Cotton's Law (9781101553848) by Phil Dunlap Read Free Book Online Page A

to eliminate anyone or anything that might offer resistance to his skulduggery.
    Cotton stopped to catch his breath and listen for any sound that might give away the shooter’s position. He doubted he’d be lucky enough to find him, but there was always a chance, slim as it was. He eased up farther into the boulders, working his way cautiously around each one with the expectation of coming face-­to-­face with the “lunger” with a buffalo rifle. Halfway hoping he would. He stopped every few steps, straining for the sound of a pebble being dislodged by a careless step, or the unmistakable squeak of gun-­belt leather as a man took a step.
    Suddenly, a horse nickered in the distance, from the other side of the hill. Cotton stood up, cocked the Colt, and hurried his steps toward the sound. Gravel skittered about by his footfalls rattled across the downgrade like dry beans spilled from a bag. The man must be heading for his horse in hopes of an easy getaway, Cotton thought. Then, another sound, one he’d not expected. The distinctive sound of a hammer being cocked. The hammer of a single-­shot rife. A Sharps buffalo gun. A Sharps .50-­caliber with a bore that could send a shot three-­quarters of a mile with incredible accuracy. Cotton spun around in the direction of the sound and came face-­to-­face with a stringy man lifting the barrel of the rifle to bear. Cotton’s two shots were fired so quickly that the echo sounded as one shot. The man’s rifle flew from his hands and discharged into the dirt, blowing a crater a prairie dog could make a home in. The fallen man groaned once, then fell silent.
    Cotton knelt down to get a closer look. The man wasdead. Both bullets had found their mark: one in his throat and the other in the middle of his forehead. He would be no use as a source of information about the man who’d sent him to commit such a devilish crime. The sheriff picked up the Sharps, grabbed the dead man by the back of his shirt collar, and began dragging him downhill, through the rocks and over cactus that could exact no greater toll on his body than had already been done.
    Cotton dragged the corpse to the jail and let it drop in front of the door. He then marched straight to the undertaker’s shop, knocked on the door, and waited for a light to come on. The door creaked open, and a squinty-­eyed man peeked through the crack.
    “Oh, it’s you, Sheriff. Sorry, you caught me sound asleep.”
    “That’s okay, John, it’s late and I’m regretful of the necessity to disturb you, but I have a customer for you. He’s on the planks in front of the jail. I’d have brought him here, but I was afraid it might be your wife answering the door, and I didn’t want to expose her to the bloody mess I brung you. Come get him when you can.”
    John Burdsall thanked the sheriff for his thoughtfulness. He promised to be there straightaway, just as soon as he could slip into his britches. He closed the door as Cotton turned and began walking back to the jail.
    “Looks like I missed all the action last night,” Jack said as he dropped into the chair across form Cotton’s desk. He yawned. “I saw that body leanin’ against a board in front of the undertaker’s. There were a couple fellas starin’ at him. One of ’em said he thought it was Whitey Granville.”
    “You sure?”
    “That’s what I heard. You know anything about him?”
    Cotton proceeded to relay everything that had happened to bring the shooter to his ultimate and ignominious end. He told Jack that it had only been by sheer luck he hadn’t been killed. He also said he’d had no opportunity to question the man before he died.
    “So, you’re pretty sure you know who sent him, but—­”
    “Yep. That’s the unfortunate part; if it was Whitey Granville, I can’t tie him to Bart Havens now. I only have Henry’s account of the fellow meeting with a man matching the description of Havens. That would never hold up in court. Too many convenient