Free Cotton’s Inferno by Phil Dunlap Page A

honest before Pick folds up his tent and heads for parts unknown.”
    â€œRight now, I’m goin’ to Burnside’s store and try to take some sort of inventory. Then I’ll have to notify folks with guns in there bein’ worked on. They can either pick them up or wait till we get another gunsmith. Why don’t you come along? It’d make my job go a tad bit faster with two of us on it.”
    Jack nodded and followed Cotton out the door.
    * * *
    As Cotton and Jack were passing by the bank, Melody, Pick Wheeler, and bank manager Darnell Givins were just stepping out. They stopped to chat among themselves on the boardwalk in front of the double glass doors. On a bench under the bank’s large front window sat a man in a long black duster smoking a long, thin cigar, hat pulled low. The three paid him no mind. Melody was so excited about what she’d done, she kept reminding Pick that with all that money she’d just paid him, she hoped he wouldn’t go out and squander it foolishly. He assured her he wouldn’t, as he patted a large bulge in his pocket.
    â€œMighty nice doin’ business with you, Miss Melody,” Pick said with a wide grin.
    He tipped his hat to the others and started off down the street. Melody and Darnell continued their conversation, although a little less enthusiastically.
    â€œI hope you know what you’re doing, Melody. Pick makes a
very small amount
of money from the mine, and he sure hasn’t gotten filthy rich off it.”
    â€œLikely because he’s such a lazy oaf. Why, I saw that silver for myself, sparkling in the light, coming from everywhere. Instead of being a tightwad, wanting to keep it all for himself, he could have hired some men to help him. If he’d been more industrious, he most certainly would have made it big. And that’s exactly what I’m intending to do.” She turned on her heel and strutted down the boardwalk back to the saloon. She held her head high just to make sure all the ladies in town noticed her.
    When Darnell went back inside the bank, the man on the bench got up and strolled off, crossing the street and heading for where the sheriff and his deputy had gone in—the gunsmith shop. The man waited for a few minutes, then pushed inside. Cotton looked up at the sound of the bell over the door.
    â€œSorry, mister, but the gunsmith shop is closed. The owner died and we’re takin’ inventory to determine what to do with all guns in here,” Cotton said.
    â€œI heard about the unfortunate accident. When I asked about where to buy ammunition, the bartender at the saloon told me all about how the poor man fell and hit his head. It’s a rotten shame; it surely is.”
    â€œYeah, well come back after we’ve straightened this out. Uh, I didn’t catch the name, mister.”
    â€œName’s Carp Varner, Sheriff, and I may be able to lend a hand.”
    â€œWell, Mr. Varner, I’m not certain how you can help, but I
do
appreciate the offer.”
    â€œThe way is simple. Let the town allow me to work the business until other arrangements can be made, and it can rake off a percentage of the profits. You see, I
am
a gunsmith.”
    â€œHey, Cotton, that sounds like a solution, doesn’t it?” Jack said, looking pleased at an outcome that would prevent him sitting on a stool writing down all the guns and pieces of guns in column after column.
    Cotton seemed to be thinking it over when Carp spoke up again. “Tell you what. Let me fix a couple of the firearms that need it the most, and you can judge my work. I wouldn’t expect a man to take me on my word alone.”
    â€œAll right, Mr. Varner. I’m pretty sure Mr. Burnside was working on that Sharps rifle he had laid out on the counter there, and the Colt lyin’ next to it. See what you can do with them. Then we’ll talk.”
    â€œYou have a deal, Sheriff. I’ll bring ’em down