by Nik Morton
"Life, mainly."
* * *
It was in the early hours, before dawn, when the noise awoke him. Rachel was asleep, her arm draped across his chest. It was semi-dark and he could barely make out the room's furniture. Instinctively, before he'd even analyzed the sound, he reached for his holster draped on the bed-head and pulled out his Colt. In the same instant, a flaming bottle smashed against the wooden wall of the room, next to the door. The broken window glass had awoken him. Now, flickering flames lit up the room and created darting shadows.
His second impulse was to grab Rachel's arm and roll sideways, off the bed. Not a moment too soon. A spray of bullets peppered the wall and door.
Ricochets and bits of wood seemed to fly everywhere.
Then the gunfire stopped.
He heard shouts in the passage and more calls outside. He grabbed a sheet , beat the flames down, and smothered them.
When he turned up the oil lamp, he noticed that Rachel lay quite still on the floor by the bed. He rushed over and knelt beside her. Judging by the big bruise on her temple, she'd been knocked out when she hit the floor. A glancing splinter of wood had pierced her upper arm, otherwise she was unharmed and breathing. At least, he thought, this was one woman lady-killer Cash Laramie didn't get killed. And though she was an intimate stranger, he felt glad. Death was easy. He'd dealt it fairly and unfairly over the years. But sometimes, he didn't want to know about the innocent who died. Sure, Rachel was far from innocent—but she sure as hell didn't deserve to die just because she'd bedded him.
Ma Bartleby's voice resonated down the passage. Then Cash noticed something that hadn't been in the room earlier—a paper-wrapped stone, lodged against the base of the wardrobe. Maybe that had broken the window, not the flaming bottle.
He picked it up and removed the string that secured the paper. They'd meant to scare, not kill. The note didn't mince words: Get the hell out of our town!
* * *
Next morning, Cash sent an urgent cable to Cheyenne and hoped his request would be met. Then he mounted up and headed out to the Tolliver place. He felt confident that nothing had happened to Esther or Danny in his absence, since no word had reached town to that effect.
He was made welcome and Esther opened the printer's parcel with glee, as if it contained a birthday present. When she smiled or laughed, it was as though the years dropped off her.
"These are just what I need, Cash. I want to start my campaign in town today," she said.
"That's fine by me. I'll accompany you." He eyed Danny. "What about you, son?"
"I'll stay here, protect our place." He thumbed at the Greener.
Briefly, Cash recalled all those years ago when he'd hidden in the barn loft with that same shotgun. He smiled and he was sure he caught Esther reminiscing the same night as well.
She stood up. "Let's git." She hugged Danny, kissed his cheek.
"Ma, that's enough—I'm grown, now!"
She smiled. "So you are ... And I reckon young Ada knows that too."
He blushed. "Go on, Ma. Get your votes."
"Right. We've a lot of ground to cover with my leaflets."
They rode on in to town.
With Cash by her side, Esther walked the length and breadth of the town, delivering leaflets by hand. Several shopkeepers were happy to stick her poster in their window. A few turned her down, however. "I guess I know already which way a good number of citizens will vote," she observed.
"Maybe," Cash said. "But just because Jameson the baker doesn't want your poster, it doesn't mean his wife's going to vote the same way as him."
Esther chuckled. "That's right! Wait till I give them a ear-banging tomorrow—the church hall's booked for my rally and I'm expecting a big crowd."
They rode under a banner that proclaimed Brett Nolan brings prosperity to Bear Pines. Vote him in again!
Esther bridled. "Prosperity for Mayor Nolan and his cronies, that's all!"
"Banners look impressive," Cash said. "But they don't sway minds."
"I suppose so. Well, we might get an idea who's backing me tomorrow."
* * *
That evening, at the end of their meal, Cash was alerted by the sound of riders approaching. He rose from the table and strapped on his gun-belt.
He peered out the window. "Six riders."
Esther peered over his shoulder. "They're Jacobson's men," she said. "Led by Matt." She rested a hand on his arm. "Stay here, for now. I'll go see what they want."
She unlatched the door and picked up the rifle that stood by the entrance. "Danny, get the Greener."
Danny was already carrying the shotgun to the far window on their left.
She nodded at both of them then opened the door and stepped onto the porch just as the riders drew rein.
"Good evening, Mrs. Tolliver," said Matt Jacobson. "Sorry to bother you, but we've come for Cash Laramie."
Esther stood with the rifle in the crook of her arm. "What do you want with a U.S. Marshal?"
"My brother died an hour ago. Laramie killed my brother—and he's going to pay!"
"I'm sorry to hear your brother's dead, Matt Jacobson. But shouldn't a court decide who pays?" she asked, raising her rifle slightly.
"The law is what we make in these parts, lady. If you don't comply with our request, we're going to kill you and burn down your home."
"Comply? Seems like a lawyer's word, that—comply. Which stone did you find it under?"
"I advise the Jacobsons," said Mack Jenkins, the local attorney, urging his mount alongside Matt's. "And my advice to you, Mrs. Tolliver, is to comply with Mr. Matt Jacobson's request—or you will suffer the consequences."
She grinned and took a short step to the left, away from the door. "You know, Jenkins, this sounds a mite familiar."
"What do you mean?" Matt said.
"Some sixteen years ago, I faced down four men who had similar ideas about setting light to my home."
"Yeah," Matt said, "is that so?"
"What happened?" Jenkins asked.
"I did." Cash stepped out onto the porch, alongside Esther.
"It's him!" Matt yelled. "Gun him down!"
"Drop your weapons!" barked an authoritative voice to their rear, before anyone could make a move.
Matt swiveled in his saddle. "Who the hell are you?"
Gideon Miles eased his grulla forward, his Winchester pointing at their backs. "The law, that's who."
"The hell you are!" snarled Matt. "You're a black—"
Miles shot Matt's hat off, then peeled back his smart pale gray jacket and revealed his U.S. Marshal's badge. "—and a good shot, as well."
"I'd do as he says," Cash advised, hand resting on his Colt.
Esther raised her Winchester and Danny's Greener poked out the window.
Two fools tried for their guns—and died, one shot by Miles, the other by Cash. Horses whinnied and backed off from the gunfire.
As the smoke cleared, the other four raised their arms.
"That's sensible of you," Cash said. "The odds were never on your side, Mr. Jacobson. Now, ease off those gun-belts—one at a time."
Obediently, the men unbuckled their belts and let them drop to the ground at their horses' feet.
"Ride over here to the hitch rail and dismount—again, one at a time." Cash gestured with his gun. "I don't want to get nervous 'cause of any sudden moves."
"You, nervous?" Miles said with a chuckle as he dismounted. "That'll be the day." He collected the gun-belts from the two dead men and from the ground where the others had been discarded.
While Cash tied the wrists of each man with piggin string, Miles said, "Got your wire—seemed kinda urgent, so here I am, yet again plucking your fat out of the fire."
"Esther and I could've handled it," Cash said.
"And me," chipped in Danny from the window.
Appraising Esther as she rested her rifle against the wall, Miles grinned. "Well, I reckon you could, at that."
"But your interve
ntion was helpful," Cash allowed.
Miles removed his hat and gave a slight bow. "Mrs. Tolliver, I presume?"
"Yes," she said, taking his big hand in hers. "Cash has told me a lot about you," she said, studying Miles' flamboyant clothes and shining black boots.
"Not everything, I hope?"
"I don't know everything about you, yet," Cash said. "You still spring surprises on me from time to time."
Miles grinned. "Makes life interesting, don't it?"
"It seems my life's like a Chinese curse already," Esther remarked.
"Just so," Miles said. "I suppose we'd better get these two bodies and our gun-happy gang back into town pronto."
"That should prove interesting, too," Cash replied.
On their way, Miles observed, "Seems like the women in this territory have been freed from slavery, eh?"
"Slavery's one way of putting it, Mr. Miles," Esther said. "Drudgery still happens, though."
Cash gave Miles an odd look and he wondered again about Lenora. "Maybe the Negroes will get the vote one day," he said.
Miles bit back, "Yeah, maybe in a hundred years!"
-SEVEN-
Bullets for a Ballot
As the deputy named Zeke turned the key on the last of the cells, Sheriff Hain's face didn't reflect much pleasure. "This is a big mistake, Marshals—locking up three Jacobson men and young Matt."
"Well, we could've sent them all over to Mr. Peel, I guess," Cash said. "Would that have made you feel better?"
Hain grunted. "No, you getting the hell out would make me feel better. Nothing else."
"Hey, you didn't throw that message through Ma Bartleby's window, did you?"
Scowling, Hain snapped, "What the hell do you take me for?"
"A man the mayor's bought, Sheriff Hain. That's who."
The deputy let out a gasp and backed away from them.
Hain's face reddened and his jaw clenched. He seemed fit to burst, ready to spring at Cash, but his sense of self-preservation won. "You don't have to live here—sometimes, there's no choice but to ..." He sighed. "What the hell, you'd never understand!" He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.
From the sheriff's office window, Cash watched Hain stride angrily down the boardwalk until he was out of sight. "Where's he off to now?"
"Probably the mayor's," the deputy said.
"Figures," Miles said.
* * *
Next day, as Mrs. Tolliver approached the church hall for her talk, a crowd of quite vociferous townspeople met her. A young reporter from the Pines Gazette, pencil and pad in hand, asked the first question: "What have you got to say about these reports, Ma'am?"
"Reports, what-?"
Someone thrust that morning's Gazette under her nose.
Cash glimpsed the front-page headline: Mrs. Tolliver's affair with a cowboy!
"This is scurrilous nonsense," Esther snapped, "cooked up by the incumbent mayor. He's frightened he might lose, so he attempts to impugn my name!"
"Have you any proof, Ma'am?" the reporter asked.
"More to the point, has the newspaper editor?" she riposted.
"Well, not so as I've heard ..."
"Exactly my point!"
For a second, Cash reflected how Esther would have been hounded if their relationship had become public knowledge in Cheyenne sixteen years ago. It would have been much worse than this, he reckoned.
He and Miles eased people away to allow Esther to get to the doors.
"You know, I think you'll have a full hall," Cash said.
"Yes, but they're here for all the wrong reasons!" she wailed.
"You've got a captive audience," Cash said, opening the door. All the seats were occupied; it was standing room only. "Use that and tell it straight."
As she mounted the steps to the small stage, there was muted applause, almost equaled by grumbling and general murmurs of discontent.
"I want to thank everyone for attending today," Esther began.
"Spill the dirt, Mrs. Tolliver!" shouted Jameson, the baker.
"I assure you, Mr. Jameson, although I work my land, I've been most careful not to track any honest dirt into this hall."
That got a few laughs.
"You know what I mean, woman—were you having an affair last year with that vagrant who called himself a cowboy?"
She let out a laugh. "I suppose the election was bound to turn dirty," she said, pointing at the baker. "I hope you've washed your hands."
That got a small laugh, so she went on, before Jameson could respond, "My husband was away on business. That 'vagrant cowboy' was actually my nephew, down on his luck. I gave him work for a week, paid him what he'd earned and he left. He slept in the barn. My son will vouch for it."
"But he's your son, his word don't count!" argued Jameson.
"You're in the mayor's pocket, Mr. Jameson, so I shouldn't think that your word counts for much, especially since I know the mayor's promises are worthless."
Finally, she received an uproarious cheer, mainly from women.
"Now, young man," she said, addressing the reporter at the front, his pencil still poised over his pad, "if you'd be good enough to report the true words spoken in this gathering instead of gossip and claptrap, maybe we'll have an election we can believe in—for a change."
More cheers.
"Because that's what I'm here for, to advocate change. Change for the better. And for all the citizens of Bear Pines, not just those few in league with Brett Nolan!"
The hall erupted. She'd converted the majority of her captive audience with just a few impassioned words, strongly felt and delivered. Cash felt proud of her.
And, he thought, since the mayor wants to throw mud, let's see if there's any dirt on Mr. Brett Nolan.
* * *
Miles and he agreed that at all times one of them would be with Esther during her politicking. Right now, it was Miles' turn to guard her. Cash took the opportunity to stroll through town. He called in at the various stores and made no apology for garnering support for Mrs. Tolliver as mayor. He also distributed fliers, urging the populace to vote for Mrs T., as she was known by many.
He was surprised how many individuals were willing to speak up, providing nobody else was around. Within a few hours he'd built up quite a dossier of chicanery and favoritism spawned by Mayor Nolan.
The mayor bought several votes and purchased some businesses and properties from people who suddenly found that they had to leave town in a hurry. Usual excuse was, family trouble back east. As one voluble storekeeper stated, "Nothing can be proved, you know. But we tend to know who we can risk talking to, and our grapevine is pretty accurate."
Cash obtained two statements from men who were threatened on behalf of Nolan. "Sell up or lose everything," they'd been told.
Nolan owned a considerable spread abutting ranches that sold out. "It's no secret, Nolan wants to expand," said the shoe smith.
"Grab more land, that's what," snapped the man's wife. "He's a bandit!"
"Sure, we know, Alice, we know. But keep your voice down. The marshal can hear you without shouting. It's the folk in the street I don't want hearing you."
"I'm only telling it like it is," Alice went on. "Nolan's took the Sullivan place and he's already started building a mansion there 'cause it has the best views overlooking the valley."
"The Sullivans?" Cash queried.
"Oh, the Sullivans left hastily one night, without any farewells," the man explained. "Alice took it hard—they were our friends."
When dusk fell, Cash had finished his rounds for the day and carried four interesting documents, a damning indictment against the mayor, though he was no legal bird. He'd best leave them with the judge.
Cash emerged from the grocer's when he noticed the stark illumination down the end of the town. His mouth went very dry. No, surely not ...
Judge McPiece's home was on fire, flames spouting out of both downstairs windows, on each side of the portico. Cash quickly scanned
the gathered crowd, and asked if anyone had seen the judge.
Nobody had. "I think he's still in there!" a distraught woman cried.
Without a moment's hesitation, Cash ran up the steps and into the hall. Flames licked the banister rail and climbed the stairs. Taking two steps at a time, he raced up, drawn by the judge's shouts. "Lisa, oh God, I can't manage!"
Cash reached the bedroom door. Curled in a fetal ball on a sheet on the floor was an elderly woman in a nightdress and standing beside her was the judge. There was a large cut on the judge's brow and he seemed to have a bloody shoulder. Yet he struggled manfully to haul his wife across the parquet flooring, tugging at the sheet under her. Then he collapsed to his knees.
Rushing in, Cash lent a hand and they hauled the woman out onto the landing. Cash grabbed Mrs. McPiece and swung her over his broad shoulder. "Quick, Judge—down the stairs—I'll bring your wife!"
Coughing on smoke, they emerged in the small front garden as behind them timbers groaned and collapsed noisily somewhere inside the building.
Many hands helped carry Mrs. McPiece to the Wordsworth Hotel, where a set of rooms was set aside for the judge and his wife.
The McPieces slept as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Cash stayed with them and, from the hotel room, he watched the house burn to the ground.
After a while, he felt a hand on his shoulder and started. He must have dozed.
Daylight slithered across the town, and highlighted the black timbers. He turned.
"You sleep all right, Judge?"
"Surprisingly, considering what we've lost, yes, I did."
"It's the body's way of coping, I guess."
"Perhaps." The judge shook his head. "I'm afraid all the papers and law books have been burned ... I hoped to get Lisa out first, then go back in for them ..."
"It's only paper."
"But there was that statement—with Miss Maddison's signature ..."
"It can't be helped."
"I think it could be helped, Marshal. It was deliberate." He lifted a hand to his bandaged head. "Somebody hit me while I sat at my desk in the study. When I came to, the fire was raging, already too severe. I rushed upstairs ..." He buried his head in his hands.
"How's your wife?"
"The doc fears she won't live out today. Too much smoke inhalation, he says." He paced up and down, balling his hands into fists, repeatedly. "To think, I'll only have this one day with her ..." He ground his teeth.
