Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Vol. II

by Edward A. Grainger

  "Stop right there, Laramie."

  He turned slowly. Vanessa Lynn stood behind him with a Derringer grasped in both hands, her nightgown blowing lightly in the night breeze.

  "Can't sleep?"

  "Not when I have that much money in my backyard. How'd you figure it out?"

  "Just realized the science teacher was referring to the common name of these butterflies—Painted Ladies." Cash looked the buxom madam once over. "Maybe if you spent more time outdoors instead of on your back, you would know that."

  Vanessa Lynn's face tightened. "Well I guess you'll be the second man to go to your grave with that knowledge." She leveled the Derringer at Cash, the sound of the hammer cranking back echoed.

  Then the sound of a second hammer being pulled back followed the first.

  "Lower the gun, Vanessa."

  The madam whirled around to see Judge Sparks with a Colt trained on her. "I really came to watch Marshal Laramie make a fool of himself."

  She sized up Sparks, biting her lower lip.

  "Drop it, Vanessa!"

  She allowed the Derringer to fall to the grass and crossed her arms.

  "I owe you an apology, Marshal."

  Cash uprooted the bags, one by one and then stood. "Don't mention it, Judge."

  He eyed the pouting madam. "All in a day's work."

  ***

  Cash followed the directions to the Tobias Sabin homestead he had gotten from a talkative bartender at the saloon. He arrived at four in the morning and left a grand in reward money on the front porch.

  He heard a baby cry and the shuffling of feet as he nudged the pinto back to Cheyenne. The bank was offering a reward for information leading to the return of the money and Cash felt if they were willing to part with that sum then he had found the right place for it. Though, it would be best not to tell the bank. He would say that Tobias Sabin or Johnny Dice must have blown some of the money before it was buried.

  A lie, but one he could live with.

  GUN JUSTICE

  with Chuck Tyrell

  Cash Laramie rode into Macyville with his badge in his pocket and revenge on his mind.

  He'd ridden in ahead of the man he was following, the man who'd shot Cash's friend down in cold blood. Brant Macy. And it was no coincidence the town's name matched the man's.

  Brant Macy. Brash. Bold. Flashy grin. Hell with the ladies. Used to getting everything he wanted. But not this time.

  Cash dismounted in front of Williams Merchantile on Main Street and wrapped Paint's reins around the hitching post. He climbed the steps to the boardwalk and turned to watch Macy ride up the street. Cash leaned back against the front of the general store, pulled a cheroot from his vest pocket, struck a lucifer on his boot, and puffed the smoke alight. His eyes never left Macy.

  "How's it going, Ev." Macy's voice held a chuckle.

  "Making out, Brant, making out," said a man loading a sack of grain into his wagon.

  Cash blew a cloud of smoke upward. Macy noticed him, and put a finger to his hat in greeting and smiled. He reined his horse to the rail.

  Cash Laramie's eyes followed the brazen young man as he sauntered up the boardwalk, then angled across the street. The flat-crowned hat with its carefully curved brim. The checkered shirt and red-and-white calfskin vest. The tooled buscadero gun rig. The striped California pants tucked into calf-high boots. The happy-go-lucky smile and friendly but condescending attitude. Everything about Macy said "rich man's son." Cash pulled on the cheroot, let the blue smoke trickle from between his lips, then started after Brant Macy. The young man didn't act like a killer, but Cash knew he was one.

  People turned to stare after Cash Laramie as he followed Macy. His iron-hard expression, black hat and clothes, and no-nonsense gun rig with its blued .45 Peacemaker made them take a step back. Perhaps they wondered why a gunman walked the streets of a quiet town like Macyville. Cash ignored them, focusing attention on Macy.

  The killer ruffled the hair of a red-headed boy and gave him a penny, as if he were some kind of feudal prince. A blond burst through the batwings of the saloon on the corner. She threw her arms around Macy's neck and kissed him full on the mouth. His laugh echoed off the sides of the buildings lining the street. He whispered in her ear. She giggled. Then her face sobered when she saw Cash Laramie in the middle of Main Street. She said something to Macy, who shrugged and turned on to Mill Street.

  Cash looked at the sign above the saloon. Bucket of Blood, it read. The quirk in the corner of Cash's lips might have been the beginnings of a smile. Get that bucket ready, he thought.

  Macy lengthened his stride, making for the big building at the end of Mill Street. Macy's Grist and Feed Mill, the sign said.

  Just as Macy reached the mill entrance, Cash pulled his Peacemaker and fired a shot in the air.

  The whole town froze.

  "You're a killer, Macy," he said, his sharp-edged voice full of disdain. "I've come to take you back to Cheyenne."

  "Where's your army," Macy said, a sneer on his lips. "Ain't no one taking me out of Macyville, no one."

  Cash thumbed back the hammer of his Peacemaker. "You'll come. Or you'll die," he said.

  Macy tipped his head back and laughed. "Not likely," he said.

  Cash held the Peacemaker on Macy as he walked down the middle of the street. Twenty feet from Macy, Cash stopped, just as two men rushed from the front door of the mill. Their resemblance left no doubt. Relatives of Brant Macy. One had to be his father.

  "I come to get your boy," Cash said. "He's a thief and a killer. He's wanted in Cheyenne."

  One man, an older version of Macy, turned and said, "What is this, son? What have you done?"

  Macy simpered. "Just having some fun up to Cheyenne, Pa. Nothing much."

  The father frowned. "How much trouble, Brant?"

  Macy indicated Cash with a toss of his head. "That guy'll tell you I killed a man. I did. But he was just a sumbitchin' injun. Ain't nothing wrong with killing a redskin. He was one of them who massacred General Custer, I'm sure."

  Cash pulled the badge from his vest pocket with his left hand. The gun in his right remained pointed at Macy's belly. "U.S. Marshal," he said.

  "Shit," Macy said. "I know you. Cash Laramie. Raised by injuns, they say. More injun than white, they say."

  "You'll not get out of this, Macy. Misun, the Sioux you killed, scouted for General Crook. Even saved the general's life. Got a medal. The job he had at that saloon kept his wife and children from starving. And he was my brother. You'll go to Cheyenne. Or you'll die. Your choice."

  "No injun lover's gonna take me outta my own town," Macy roared.

  Cash stood motionless. He knew what the Macys saw. Cold blue eyes staring from under the brim of a black Stetson pulled low. A flint arrowhead hanging from a leather thong around his neck. Square jaw. Thin cheroot that no longer smoked. Colt Peacemaker at the ready.

  Then Cash put the pistol back in its holster. "Even odds, Macy. You and yours against me. What'll it be?"

  "Mr. Laramie, I'm Avery Macy and this here's my brother Mike. Brant's my son, sir. Maybe we can talk this over. What do you say?"

  "He killed my blood brother. No deal."

  "Shit, Avery. The lawman ain't gonna listen to good sense. He's come for a killing." Mike Macy squinted at Cash, who stood in the center of Mill Street, feet spread shoulder-wide, hands hanging naturally at his sides. He looked almost nonchalant, but also seemed like a coiled spring.

  "Spread out," Mike said, holding his voice to a loud whisper.

  Brant took two steps to the right, then moved even farther. Mike went to the left. Soon they made a thirty-foot arc facing Cash.

  Cash spit out the cold cheroot. He turned his face right, then left, using his peripheral vision to check for possible onlookers in the line of fire. There were none.

  Avery spoke, his voice trembling. "C'mon, now. Things don't need to get out of hand. Let's sit down and talk."

  Cash stood stock still, his eyes wide ope
n, unblinking.

  Mike Macy couldn't stand the tension. He went for his gun, but he was slow. Too slow by far.

  Cash drew, took two quick steps to his left, and fired into Mike Macy's chest. Mike's arms flew wide, and he fell over backwards, but Cash wasn't watching. He'd already shifted aim to Brant Macy who'd finally got his gun out. Again Cash sidestepped, this time to the right, and Macy's bullet whipped by his ear. Cash's Peacemaker roared and the bullet took Macy in the center of the forehead, exiting through the back of his head in a cloud of blood and brain matter. Brant dropped like an ear-shot hog.

  "You. Killed. My. Boy!" Avery Macy roared. He pulled the trigger of his Remington Navy revolver as quickly as he could thumb back the hammer, but his anger spoiled his aim. Bullets flew wild as Cash dropped to one knee and put two bullets into Macy's chest. The patriarch of Macyville crumpled to his knees, then fell on his face.

  Cash ejected spent shells from his Peacemaker and pushed new bullets into the cylinder.

  People now lined the sidewalk. Cash made a slow turn, holding his marshal's badge high in the air. "U.S. Marshal's business," he said. They stayed put.

  Pistol in hand, Cash strode over to look down at Brant Macy's dead face. His eyes were open in surprise, and a half sneer curled his dead lips.

  "What's going on here?" The call came from down Main Street, and a pot-bellied town marshal hurried around the corner.

  Cash held up his badge again. "U.S. Marshal," he said. He pointed at Brant Macy. "Killed while resisting arrest."

  "Oh," the town marshal said. "Nothing much for me to do, then, I reckon."

  "You can get those men buried," Cash said.

  "Yeah. Better." The town marshal shuffled away.

  Cash walked back down Mill Street with people keeping pace on both sides. He turned onto Main and stopped in front of the general store. As he reached for Paint's reins, the red-headed boy gave a shout.

  "God damn you, mister. God damn you. I swear. When I grow up I'm gonna hunt you down and kill you like you killed Brant. I swear." Tears ran down the boy's freckled cheeks. A woman in a light blue bonnet put her arms around the boy from behind. He turned to wipe his face on her apron, then once again faced Cash.

  Cash mounted Paint and turned his head toward Cheyenne.

  "I'm gonna kill you, mister. I am."

  Cash rode out of town, and the kid's words followed him all the way to Cheyenne. Could he have handled the situation differently? Could he have taken Macy alive? Maybe. But then, Cash decided it didn't matter.

  Misun was his blood brother. A word from Cash to the saloon owner had gotten Misun the job that killed him. But no man, red or white, black or yellow, deserved to be shot in the back. Cash wondered what Misun's family would do now. He'd find out when he got to Cheyenne.

  Usually he felt empty after killing a man, like taking a life took a little part of his own. This time it felt right.

  Sometimes, Cash thought, justice comes from a gun.

  CASH LARAMIE AND THE MASKED DEVIL

  The horses were hitched and two deputies heaved a couple of canvas bags filled with notes and silver into the wagon. Under the corner streetlamp, Marshal Robert Boland glanced at his gold timepiece. Ten-thirty p.m. He'd ride with Deputies Hayes and Reed through the night and deliver the money to the Rawlins bank no later than noon the next day. After that, back to Cheyenne where he'd ask Chief Penn for some well-deserved time off.

  His buoyant thoughts were dashed by the approach of drumming hoof beats. A horned figure with a dark crimson face and glinting cutlass emerged out of the darkness, barreling down on the three lawmen.

  "It's the Masked Devil!" Hayes exclaimed.

  Boland drew his Colt, pulled back the hammer with a ratcheting click, and fired three shots. He pitched to the side, his hat tumbling away, as the legs of the ghostly white horse came crashing down beside him. In an instant, the sword slashed off his left ear. He came up on one knee and clasped a hand over the wound. Blood threaded between his fingers. He shook the warm essence from his hand and squeezed off two more shots while the devil circled around and headed back at a full gallop.

  "Fire, dammit, fire!" Boland snapped at his men.

  Hayes, the chunky deputy closest to Boland, snagged the barrel of his six-gun in its holster. Reed, the thin one, just stood there, wide-eyed and frozen. The devil raised the cutlass high in his right hand, drew a Walker Colt with the other, and fired off wild shots in their direction. Hayes stumbled back, knocking down Reed who slammed his head into a wagon wheel and fell unconscious.

  Blood from the stump of Boland's ear coursed down into the straw-colored hair curling over his mackinaw jacket. As the devil closed in, Boland fumbled reloading his Colt, his fingers slick with blood. He looked up as the devil's sword came slicing down.

  A clean sweep through Boland's neck severed the head and sent it somersaulting several feet away.

  The Masked Devil reined his horse to the dismembered head, pierced it with the tip of his sword, and held it aloft, shaking it at the citizens of Pleasance who cowered along the wooden boardwalk. He lobbed it at them and jeered as they gasped and jumped back from the head as if it was a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit.

  The fiend tugged the reins. The white horse whinnied and reared up, then stormed west out of town. A haze of dust settled in wispy layers on Deputy Hayes as he fruitlessly fired after them.

  From the shadows of a narrow alley between the livery and depot, a slouched figure crept out, stepped over the unconscious deputy, snagged the two canvas bags and slithered back into the cover of darkness with the money.

  ***

  "A masked rider dressed like Beelzebub?" Cash Laramie asked, shrugging his broad shoulders that stuck up well above the Windsor armchair he was sitting in.

  "According to spooked townsfolk, there's no 'like' about it. That rider was the devil in the flesh." Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Devon Penn interlaced his fingers and planted his hands down firmly on the desk. His bushy brows furrowed on his round face as he continued, "But The Cheyenne Star has a slightly different take. The paper's editorial speculates it may be the spirit of a dead Arapaho leader seeking vengeance."

  Cash rolled his eyes. "Ghosts and goblins live in dime novels."

  "That may be so. Anyway, Marshal Boland was transporting $85,000 from Blue Mountain, California to Rawlins when he encountered trouble near Salt Lake City. Rather than run any more risk, he wired ahead for help, asking that the extra men join him in Pleasance. So I wired the mayor and asked him to hire two deputies to accompany Boland the rest of the trip to Rawlins. Then this happens." Penn pointed to the newspaper on his desk. "The whole motley town of farmers, drifters, Negroes and Indians is terrified."

  Cash snatched up the newspaper. The front page featured a crude sketch of Boland's head tumbling from his body while a satanic figure dressed in Arapaho garments danced in triumph beside him. The headline screeched, "Masked Devil Beheads Marshal."

  "This can't be the first attack if the paper's already come up with a catchy name for the killer," Cash said.

  "That's correct. He's struck half a dozen times before. Always been raids on the white folks' homesteads or businesses in and around Pleasance."

  "Not so strange, if you consider who holds the purse strings." Cash fished a cheroot from his shirt pocket and stoked the end with a lucifer. Exhaling upward, he sent the smoke funneling out through an open window onto the Cheyenne streets. Penn detested cigars and the battle over smoking in the office had been going on for years but, on occasion, when Cash was needed for a new job, Penn looked the other way.

  "What I can't fathom is why a U.S. Marshal was used to transport that $85,000," Cash said. "Unless it's federal money?"

  Penn unlocked his fingers and tapped two together on his desk, as was his custom when the discussion turned to sensitive topics. "There are federal links, as it happens. The Cheyenne Historical Society finally sold that strip of land south of Cumberland ridge to a wealthy railroad entrepreneur
from California—with government backing, I might add. The mission was meticulously planned, and the need for the secrecy was paramount. That piece of land is—"

  "Highly controversial," Cash interrupted. He leaned forward, slapped the paper back down on the desk and dropped his cheroot's ash into the ornamental bronze spittoon. "I take it everything was done quietly so as not to further enrage the Arapaho Nation whose land was stolen?"

  "Acquired. Remember, Marshal Laramie, we don't make the laws. We might not always agree but it's our duty to enforce them. I know you have a special bond with the Arapaho people, but you may have to put it aside for this assignment."

  "Still, a Wells Fargo full escort would have been the wiser choice."

  Penn's eyes narrowed.

  "Just stating a fact," Cash said, speaking around the stub in his mouth.

  "Well here's a fact for you. You're on the three o'clock stage to Pleasance. Find out who killed Boland and get the money back." Penn reached into his top drawer and took out an envelope. "Here's your travel money. Marshal Miles will be heading back from Shoshone Indian Territory and will meet you in town."

  Cash nodded and left. He was glad to team up with Gideon Miles again. A fast gun and the most reliable lawman he had worked with since joining the Marshal Service.

  He studied the watch attached by chain to his vest. Just enough time for a whiskey and a poke, if Lenora wasn't already busy with a client. He smiled, withdrawing two dollars from the envelope. It was kindly of his boss to provide for expenses.

  ***

  "I never saw nuttin' like it. Our lead passed clean through 'im," Milt Hayes said as he pulled a crooked leg inward. "Hell, I protected Davey best I could by pushin' him down and whatnot."

  "Yeah, I don't remember that," Davey Reed added. "But I cain't forget them flaming yellow eyes—"

  "You idiot. He didn't have no flaming eyeballs, but hisself was inpem ... er ... inpener—"