Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Vol. II

by Edward A. Grainger

  The judge nodded. "It's good to keep your promises, son." He paused a moment. "Look at me. Calling you 'son' as if you were a little boy. What was your name in Lightning Cloud's village?"

  "My adult name is White Deer. My father Lightning Cloud said such a deer is very rare."

  "White Deer." Judge Hickey rolled the name on his tongue. His face still wore scabs, and mottled black and green marks from the bruises gave him a wild look. His nose was now out of line, but it seemed to add character. "'Tis a good name. Keep it always. Still, I'd better write Boston for your birth name." He put a hand on White Deer's shoulder. "I'm sure you don't need this advice, but give Bowler Gillicuddy a full day's work."

  White Deer finished the bowl of oatmeal. He looked at Martha, a question on his face.

  "Oh! My! Yes, I forgot to bring the coffee." She bustled out of the room to the sound of her men's laughter.

  ***

  White Deer now boarded at the livery. Just after he started work, Gillicuddy suggested he stay there, but Martha Hickey still drove up in her buggy every day but Sunday, bringing White Deer a lunch and an hour's worth of education. He looked forward to those lessons, and now read everything he could find, often going to sleep long after the sun went down.

  "Hey, Cash." Gillicuddy called White Deer by that name ever since he'd overheard him insisting a customer pay "cash" for the livery's services. "Hey, Cash!"

  "Be right there," White Deer hollered from the rear stall where he was rasping down a piebald sorrel's hooves. He put away the rasp and walked to the front of the livery, wiping his hands on his short canvas apron.

  Judge Hickey stood with Gillicuddy just outside the barn door, where the sunshine warmed the day somewhat. The judge held a letter.

  "Is that from the birth record place," White Deer asked.

  "I'm afraid it's bad news, son. The building where the records were stored burned down. Nothing could be saved. I will keep looking, but for now, we just don't know what your parents named you. I'm sorry."

  Bowler Gillicuddy squinted one eye and looked up at the sun. "Judge, around here we call him 'Cash.'"

  "Cash?"

  "Yep. He's strict with all the customers. Always gives them the best job he can do, but always insists on cash. Everyone wants Cash to care for their stock now. Talk about a man being an asset, that's Cash."

  "If he's an asset, I'm sure you've adjusted his remuneration to reflect that value," the judge said with a stern voice.

  "When he earns it," Gillicuddy said, "he's paid in cash."

  "Cash Laramie." The judge looked at White Deer for a reaction and was met with a wide smile. "First big smile I've seen on your face for some time," he said.

  "I have a name," White Deer said. "A man should have a name."

  "That he should," the judge said. "Cash Laramie."

  ***

  Cash buried the outlaw under enough rocks to keep the scavengers from gnawing on the flesh and bones, but he didn't waste time to make a cross. Crazy Ed wasn't Saint Peter bound.

  His thoughts shot back to how quickly he had given up his White Deer name and sadness washed over him. He reached for the arrowhead around his neck. A long time had passed since he said his final goodbye to Elina and departed ways with Lightning Cloud. A tear welled in his eye as he touched the buffalo leather and ran his fingers down to the rough edges of obsidian, ending at the sharp point.

  "I am sorry, Mother. I am sorry, Father. But know that I have not forgotten all that you did for me." His eyes traveled across the colorful dunes of El Desierto Pintado. "I'll never forget."

  MAGGIE'S PROMISE

  Marshal Cash Laramie dismounted from Paint and tied the pinto's reins to a low branch of an Elm tree. He pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit the end into a robust, glowing red ember, then adjusted the black Stetson on his head.

  "Are you sure this is where Maggie is?" Jacob Whitney asked, fastening his Morgan to the same tree while he surveyed the rocky mountainside of the remote north country.

  Cash rubbed his square jaw, blue orbs studying the well-heeled banker. "Yeah, 'bout halfway up this cliff is a cave that drops down a hundred feet. That's where she's been staying."

  Whitney raised his doughy face as slitted eyes scaled the incline, the rays of sun highlighting the silver in his hair. "Why couldn't you just bring her to me?"

  "You'll see."

  "Well, how do you know she hasn't up and run off again?"

  Cash rolled the cigar to the corner of his mouth and clamped down. "She hasn't. Let's go."

  The marshal began the slow climb with Whitney in tow. Between huffs of breath, the banker talked at length about his daughter and the trouble she'd gotten into. "When she was young, we made a promise to each other: no secrets. This sort of thing didn't happen before she met him. My little girl falling for that red devil." He coughed as if choking on the thought. "I'm glad he was found dead."

  Cash grew tired of such palaver until he no longer heard the man droning on. Only the sound of Whitney's feet scrambling up the rock-strewn landscape echoed in his ears.

  When they reached the cavern, Cash grabbed an unlit torch lying just inside the cave's mouth. The old rags tied on the end of a hickory stick felt dry enough to burn.

  Whitney wobbled up behind him, struggling for breath. He leaned forward, placing his head in the crook of his arm, and stood against the cool rocks. Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose.

  Cash looked at the man with repugnance. "C'mon."

  "Yes, of course. Thank God you found her. I can just imagine what those savages have done."

  Cash removed the cigar from his mouth and ignited the frayed threads of the rags. "Don't forget, you asked Chief Penn for me—a savage—to find her. Didn't you say it takes one to know one? Aren't those the words you said to my boss?"

  "Marshal Laramie, no offense was ever meant. I thought it was a rumor about you being reared by Indians." His gaze dropped to the Arapaho arrowhead around Cash's neck, and then he looked past into the murky depth. "Either way, present company excepted."

  Cash turned into the shadows, torch in hand lighting the passage ahead. The ground sloped gradually downward and his wide shoulders brushed the cave walls as the corridor narrowed.

  "Watch your head," Cash growled, ducking low, his Stetson scraping the ceiling.

  The tight confines opened up into a large chamber. Cash stepped to the right and propped the torch against the wall. The flames dimly lit the area, casting thin shadowy fingers from the stalactites hanging from the ceiling.

  "I can't see much of anything." Whitney squinted for a better look around. A rumpled sleeping mat and two little pots next to some charred pieces of wood were at his feet, and a small wooden footstool tipped on its side lay marooned in the center of the lair.

  "I tracked Maggie here after receiving a tip from the tribe stationed a little farther south. Those 'savages,' as you call them, took pity on your daughter. They brought her food, water, and clothing. Their medicine man even came by many times to care for her and kept an eye on her. They did their best to help."

  "Well then, where is she?"

  Cash hard-eyed the business man. "Behind you."

  Whitney turned and took a couple of steps. Cold feet tapped him on the shoulder. He yelled and stumbled back, but Cash shoved the banker forward.

  "No, God damn it. You look and fucking look hard." Cash picked up the torch and thrust it closer for Whitney to see the expressionless, blue face of his daughter as she dangled from the end of a rope suspended from a jagged stalactite. Her tongue hung down, wide-open glazed eyes drilled into her father's ravaged features, arms draped to the side of her swollen belly.

  "Maggie's journal says it all. A young woman terrified of her father's harsh opinion. She gave her heart to a good man, and he loved her. But she was devastated that you—her ever-loving father—couldn't accept his skin and threatened to disown her. So, instead of disappointing you further with the news she was with child, she did this. She stood by h
er promise ... she couldn't keep this secret from you forever. Look at your fucking handiwork, pa."

  Cash brushed passed the distraught father who reached out and grabbed the lawman's arm.

  "You're not leaving me here, are you?" Whitney's voice trembled.

  Cash shook free of the banker's grasp. "I'm going to wait for you to bring your daughter topside. This is your weight to carry."

  The lawman took down an unused torch fixed to the cave wall, lit it, and then ascended to the outside world. He looked down to Paint at the bottom of the cliff. The pinto neighed, swatting his tail at Whitney's Morgan.

  "I know the feeling, fella."

  Cash sat in the cool air at the cavern entrance, waiting. After some time had passed and Whitney still hadn't appeared, Cash went back to the chamber. There he found Whitney collapsed on his back, face twisted in pain, and Maggie's body lying across him as if he'd fallen while getting her down and tried to keep her off the ground.

  "Bad ... heart," Whitney gasped. "I'm ... sorry." His eyes rolled back and his body relaxed still holding his daughter in his arms.

  Cash bent down and closed the eyes of both. "Now you can tell her yourself."

  MILES IN BETWEEN

  The high-noon sun beat down on Marshal Gideon Miles and his prisoner Jarvis Kincaid. Beads of sweat rolled off their brows but a cool breeze from the north tempered the heat. The marshal kept pace on his grullo three strides back, flanking Kincaid's palomino as they ambled down the dusty road to Gavelin, Wyoming.

  Miles studied the accused killer from the side. The clenched jaw, the frozen eyes. Allegedly murdered a woman. He wondered if the only thing they had in common was the color of their skin. He sighed as he turned, scanning the mountain range in the distance. In another five miles or so, they'd be crossing the town line in the foothills.

  "Seems a shame you'd take me back, let them white folks string me up like they're gonna."

  "You'll see a judge."

  "Judge?" Kincaid cackled. "You must be outta your head. My ass is gonna be swinging from a tree limb five minutes after you leave."

  "Gavelin's not known for lawlessness."

  "Mrs. Peterson was the town's most prominent resident. You can bet they're gonna dangle me from a rope."

  "If the rope fits—"

  "Bullshit it fits," Jarvis said, spit flying down onto his handcuffed hands in front of him. He recomposed himself, cast a glance back at Miles, then resumed his steady tone. "I worked for Mrs. Peterson minding the estate after her husband died. She trusted me with the cattle since there was no one else to look after them. Well, there's Diggs, the other ranch hand, but Mrs. Peterson didn't trust him much. He mended fences and ran errands in town."

  One thing Miles knew about criminals, they were all innocent of the crime. Normally, he wouldn't be particularly interested in his prisoner's account, but, with time to pass, it didn't hurt to listen.

  "I knew something was wrong when Sheriff Haas started sniffing about."

  "How's that?" Miles asked.

  "He was looking to propose to the old lady, take over the land. But she wasn't having any doing." Kincaid spit to the side. "Haas'd been a suitor of hers years earlier, but Mr. Peterson won her over with his east coast schooling and manners."

  Kincaid paused. "Might I have a drop of water?"

  Miles tapped the reins and pulled alongside Kincaid's horse. He removed the canteen hanging from the saddle horn and handed it over.

  "You were found over the body."

  "I was trying to save her. Should be mighty suspicious to any fair-minded person that Haas just happened to arrive with two deputies not a minute after I found her."

  Kincaid let the canteen's string thread between his fingers until he had about a foot of slack and then swung it at the marshal's head. Miles blocked the assault with a forearm while Kincaid leaped out of his saddle, dove sideways, and grasped the lawman's right arm, taking Miles to the ground.

  Kincaid landed a blow to Miles' chin using the force of his bound hands. The lawman thwarted another punch with his left forearm and then pounded the owlhoot in the face with his right. With his hands cuffed, Kincaid was no match for the flurry of left and rights from Miles. The captive man howled, then collapsed sideways into a patch of dirt.

  "C'mon, get up," Miles seethed. "Get up!"

  Kincaid scooped up some earth as he bolted up and lobbed it at Miles who side-stepped the flying dirt, then slammed another right in the ambusher's face knocking him back down. Miles freed his Colt from its holster and aimed at the prisoner.

  "Any more shit like that and you ain't going to have to worry about what the white folks of Gavelin are going to do to you."

  Kincaid looked at Miles as he wiped the blood from his mouth. "Is it as easy as it looks selling out your own?"

  ***

  The population sign leading into town had the number 131 newly carved on it above a crossed out 132. Miles and Kincaid entered from the east, guiding their mounts through town, catching plenty of stares and shouts: "They caught him! Lynch 'em."

  Kincaid cast a sideways "I told you so" look at Miles.

  They brought their horses to a halt in front of the jail. A short, stout man sat in a well-worn chair balanced on the two back legs while deftly twirling a walking stick in his left hand. A badge in need of shining was pinned to his vest.

  "So, Jarvis Kincaid returns. A whole lotta people're gonna be glad of that."

  He stood, shaking his wide backend without a hint of humiliation to free himself from the chair, then tugged his trousers up. He stretched an arm forward, grabbing for Kincaid while spewing out to Miles, "Hey, son, I'm sheriff for these parts. Sheriff Haas. I can take it from here."

  Miles glared at the sheriff who offered no handshake, no proper introductions. He stepped in front of the Haas to help Kincaid off his palomino. Then he reached into his saddlebags for a green folder, pulled out a series of papers, and passed them to Haas.

  "Sign on the lines marked with an X." Miles paused, "If you need help, let me know."

  "Humph!" Haas snapped up the release forms. He took Kincaid by the collar and led him into the one-room jail. Miles followed Haas and glanced about. A desk, a couple of chairs, and rifle rack filled the cramped space.

  Haas plopped in the chair behind the desk, slapped the paperwork down, and began leafing through, signing each sheet. Finished, he pushed the papers across the desktop, knocking over a white elephant paperweight that spiraled to the edge of the desk and over. Miles snapped it up before it hit the floor. He held on the expensive piece, turning it around as he studied it.

  "Mighty fast, aren't we?"

  Miles ignored the sheriff's comment, placed the elephant back on the desk, and then returned the paperwork in the folder.

  "How soon until the judge arrives?"

  Haas stood, pulling up his sagging trousers again, pretending not to hear. "Good day, Marshal."

  Miles gave a stern eyeball-to-eyeball stare until Haas shifted uncomfortably, then he started toward the door.

  "Marshal!" Kincaid shouted.

  Miles turned to the prisoner.

  "Look, Marshal, I'm real sorry for what happened back there, but I don't wanna die. Not like this. Check with Diggs. He must be watching her place. He has no love for me but he'll tell you the truth."

  Miles scrutinized the anxious expression before him—a look of complete defeat. He'd seen the look many times with both the innocent and the guilty. He tipped the corner of his Stetson and exited the jail. He would have taken the time to grab a meal but he had enough doughboys and jerky. He wanted to get away from Gavelin—it stunk of hypocrisy and narrow-mindedness corrupting its clean-cut image.

  He stopped on the outskirts and dug into his saddlebags. Miles pulled out a small leather pouch containing a wooden pipe and a tin of tobacco. He pressed a pinch of fresh tobacco in the pipe and stoked the sweetly scented leaves to a cherry red. He took a couple puffs and then clasped the bowl in his palm. His horse whinnied. Miles
stroked the side of the animal's head. "Yeah, let's find a man named Diggs."

  ***

  Miles guided his steed over a wooden bridge and down a tree-lined carriage path to the front door of the Peterson ranch house. In the barn to the left of the two-story home stood a silver-haired man with a full, bushy mustache wearing faded dungarees. He yanked the bright red bandana tied around his neck off and wiped his brow, glaring at Miles who stopped a few feet in front of him.

  Miles leaned forward in his saddle. "Mr. Diggs?"

  "What's it to you?" Deep lines scrunched on his high forehead.

  "Mr. Diggs," Miles said as he slid off his mount. "I brought Jarvis Kincaid into Gavelin an hour ago."

  Diggs pushed the bandana in the pocket of his dungarees and stiffened his back. "So, what?" He walked toward the house past Miles who followed behind.

  "Kincaid said you're a fair man who'd alibi him. He says you know he couldn't have murdered Mrs. Peterson." He stopped short of the three steps leading up to the porch. "A man could hang, and if he's innocent—"

  Diggs paused at the door, keeping his back to Miles. "I don't stick my neck out for nobody. And you need to get off this property." He sailed inside and slammed the door.

  Miles rubbed the bridge of his nose and turned to look at his horse chewing on some tall grass near the fence. He reached in his vest pocket, pulling out a pipe already packed with tobacco. He scratched a lucifer to life and puffed on the pipe until the tobacco burned bright.

  Miles caught movement in the distance. He shook the match dead while watching a rider stop behind a willow tree on the other side of the bridge. Miles wandered to the end of the porch, sat down in a rocker, and crossed one leg over the other. The figure in the distance was temporarily checkmated and stayed behind the tree. Miles broke into a loud rendition of "The Fountain in the Park," warbling between puffs:

  "While strolling in the park one day—"

  The house door opened and Diggs lumbered out with a rifle in hand. "What in Sam Hill are you doing?"