Sim Cotton was worried. He was not normally a worrying man, but the events of the past half-dozen hours had played havoc with his carefully wrought plans. Not for the first time, he silently cursed the rebel boy who had precipitated this debacle and the brother whose thoughtless, stupid act had started it all. Twenty minutes before, a startled shout had brought him to his feet in the big room of the Cottonwood ranch, and he had gone outside to see one of his riders running towards the house, a piece of paper clutched in his hand.
‘It was Helm’s hoss,’ the man gasped. ‘An’ this was pinned on to the saddle.’ He handed the note to his employer.
Cotton snatched the paper out of the man’s hand and read it. It was brief and to the point.
‘Your move’ he read. He crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it to the ground. ‘Damn the man! He musta got Helm! But how? There wasn’t a man in this territory fast enough to beat Chris!’
‘Mebbe they bushwhacked him,’ suggested the rider.
‘Get back to yore work!’ snapped Cotton, turning and stamping back into the house. He hurled himself into an armchair and lit a black cigar, clamping his teeth into it and smoking furiously, his brows knit. What had happened in Cottontown? How many men had this Green rallied around him? Had Helm been ambushed? If so, how had the plan they had concocted fared? What was Parris doing? He recalled the remark the cowpuncher had made about a U.S. Marshal. Had Green been bluffing? Or was the Federal lawman on his way? If so, he would arrive within the next twenty-four hours. Sim Cotton got to his feet, paced forward and back across the stone floor of the Cottonwood ranch living room. He was still pacing when his brother came in, having been told of the news.
‘Sim!’ Art’s disbelieving voice stopped his brother in mid-stride. ‘They didn’t get Helm?’
Sim looked at Art, saying nothing, just looking at him.
Art’s stare fell, and he slumped into a chair. ‘My Gawd!’ he breathed.
‘Who is this feller Green?’
‘He ain’t no driftin’ cowboy, that’s for shore,’ muttered Buck Cotton.
‘I don’t care if he’s Abraham Lincoln!’ snapped Sim Cotton. ‘We got to root him out o’ there. As long as he’s alive, we ain’t controllin’ Cottontown, an’ if we ain’t controlling Cottontown then we ain’t controlling anythin’ in these parts. They’ll build that dam, passel out the land to nesters, an’ we’ll be left with the land this ranch stands on an’ not one lousy acre more. We’ll be bust flat, an’ I ain’t sittin’ here lettin’ that happen.’ Art looked up at his brother, his lack luster eyes shining with interest from beneath his puffed, bruised brows.
‘What yu aimin’ to do, Sim?’ he asked.
‘Do we ride in an’ wipe ’em out?’ added Buck eagerly.
‘Shore,’ the older man agreed with massive scorn. ‘That’s real bright thinkin’. That’s makin’ it easy for them. We all ride in nice an’ bunched, an’ they lay for us on the rooftops. They’d cut us to pieces afore we got past the bank. If we ride into that town, we got to stay there. The question is: was that puncher bluffln’ about the U.S. Marshal?’
‘He shore don’t give the impression o’ bein’ much on bluff,’ said Buck. ‘As Art here can testify.’ He flinched as his brother laid a glowering glance of hatred upon him. The beating he had taken at Green’s hands had left deep scars on Art Cotton, and not all of them showed.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ cursed Sim Cotton. Everything had been doing so well. His influence in the town had been unassailable. All had been ready for the final coup — and now, this. What was the answer?
‘We got to go in,’ he decided finally. ‘We got to take that town back.’ He smashed his fist into his palm. ‘There’s too much at stake to back out now. We got to take that town. An’ I want to watch that drifter dance at the end of a rope!’
Art Cotton rose to his feet.
‘Now yo’re talkin’, Sim!’ he enthused. ‘We’ll roll them tender-feet up like a carpet!’
‘No!’ Sim Cotton thundered. ‘We play our cards very careful. We filter into town quiet-like. No noise. Take over the place. Pull in a man, two men. First thing we got to do is find out how many men Green’s got with him, afore we make our move.’ His face was now suffused with a look of pure animal cunning. He turned to his younger brother.
‘Now, Bucky, yu get yore chance to do somethin’ towards puttin’ this mess right. Yu better do it properly. I won’t give yu no second chance, yu hear?’
Buck Cotton nodded eagerly, his face white, anxious to please this frowning man who seemed suddenly to be a deadly stranger and not his forgiving older brother. ‘Shore Sim,’ he managed. ‘Just name it, an’ it’s done.’
Sim Cotton nodded. ‘They got the town. We want it. But we ain’t got anythin’ to offer them for it. Now Bucky here knows where there’s somethin’ that’ll bring that nester kid out into the open like a bee-stung porkypine,’ he grinned evilly. ‘Yu followin’ me, Bucky?’
The younger man’s face was puzzled for a moment, and then understanding dawned, bringing a wolf-like grin to his features.
‘The girl!’ he breathed. ‘O’ course. They’ll come out like sheep if we got the girl! Sim, yo’re a genius! Why didn’t I think o’ that?’
‘I wonder,’ Art said sourly, his lip curled.
‘Yu boys ain’t got time for this kid scrappin,’ snapped Sim. ‘Bucky, get on yore way. Bring the gal to Mott’s house. That’s where we’ll be. An’ don’t make no slips, boy. Mind me, now! Don’t make no slips, or yo’re finished!’
Buck Cotton nodded, chastened out of his delight at Sim’s idea of kidnapping the Hornby girl. He slammed out of the house and saddled up his horse, muttering to himself.
‘Shore must think I’m dumb,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll show him. When he’s got this town in his paw again, he better remember me.’ He leapt into the saddle and spurred off across the scrubland, heading southeast towards the Lazy H, and as he rode he thought again about the girl, and as he thought about her his eyes shone wildly.