The marshal took the weapon, looked at it and raised a cocked eyebrow at Lindsey.
"Ya, I figured you'd know who that belonged to. Not many like it in these parts," he added with a wry smile.
* * *
The pair road out of town headed south. After a prolonged silence broken only by the rattle and slap of bridle and stirrups, Marshal Taggart turned to the tassle-headed youth.
"Sheriff Lindsey tell you about me? Tell you I won't tolerate any trouble from a prisoner?"
"Yessir, he did."
"Sooner I get you back and turn you over the better off we'll both be. Then I'll be on my way."
After a while the boy asked: "Them stories 'bout you true?"
"Which stories?"
"Ones the sheriff told me 'bout you bustin' up bankrobbers and saving priests and such, helpin' folks out."
"Most of them. Probably."
They rode with an easy gait across the plains. Much of the morning Taggart looked at the boy trying to figure the kid out. Finally he inquired: "Why'd you do it, boy?"
"Do what?" the youth replied evasively. "Take that gun? I don't know. Seemed the thing to do at the time. Was you really at Gettysburg?"
"No, no, not the gun. Look—your mother's already told me about you acting up and causing trouble. Why'd you run away?"
"Didn't want to go to no school."
"Any school," the marshal corrected, "which is exactly why you should be going. Now what was the real reason you ran away?"
"I thought—I thought maybe you'd come to help some more people, only this time maybe you'd help your own people—if you had to arrest me. Been a long time since ma has seen you. Been a hard time, too. I thought this'd be the only way to get you to come home for a spell, pa."
Looking into his own eyes reflected in the face of the boy, Marshal Taggart shamefully realized the truth in his son's words.
An artist, writer and editor, Tom Roberts is the publisher of Black Dog Books where many volumes carry introductions and historical essays by him. Apart from this he still finds the time to turn out several short stories each year between his cover illustrations for such clients as Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.
His Western short fiction was recognized with a 2010 award from Rope and Wire.
When not painting or designing, Tom pens articles on illustrators of the past. He is the author of the award winning biography, Alex Raymond: His Life and Art. Some of his nonfiction has appeared in Rip Kirby: The First Modern Detective, Illustration Magazine, Al Williamson: Hidden Lands, and Rough Stuff.
Tom can be contacted at [email protected].
THE WICKED
Edward A. Grainger
From the safety of a tree limb, White Deer had watched Little Raven writhe and squirm under the ferocity of his attackers—fists pummeled the Arapaho teen's head, feet kicked his chest and stomach. Even as dark blood flowed from Little Raven's face, White Deer had stood still, his fingers tight around the wooden handle of his pogamoggan. He'd remained frozen in place, high in the oak tree where Little Raven had told the twelve-year-old to go and stay put when they saw the other older boys coming. If only he'd had the courage to leap out of the tree and take down two of the five and give his friend a fighting chance.
* * *
All two hundred and fifty pounds of Mowser went into each punch, brass knuckles bearing down to the right side of Cash Laramie's face. Then the left. Cash's head pivoted back and forth with every blow, blood and sweat splattering the floor. The last swing landed above his right eye, flinging his head to the side, cords and veins bulging out from his neck.
Mowser strode around to the back of the chair where Cash was restrained and boxed the crown of his captive's head with a one-two rabbit punch. Cash and the chair tumbled forward.
"Still nothing, huh?" Preacher asked.
Mowser shook his head, turning to the stark man in a black suit and white tie.
Preacher sat in a chair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, tapping a smooth wooden cane in his right hand on the floor. His long, narrow head and hooked nose added to the vulture-like look of his slight frame. Gray hair and etched crow's feet set the man in his late sixties.
As he pulled a small, red leather-bound Bible from his vest pocket and then thumbed through the pages, Preacher spoke to Cash in a slow, nasal drawl. "Mr. Laramie, you would save me a lot of time by telling me where Ross is going. I know he wouldn't have been foolish enough to head back up the Mississippi, but that boat could be anywhere in the Gulf of Mexico by now. I sure would like to know soon. Got to teach Sunday school in twenty minutes. And I'm sure Mowser would appreciate the chance for a good sermon as well."
"Yes, sir, Preacher." A wide smile showed off Mowser's stained, crooked teeth.
Cash Laramie slid his square jaw sideways on the floorboards and stared through swollen eyes at his captors. He spit to clear his mouth of pooling blood, and then tried to loosen the ropes tying his hands behind his back. But they were tight to the chair. He lifted his head for a moment, but then his eyes rolled white as his head slapped down to the floor.
* * *
"You passed out on us, Mr. Laramie. Not good. Not good at all. The more time we spend here, the farther away Ross gets. I do hope you understand I can't let that happen."
Cash sensed he was upright in the chair again. He opened his eyes, grimacing from the pain. Through blurred vision, he made out Preacher still sitting in a chair now just a few feet in front of from him, leaning forward as if studying a specimen. Cash didn't see anyone else in the room. He could smell his main tormentor—Mowser—standing behind him.
"You missed a good service. One of my finest, I think. I read from Job Chapter Two, Verse Four. You know what it says?" Preacher smiled expectantly at Cash, and then went straight faced. "Probably not, huh? It goes, All that a man hath will he give for his life."
Cash heard a match strike. The room lit up in a warm yellow glow.
"Close that curtain, you fool. And put the gas lamp on the floor, then turn it down," Preacher scolded.
"Sure, boss." Cash heard Mowser draw the curtains, and then watched the shadows grow longer and darker on the wall as Mowser turned down the wick of the lamp.
"Sorry, Preacher, I didn't think it would matter. There's never no one on this part of the wharf. Only bums and whores."
"That's just it, you didn't think! It'd only take one curious cop getting his horn blown to mess us up."
Cash mumbled.
"I can't hear you, old man." Preacher got up close to Cash, bent down on one knee, and cranked an ear in Cash's direction. "Are you ready to talk?"
"Wouldn't you like to think so," Cash said, then spit saliva and blood in the man's ear.
Preacher surged up, cussing and wiping the side of his head with the back of his sleeve.
Mowser's hulking frame bounded across the room in two long strides, and he rammed the bottom of his boot into Cash's shin. Cash yelled out and strained against the ropes, pulling them rigid.
"I guess our friend here isn't as badly hurt as he led us to believe." Preacher stamped a foot to Cash's groin and pressed down. "Son, you did a number on my men yesterday. It's admirable how you held off the attackers so Ross and his family could escape. Quite admirable, indeed. Your reputation as a Cheyenne lawman is well-known, but this is 1911, Mr. Laramie. Your time has passed."
Preacher rubbed his finger along his right eyebrow. "I'm betting I could make some money off you." He stared down at his feet, blinking his eyes as he considered this. "But what Ross took from me is a great deal more. Look, he doesn't need to know you betrayed him. Just tell me where they went and I'll let you go."
Cash mustered a small smile through bloodied teeth. "Never, asshole."
Mowser raised a fist and slammed it down on Cash's head, whose world went black again.
* * *
Being the adopted son of Chief Lightning Cloud had its unspoken privileges, and the band of boys had resented White Deer for it.
They had warned him many times not to follow them to their secret meeting ground, saying if they ever caught him near the Mighty Oak, they would beat him. He'd begged Little Raven to take him, but his friend refused, not wanting him to get into trouble. One day, he had gotten Little Raven to reluctantly agree, and when his friend tried to protect him from the older boys, Little Raven paid the price. But it didn't end there.
After Little Raven's mother had tended to him, he and his father came by the tipi of White Deer's mother where the Chief presided. Little Raven's father looked firmly at his son while the teen apologized to the Chief and took blame for the entire incident. White Deer sat by silently, scared of his father's punishment. Realizing he was getting off the hook, the youngster's muscles began to relax. After Little Raven had finished, his father stood humbly before the Chief and also apologized for his son's behavior.
However, in the days that followed, White Deer grew ashamed. All the suffering his friend went through was because of him. Only two moons had gone by since he passed into manhood and was honored with his adult name. He should have acted like a warrior by standing up to the older boys, and he should have been a man by admitting his mistake to his father. He vowed never be meek again.
* * *
He came to wondering if he was alone this time. He kept his eyes closed, playing possum while listening for signs of others, trying to figure out a way to free himself. His mind churned. His head pounded.
Then, he heard a rustling at the door. The knob turned. Boots thumped across the floor and stopped in front of his chair.
"Still sleeping?" Mowser jeered.
Cash felt the heat from the behemoth's hand as Mowser touched his right shoulder, giving it a shove from side to side. He remained motionless.
Mowser chuckled as he departed the room. "Rest up, old man. You're gonna' need all your strength for our next round." The door snapped shut.
Old man. The fucker was right. He'd be fifty-six in November. In the old days, he wouldn't have been caught so easily and would have eliminated these rodents by now.
Cash again eyed the shadows cast from the gas lamp behind him. He needed to use what juice he had left in him to get that lamp. He pushed back with the toes of both feet against the floorboards. The chair legs squealed as they dragged across the wooden planks. Cash froze, listening again for any signs of Mowser. Silence. He rocked to the left, lifting the right side of his chair and pressing lightly back, not a whisper of a sound, then rocked to the right and began worming his way backward.
He'd crept back about six or seven feet. His muscles ached, but he knew he was closing in as the circle of light from the gas lamp brightened.
Cash saw the lamp on the floor about a foot to the right. He tipped his chair until he fell down, toppling over the gas lamp, shattering glass across the floor. Gas shot out toward the window and the flame followed. In a whoosh, the curtains went up in a ball of yellow-orange fire and black smoke. He moved quickly, scooping up a piece of broken glass, then pushed away as the blaze raced up the wall and across the ceiling. Cash sawed at the ropes with the glass shard, gashing his hands, until the ropes gave way.
"You son of a bitch!" Mowser yelled from the doorway and then down the hall, "I need help!"
Cash got himself to his feet as Mowser closed in on him. When Mowser was within striking distance, Cash swung his arm in an upper cut, slicing the thug along the chest and neck, and sinking the glass shard deep under the chin into the tongue. Mowser's eyes glazed and his pupils dilated as he gurgled from the blood filling his mouth. Mowser swung his arms wildly, but Cash ducked and sidestepped.
Cash circled around, grabbed the behemoth's revolver tucked in his belt, and gave him a solid kick in the back, propelling Mowser into the flames. The man screamed as his flesh seared. Cash ran for the door, but two henchmen blocked his way. With lightning speed he blasted off two shots, hitting one man in the chest and the other in the head. He vaulted past them, down the hall, and out onto the wharf.
* * *
The hot Louisiana night guaranteed the windows would be open, maybe even a door. Cash circled round to the back of the plantation-style home, darting behind large oak trees draped with Spanish moss. A guard sat at the top of the steps to the portico, sleeping with his head and shoulder against a tall, white column. Cash crept up the steps, Bowie knife in hand, and slit the man's throat. He let the body gently fall, sheathed the knife, and then looked in the open door to the softly lit study. Sure that no one was in the room, he slipped inside and hid behind the floor-length curtain.
A few minutes later, heavy footsteps with long strides bounded into the study, tailed closely by quick-paced, short steps.
"I want to visit my mother in the morning. We have plans to go shopping at the new department store downtown." A woman's voice demanded.
"Take the boy who washes the cars. Have him drive the Rolls," Preacher dismissed.
"Are you still worried about that old gunfighter?"
"I'm not worried, I'm being cautious," he grumbled.
"I still don't understand what he wants with you."
"He's a friend of Ross—"
"Yes, you've said that."
"Why must you always interrupt me!" he raged. "You enjoy your pretty position in this community without ever showing the slightest interest in what I have to do to make your life so damned comfortable. Except when things get sticky ... or you're drunk ... and tonight it's both."
She shrugged. "I don't have to stand for this. I'm leaving for mother's tonight." She snatched the keys from the desk and left.
Preacher settled down in his chair, pulled a large black Bible closer to him, and flipped through some pages. He reached into the upper right drawer, took out a sheet of paper and a pen, and began taking notes.
His nose twitched when the aroma of a burning cigar filled the air. He lifted his head. "Who's there?"
A wisp of white smoke drifted from behind the curtain.
Preacher lunged for the center desk drawer but Cash had his gun ready.
"Raise your hands high. Now!"
Preacher lifted his hands in the air, "This isn't the Old West. There are better ways to handle these situations."
Cash crossed the room and sat in an armchair facing the desk. He rolled the cheroot to the corner of his mouth.
"I don't understand—really don't understand—why you'd risk your life for Ross."
"That verse you read from the good book, what was it about? A man will give all he has to save his life? Well, Little Raven—Ross—practically gave his life to protect me from some troublemakers. That was a long time ago. And I never had the chance to repay him. 'Til now. You certainly don't deserve what you've got. And I'd go through hell and back to make sure you don't harm a hair on him."
Preacher's cheeks burned red as his forehead wrinkled up in anger.
"You know Job Three off the top of your head?" Cash paused, taking the cheroot from his mouth with his free hand and stubbed it out on the desk. "No? Go ahead, read it."
Preacher turned to the section, found the page, and thumbed down for the verse. He reached for his glasses and put them on, looking over the rim of them at Cash before reading aloud.
"There the wicked cease from troubling ..." Cash chimed in unison.
Preacher looked up, puzzled, while Cash leveled the Colt to Preacher's head and triggered a round. Brain and blood painted the curtains in a crimson arc. The gun blast continued vibrating in Cash's ears as he stood, staring at the corpse before him, his muscles relaxing.
"... and there the weary be at rest."
Edward A. Grainger is the pen name of David Cranmer and is a charter member of the Western Fictioneers. He lives in Maine with his wife and daughter.
DOUBLE YOUR PLEASURE
BV Lawson
The goat picked a spot on the rug in front of the guest's chair to take a crap. I glared at Constantine, our Technical Director, who pointed at the fresh steaming pile and then pointed at me. It wasn't my brilliant ide
a to schedule a dancing goat on the Morning Show. But the good ole Assistant Production Manager—me—was always the one who got to clean up the messes. This one wasn't even as stinky as one of Jack Brewer's clueless self-absorbed interviews.
Oh, the studio audience was eating it up, not literally of course, and I gave a little bow after I de-messed the rug to great applause. I didn't have time to dwell on the little piece of me that had just died inside before Constantine was pushing me out the door for the street part of the show where Jack and co-host Nikki were gearing up for a chat with the celebrity-of-the-day. Naturally, the celebrity would pretend to be a normal guy and shake the hands of adoring fans behind the gray steel barricades.
I could handle this part of the job in my sleep, but the skin on the back of my neck started tingling, and that's when I knew he was here. The creep showed up every single damned day, standing in the same spot at the front of one particular barricade. He wore the same dark glasses and the same gray hoodie, but even with his face mostly shadowed, there was something familiar about him.
The entire time I was on the set outside, he stared at me. I couldn't see his eyes, but it didn't matter. I knew his gaze followed me around. It wasn't for my movie-star good looks, because I'm about as average as they come: age thirty, medium height, medium everything, the type of guy who blends in with the scenery. Like the two hundred and thirty-odd times before—I'd lost count—I ignored the asshole and went about my business.
I knew I needed to work on my poker face when the new camera assistant, Cherie Taylor, asked me what was wrong. I ran my hand through my hair and smiled. "Other than the fact I smell like goat shit and my feet are frozen from having to stand in ice-cold puddles?"
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled 2 Page 10
