Sim Cotton on his palomino stallion rode easily down the street. Chris Helm rode beside him, his hands never far from the guns slung low on his hips. Parris brought up the rear, his eyes flickering nervously about, not quite meeting the half-curious, half-apprehensive stares of the townspeople who watched in silence as the Cottonwood men moved down the street. Sim Cotton could feel the eyes upon him, and it pleased him to know that his appearance with no more than a token force had created the impression he desired. He felt it was symbolic of his strength. He did not need to ride into his own town at the head of a gang, for that would have indicated that he was unsure of himself, that this upstart kid and the slow-spoken stranger were anything other than a minor nuisance. He looked as if he had all the time, all the power he needed.
Those watching could hardly have known that time was Sim Cotton’s most potent enemy; that time passing with the control of the town in doubt was like a cancer gnawing at his vitals. Those awaiting his next move could scarcely know that the loss of Norris and Rodgers had robbed him of two of his top guns, or that the beating Art Cotton had taken had stripped layers of pride from Sim Cotton himself, leaving nerves seared and screaming for revenge. But he was in control. He rode down the street like a king, tall and proud, a big man, virile and confident. He reined his horse to a stop in front of the Oasis and was about to dismount when a cold voice rasped ‘Don’t get down.’
He settled back in his saddle. A small pulse started to beat in his forehead, the slow measured beat of building rage; but no trace of it appeared on his face.
‘I’ve ridden a long way,’ he said mildly. ‘I’d like a drink.’
‘Drink someplace else,’ snapped another voice. ‘Saloon’s shut —-to yu.’
Sim Cotton’s eyes moved to meet those of the speaker, the bartender, Blass.
‘Well, Blass,’ he said, a touch of iciness in his voice. ‘I hope yu’ve thought what yo’re doin’ though.’
‘First real thinkin’ I’ve done in years,’ snapped Blass. ‘An’ the saloon’s still shut.’
Cotton shrugged, dismissing the bartender, and returned his reptilian gaze to Green.
‘So yu came back,’ he said softly. He surveyed the puncher from head to foot. ‘Yu don’t look good enough to have beaten Art.’ His lip curled contemptuously. ‘Yu don’t look much at all.’
‘Take another look at yore brother,’ Green told him flatly. ‘O’ course, he might’a’ just fell on his face.’ A cold smile lit his eyes for a moment. ‘Howdy, Helm. Yore head better?’ He might have been asking an old-timer about his rheumatism. Helm cursed and his hand moved, but Cotton stopped him with a word.
‘No gunplay!’ he snapped. ‘I ain’t come here to fight.’
‘Be interestin’ to know why yu did come,’ suggested Green, but his voice lacked any sign of interest.
‘Oh…’ Cotton pursed his lips. ‘A talk. An exchange of views. An arrangement, maybe.’
‘Such as?’
‘Yo’re a good man, if yu licked Art an’ sent Helm packin’. I can use good men. It’s that simple. I thought we could discuss…’
‘Yu thought wrong!’ Sudden’s voice was flat and final, and for a moment cold anger exhibited itself in his mien. ‘Yu may be a big man, Cotton, but yo’re a long way off the trail. Mebbe yu own a big ranch an’ run a hard crew, an’ mebbe yu pay ’em well for doin’ what yu tell ’em to do. Mebbe that makes a lot o’ people do things they don’t like doin’, but it don’t make yu God, mister. Yore fat-faced sheriff aimed to have me Pecossed, an’ I’m guessin’ yore man Helm wasn’t plannin’ on no picnic with the kid, here, when he planned to ride along with him to Santa Fe. Yo’re outside the fence, Cotton. Yu got to be put down like a wild animal. No talk, no deal, no nothin’!’
Helm laughed into the chilled silence. ‘He talks awful big for a man in such a tight. Look at him! What’s he got to buck us with? A kid, a barkeep, a grocer an’ a cripple. Hell, I could take all of ’em with one hand tied —–’
‘Yu want to try it now?’
Sudden’s eyes had narrowed to slits and he faced Helm squarely, his body falling into a menacing half-crouch, his very stance instinct with a deadly menace that sent a shiver into the veins of every man watching.
Helm laughed again. ‘Hell, I’ll take yu any time I want to,
Green,’ he sneered. ‘But my way, not yores.’
‘In the back, yu mean?’ was the cutting reply.
‘Now, see here, Green interposed Cotton, ‘I come here in good faith —–’
‘Yu came here to see what was happenin’,’ jibed the puncher, ‘an’ now yu know what yo’re up against. Yu don’t own this town any more, Cotton. We aim to stay here until the U.S. Marshal arrives.’ This remark hit Sim Cotton harder than anything said so far. Was the man bluffing, or had he really sent for the Federals? If he had, then the game was getting out of hand. Even Sim Cotton wasn’t big enough to tangle with the United States Government —-not yet, anyway, he told his pride. Something of what was passing through his mind must have communicated itself to the saturnine figure on the porch of the Oasis, for Cotton saw that Green was smiling–a wintry smile, but a smile nonetheless.
‘That’s right, Cotton, yu better think careful,’ Sudden warned the rancher. ‘Yu can’t buck a U.S. Marshal.’
‘I can damned well buck yu, though!’ Cotton’s mien changed. Blood darkened his visage, and the veins stood out upon his throat and brow. ‘Yu better get out o’ this town. Yu better ride far an’ fast, because I’m comin’ back here, an’ I’m takin’ this town. I’m takin’ it an’ if yo’re still here I’m goin’ to hang yu in the street an’ leave yu there to rot, yu an’ these snivellin’ backbiters who’ve sided with yu! Cottons built this place an’ by the Eternal! Cottons can unbuild it! I’ll burn down every house, every buildin’! I’ll line up every snivellin’ cur in the place an’ shoot him down —- the man don’t live that can cross me an’ tell the tale!’ Spittle flecked his lips, and madness made his eyes roll white. The man was wild, far gone out of reach, uncontrollable and murderous. Sudden snapped him back with a cutting query.
‘Yu through?’
Cotton’s eyes cleared. He blinked once or twice, as if unsure of where he was. Only the gloved hand, closing and unclosing incessantly upon the saddle pommel, indicated the struggle for control that the man was exercising. Cotton took a deep breath.
‘No, Green,’ he said, his voice still thick with rage, but quietly now and correspondingly more threatening. ‘T’ain’t through—isn’t even begun yet. But I will. Yu want war? Yu shall have it. The peace is over. Yu’ll die afore sundown!’
He jerked the horse’s head around and spurring the animal wickedly, thundered off up the street, pursued by his foreman.
Harry Parris stood uncertainly in the middle of the street, dust drifting down on him, looking after Cotton and patently wondering what to do — whether to mount and follow Cotton, or remain in the town.
He looked pleadingly at Green and the others. They returned his gaze expressionlessly, then turned and walked into the Oasis without a word. Parris stood there for a long time before he shuffled off towards his cabin.
Blass watched him go through his window.
‘There goes a worried hombre,’ he told the silent group who stood by the bar.
‘Hell,’ said Billy with a nervous laugh. ‘He’s worried?’
Sudden smiled, feigning a confidence he was far from feeling.
‘Wal,’ he drawled. ‘He had a better job than we did.’ But their laughter had no heart in it.