Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2) by Frederick H. Christian Page A

Cotton…’ he stuttered. ‘That this Green feller was taken
care of, an’ the kid was snug in the jail … I just plain didn’t
know … couldn’t have known…’
    ‘ Mebbe yo’re givin’ me the
straightest story at that, Harry,’ Sim Cotton rumbled. ‘Helm here
was buffaloed while he was goin’ for his guns —-I thought yu was
supposed to be fast, Helm? An’ Art got his ears beat off, an’ him
reckoned to be the toughest fist-fighter north o’ the Rio.’ He
smiled, without warmth. ‘I don’t see how I could expect Harry to do
any better than yu two misfits.’ He glanced around the
room.
    It was a spacious room, stone
floored, solid. The huge fireplace was dominated by a mounted elk’s
head, and scattered catamount and wolf pelts made warm splashes of
tawny color on the floor. The walls were of adobe, plastered and
painted white; and the furniture, although simple, was solid and
shone with the use of years. On one wall hung an oil painting of a
white-bearded old man in range clothes. The artist’s knowledge of
the range had been limited and the background was one which would
have made a real cattleman laugh, but the face of the subject had
been well caught: it was a ruthless, devilish face, and the eyes
were twins for those of Sim Cotton, who gazed at the picture as he
spoke.
    ‘ My father built this range,’ he
told the men in the room: his two brothers, Helm, the Sheriff, and
his assembled riders. ‘He made Cottonwood. He made it, an’ by God,
I can unmake it. If I have to. I’m hopin’ I won’t have to. I’m
goin’ to try talkin’ to this man Green. I’ll make no threats.
But I will have
my way !’ He smashed his fist downwards upon
the heavy table. ‘I’ve waited too long to lose know. I will have my way .’ His youngest brother’s expression
caught his eye and he turned to face him.
    ‘ Buck,’ he snapped. ‘What’s so
damned funny?’
    Buck Cotton stood up and stretched lazily.
    ‘ Yu,’ he said, coldly. ‘Yu could
ride in to Cottontown an’ burn it down if yu wanted to, an’
nobody’d lift a finger to stop yu. Yu could ride in an’ take those
two out an’ hang ’em in the street, an’ nobody’d interfere. But no,
not yu: yu let two four-flushers try to kill me, beat the hell out
of Art, gun whip yore foreman, an’ run yore
Sheriff out o’ town, an’ then yu jaw about goin’ in an’ talkin’ to
them.’
    Something very sudden and violent
happened deep inside Sim Cotton at that moment. His affection for
his kid brother was real and sincere. It had persisted out of habit
long after he had learned that Buck was as unworthy of it as the
meanest drunk in Cottontown. And in this moment, Sim Cotton knew
that it was gone. Up to this point, he had not thought about Buck
personally. The involvement of Buck in a town fracas was nothing
new, but this time the events had changed the nature of things.
Where normally an insult to Buck —-to any of them —-was an insult
to all the Cottons, now he realized that this handsome youth, whose
eyes were as shallow as rain, had jeopardized the future of
everyone by his stupid, senseless, unnecessary attack on the
girl.
    Sim Cotton had worked hard to build
what his father had left him into something bigger, stronger, more
flexible. He had spent thousands of dollars on drinks for
Congressmen and Senators in the plush clubs of Santa Fe, listening,
waiting, hoping for the stray item of information which he could
use, bend, turn to his own advantage. He had heard about the plans
to irrigate the Bonito valley long before they had been drafted.
Now, with the draft Bill to go soon before the Territorial
Legislature, those years of hard work were going to pay off. But
Buck—Buck had never worked in his life. His hands were as soft as
those of a girl. Sim Cotton saw the danger of losing everything
because his stupid kid brother couldn’t be bothered to keep his
hands off some nester girl. Now the work of the ranch had to be
suspended;