by Nik Morton
"Is Maddison important round here, then?"
"He owns this town," said Kaye. "But he don't own me. In fact, I've found him a fair and reasonable man. Turned down the offer of mayor. Said it should go to a more worthy person. He was right, too. Rowan Slateman, the newspaper editor, was voted in and he's doing all right. Stands up to Brett Nolan whenever there's any inter-town dispute, too."
"Glad to hear it. How do I get to the Maddisons?"
"Take the east trail out of town, follow the road for about six miles and take the right-hand fork. Their ranch house is about two miles down that track."
"Thanks, Sheriff."
"Don't mention it."
Next, Cash called at Slateman, the printer's, which also served as the home of the town's newspaper, The Ridge Times. The sign in the door said Open, so he did and walked in. A tinkling bell announced his presence.
The man behind the reception desk glanced up. He wore a stained printer's apron, a striped shirt and a cap with eyeshade. His fingers seemed permanently discolored black.
"Mr. Slateman?" Cash inquired.
He nodded. "What can I do for you, Mister—ah, sorry, Marshal?"
"Could you print up thirty of these posters today—in an hour or two? And fifty of these leaflets?" He handed over two sheets that Esther had given him.
Slateman studied the papers and nodded. "Sure. Not much type, short and to the point. Though I don't see why Mrs. Tolliver didn't get it done by Mr. Eldridge, the printer in her own town."
"It's kinda political."
Slateman grinned. "I'll say it is. You know, quite a few people in this town will be curious to see how Bear Pines vote. It might prove interesting."
"It's already more interesting than some townspeople want," Cash said.
"I'd say." Slateman glanced at his fob. "Give me two hours, Marshal. Is that all right?"
"Sure. I'll be back."
* * *
The road to the Maddison spread was easy to follow. He crossed a narrow wooden bridge over a stream, something the sheriff had neglected to mention. He reached the entrance gate at about eleven o'clock.
As he rode up, he noted there were at least six people working on the new two-story ranch house. Two wagons filled with wooden beams stood idle to the right, while four sections of pre-formed gable ends leaned against the barn on the left.
The broad chimneybreast was half complete at the right-hand end. A thin man and a stocky fellow balanced on a wooden platform halfway up the chimney, busily scooping cement from a big trough and laying large stone blocks into the structure. Far over on his right flowed the stream he'd crossed on his way here.
Another two men wore aprons with pouches for nails and carried claw hammers. They were walking from the barn to the porch area when they both noticed Cash. They stopped and glanced toward the old, single-story ranch house that was set back over on their left.
A man on the roof called, "Who you looking for, stranger? This is private property!" Must be the foreman.
Cash eased back his jacket, showed his badge. "I've got a few questions for Mr. Vim Portland! Can you point him out?"
"Can't it wait? We're busy, as you can see!"
"No, it can't wait." He reined in at the porch and looped the reins round the hitching rail. He craned his neck and shouted, "This is a murder inquiry." He dismounted and waited. At the porch doorway rested two rifles—a Marlin .40-60 and a Winchester M1876—and a Parker shotgun. He glimpsed inside, surprised to note that, unlike most ranch houses, the floor here was a solid expanse of cement. The smoothed-over area was still wet and glistened.
"Murder, eh?"
At risk of getting a crick in his neck, Cash looked up. The foreman walked along the topmost beam, balancing like an acrobat. He reached the right-hand end, overlooking the chimney. "You've got half an hour," he called down to the thin worker. "If you're not finished by then, don't come back!"
"Right, boss!"
With remarkable agility, Vim Portland swung off the platform, his feet connecting with a flimsy ladder and then he ran down to the ground. He strode confidently across the hard-baked earth. "What's this about a murder, Marshal?"
Portland was tall, with rusty-colored hair and a slight squint in his left eye. He smiled, his teeth prominent and white. He strongly resembled the description Esther provided, yet seemed untroubled at facing a deputy U.S. Marshal.
"I've got an eyewitness statement that places you in the alley when Mr. Dean Tolliver was shot dead."
"Me?" Portland laughed. "I haven't been anywhere near Bear Pines for months."
"Who said anything about Bear Pines?"
Portland's smile froze and his gray eyes shifted slightly. Then he grinned. "We've all read about the murder, Marshal. It ain't exactly a secret, is it?"
"No ..." Nonchalantly, Cash removed a cheroot and lit it. "Where were you when the murder occurred?"
"Hell, I have trouble remembering where I was yesterday, so I couldn't say where I was three-four weeks back."
"You remember the murder was three or four weeks ago, though?" Cash blew smoke out the corner of his mouth.
"Sure, it was in the papers. I told you."
"So you did." Cash fished inside his shirt, pulled out a sheet of paper. "This is my witness's statement. Care to read it, tell me if she was mistaken?" He thrust it at the man.
Portland looked at it and his eyes scanned over the handwritten sheet. Then he handed it back. "Seems all right, I guess. Don't know why she thinks it was me in that alley."
"This happens to be my usual list of supplies I fall back on when I head into mountain country."
"Oh?"
"You were holding the sheet upside down."
"Ah, well ..."
"You can't read, can you?"
Portland glanced away and then back. "That ain't a crime, Marshal. Leastways, not that I know of."
"So you didn't read about Mr. Tolliver's murder in the newspaper, did you?"
"No. Didn't say I did. I said it was in the papers. Zeke read it out to me over supper. Yeah, it was Zeke."
"I must have a word with Zeke, then. Just to corroborate your story."
Portland shrugged. "I don't know why you bother. It's circum—circumcise ..."
"Circumstantial?"
"Yeah, that's it."
Cash shook his head. "It really amazes me how so many criminals can hardly read or write their name, but they know their way around the law like they'd studied it for years!"
"Just because I can't read, don't mean I ain't smart."
"If you're so smart, why do you run around with Jack Wexler?"
"J-Jack Who?"
Cash shook his head. "I think we've done this before."
Portland grinned. "Just my little joke, Marshal."
"The joke's on you, then. You see, Jack talked." Lying often got results. "Said you shot Dean Tolliver twice, while he stood and watched, holding onto Mrs. Tolliver."
Portland's face suddenly turned deep red and his jaw tightened. "Why, that lying double-crossing swine!" Abruptly, he ducked and swerved back, making for the porch area.
Cash followed, his half-smoked cheroot sticking out the corner of his mouth. For a fleeting second he was tempted to draw and shoot, but firing on a moving man was risky; he couldn't guarantee he'd only wing him or get a leg. He needed Portland alive. He wanted him and Wexler to reveal who hired them.
Portland clattered onto the porch boards and reached down for a rifle.
Cash charged up the steps and rammed his shoulder into Portland's legs.
They fell through the open doorway and landed on the slippery slimy cement floor. Immediately, they both sank into the gray ooze.
Portland was under him, submerged, frantically flaying his hands, the rifle forgotten. Cash pulled back an instant before he fell face-first into the wet cement.
He lurched to his feet, ungainly, the weight of the liquid quite surprising, tugging at his limbs. Once he gained firm footing at the base, he desperately rea
ched down and groped for Portland's hands, which had stopped moving. He heaved, accompanied by a sucking sound, and finally fell back onto the threshold of the wooden porch, Portland on top of him with mouth, nostrils and eye sockets cement-filled.
Cash turned Portland on his side and thrust his fingers into the man's mouth. He levered out viscous clods of the stuff, but to no avail.
He stood, grabbing the doorjamb for support.
"What the hell's happened here?" barked the boss from the base of the porch steps.
Cash wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Clearly, Portland cemented his relationship with his final job," he said.
-FOUR-
Finger Trouble
Cash stood in the shallows of the stream, his shirt drying on a boulder. Water swirled round his boots while he washed off the cement from the front of his pants. His muscles rippled in the sunlight.
"So you're the troublemaker who made a mess of our floor!"
Cash glanced up, uncaring. He'd heard the horse approach, the bridle chinking, the swish of skirts. His gun-belt was nearby on another boulder, but he saw no call to reach for it. "I presume you must be Mrs. Maddison, Ma'am?"
She sat astride a handsome chestnut and wore a green serge riding skirt and brown suede jacket. Her tan hat was tipped back from her forehead, her auburn hair hanging loose to her shoulders. "You haven't answered my question," she said, pointing at Cash with her horsewhip, "so I don't feel inclined to answer yours."
"Well, sure, I contributed to the mess, I reckon," he answered, amused at her tone. He shook his head in mock regret. "It's most unfortunate, Ma'am, but one of your workmen was wanted by the law, and he didn't fancy surrendering peaceably."
"It seems he surrendered his life."
"That wasn't my intention, I wanted him alive to testify in court."
"Ah, yes, our foreman told me you're a U.S. Marshal."
"Indeed. Cash Laramie, Ma'am." He bowed slightly. "And you are?"
"Miss Jane Maddison. Daughter of Roger, the landowner here." She gestured with her arm to encompass pretty much what they could see of the valley.
"That's a lot of land for one man."
"It's family land, not just one man's, Marshal."
"If you'll indulge me a little longer, Miss Maddison, I'd like to wash off the rest of this darned cement. If it stays and sets, it'll weigh heavily on my horse." He raised a hand to stay any comment. "Then I'll be gone—off your family's land."
"Which includes this stream."
"And a real pretty stream it is, too." He moved closer, grinned up at her. "Most suitable for laundry work."
"I find you rather insolent, Marshal."
Cash smiled and reached up, grabbed her arm and tugged her off the horse. In one swift motion, he flung her into the center of the stream, away from any out-jutting rocks. "And I find you a mite too haughty for your own good, Miss Maddison."
Spluttering, she stood, while water gushed off her. Her hazel eyes flashed as she righted the hat on her drenched head. "How dare you!"
"I dare almost anything. That's what living's all about."
She raised her horsewhip and then seemed to think better of it. Then, arms akimbo, she burst out laughing.
Despite himself, Cash grinned. "What's so funny?"
"Me," she said between laughs. "I must look a sight!"
"I reckon you look real fine in those wet clothes, Miss Jane."
Ignoring his compliment, she tucked stray lank hair behind an ear. "Your name, Cash, it's rather odd, isn't it?"
"It pays."
She licked her lips, openly appraising his face and torso. "Yes, I daresay it does," she said and offered her hand.
He helped her out of the stream.
When she attained the dry ground at the edge, she seemed reluctant to let go of his hand. "Do you throw all your women into streams, Cash?"
"Not all," he replied. "And I don't recall claiming you as one of 'my women'."
She pressed a hand on his chest, her wide hazel eyes on his, her full lips slightly parted. "I've said it for you, I guess ..."
* * *
Angelina Nolan rolled over, smiling at the feel of the grass against her bare flesh. Prudently, she had divested herself of all clothes to avoid telltale grass and dirt stains. She smiled to herself. She enjoyed being wanton. Playing with that word, she smiled and whispered, "I'm wantin' more."
Jerry Jacobson leaned over her, his lean features creased in a smile. His deep blue eyes feasted on her. "You'll have to wait, I'm all spent."
"Cashed up, you might say?" she purred.
"Eh?"
"A play on words, my love. I was thinking of that marshal. Such an odd name—Cash."
"Don't mention his name—especially while we're ... well, doing this!"
Letting out a mew, she wrapped her arms and legs around him. "You're so forceful, Jerry. I like that in a man."
"Is that why you're with me right now and not your husband?"
She chuckled, nibbled his ear. "Brett is a good mayor and businessman, but he hasn't got your stamina."
"When are you going to tell him about us?" he asked.
"After the election. When he's been elected mayor again, he'll be happy enough. I'll make the break then."
He twirled his fingers in her dark brown hair. "You mean our future happiness depends on him winning?"
"Yes, it does. I couldn't leave him if he lost. He'd be a doubly broken man."
Jerry sighed and stroked her breasts. "Then we'd better hope he wins."
As she ministered to him and he became aroused, despite his earlier protests, she whispered, "I think we can do more than hope, darling Jerry. I'd like to think you could perhaps upset the balance a little ..." She rocked over him, tantalizing, arousing herself with the movement.
"Balance?"
"That interfering marshal—you know, if he was out of the way, I think Mrs. Tolliver might back down."
"But he's a U.S. Marshal."
"He's a man—just like you," she whispered, raking her fingers through his fair hair. "Though I bet not as much of a man as you, oh, no, not nearly as much ..."
* * *
The Plugged Nickel resembled virtually all other saloons Cash had frequented. He wondered how many he'd walked into over the years. Too many to count. And in a good portion of them he'd faced death and, in a few others, disillusion.
It looked as though some drinkers were starting early: it was just past one in the afternoon, yet six men leaned over the bar counter, each in his own little world, studying his whiskey glass.
Jack Wexler stood next to a piano, his right hand on the edge of the keyboard, the other resting on the shoulder of the female blonde pianist. Wexler's blind side was on the left, so he couldn't see anyone who entered the saloon. Perhaps he didn't care. He only had an eye for the piano-player, it seemed.
"What'll it be ...?" The barkeep's words foundered when he noticed the badge.
Cash strode across the floor and stood behind the pianist. "Jack Wexler, I'm a U.S. Marshal."
Wexler flinched, removed his hand from the woman's shoulder and the pianist swiveled round on her stool, showing a lot of leg.
"So?" Wexler said, his one eye squinting. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"
"So ... I'm here to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Dean Tolliver."
The woman pianist must have been a contortionist at some time in her life. In seconds, she slid from the stool, scrabbled past Wexler and bustled off to the left.
"Dean Who?" Wexler said, sniggering.
"You know who," Cash snapped and lunged forward. He slammed the piano lid down, crushing Wexler's fingers in the gap. In the same smooth movement, he lifted Wexler's Smith & Wesson from the holster on his right hip.
Wexler squealed like a stuck pig. "My fingers!"
Cash lifted the lid and rasped a hand over his stubble. "What's left of them."
"That's my gun-hand," Wexler moaned, his solitary eye glaring.
"W
here you're going, I don't think you'll be allowed a gun. Consider yourself lucky. Your pal Vim is dead."
Wexler paled.
"Now, we need to have a little talk before we get to Bear Pines."
"I've got nothing to say," Wexler croaked.
"Wouldn't you like to think so."
-FIVE-
A Date with the Undertaker
Cash collected the batch of posters and leaflets in their roll of cloth and tied them behind the cantle of his saddle. He checked and tightened the cinch then walked round to make sure that Wexler's saddle was secure too. Wexler's hands were tethered with piggin string to the horn and his grulla's reins were looped to Cash's saddle horn. Cash always carried plenty of piggin string, since he never knew when he'd need to truss up the odd varmint—and they didn't come much odder than Wexler.
"If you want, Marshal, you can keep Wexler in the cells overnight," offered Sheriff Kaye. "I'd be glad of your company."
"Thanks, Sheriff, but no. I need to get back." He swung up onto Paint. "It ain't far."
Kaye leaned against the boardwalk post. "Shame about Portland, he might've made something of himself if he hadn't been so easily led by scum like Wexler."
Cash adjusted his Stetson. The sun was low on the horizon. "The secret is, don't get led, I guess. Be a leader, instead."
"Easier said than done, Marshal. Not everyone's a leader, you know."
"I reckon not." They shook hands. "Thanks for the coffee and the hospitality. You've got a fine little town here."
At that moment, Jane Maddison rode up. Now, she wore a dun-colored riding skirt and a buckskin jacket over a white blouse. "Going so soon, Marshal?"
Cash doffed his hat. "Duty calls, Miss Maddison."
"And you're a man who lives to do his duty."
"Yes, I guess I do. It's the right thing to do, I reckon."
"Well," she said, "it was a pleasure meeting you."
"Likewise." He moved the two horses out.
"Come again," she called.
"I mean to," he replied and waved, heading out of town.
