‘Howdy, Doc!’
Art Cotton’s voice was wicked and level and low and Hight recoiled, his hand moving back from the door handle as if it had suddenly turned into a rattlesnake. He half turned as though to break and run for it, his mouth opening to yell a warning.
‘Don’t yu.’
Art Cotton’s voice had hardly changed, but Hight sensed the evil desire in it now, the just-suppressed urge to kill, as distinct as the rock-steady revolver in the Cottonwood man’s hairy paw. Its bore yawned at Hight; and he could see the whiteness of Cotton’s trigger-finger knuckle. One fraction of an ounce of pressure and he was a dead man. His mind raced. How had they known? How had they foreseen what Sudden would do? How had they got here? Did they know how short of ammunition the beleaguered men were? He let his muscles go slack, allowing a puzzled frown to settle on his face.
‘What are you doing here?’ was all he said.
‘Oh, we just dropped in,’ grinned Cotton evilly. ‘Seemed like a nice day for visitin’.’ He motioned with the gun. ‘Get in here afore yore pards start wonderin’ why yore loiterin’ on yore own doorstep.’
Hight came into the house, his hands carefully held level with his shoulders. Art Cotton turned to Whitey.
‘Any movement out there?’
The man at the window shook his head.
‘Nary a sign, Art.’
Cotton turned to face Hight, planting his feet apart and thrusting his face forward until it was within inches of that of the medical man.
‘Well, now, Doc,’ he leered. ‘We seen yore sidekick Green goin’ back into the stable, which means he was creatin’ some kind o’ diversion. Now why would he want yu to sneak out, stead hisself?’
Hight made no reply.
‘I’m guessin’ Green managed to surprise my men,’ whispered Cotton, his voice held deadly low. ‘Which adds to the score he’s goin’ to pay. But it don’t explain why yu come out alone, Doc. Yu want to tell me?’
Hight managed to inject some surprise into his voice, praying that Art Cotton would not detect any quaver in it.
‘They said they were coming out behind me, as soon as I was clear…’ he bluffed.
Art Cotton shook his head, his expression coldly mocking.
‘No, that won’t do, Doc. Yu can do better than that. I’ll give yu one more chance. Why did they send yu out, an’ why did they send yu here?’
Hight desperately tried another tack.
‘The boy,’ he gasped. ‘He’s wounded. I needed … things … to dress his wound.’
‘The kid was at the window throwin’ lead not half an hour ago,’ interposed Whitey’s flat voice. ‘I seen him.’
‘So.’ Art Cotton whispered. ‘Lyin’ to me again, Doc?’
‘No … I…’
‘Liar!’
Cotton’s screamed accusation was accompanied by a wicked backhanded blow to Hight’s face. It sent the doctor reeling backwards, stemming against the wall, blood welling from a gash on his cheekbone caused by the heavy signet ring on Art Cotton’s finger.
‘No…’ Hight managed, holding up a shaking hand. ‘I’m telling you the truth!’
Art Cotton stepped forward after him, his hands at his sides, a snarl disfiguring his face.
‘No — yu — ain’t!’
Each word was punctuated by another slashing blow. The third dropped Hight to his knees, fighting for consciousness. He fought against the panic in his mind: this man was insane, he would beat him to death. Art Cotton towered over him, his long fingers working, an empty light in his catlike eyes.
‘They … they told me … to make a run for it,’ Hight mumbled.
‘Liar again!’ Cotton’s voice crackled like a whip. ‘Yu wasn’t tryin’ to get away — yu headed for yore own house!’ The fist drew back again. ‘Why, damn yu?’
Hight cringed backwards. ‘No — I’m tellin’ yu the truth…’ Cotton reached down angrily, grabbing Hight’s blood-spattered shirt in his meaty fists, hoisting the doctor to his feet. He thrust his face forward until the cold empty eyes were no more than a few inches away from Hight’s own.
‘Yu better tell me Doc,’ he hissed or yu won’t get off with just a broken leg next time.’
Hight shook his head, dazed.
‘You ... you?’ he managed. ‘I always thought…’
‘It was Dave Rodgers? Shore, he was there, Doc. But he never broke yore leg.’ A sneering smile was on the Cottonwood man’s lips.
A reckless, seething, quite foreign rage seized Hight. This, then, was the man who had crippled him! The anger ousted all the physical fear from his mind, leaving only a cold and empty anger. Without thinking, he spat in Art Cotton’s face. It was probably the bravest thing he had ever done, and he regretted its futility.
Art Cotton’s face contorted with rage and his fist smashed forward. Hight felt a blow between his eyes, the searing snapping pain as his nose was broken, and the warm gush of bright blood. The room went black and spun away and when he could see again he was lying face down on the floor, not thinking, his brain disconnected by shock. Waves of pain blurred his vision, but he could vaguely see, far above him, the blurred form of Art Cotton. The man’s leg moved, and Hight saw light nicker on the shining leather of a boot. The boot thudded into his ribcage, and an agonizing pain spread throughout his chest and back. He felt as if something was broken inside of him, and he let the blackness come down again, welcoming it, escaping into it. It seemed to last a long time. He felt himself being hauled upright and tried to open his eyes but something seemed to be stopping him from doing so. He did not know that both his eyes were rapidly closing, his broken brows horribly swollen, or that a huge contusion of oozing blood marked the point where Art Cotton’s massively punishing blow had broken his nose. His hands moved feebly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he felt a terrible fear that Cotton had blinded him, but then his vision cleared slightly. He was pinned against the wall by Cotton’s grasp on his coat lapels. He tried to put his weight on his legs, but they were rubbery and weak. Cotton’s voice came to him across years of time. It said something. A question. He shook his battered head.
‘Go … to … Hell.’
He heard a smashing sound inside his own head and then the blackness came. He slid into it gratefully.
Cotton turned away from the slumped body of the doctor, his face an insane mask of hatred.
‘Nick!’ he managed hoarsely. ‘Get some water!’
The rider, who had watched aghast as his employer had battered the doctor, nodded hastily and edged past Hight’s unconscious form, returning in a moment from the kitchen with a milk can full of water. This he handed to Art Cotton, who deliberately dashed it into Hight’s swollen face.
The doctor groaned weakly, pawing at his face; he tried to sit up but could not. Once more Art Cotton pulled him upright, holding Hight on his feet by sheer brute strength.
‘Still feelin’ cocky, Doc?’ Cotton grated, ‘or are yu ready to talk?’
He shook Hight the way a terrier shakes a rat, cruelly, viciously, furiously. Hight’s head lolled. ‘Talk, damn yu!’ screeched the Cottonwood man. ‘Talk! Talk! Talk!’
Hight’s head lifted slowly. He peered at his tormentor through the slit of one eye.
‘You’d better kill me, Art,’ he mumbled through his torn lips. ‘You’d better kill me, or as sure as God is my judge, I’ll kill you. I don’t know when, but I’ll do it, I’ll—’
With a scream of uncontrolled, inarticulate rage. Art Cotton smashed the doctor backwards against the wall with a blow which carried every ounce of his weight. Hight was unconscious before his careening body bounced off the wall and slid to the floor. A thin pool of blood began to stain the carpet where he lay.
‘My Gawd, Art!’ breathed Whitey, ‘yu’ve killed him shore.’
‘Damn him for a pulin’ crawlin’ swine, an’ damn yu, too!’ hissed Art Cotton, his chest heaving. ‘Mind yore own damn’ business! If he’s dead—’ he controlled himself with an effort as he said the words, ‘it’s good riddance.’
He stood swaying, rage gradually dying from his features, looking down at the prostrate form at his feet. As the disfiguring anger left his face, it was replaced by another expression, one of dawning realization, then triumph, quickly replaced by cunning. He laughed, almost hysterically.
‘I got it, by God!’ he croaked. ‘Why in hell didn’t I think of it afore?’
Nick and Whitey exchanged glances. Had Art gone mad?
‘What … what is it, Art?’ Whitey ventured.
Cotton regarded his men as if they were idiots.
‘Yu can’t see it?’
The two men shook their heads, frowning. Art’s gloating, crooning voice, the spittle formed about his mouth, the mingled expression of triumph and cunning, all supported their fear that Cotton had gone insane, but when he spoke again it was in a normal tone, and the madness had left the cat eyes.
‘So Sim thinks I’m all washed up, does he?’ he muttered. ‘Show him about that.’ He began to pace across the room, back, forward, back, his step that of a caged tiger. ‘He’s goin’ to be sorry he wrote me off,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry. Very sorry. Yu’ll see. It’ll all be mine. I’ll get them, an’ it’ll all be mine.’ He looked up quickly ‘Yu boys with me?’
Whitey nodded hurriedly. ‘Shore, Art, shore.’ His tone was mollifying.
‘Good,’ Art nodded, pacing again. ‘That’s good. I’ll need yu boys.’ His mind was racing wildly, for in truth the violence of the past fifteen minutes had partially unhinged a mind which had never fully been sane. He issued a command. Whitey looked at him in amazement.
‘What do yu mean, take his clothes off?’ he managed.
‘Yu stupid clod, do what I tell yu an’ don’t argue!’ screeched Art. ‘Strip his clothes off him.’ He whirled on Nick, who cringed away. ‘Yu, Nick!’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘Get yore clothes off.’ Nick hesitated momentarily, and Art Cotton slapped his thigh impatiently, keening in rage. ‘Do it, damn yu!’ Nick shrugged, and began to unbutton his shirt as Whitey stripped off Hight’s coat, boots, pants and shirt. Art Cotton watched the procedure, nodding throughout, muttering, ‘Good, good.’ The two riders, their tasks complete, looked at him for further instruction. He ground out an oath.
‘Yu still can’t see it, can yu?’ he swore. ‘O’ course, I’m mebbe expectin’ too much. All right, I’ll spell it out. Nick — put on Hight’s clothes. Yo’re goin’ to play decoy.’
Nick frowned yet again. ‘Decoy?’
Art Cotton’s plan dawned on both of the gunmen in the same moment, and their laughter was a commingling of relief and admiration. The slow smile of evil spread on Whitey’s dark-mustached face.
‘O’ course,’ he breathed. ‘They’re expectin’ him back?’
‘O’ course,’ sneered Art Cotton. ‘Took yu long enough to get it.’ The wild light was still in his eyes but it was cold now and contained, under a form of control. He inspected Nick, dressed now in Hight’s clothes, with malevolent satisfaction.
‘Yu see it now?’ he asked them. ‘They sent him over here for something’ — mebbe he was tellin’ the truth an’ it was medicine for the kid. Or mebbe they’re low on water or cartridges’, even.’ His smile was pure evil. ‘That’d be even better,’ he whispered, ‘but it don’t make no never-mind. Once I seen it — that they was expectin’ him to come back — I seen how we could take them…’ he snapped his fingers, ‘like that!’
He began his pacing across the room again as Nick made the final adjustments to his disguise. His fingers clenched and unclenched, his thin lips worked as he prowled.
‘So I’m not worth a dime, eh, Sim?’ he spat. ‘Well what does that make yore neck worth, damn yu?’
Then he stopped pacing and gave his men their instructions.