Chapter 9: Assassin

Owing to the uneven rock surface, Saul Cotton’s position wasn’t comfortable but it was the best he could get. Sprawled atop a bluff, he was two hundred yards distant from and sixty feet higher than the spot his target would soon occupy. No great problem. It was just as well that the victim would not be looking in his killer’s direction at the critical moment for in that case Cotton would have had difficulty concealing himself. As matters stood, he would manage that by pushing himself backwards for two or three minutes when his man appeared. If he’d been able to shoot from a little further back, he would have had low bushes for cover but there were none at the edge and that was where he needed to be.

This was Cotton’s sixteenth undertaking of its kind and only one had not gone to plan. On that occasion he’d been frustrated by circumstances beyond his control and further developments had resulted in the contract being cancelled. Each success enhanced his reputation and enabled him to increase his fee for the next contract. Being a man who enjoyed his work, he seldom considered taking up a different way of life. He was amoral and did not think about what his victims had done to deserve the executions he carried out. When approached, he agreed terms with the principal concerned, invariably half the fee in advance and the balance on completion. He’d been operating that way for nearly five years and had earned enough to buy his way into a legitimate business, but had no intention of doing so. Like many specialists, he found that his occupation gave him all the gratification he needed.

Though he experienced long gaps between commissions, Cotton was seldom idle. His jobs were always done with a rifle and since there were times when he couldn’t be sure of details ahead of the event, he had to be extraordinarily proficient with his weapon. He made certain of that, rarely allowing a day to go by without a session of practice. An expert at all ranges and angles and in any reasonable atmospheric condition, he had once killed a man from over six hundred yards. One shot did it. But his eleventh outing had given him more satisfaction than any other. He’d been four hundred and fifty yards from the target and obliged to contend with a sharp crosswind. A very difficult assignment and again a single bullet was enough.

On the ground by Cotton’s side was his most treasured possession, a Winchester rifle, a very special piece of workmanship. Only a small number of that kind had been made, some in 1873, others in 1876. The deadly marksman’s pride and joy was one of fewer than seventy produced in the later year. Because of their remarkable accuracy, each of these prized firearms had been dubbed ‘one of one thousand’ and their cost reflected that description. Still, a top tradesman needed the best tools and Cotton had been so glad to lay hands on this outstanding weapon that he had paid the high price without haggling.

Today’s task was among the simpler ones Cotton had faced. He was to dispose of a Mexican fellow named Ortega, who had spent many of his forty-one years involved in a variety of criminal activities, including robbery on a large scale and murder. A vicious character, he had killed four men and arranged the deaths of a dozen other people, including three women, and had ruined the lives of many more, male and female. There was hardly any branch of crime he hadn’t tried at one time or another. The world would be a much better place without him, though that did not interest the man who was preparing to despatch him from this world. All that mattered to the professional executioner was the pay, which was by some margin his highest to date.

Cotton had been informed of Ortega’s habits and had verified them by two days of observation, using his field glasses and taking advantage of a high hill nearly a mile from where he was now. Every morning, after a late breakfast, the Mexican emerged from his front doorway, strolled around his large garden then sat on a bench facing his extensive flower beds, lit a cigar and spent half an hour enjoying nicotine and nature. His back and shoulders would be resting against the thick wooden slats of the bench, but that didn’t trouble Cotton, who had a head shot in mind anyway. He almost always did. Even his six-hundred-yarder had been carried out that way.