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  Praise for

  COTTON’S WAR

  “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

  “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

  “There’s nothing unusual about page-turning action in a paperback Western, and you’ll find plenty of it in Cotton’s War. What separates this novel from the pack is layer upon layer of intriguing subplots, parallel storylines and a cast of characters that diverges from the norm.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  Praise for the novels of Phil Dunlap

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

  —Booklist

  “Dunlap uses his passion for history and the Old West to paint a realistic setting for his work…. 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

  “Phil Dunlap is a writer to fog the sage with! Flesh and blood characters, compelling plots, and cinematic action—Western writing doesn’t get any better than this. I’ve become a big fan!”

  —Peter Brandvold, author of The Last Lawman

  Berkley titles by Phil Dunlap

  COTTON’S WAR

  COTTON’S LAW

  COTTON’S DEVIL

  COTTON’S

  DEVIL

  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.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,

  England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin

  Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community

  Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,

  Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (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 DEVIL

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / January 2013

  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: 978-1-101-61852-3

  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.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the help of many good friends, family, and a terrific publisher. First, my thanks to my critique partner, author Tony Perona, who makes certain the plot doesn’t wander off to the hinterland; to my wife, Judy, who is relentless in keeping me from making embarrassing mistakes with characters and storyline; and to my untiring editor at Berkley, Faith Black, to whom I owe everything. Of course, I cannot fail to thank the many faithful Western readers who live for the sound of gunfire rising off the pages. My undying gratitude to you all.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  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 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 1

  New Mexico Territory–1880

  The telegram read simply:

  COME TO SILVER CITY. NEED HELP. GOING

  TO HANG.

  THORN MCCANN

  That was all. But it was enough.

  “I’m not sure why you feel the need to ride all the way to Silver City to try saving the worthless scoundrel that rode into town pretending to be a common gunslinger looking to add you to his list of kills. You know he nearly scared me to death. Remember how long it to
ok for him to tell you who he really was? You said yourself you weren’t sure he could be trusted. And you know he probably shot and killed Bart Havens, so what makes the man worth saving?” Emily Wagner held out a cup of coffee to Sheriff Cotton Burke. “Even though killing Havens was certainly in your best interest.”

  Cotton was stuffing a couple of freshly boiled shirts and some socks into one side of a saddlebag. The other side was filled with coffee, some beef jerky, flour, beans, and extra ammunition. Emily leaned on the door frame watching him prepare for his trip to Silver City, to see for himself what bounty hunter Thorn McCann had done to earn him a date with the hangman’s noose. Her expression was a mixture of skepticism and disdain. Whether Cotton believed Thorn deserved to pay the ultimate price for his misdeeds was something else entirely. He was neither judge nor jury, except when faced with the choice to kill or be killed by another’s hand.

  “Didn’t say anything about savin’ his, uh, butt.” He brushed a shock of brown hair back from his forehead, took the cup, and raised it to his lips. “Thanks.”

  From the perspective of recent events, Thorn had probably been guilty of many crimes, although Cotton couldn’t put his finger on exactly what those crimes were. He had been asked to come to Silver City and see what could be done to save a man’s life, and Cotton Burke was the type of person to honor such a request. Besides, he still had a lot of unanswered questions for McCann concerning the death of Bart Havens. So he’d assigned his deputy, Memphis Jack Stump, the task of keeping Apache Springs safe until he returned. It was a decision he hadn’t made lightly, especially since Jack had a tendency to drink a little too much and spend a little too much time in the bed of a prostitute named Melody, with whom he lived. Other than a touch of irresponsibility from time to time, Jack was a generally dependable friend and a damned good man with a gun. Still, a lot was riding on his ability to take being a deputy as seriously as was needed.

  “You still haven’t answered my question: Why are you going?” Emily said, again.

  “I’m not sure I got it all worked out in my own mind, but I know I need to go before whatever it is they’re plannin’ on stringin’ him up for puts him in the ground before I get to ask him some questions of my own. I reckon the thing that puzzles me most is why he called on me for help. Especially considerin’ the circumstances which brought him here in the first place.”

  “I know you want to do right by him, but I’m not convinced he’s an honorable man, nor one deserving of your friendship,” she said with a frown.

  “I’ve got plenty of reservations about him, and I’m not goin’ out of anything near to friendship. I figure any man’s due the benefit of the doubt, though. And I’m not entirely satisfied with his story on how Bart Havens died. This could be my last chance to get some answers. I plan to be back in about a week or so. Keep the coffee hot,” he said, handing her back the empty cup and leaning over to kiss her. She followed him out the door of his tiny house, to where she had tied her buckboard. The little house was the one extra accommodation the town of Apache Springs afforded its sheriff, even though he chose to spend his nights at Emily Wagner’s ranch whenever possible. His house was too small, too confining, and far too lonely. And besides, being away from Emily too long made him damned difficult to be around.

  Emily gave him a weak wave and tentative smile as he mounted his mare and rode slowly down the south road out of town. He hadn’t felt the need to wake Jack. They’d spoken at length the evening before. Jack had waved off the responsibility handed him, as if being the sole lawman in a town that had seen more than its share of gunplay over the past three months was merely an everyday event. As Cotton passed the jail on his way through town, he glanced over to see his deputy at the desk. The sheriff was shocked, it being barely nine o’clock in the morning, an hour that usually found Memphis Jack still snoring away.

  Jack didn’t look up as Cotton rode by.

  Cotton wasn’t making very good time. The day was hot and the terrain difficult. He dared not push his mare too hard lest she fail him at a time and place where help was nonexistent. A few months earlier, a band of renegade Chiricahua Apaches from across the Arizona Territory border had tried to raid a small village and stockade called Fort Tularosa, not far from the trail he now rode. They’d been driven off by a small detachment of buffalo soldiers led by a brave sergeant. But even then the locals were understandably nervous about the possibility of the Indians returning, since the leader of the Apaches was a notorious warrior named Victorio, who was not known to take defeat lightly. This incident weighed on the sheriff’s mind, too. One man alone would stand little chance of survival if caught in the open by a band of Indians bent on killing anyone with white skin.

  Small raids on local ranches were a reality most endured, though fearfully. Few lives were lost, but the same couldn’t be said for any cattle or horses straying from the herds. Some of the renegades raided simply because they were hungry. Most of the ranchers didn’t begrudge them a few missing cattle if it staved off open warfare. But Victorio’s attacks were an attempt to convince the white settlers they should go back east and leave the Indian lands alone.

  Cotton urged his horse down a rocky slope, toward some trees and the likelihood of finding water. He decided to camp by a stream close to where he and the Silver City blacksmith, Bear Hollow Wilson, had once sought shelter from two opposing bunches of men bent on taking Cotton’s prisoner from him over three months back. That occasion had given Cotton a new appreciation for mob rule. Well-armed and cautious, he and Wilson had thought they were fully prepared to safely transport and protect their prisoner. Their preparations had proven inadequate, for by happenstance they’d lost him, only not in a way Cotton and his temporary deputy could have ever contemplated. Their prisoner, a man named McMasters, had murdered the town marshal of Silver City. Since Cotton had been desperate to get back to Apache Springs to do whatever he could to free Emily Wagner from a gang of ruthless outlaws holding her hostage, and the town had been left without a lawman, he’d volunteered to take the killer to his own jurisdiction for trial. He and Wilson were faced with townsfolk who wanted the killer brought to justice without any trial and the man’s own men who wanted him freed. Or so everyone assumed.

  After a brief standoff amid volleys of gunfire, McMasters managed to break his bonds and make a dash for freedom toward his own men. But, without warning, one of those men rose up from behind a boulder and blew him into the next century with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The man later explained that no one wanted there to be any chance that McMasters might escape justice and return to the mines, where he regularly inflicted harsh punishments for minor infractions of his rules, especially when he had been drinking heavily, which was often. Now, camped nearby, the whole incident came back to Cotton as if it were an unsettling nightmare.

  When Cotton reined in at the hotel in Silver City, he looked around to see if he could remember where the blacksmith’s shop was located. And because his last time in town had been a while ago, he needed to get reacquainted with his surroundings. And he also hoped to say hello to the man who’d volunteered to help haul the killer to Apache Springs for trial: Bear Hollow Wilson. But first, he needed to locate the marshal’s office. Since he didn’t remember where the law hung out in Silver City, and didn’t immediately see any sign to indicate a location, he figured to ask one of the locals for whoever had been elected to fill the shoes of the murdered marshal.

  He hefted his saddlebags onto his shoulder and strode into the hotel and up to the desk. The same young man he remembered from his last visit was behind the counter, only this time he seemed to be gazing off into nothingness. Cotton figured his distraction meant he must be in love.

  “Excuse me, young man, do you know where I can find the law in this town?”

  “Uh-huh,” the fellow mumbled with his chin in his hands, a distant look in his eyes.

  “I wonder if it would be too much trouble for you to tell me, then.”

  “No trouble at a
ll,” said the desk clerk, barely above a whisper, his gaze still locked on some distant visage.

  Yep, this kid’s in love, Cotton thought. But, since waiting for the smitten youth to awaken from daydreaming of his beloved was not part of Cotton’s agenda, he felt it time to make a statement that might be responded to properly. He slammed his fist on the counter. The young man’s eyes came open in shock. He began to stammer, clearly flustered by Cotton’s action.

  “Oh, yes, sir, uh, what was it you wanted? I only have two rooms left and you can have whichever one you want, and if you want dinner the dining room is off to the left, and if—”

  “Hold on, sonny, I just asked where I could find the law in this town.”

  When the kid noticed the sheriff’s badge pinned to Cotton’s shirt, he became more disoriented than before.

  “Oh! Why, yes, the county sheriff is off somewhere chasing rustlers. And the town marshal is, uh, probably in his office, er, the jail, unless he isn’t, in which case I’d suggest you try the restaurant next door to the—”

  “Son, just direct me to the marshal’s office. I really don’t have all day to listen to your blathering. Okay?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s down the street, one block, on the other side. Above the door it says—”

  “ ‘Marshal’s Office’?”

  “Why, er, yessir, how’d you know?”

  “I don’t have my head up my butt over some female; that’s how I was able to figure it out. Thanks.”

  Cotton left the lad stammering and fidgeting behind the counter, still trying to gather his wits about him. Oh, to be seventeen, again, Cotton thought to himself. As he walked out into the sun-splashed street, one glance and he saw his objective. Maybe I should have looked around more thoroughly before making it harder on myself, he thought. Exactly where the boy had indicated, a small, barely visible wooden sign stuck out at ninety degrees from the front of a clapboard-sided building next to a restaurant. As he approached the jail, the door opened and a massive shadow emerged. He broke into a smile as he recognized the man with the Sharps rifle dangling from his hand.