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  Praise for

  PHIL DUNLAP

  “Phil Dunlap’s Cotton’s War is a rip-roaring yarn that realizes the best traditions of the Western genre: strong, well-defined characters, the color of the West vivid and perfectly researched, and the writing entertaining and quick as a bronc set free to run wild. A surefire read for Western fiction fans.”

  —Larry D. Sweazy, Spur Award–winning author

  “Cotton’s War is an old-fashioned, barn-burning, gut-wrenching Western story that moves at a gallop over dangerous territory. Phil Dunlap’s sharp prose packs the punch of a Winchester rifle.”

  —Johnny D. Boggs, four-time Spur Award–winning author

  “This is a well-crafted story with a good, clear writing style. It hits a good pace and keeps it up.”

  —John D. Nesbitt, Spur Award–winning author

  “Dunlap uses his passion for history and the Old West to paint a realistic setting for his work. The prose is good without being heavy, and the story has a good pace that readers will enjoy. For those who share his love affair with gamblers, scalawags, and claim-jumpers with gold fever, this fun novel will keep you guessing.”

  —The Indianapolis Star

  “With a raft of well-drawn, even indelible, characters, the novel also offers a compellingly involved, quite plausible, and tightly woven plot.”

  —Booklist

  “[Dunlap] appears to be poised to become a new star in the Western writing firmament.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  Berkley titles by Phil Dunlap

  COTTON’S WAR

  COTTON’S LAW

  COTTON’S

  LAW

  A Sheriff Cotton Burke Western

  Phil Dunlap

  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  COTTON’S LAW

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / January 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Phil Dunlap.

  Cover illustration by Dennis Lyall.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-0-425-24576-7

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Acknowledgments

  No books are ever produced in a vacuum, nor can they be written properly without the input of professionals, friends, and family. Support is essential. I must thank my editor, Faith Black, whose excellence in her profession makes me a better writer, and the designers and illustrators at Berkley for creating great books. Thanks, also, to my critique partner, Tony Perona, a top-notch author in his own right, and to my wife, Judy, who never fails to gently let me know if I’m veering off course. And I give a tip of the old Stetson to the folks at the Western Writers of America, whose tireless efforts to promote the Western genre are an invaluable asset to anyone hoping to entertain and inform about such an important period of our history.

  Good friends all. Thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 1

  Apache Springs, New Mexico Territory—­1880

  Contrary to popular belief, a dark, soundless night may not always be a comfort.

  The roar of the big-­bore rifle echoed off the rocks a scant two seconds after the bullet splintered the front door of the Apache Springs jail, barely missing Deputy Memphis Jack Stump’s head as he leaned over to pick something up off the floor. The hunk of lead then slammed into the back wall, knocking a one-­inch hole nearly all the way through.

  “Sonofabitch!” Jack yelled as he crashed to the floor with a bone-­jarring thud. His heart was pounding like a stamp mill. He scrambled to untangle himself from the overturned chair. Hugging the floor in a
n effort to stay low, he gingerly reached up to retrieve his Remington .44 from atop the desk where he had removed the cylinder for cleaning.

  “Damned lucky I dropped that cleaning cloth,” he muttered aloud, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was also happy the door had been made of solid wood, with no glass to make the shooter’s aim more certain. He’d been shot at before, but never when doing a simple task in a closed room. The shock of it had him both rattled and furious at the same time.

  With hasty fingers, he slipped the cylinder back into the gun’s frame, loaded it from his gun belt, and cocked it in readiness. Whatever might come next, he had no idea. Knowing that someone had just tried to kill him—­and would want to know if he had succeeded—­kept him on high alert. He waited. And waited. Dead silence. He scooted to the front of the office, carefully reached for the oil lantern on the wall, and blew out the flame. The lamplight must have given him a perfect target, Jack thought. He only had to aim three feet right of the window and he would have had me cold.

  He crawled on his elbows to the door, in preparation to yank it open and make a swift exit to the cover of a solid oak deacon’s bench sitting under the porch overhang. He figured it would give him a safe haven to determine where the shot had come from. Maybe even get lucky enough to return fire. But no shots followed. He listened for the telltale noise of a horse galloping away to assure the shooter’s escape. Several more minutes passed. He heard only the emptiness of the night, that hush that falls over the land when something terrible has happened and nature itself has gone into hiding.

  Unwilling to wait longer, he threw open the door and dashed outside, throwing himself behind the bench. Peeking over the top, he realized that the probable source of the shot was from somewhere among the house-­size boulders a thousand feet east of town. There was a wide gap between the two buildings straight across the street, left vacant when a fire had destroyed the home of the town’s first minister. It was never rebuilt.

  After several minutes of searching the darkness for any sign of movement up in the rocks and any follow-­up shot, Memphis Jack eased from his position behind the bench and moved farther back into the shadows. He didn’t wish to give anyone a clear target as, hunched over, he made his way around the side of the building to the alley, then trotted several hundred feet in the dark to a place where he could safely race across the street. His aim was to get himself in position to rush the rocks. He maneuvered alongside the hardware store where the road turned slightly, which gave him natural cover for a sprint across to the side of the bank building. His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out several clusters of crates and boxes of trash set out behind stores. No sign of a single person, however.

  It was a few minutes after midnight on a Wednesday. He didn’t really expect to find anyone wandering the streets, other than possibly a straggler from the town’s only saloon sleeping off a drunk in a doorway. While he hoped to find someone who might have heard the shot and noticed where it had come from, he came away empty-­handed. Directly in back of the saloon, a high wooden stockade fence enclosed an area of several hundred square feet. That fence gave Jack cover to make for the cluster of boulders that rose up the side of the mountain. He cursed as he stumbled over a bucket someone had left in his path. He flattened himself against the wall to await any response from the shooter, who must now know where he was. A minute, maybe two, passed before he dared move deeper into the darkness.

  Memphis Jack broke into a hard run toward the nearest of the rocks from where he figured the shot had emanated. He dropped to a crouch as soon as he was certain he was protected sufficiently to scan his surroundings. Making his way around and between boulder after boulder, his Remington held forward and cocked, he swiveled his head in nearly constant motion hoping to catch a glimpse of movement that would give away the shooter’s position. Glad for a sudden glimpse of light from a quarter moon peeking from behind a cloud, he slipped around the largest and highest rock, only to jump at the sound of something skittering away. By instinct, he fired toward the sound. He held his breath as he awaited an answering shot. Nothing. It was clear he was alone. He shook his head at the probability that he’d merely scared the hell out of a desert rat. But he was now convinced that whoever had taken a shot at him was long gone. He paused before heading back to the jail, turning every few steps to check his back trail.

  When he got to the jail, he locked and barred the door behind him and relit the oil lamp. He set the swivel chair behind the desk upright and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. He nervously wiped at his sweaty brow and sighed deeply. He stared at the hole in the door and then turned to the place in the back wall where the bullet had imbedded itself. He took out his pocketknife and stepped to the wall. He dug out the bullet and whistled.

  If that sucker had hit me, it would have left a hole big enough to stuff a squirrel in, he thought. Shaking his head, he went to the desk, took hold of two corners, and gave it a hard tug. The massive walnut desk scooted noisily around to a ninety-­degree angle from the way it had been. He pushed the chair around behind it and sat. Looking at the door, then at the rear wall, he could tell his chair was far enough back. Now, if anybody tried that shot with the expectation of hitting whoever might be sitting behind the desk, they’d be sorely disappointed. Unless, of course, their weapon could shoot around corners.

  After pondering the situation for several minutes, Memphis Jack got up, pulled a shotgun from the rack, loaded it with buckshot, and tucked it under his arm. He blew out the lamp on the wall and locked the door behind him. He stayed close to the buildings as he made his way along the boardwalk toward the small house the town had provided for its sheriff. Jack and his consort, Melody, had been allowed to live in it until Sheriff Cotton Burke was healed up after his confrontation with the Cruz gang, during which he had been seriously wounded. Jack had stepped in and saved the sheriff from certain death by killing one of the outlaws before he could get to the wounded lawman and finish the job.

  Jack was now heading to Melody’s bed. His near brush with death had him wide awake, so he was taking no chances on giving the shooter another chance at him. When he pushed open the door to the small clapboard house, hurriedly slipping inside, he was greeted by Melody, already in one of her well-­known snits.

  “Where have you been, Jack? I’ve been waiting up for over an hour.”

  “Sorry, Melody, I was otherwise occupied.”

  “What could have been more important to you than coming home to me?” She leaned on the doorway to the bedroom, pulling back her filmy robe to reveal her ample charms. Her invitation was clear as she subtly raised one eyebrow.

  “Nothing much. Just wrestlin’ with a question. That’s all.” Jack leaned the shotgun against the table and unbuckled his gun belt, letting it drop onto the nearest chair.

  “A question? That’s what kept you away? A damned question? What question was important enough that you let me sit here all alone twiddling my thumbs?”

  “Just wondering why someone wanted to kill me, that’s all.” He plopped onto the couch and leaned back with a sigh.

  “What! Someone tried to kill you? Who?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll look into it in the morning.”

  “Then how do you know someone wanted you dead?”

  “The bullet that tore through the door to the jail, missing me by inches. That’s how.”

  “Damn! I’ll bet it was someone aiming for that scoundrel Cotton Burke. I’d bet that’s who it was. It’s time we got the hell out of this dreadful collection of run-­down buildings and folks with no backbone. What do you say, honey? You finally ready to pack up and git?”

  “Uh-­huh. We’ll talk about it later. Time for bed, Melody.” Jack yawned and fell onto the deep feather mattress. Twenty minutes later, he was still wide awake.

  Chapter 2

  Catron County Sheriff Cotton Burke slapped the reins across the rump of the dapple-­gray gelding pulling the buckboard. Beside him sat Emi
ly Wagner, owner of the Wagner ranch and the love of his life. Since he’d been staying at her ranch for the past four weeks recovering from a gunshot wound, his deputy, Memphis Jack, had been left in charge of keeping the peace in Apache Springs. But Cotton was completely healed now­–or at least he thought so–and growing anxious to return to the job to which he’d been elected. Although Emily had tried in her gentle way to persuade him to remain on the ranch longer to be certain he’d not have a relapse, Cotton wasn’t the type to sit around on the porch in the evening, listening to the crickets, and chatting idly about this and that. Notwithstanding, he was deeply conflicted about his situation as every minute he spent with Emily was like heaven on earth to him. Returning to the world of risking his life had been made more difficult by each day he spent at her ranch.

  Emily’s husband had been shot down and killed during a bank robbery almost three years back, an innocent victim of the treachery of a ruthless gang headed by the notorious Virgil Cruz. Vanzano Cruz, Virgil’s brother, had fallen to Cotton’s deadly accuracy with a gun. Much later, Virgil had also met the same fate. With her husband dead, and the ranch now her responsibility, Emily had accepted the challenge when most folks figured she’d move back to St. Louis, where she’d lived before her marriage. But Emily wasn’t a quitter. In addition to her beauty, Cotton was also attracted to her spunk. He’d been fascinated by her even before her husband died, and now he was free to let her know of his interest. But he’d been reticent to be too forward, desiring instead the easier road of letting things take care of themselves.

  Defensive to the point of righteous indignation whenever someone broached the subject of the two of them getting together, he had tried to keep his feelings from spilling out, as, at the mere sight of her, his knees felt weak. His eyes told the story he felt compelled to keep to himself. The simple act of watching as she went about her daily routine caused his heart to beat faster and laid his soul open for anyone to see.