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

leg a swift kick, dumping the surprised man onto the floor with a thud.
    “I called you what you are: a drunken pig. Now, you goin’ to listen or just keep wallowin’ there under the table in the chawin’ tobacco spit?”
    Plink groaned and tried to get up. He fell back twice before Buck reached down and grabbed his shirtsleeve and yanked him to his feet. Plink grabbed hold of the table, leaned on it with both hands splayed flat in the foul-­smelling spill, then stood blinking. He shook his head a couple of times. Sleeve called for the bartender to bring some coffee, hot and strong.
    Sleeve and Buck sat across from Plink as he drank the coffee, although not without a fair amount of resistance did he do so. He called Sleeve some names that normally would have gotten him shot. Had the circumstances been different, there could have been no doubt he would have, at that moment, been laid out, pasty white and ready for burial.
    It took almost an hour for Plink to regain a sense of what was going on, where he was, and who these men were who had so rudely forced him back from his stupor. His eyes, still bloodshot, wandered from Sleeve to Buck and back. Finally, Sleeve decided it was time to sober Plink up with the reality of his brother’s death.
    “Plink, I’m Sleeve Jackson, and, like I already said, I’m here with news and a proposition. You ready to listen?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “Not really. Anyway, here it is: Bart Havens needs some gunhands to help him take over a town. He’s willin’ to pay for it.”
    “How much?”
    “One thousand up front, and another two thousand to the one who guns down the sheriff.”
    “A sheriff? What sheriff you talkin’ about?”
    “The sheriff of Apache Springs, Cotton Burke.”
    “Sorry. I may be a drunk, but I’m not plumb loony. Get yourself some other fool.”
    “Now hold on there, you dumb—­” Buck growled.
    Sleeve stopped Buck from going further. He knew that if Buck antagonized the young gunslinger to the point he’d draw on him, one of them would sure as hell die. Hecouldn’t take that chance. If he was to come up with four killers for Havens, and do it in the time he’d been given, he couldn’t take a chance on losing either one.
    “Plink, there’s one other reason to go along with this plan. Sheriff Cotton Burke shot and killed your brother last week.”
    “What? Whitey’s dead?”
    “Sorry to break it to you this way, but I reckon there ain’t no good way to tell a fellow his kin has been murdered.”
    At the news, Plink Granville suddenly seemed to sober up.
    “I’m in. When do we leave?”
    “Tomorrow. On our way, I have to try locating Black Duck Slater and Comanche Dan Sobro. Either one of you know where they might be?”
    “Black Duck was last seen wandering around Lincoln County, probably tryin’ to cook up more trouble down there,” Buck said. He waved the bartender over to bring him a beer.
    “And Comanche Dan?”
    “Somebody here dishonoring my fine reputation?” The rangy man coming through the door wore deerskin leggings, knee-­high boots, and carried a Winchester rifle held like he figured to clear the house.
    “Well, I’ll be damned. You must be Comanche Dan!” Buck Kentner grumbled. “I reckon we heard wrong, he ain’t dead.”

Chapter 13

    W hen Delilah drew open the drapes to let the sunlight in, her naked body cast an enticing shadow across the bed. That’s when she noticed for the first time all the feminine accouterments lying about. She frowned as she picked up a hairbrush with long blond hairs caught in the bristles, then, tossing it aside, she continued her perusal of where she’d just spent the night, wrapped in Jack’s arms. Jack was slowly coming awake when he spotted her dark expression.
    “Jack, you sonofabitch, you didn’t tell me you were married. Where the hell is your wife?”
    Jack slipped out of bed and pulled on his pants and boots.
    “I didn’t tell you I was married because I ain’t