’ to fight for what’s yourn?’

‘
Hell, it’s okay for yu, Rob, yu
ain’t got no family,’ said the bearded man who had spoken earlier.
‘Some of us has got little kids. We get killed, who’s goin’ to look
after our womenfolk?’

Davies opened his mouth to say
something scathing but before he could speak, Sudden intervened.
‘He’s right, Rob,’ he told the storekeeper. ‘It ain’t no use
expectin’ to cuss him into it.’ He turned to face the
crowd.

‘
Yu boys git back to yore houses.
Keep yore womenfolk an’ kids off the streets until this is all
over—one way or th’other.’ A few men at the back of the room
quickly detached themselves from the crowd and hurried out through
the batwing doors. Those at the front retreated more slowly,
shamefacedly, unwilling to look directly at the four men standing
by the bar. Sudden turned to the bartender.

‘
Blass, yu better get out o’ here,
too,’ he said.

The bartender shook his head.

‘
Listen Green. Sim Cotton’s bin
drainin’ me of every cent I made in this place these last few
years. He’s taken everythin’ ’cept my blood. Well…’ he reached
beneath the bar and lifted out a beautifully chased shotgun which
he banged on to the flat polished surface. ‘I reckon it’s time to
find out if he wants that, too.’

He thrust out his hand and Green shook it
warmly.

‘
I’m thankin’ yu he said simply.
‘I’m thankin’ all o’ yu.’

‘
Do it when it’s over was Hight’s
succinct reply. ‘We got to
wait and see
what Sim Cotton’s going to do.’

Blass, who was looking idly through
the window, turned
suddenly towards them,
his face gone pale.