by Nik Morton
"Seems to me you've got a town ruled by fear and intimidation."
The judge nodded. "But don't get me wrong. They're mostly good people. Just need a little decent leadership. I speak out when I can—choosing my battles with care."
"Have you had any threats, Judge?"
He pursed his lips. "Only the usual. Disgruntled miscreants reluctant to pay their fines, that sort of thing. Nothing too serious, though. Why?"
"The letter Mrs. Tolliver sent to my boss at the federal building, talks about threats to her life."
"I didn't know that. Devon simply sent me a wire telling me you were coming."
Cash stood and shook hands with the judge. "Thanks for that, anyway, sir. I reckon my stomach can't hold off any longer, it needs a solid meal."
"There are two hotels—go for the Wordsworth, the sheets are cleaner and the bedbugs aren't as hungry."
"Thanks, Judge." They moved to the door and Judge McPiece opened it.
The judge clapped a hand on Cash's shoulder. "Drop by again when you're able. I want to hear about that rapscallion Penn!"
Rapscallion? He can't be talking about the same man, surely? Yet they were much the same age. Cash shrugged. "It's a date, Judge." He tipped his hat and stepped down.
* * *
Early next morning, Cash set out on Paint, following the directions in Mrs. Tolliver's letter.
As he crested a rise, he reined in. Below, down a gentle slope of meadow grass was the Double-Bar T ranch. It was a pleasing sight, a single story ranch house in the middle of a fenced acre; two outbuildings at the back; a barn and a small bunkhouse; and a corral—all within the fenced enclosure. Two horses were hitched at a rail at the front porch. Maybe Widow Tolliver had visitors. Also at the rear of the house was a vegetable garden, a stand of lodgepole pines and a grave headstone. Beyond the fence, meadows sloped in every direction, until they reached encircling conifers.
Cash squinted, certain he detected movement at the side of the house. People—four of them—a woman and three men, he reckoned, walking toward the grave. Without moving his gaze from those figures, he reached behind and pulled his spyglass from the left-hand saddlebag. Extending the metal tube, he brought the people close up. The woman wore a gingham dress and it was torn at the front. Her gray-streaked black hair fell in disarray over her face. One man was a boy, about fifteen, he supposed, and the other two men held guns, threatening the woman and the boy, with big grins on their faces.
It looked like the threats Mrs. Tolliver suffered were about to turn lethal.
Damn. Cash rammed shut the spyglass, shoved it in the saddlebag. "Let's git, Paint!" He rode hard down the slope, his course slanted toward the back of the ranch house.
Damn, he doubted he'd be in time. Halfway down the slope, Cash reined in and pulled out his rather worn Yellow Boy Winchester rifle.
"Steady, boy," he whispered, taking aim.
Paint snorted and obediently stood still.
* * *
Mrs. Tolliver stumbled toward a stand of three lodgepole pine trees that cast their shadow over her husband Dean's grave. People with good intentions had told her the grave was too close to the house, but she insisted. Dean often sat under the trees, reading. Now, her bedroom window overlooked his last resting place. Halfway there, ignoring the pistol barrel digging in her back, she stopped and turned. She glanced fearfully at her fifteen-year-old son, Danny. His dark hair swept across his face; a bruise had formed on his cheek. He gripped the spade handle tightly, his knuckles white. Towering over him was an enormous man named Tiny. He was the opposite of his name, over six feet tall, and very broad. Huge, not with muscle, but with plenty of fat. He reeked of body odor and other smells.
Her heart hammered in her chest and her hands felt its pounding as she attempted to hold together the torn dress fabric. "Please, leave us alone! I'll step down—give the mayor his victory!"
"You hear that, Tiny?" The speaker had called himself as Ash when the two men rode up while Danny was splitting wood. The chopping block was just on his left, near the clapboard wall of the house, the axe embedded with its handle sticking out at an angle. She'd stood outside the door as the men approached. The surly pair drew their weapons before she could reach for her Winchester that leaned against the wall just inside the doorway.
Now, under the guns of Ash and Tiny, Danny slowly thrust the spade into the loamy earth.
Ash laughed. "She wants to step down!"
Danny stopped, his vibrant blue eyes appealing to her, anxious.
"Yeah, Ash, mighty obligin' of her, considerin' ..." Tiny slammed the butt of his rifle into Danny's back, nearly sending him to his knees. "Keep diggin', boy!"
With an effort, she fought down her last meal. She wouldn't amuse them by being sick. Though she was sick at heart and winced as Danny stoically recovered from the blow and continued to dig a shallow grave.
"I'm feeling generous. Your brat can dig a grave just for one," growled Ash. "Close to your husband."
"One?" she queried.
"Yeah, and you get to choose who goes in it." He laughed but his narrow eyes never left hers. "You or your son."
She gripped her torn dress tight in her fist, a fist she'd willingly pound into that bastard Ash's face, if he lowered his six-gun even for an instant. Rage roiled in her gut, battling with knee-weakening fear.
"I like that," Tiny said.
Ash grinned, thrusting the barrel of his revolver against Mrs. Tolliver's cheek. "You'll like this more, friend."
"What's that?"
"If she enjoys it while we poke her, we might even let them both live!"
She bit her lip as Danny stopped digging and furtively eyed the axe. He hadn't a chance against guns; she hastily shook her head and her son leaned on the spade, his face scrunched up with concern for her.
"You don't mean that," she said. "You won't let us go, not now."
"You mean," Tiny said, "I get to poke 'er as well?"
"Sure. After me." Ash looked at her with malevolence in his eyes, and then winked.
A chill ran through her. These men were beyond evil.
Tiny grinned, showing brown tombstones of teeth. "Sure, that's OK. After you." He slapped at Danny's ear with his free hand. "Who said you could stop diggin'?"
Danny resumed digging, and Ash thrust Mrs. Tolliver down on the ground, on top of her husband's grave.
Her head smacked against the headstone, which was inscribed Dean Tolliver, Born April 2, 1835 - Died May 31, 1885. Beloved father and son. Unfortunately, she wasn't knocked out, though the blow hurt like Hades.
Slightly dazed, she looked up and wished she hadn't.
Ash growled, "Let the kid watch, Tiny. We're going to enjoy this!" With one hand he leveled the revolver on her while with the other he unbuckled his belt and his pants dropped. He leered. "Lift your skirts, bitch!"
"No! Please, no!" She hated herself as she begged.
"Yes—or your son fills the grave he's dug next to his pappy's right now!" He half turned and aimed the six-gun at Danny.
Her heart was breaking as she lay on her husband's grave. Now the swine wanted to desecrate Dean's final resting place. She bit her lip. She must save Danny, if she could. That was uppermost in her mind as she reluctantly raised her dress.
Suddenly, Ash sank to his knees between her legs. "Yes, this is going to be fun!" He laughed, his mouth wide.
Then blood gushed from his mouth, together with bits of bone and flesh and teeth, splattering her face and clothes. In the same instant, a rifle shot echoed round the valley and Ash bit the dirt that covered her husband. Appalled, she tugged her legs out from under him.
Trembling, fearful for her son, she rose to her knees.
Danny swung the spade at Tiny's head, but it had little effect—perhaps his brains weren't located there. But that move bought the lad a couple of seconds, long enough for him to dive away from the grave toward the chopping block. He grabbed the axe and swung it round. The axe-head sank into Tiny's vast bel
ly.
Tiny growled, "You're dead, boy. Squashed like a bug!" His eyes glared, almost starting from his head and his face turned purple with rage.
She struggled to her feet, ready to rush to Danny's aid.
Then one of Tiny's glaring eyes changed color. It sprouted blood and brains and a gaping hole appeared in its place, while the echo of this second shot died. The enormous bulk of Tiny fell forward, into the shallow grave that wasn't big enough for him.
* * *
Cash shoved the rifle back in its scabbard and urged Paint on down the slope.
Finally, as his horse attained level ground at the fence, Cash eased Paint into a steady trot to the gate, where the shingle crossbar read Double-Bar T.
He rounded the ranch house corner.
Mrs. Tolliver stood in the shadow of the lodgepole pines, near the headstone of a grave, a Winchester in her arms, seemingly unmindful of the torn front of her dress. Her chest heaved and she was lathered in sweat. At her side was the young man, presumably her son; he seemed to wear his bruised face with some pride, and held a bloody axe warily. The whites of their eyes glinted, otherwise their features were indistinct.
He slowed Paint to a walk. "I mean you no harm, Mrs. Tolliver." He reined in and dismounted. He gave Paint a pat on the neck. "I'm a U.S. Marshal, here in response to your letter."
She stepped out of the shadow. "When I gave you my old gun, Cash Laramie, I never expected you to save my life with it!"
"Esther?"
-TWO-
Gamble with Lives
"We've got a lot of catching up to do," she said. "This is Danny, my son."
"Pleased to meet you, Danny." Cash shook the boy's hand and nodded at the dead hulk. "You stood up well against that monster."
Danny brushed dark hair out of his eyes. "I didn't realize how fat he was—that axe should've done for him, but ..."
"Never mind, son," Esther Tolliver said. "The marshal saw to him, all right."
"He did that!" Danny grinned, his blue eyes shining in admiration at Cash.
"First, however," Esther said, "I reckon we'd better get these sorry carcasses back to town before they stink more than they already do."
"Yeah, they could've done with a bath, I'd say."
"Well, now they can roast in hell."
Cash was surprised at the vehemence in her voice. Esther seemed harder now and he wondered what had changed her. Maybe the death of her husband? He'd find out in time, he reckoned.
As he helped Danny load the two bodies onto the flat bed of the buckboard, Cash kept glancing at the young man, as if drawn by something familiar, yet he couldn't identify it. "Have we met before, Danny?" he finally asked.
"Possibly, sir—I often go into Bear Pines, buying stuff for Ma."
"I haven't been to Bear Pines before," Cash said, covering the bodies with a tarp from the barn.
Danny shrugged. "Well, in that case, we can't have met, Marshal. I haven't traveled much."
"Whereas," said Esther Tolliver, "from what I've heard, Cash Laramie, you've traveled a great deal!"
Cash nodded. "I've been around. I guess I went out and lived my life."
"Glad to hear it," she said and climbed onto the driver's seat.
Danny tethered the horses of Tiny and Ash to the rear of the buckboard.
Danny and Cash rode on either side of the buckboard and they all headed toward town. Cash said, "What did those two say about the election?"
She frowned. "That's odd, I guess. They never once said anything about the election. I assumed that was why they came, of course. After those threatening letters, it seemed the next step."
"Ma ain't easily railroaded," Danny said with pride in his voice.
"I know, son," Cash said. "We met a long time back—before you were born. So I ..."
He glanced at her, a question poised on his lips. He caught Esther looking at him and she smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know ..." she said and left it at that.
No, it wasn't possible. She'd have gotten word to him. But he'd been only a youngster, barely fourteen, certainly not capable of bringing up a family. Thoughts whirled around in his head.
"I met Dean a month or so after you left," she said, breaking the silence. "It was a whirlwind romance. He swept me off my feet. He was a lawyer and dabbled in politics."
"I'm pleased for you, Esther," Cash said, and meant it.
She smiled and her face lit up, briefly. "Before I knew it, I'd sold up and gone with him, campaigning in a few towns till we settled here, where Danny was born."
"When did your husband die?"
Her eyes narrowed. She slapped the horses with the reins, urging them to move faster. "About four weeks ago."
"How'd it happen?"
She was silent and he saw something glisten on her cheek.
"Sorry," he said, "I shouldn't bring it up, I guess."
"Pa was bushwhacked, Marshal," said Danny, bringing his mount alongside. "He'd thrown his hat in the ring to contest for mayor. Both me and Ma reckon the mayor paid for his murder in a dark alley, but we ain't got any proof."
"I was damned if Mayor Nolan was going to get his way!" Esther snapped, the back of a hand wiping her eyes. "I put myself forward in Dean's stead."
"That's either very brave or mighty foolish of you," Cash said.
"Foolish, I suspect." The reins slackened in her hands and the horses slowed. "I never counted on Danny being at risk. But I should have." She let out a big sigh. "As soon as we've dumped these bodies, I'll go to the town hall and withdraw my name from the election."
"Ma, you can't do that!" Danny slammed a fist on his saddle horn. "I won't let you do that because of me!"
Cash called across, "I'm here now, son. Maybe your ma won't have to give up."
Danny's blue eyes, slightly glazed with tears, gazed at him, trusting. "Really, Marshal?"
Cash eyed Esther and nodded. "Yes, I reckon Mayor Nolan can get licked without either your ma or you coming to grief."
Tears brimmed her eyes now. "I pray to God you're right, Cash." She turned back to the buckboard's horses. "Move it, damn you!"
* * *
"Damn me, Marshal, what've you got there?" Sheriff Hain said, rising from his rocker. As he walked to the edge of the boardwalk, he gave Esther a brief furtive glare.
"A couple of would-be murderers, Sheriff," Cash said, dismounting.
"Murderers, you say?" Hain took off his hat, scratched his head.
Peeling back the tarp from the bodies, Cash added, "Tiny and Ash. Recognize them?"
Sheriff Hain shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow. "No, can't say I do." He put his hat on again. "Damned hot, ain't it?"
"Yes, it is," Esther said. "That's why we brought them in—for burying before they get too ripe."
"Wait a damned minute. What about this murder business? What happened?"
"Those two men were seconds away from murdering Mrs. Tolliver and her son," Cash said. "If I hadn't come along, you'd be investigating a double killing."
"Well, in that case, thank you, Marshal, for saving me all that time and effort." He kicked the side of the buckboard. "Take them over to Rance Peel's," he said, thumbing at the funeral parlor two blocks down on the other side of the street. "He'll go through their pockets to see what kinda send-off they can afford."
"They were carrying $500 apiece," Cash said. "I've confiscated it." As the sheriff hesitated on a retort, Cash added, "I've filled in a receipt and I'll leave it with the judge. Get your undertaker to bill me and Judge McPiece'll deduct it from the dead men's money."
"What about the rest of the money, Marshal?"
"That just might be evidence." He gestured at the corpses. "Neither man dressed as though he was worth five dollars, let alone five hundred. I reckon it was blood money for killing Mrs. Tolliver and her son."
Hain let out what seemed like an exaggerated gasp. "That's terrible. Who'd do such a thing, Marshal?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," Cash said, and swung Paint
round toward the undertaker's. Esther and Danny had tied his horse to the buckboard and joined Esther on the driver's seat. They followed Cash without uttering another word.
By the time they got to Peel's Emporium for the Deceased, a sizeable crowd had gathered.
Peel opened the funeral parlor door and stood, wringing his hands expectantly, a tall, portly man with a florid complexion. He pointed at the two pairs of boots sticking out from the tarp. "New customers, I take it?" he said, his voice thin and irritating.
"Yes," Cash said, peeling back the tarp. "Two—though one of them'll probably take up two coffins by his lonesome."
Peel pursed his lips. "That'll be extra, taking into consideration the size of him."
"If I'm not around, send the bill to the judge. He'll settle with you."
"Very well." Peel gestured at his two black-clad assistants and they hurried forward and hefted Ash onto a stretcher. They looked at Tiny and blanched. The crowd of onlookers melted away, several screwing up their faces at the odor that wafted toward them.
"The basic funeral, I take it?" Peel said.
"The cheapest," Cash said. "If you had a crematorium, I'd ask for that—seems to me that's where they're headed anyway, the flames of Hell."
"That's as maybe," said the undertaker, "but according to the good book, all men may be redeemed."
"The good book got it wrong where those two are concerned, Mr. Peel."
Once the two funeral assistants heaved Tiny away, their legs buckling, Esther said, "I've got to drop in on the printer, Marshal. See you there?"
Cash nodded.
She moved the horses off.
Cash wheeled his horse away and then had second thoughts. "Just a minute, Mr. Peel, I'll double your fee if you'll follow my wishes regarding these two miscreants."
"Sure, Marshal. What are your wishes."
Cash leaned down from his pinto and whispered in the undertaker's ear.
"My God," Peel seethed, backing away. "That's not done in this town. Maybe it happened in the old days in those dens of iniquity, but never here in Bear Pines."
