The Texians 2 Read online

  Ann merely nodded.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cotton Blue Sharp’s cabin, as Ann had described it, was nothing more than a shack made of woven branches, cedar posts, and mud. Sands often saw dwellings of this kind when settlers moved into a wooded area. They were quick and easy to build and provided enough shelter from the elements to allow a man and his family to live while a house of stone or log was constructed.

  This shack was old; at least ten years had passed since it had been hastily thrown together, Sands estimated. The roof now consisted of brown, dry palm fronds that looked like they were waiting for a strong wind to come and rip them away. Here and there gaping holes rent the original structure of woven branches. The same wind that tore away the roof would probably bring the shack down upon itself.

  “Cotton Blue’s in there.” Ann tilted her head toward the old shack. “That’s his horse tied to the post oak.”

  Sands’ gaze shifted from the woven-branch structure to the bay saddled and waiting beneath a gnarled, stunted oak.

  He recognized the animal: Beau Dupree had ridden it all the way from San Antonio to Cameron Parish.

  “Is there any other way out of there, except for the door facing us?” Sands turned back to Ann.

  Her head moved from side to side. “There’s not even a window or a fireplace. Cotton has to build a fire outside to cook. He won’t come into town ... afraid someone will recognize him.”

  Sands looked back at the shack, standing a hundred yards off the road. If he had intended to kill the man inside, he would have simply ridden up and tossed a torch to the roof, then sat back and waited until Cotton ran from the door to escape the flames.

  Capturing the man was complicated with a series of problems, the first being how Sands intended to make it to the door of the cabin without being seen. Mentally tracing his route to the shack, he saw he could hide himself behind either trees or bushes, except for the last twenty-five feet. That piece he would have to cross in the open, hoping Cotton didn’t step from the door as he approached.

  “I want you to stay here,” Sands said while he dismounted and handed Ann his reins. “He’ll hear the horse if I try to ride up there.”

  “Josh, you’re not leaving me here.” Ann stared down at him with determination. “I’m not certain what you have in mind, but if he sees me with you ... he’ll ... I don’t know what exactly. But I think I can help.”

  “Ann, I don’t want you ...” in the way, Sands intended to say. But the blonde, in a blur of doeskin and homespun, scrambled down from the saddle and tossed his reins back to him before he could complete the sentence. “I don’t care what you want, Josh Sands.” There was anger in her voice and fire in her aquamarine eyes. “I’m going up there with you.”

  Sands didn’t argue. Short of applying his fist to her delicate, little chin and leaving her unconscious on the ground, he knew there was no way of stopping her. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe he was going to try and capture her brother; she just wanted to make certain of his intentions.

  “Okay. You can come with me as far as that big palm in front of the cabin. But I go to the door alone. Understood?”

  She nodded, and with an irritated toss of his head, Sands began the cautious zigzag path from one concealing tree trunk or clump of bushes to another. When he reached that final palm, his hand dropped to his holster and pulled the Colt out to double-check its loads. Ann watched his every move with narrowed eyes, but she said nothing.

  “I have to go up there with my pistol out.” The need to answer her unspoken questions increased his irritation. “Without it, I’m an open target, and Cotton won’t hesitate cutting me down.”

  Peering around the trunk of the palm, Sands studied the woven-branch shack. This close it appeared far more decrepit than he had realized from the road. Dry rot would soon bring the structure to the ground. That it still stood here on the stormy coast was a minor miracle.

  “Soon as I make it to the door, I want you to call to him.” Sands glanced to Ann.

  Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I’ll do it.”

  Sands reached out, took her hand, and squeezed. He wanted to tell her that everything would work out, that in another few minutes Cotton Blue would be his prisoner, ready to stand trial for his crimes. He wouldn’t guarantee anything—not even his making it to the door.

  With a light reassuring kiss to her cheek, he stepped from behind the tree and strode toward the shack, eyes constantly shifting from the door to the ground. He breathed a quiet thank-you for the grass and sand underfoot. His footfalls were mere whispers as he reached the shack. Eyes focused on the door, he lifted a hand to signal Ann.

  “Cotton, Cotton Blue,” Ann called from behind him. “It’s Ann.”

  A shuffle came from within, then the sound of a flipping latch. The door swung inward.

  “Ann, what in hell are you ...” Cotton Blue stood there, single-shot pistol in hand, hammer pulled all the way back. His eyes, those eyes devoid of any human emotion, homed in on Sands, and his face twisted in anger. “You! You sonofabitch!”

  Sands did not freeze this time, but lunged to the right, his shoulder slamming into the left side of the mountainous blond killer’s chest as Cotton’s finger squeezed about the trigger.

  There was a deafening explosion of black powder, the billowing cloud of dark smoke, but no fleshy impact of a lead ball biting into Sands’ flesh.

  For an instant, Sands’ thumb reached for the hammer of his own pistol, then jerked away. Instead he grabbed the back of the shack’s sole chair. Jerking the rickety piece of furniture from the earthen floor, he swung it out and around, the full strength of his upper torso behind the blow.

  Cotton Blue’s eyes went round as he saw the chair come hurling at him through the haze of smoke. There was no time for the giant to react. A feral growl escaped his lips as the chair struck him full force in the chest, splintering under the impact.

  Sands had hoped the blow would bring Cotton to his knees. Instead the hulking man staggered back, fighting to save his balance. He plowed into the wall of the rotting shack—then through it!

  The ranger saw Cotton tumble to his back on the grass outside. A heartbeat later the shack gave a tortured groan, and another as a shuddering quake ran through the structure.

  Sands’ recognition—that Cotton’s blundering fall through the wall had destroyed the shack’s precarious supporting weave—and reaction—he threw himself to the cabin’s floor and crossed his arms over his head—were instantaneous. And came only a fraction of a second before the cabin collapsed inward on itself and on Sands in a chorus of cracking and splintering wood.

  A cloud of dust and dirt clogged his nostrils. But the crushing weight he anticipated never came. The shack’s branches were simply too rotten to do more than leave him lying flat on the ground entangled beneath a monstrous pile of kindling.

  Somewhere beyond the maze of rotting limbs atop him, Sands heard the hollow pound of retreating horse hooves. Cotton Blue was escaping!

  Testing hands and arms, Sands cautiously pushed to his knees, then stood. The rotten limbs and dried palm fronds fell away. To the north he saw Cotton Blue, low to the neck of the stolen bay, disappear into a stand of trees.

  Scrambling from the middle of the destroyed cabin, Sands quickly examined himself. Except for a myriad of minor cuts and scratches covering arms and hands, he was uninjured.

  The same was not true of Ann. She lay face down on the ground beside the trunk of the palm.

  “Ann!” Sands’ temples were a-pound as he ran to her fallen form, dropped to his knees, and rolled her to her back. Tears welled in his eyes. “Ann ... Ann ...”

  A single crimson blossom spread wetly across the chest of her homespun shirt.

  “No, no, no.” Sands’ head moved slowly from side to side as he stared down in disbelief at Ann’s lifeless body.

  One shot, one misfired ball from Cotton Blue’s single shot pistol—twenty-five feet away—it couldn’t be
—it just couldn’t be! That lead ball had struck dead center of Ann’s chest, shattering the gentle heart that beat within her breast. Ann Sharp, the golden-haired angel of the swamp, was no more.

  Head slowly rising, eyes glaring to the north, Sands screamed out his fury and pain. “You’re mine! You’re a marked man, you bastard! And you’re mine!”

  Tears hotly rolling down his cheeks, Sands tenderly lifted Ann’s limp body from the ground and carried her toward their horses.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The rich scent of burning wood and brewing coffee taunted his nose, bringing Sands from a listless sleep haunted by dreams of Ann Sharp, Dub Ferris, and Beau Dupree. His right hand drawing his Colt from its holster, his left edged his hat back from his eyes.

  He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. The mingling of wood and coffee hung in the air, distinct now—the smell of a morning campfire. Near. The sonofabitch has grown overconfident! Thinks he’s safe—enough to have a cup of morning coffee.

  Pushing from the trunk of a sweetgum he leaned against, Sands stood and tested the wind with a spit-moistened finger. The early morning breeze trickled in from the north. He smiled, hopefully, then walked to his buckskin, which stood saddled nearby.

  Rather than mounting, he unlaced his saddlebags. For a moment he stared at the manacles and leg irons within, then relaced the bags. He had no intention of ever using them, not now, not after what had happened to Ann. Cotton Blue had been given his chance; there wouldn’t be another.

  Breaking his Colt down into its three parts, Sands checked the loads, then reassembled the weapon. Walking to a stream that gurgled fifty feet to his right, he knelt on one knee and dipped a cupped hand toward the crystal-clear water.

  His fingertips hovered above the surface of the stream. The man who stared back at him from the water was a total stranger. A gasp escaped Sands’ lips as he studied the reflection: those dark, sunken eyes brimming with wild hatred; the dark, dirty stubble over cheeks and chin; the drawn, taut skin. That couldn’t be him! Death dwelled in that face; it bore no trace of human emotion. The same terrifying death he had once seen in the eyes of Cotton Blue Sharp.

  Sands plunged his hand into the water, shattering the mirrored image, and splashed the cold water onto his face to remove the last vestiges of sleep.

  He was letting his imagination play tricks on him. The reflection wasn’t him—and even if it was, what did it matter? What could he expect after the past five days of tracking Ann’s murderer? He had eaten the last of the jerky in his saddlebags two days ago and had slept no more than three hours in any one stretch—just enough time to rest his buckskin before pushing on.

  Food and sleep didn’t matter anymore. His whole body and soul existed but for one purpose: to kill Cotton Blue Sharp. When he had accomplished that, when Ann and Dub were avenged—then he could sleep and rest.

  Slapping another handful of cool water into his face, Sands stood and sniffed the air again. The smell of coffee was stronger now. A flicker of a smile formed at the corners of his mouth, then vanished as determination set his face in a stone mask.

  Walking in long, steady strides, he followed the deep aroma carried on the breeze. He cared little where his feet fell, whether twig or branch snapped beneath the soles of his round-toed boots. Or that the rustle of bush and leaf announced his approach. Like a man possessed, he pushed through the woods toward the campfire and the man he knew waited by those flames.

  A confused jumble of memories tried to edge their way into his mind, images of Dub, Professor Peoples, the Mexican ships, of an angel floating gently across the muddy waters of a swamp. He shoved them aside, refusing to allow anything to come between him and the obsession that dominated his every move: to kill Cotton Blue Sharp!

  Sands pushed aside a low-hanging pine branch and stepped into a small clearing. At the center of the glade was the campfire that had drawn him. And sitting beside it, with his back to Sands, was the man the ranger had come to kill. In spite of his careless approach, Cotton Blue hadn’t noticed him, but sipped his coffee from a tin cup.

  “Cotton Blue!” Sands called out in a voice he no longer recognized.

  The cup fell, and Cotton scrambled to his feet, spinning to face the ranger. His hand dropped to his belt and grasped his pistol. “You! I should have stayed and ... damn your crazy eyes!”

  Color drained from Cotton’s sunburned face as he stared at Sands. Whether it was the haunted visage of a man possessed he stared upon or the sight of his pistol snagged on the bottom of his broad belt that brought the change, Sands didn’t know, or care.

  “You killed Ann, you bastard. You killed your own sister!” The words came from Sands’ mouth as cold as ice while he eased his Colt from its holster, leveled it at Cotton’s head. “Feel lucky, whoreson?”

  His thumb found the hammer and pulled back. Two metallic clicks sounded. “Pull your pistol, and let’s see how lucky you are today.”

  Cotton, face deadly white and twisted in terror, tugged at his pistol; it wouldn’t come free. “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!” His arms flew into the air in surrender.

  “Looks like your luck ran out—just like Dub’s and Ann’s. Like the Vardeman family’s luck ran out.” Sands’ finger tightened on the trigger.

  “No!” Cotton begged for the mercy lie had never shown any of his victims. “Please! Please don’t shoot!”

  If you kill him, you’ll be no better than he is. Ann’s voice echoed in his mind. Her pleading image floated before the ranger’s eyes.

  Sands blinked and shook his head to escape the phantom of his mind. He couldn’t; Ann’s voice remained, haunting him, as did the memory of Beau Dupree’s tears—the tears of an innocent man.

  Cotton Blue’s arms dropped. His right hand once more grasped his pistol; this time it slid free of his belt. The muzzle lifted, and his finger squeezed the trigger.

  A mad hornet lashed at Sands’ cheek, leaving a brand of fire in its wake and a warm trickle of blood. Cotton’s shot had been wild, merely nicking the ranger’s flesh. That was the man’s only shot.

  Again Sands lifted his six-shoot Colt Texan, taking a lower aim on his terror-trembling target. “This is for Dub.”

  His curled finger eased the trigger back, coldly and methodically. The Colt barked.

  “Damn!” Cotton cried out in agony and clutched his left thigh. He fell to the ground, blood seeping through his fingers as he tried to staunch the leg wound. “If you’re going to kill me, kill me! Get it over with!”

  He struggled upward, standing on his right leg. “Kill me! Damn you, you crazy sonofabitch! Kill me!”

  “Too easy. You aren’t going to die that easy,” Sands said, cocking the hammer once more. “This is for Ann.” He fired again. Cotton tumbled to the ground for a second time, his hands grasping his right thigh and the fresh flow of blood that spurted there.

  “You’re crazy! Crazy. Do you hear me, you bastard?” Cotton yowled between groans and curses. “Crazy!” Sands didn’t hear him, but turned and walked back into the woods. He had to get his buckskin and the chains in his saddlebags. Once Cotton Blue was securely bound in irons, he would sleep and eat before making the long ride to Louisiana.

  Pausing, he turned back to the glade. Cotton struggled to stand, but neither wounded leg would support his mountainous hulk. Sands sucked thoughtfully at his cheeks. If the man somehow managed to crawl to his bay and drag himself into the saddle before he returned, he wouldn’t get far, not with both his legs carrying lead.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sands lifted the bourbon bottle, held it to the sky, and sloshed the remainder about. Two healthy swallows of the amber liquid swirled around the bottom. Without a glance to the man who had patiently-waited among the trees since early morning, the ranger uptilted the bottle and killed off one of those swigs.

  He had ridden directly to this isolated bluff from Cameron Parish, taken the bottle from his sleeping roll, and with firm determination drunk his way through its
contents—except for the one remaining swallow.

  This was his tribute, his solitary wake for two people he had loved: Dub Ferris and Ann Sharp. With each burning sweet drink, he celebrated their short lives and all they had given to him. When that last swig was gone, his mourning would end, and life would continue. The sorrow, the hollow emptiness, left by those two death he would accept in time and learn to live with.

  The man behind him had waited quietly, never once questioning with words or eyes. It was as though he understood Sands’ loss and allowed him this final ritual of parting.

  Sands’ gaze then returned to the Gulf of Mexico. On the horizon he saw the white sails of two ships headed southward. Probably out of New Orleans on their way to Galveston or Corpus Christi ... or maybe all the way to South America and around the Horn.

  Here, from this very same bluff, Dub and Sands had watched the Mexican ship turn toward the cove where Professor Jonathan Peoples waited for his shipment of rifles. Two months ago—two lives ago.

  The stealer of those lives now awaited trial under heavy army guard in Cameron Parish. The eyewitnesses who had so readily identified Beau Dupree as the man who had murdered the Vardeman family had gasped in horror, meekly apologized for their original mistake, and assured Colonel Martin and a federal judge it was not Dupree but Cotton Blue Sharp who had slaughtered the farmer and his wife and children. The charges were immediately dropped against Dupree, and Cotton would have his day in court two weeks hence, as Sands had promised Ann.

  Sands sucked at his teeth. The fact that the witnesses had so easily mistaken one man for the other just might be the key needed for a sharp, young, legal eagle to get Cotton Blue acquitted of the Vardeman murder charges. Even so Cotton would not escape the hangman. The United States had already agreed to extradite him back to Texas to stand trial for Dub and Ann’s murders after a Louisiana jury was through with him. Justice would be served.